Dragon of Mishbil (v1.0), page 8
“He will,” Zafyas said with confidence, and when they docked and presented themselves at the Palace they found it was so. “I’m a prophetess,” Zaryas gloated as they retired.
It was strange yet delightful to sleep so high, and to wake with the Sun picking out flecks of white fire on the azure sea so far below. “Let us build our marriage chamber where your little balcony is now,” Xerlanthor proposed, “so that we can see all Mishbil, and the sky.”
“And bake like raisins in the summertime,” she retorted. “You are the most impractical man.” For the audience Zaryas dressed with care, brushing and braiding her black hair until it was arranged smooth and intricate as carved granite. Her maids had shaken out and smoothed the white-and-green formal robe. After donning it she uncovered the great square mirror for a quick glimpse of herself. Her narrow sharp face seemed newly softened with happiness, oddly at variance with the dignified trappings of power. “Have I changed?” she asked aloud. “I don’t want to change.”
“The gray threads lend a distinguished air,” her maid said helpfully. “But if my lady wishes I know of a preparation whereby blackness may be restored…”
“No, no.” Zaryas laughed and gave her place to Xerlanthor. His red linen reflected back plain and humble beside her own splendor. Only the Master Magus wears formal silks. But under the red cap and straight dark hair his gaze met her own with the pride of an equal. She hugged his arm and exclaimed, “What a nice couple we make!”
“I hope His Shan Majesty thinks so,” he replied.
They were conducted through the ancient maze of white marble halls to a high roomy chamber, where wide triple-arched windows opened out over the cliff. Below, hundreds of winter-brown fields were knitted together with silvery canals, as far as they could see. The gentle Mhesan, a mighty yet mannerly river, wound away seawards to the left. Here most of all Zaryas felt the weight of the ages, the thousands of years and millions of lives that were Averidan. Surely the Shan were wedded to their land, the one as unchanging as the other. Her forebears had lived the same peaceable, busy lives her children would. The thought was indescribably comforting, as secure and supporting as the rock under her feet. And then she remembered she would have no children, if she wedded Xerlanthor. “I shall make a wish about it,” she promised herself, “while I’m here.”
Music from the brazen gongs announced the Shan King’s arrival. Zaryas had been surprised last summer at his age. The change now was even more startling. Shan Varim King had wasted away. His pale thin skin hung slack over the brittle old bones. The King looked sucked dry, juiceless enough to crack at a hasty step. They rose, and stood until he was helped to his seat.
When she came forward to take the King’s outstretched hand Zaryas glanced timidly up at his face. She feared to see the wreckage of mind as well as body, a senile mockery of her old friend. But the dark eyes were bright and knowing as ever.
“Tell me, O my viceroy, of my city Mishbil,” the Shan King formally requested. So Zaryas did. She spoke of canals and grain shortages, crime and shipping, barges and fishermen—all the doings of Mishbil for the past year. She submitted tax receipts, financial records, and import manifests, summarizing a year’s worth of life in the realm’s third-largest city.
Every year Zaryas did this she could not escape the feeling that the Shan King was listening not to her words but to something else she communicated. The gesture of her hands, the smell of her skin, perhaps the tilt of her eyebrows or the way she hunched her shoulders forward—he extracted information she did not know she had, in a way she could not fathom…
When she was done it was nearly noon. In a side chamber a repast was spread. The chamberlain approached to help the old King down from his chair, but Varim waved him back. “No,” he commanded. “Lend me the strength of your arm, young magus.”
Xerlanthor came forward for the first time and bowed before stepping onto the dias. With a vague unease Zaryas watched the King lean forward to look into Xerlanthor’s eyes. The Son of the Sun does not see as others do. But His Majesty remarked only, “So you wish to wed Zaryas of Mishbil, what good taste you have.”
During the meal—a vegetable stew flavored with saffron, barley porridge, redfish baked in the northern style, and fruits in cream—they talked of food, the proper way to hang venison and whether cactus-fruit can be pickled into edibility. Only afterwards did the Shan King continue, “It is not unusual for magi to marry.”
Zaryas began to speak but held her tongue when Xerlanthor replied, “I am no usual magus. It will be to the princess’s advantage to marry me.”
Varim glanced at Zaryas before asking, “How so?”
“When the dam reverses Mishbil’s agricultural decline I shall get the credit for it,” Xerlanthor said. “By wedding me the princess shall share in that acclaim. It is never a disadvantage to associate with a hero.”
Zaryas stared. That aspect had never occurred to her before. But the King was saying, “This presumes your very radical plans bear fruit. You must expound them to me.” And they adjourned again to the audience chamber.
Zaryas did not attend to Xerlanthor’s lecture and the water demonstration with the map-trays. She had other things to consider. Who had been using whom? Had she also a dark, selfish side to her motives? They had both derived such delight from their love that it was hard to recall it was not the whole world. The mutual advantages and disadvantages of the relationship were unseen, like the roots of trees, but necessary to support the luxuriant growth above. She had ignored them, but the Shan King would not. She came to herself in time to hear His Majesty address her.
“My dear Zaryas,” he said, “I think you have made a good choice here in Xerlanthor, magus or no. However, I cannot sanction the union until later next year—you understand.”
She nodded. “If the project doesn’t work, for whatever reason, Xerlanthor would no longer be an asset to me or to you.”
“How clear-sighted of you,” the King approved, while Xerlanthor cast a pained glance at her. “What other business do you plan to transact here? A wish-sacrifice? Good—let us go through the gardens to the Temple. No doubt you, Xerlanthor, have errands at the Order’s headquarters on behalf of your Master?”
Thus dismissed Xerlanthor bowed and withdrew. Zaryas gave the old King her arm and carefully helped him down. The chamberlain hurried to open the tall glassed doors to the terrace, and they walked very slowly across the lawn and down the narrow garden paths. The plantings were asleep for the brief Viridese winter, tidily wrapped in burlap or mulched under dry leaves. A cool Sun flitted in and out of wind-driven cloud, but here on the ground the air was still and frosty. Zaryas curbed her swift pace to match the King’s halting step. “Do you feel the cold?” she asked.
“No, no,” the King said peevishly. “Zaryas, my dear, how well do you know your Xerlanthor?”
She smiled at him. “Very well indeed,” she said.
“Everyone has two sides to his heart,” the King said. “I know that is true. Do you?”
“Of course,” she said in surprise. “Everyone knows that.”
He patted her hand with his own, dry and frail as the dry leaves. “Then do not be astonished when you find that unknown in your intended,” he advised.
“I think I have already,” she said.
“You have not,” said the King. Zaryas did not ask how. he had come by that conclusion. “Couples may call themselves fortunate if one side of one speaks to one side of the other. Don’t invest your heart too deeply or quickly, my dear. Your pain would be hard to behold.” The sentiment from anyone else would have seemed self-centered. But Zaryas recognized it for an oblique expression of regard.
The Kings of the Shan have their own little gate from Palace grounds to the Temple, screened by a few ornamental trees. The white stone of the courtyard beyond retained the warmth of the sunshine. In the strong light the King seemed transparent as wax. “Come in yourself,” Zaryas urged, “and make a wish.”
“I am Lord of the Shan, Son of the Sun,” Varim replied. “What could I lack?”
“Health?” Zaryas suggested boldly.
The King chuckled. “I am an old man,” he said. “No wish can lengthen the span of my days. Go in, my dear. I shall wait here.” So she sat him down on a bench in the sun-warmed courtyard and went in.
The gold-domed sanctuary was unchanged. Change would have been shocking, for the Temple and its rites are old almost beyond memory, their beginnings veiled in plaiv-borne myth. A white-clad priestess accepted Zaryas’ offering—a gilded bracelet carved- of sweet-smelling wood.
“I wish to conceive by the one I love,” she wished, ” so promptly that the priestess frowned.
“Phrase your wish carefully!” she cautioned. “And be sure to offer to Ennelith also.” Zaryas waited patiently for the bracelet to be consumed. This time the flame burned small and blue, nibbling away the gilding until with a puff of yellower fire the wood underneath caught. “The goddess will hear your prayer, if you petition her. I see it clearly,” the priestess reported at last.
“All I’ve asked today has. come to me,” Zaryas sighed happily. A gambler’s luck seemed to tingle through her fingers. She was confident anything she laid hand to would turn out well. With a light heart she skipped out to the courtyard again. The Shan King smiled at her high spirits. Impulsively she hugged his frail-boned shoulders, as if her own joyous vitality might by an act of will be contagious.
By the time they sailed next day Xerlanthor’s mind was again preoccupied with his dam. He spent hours bent over his mirror scrying for a view of the site. “We’re still too far away,” he fretted. “At least for a middling server like myself. This calls for a hydromant.”
Zaryas felt no such anxiety. “You can’t do anything about what you see anyway, out here on the ocean,” she pointed out. But wisely she said no more. It was more important to drink in the brisk cool air and enjoy the holiday. The sky was cold but sunny, its calm wintry blue-contrasting with the turbulent gray-blue sea. The unchanging yellow desert on their right seemed to dance—not with heat, but with tiny dust devils. There was hardly a chance of another blinding dust storm, however, for the wind blew off the sea. Though the desert seems sterile it has one harvest. Winter is the season for spices and aromatic gums, and dozens of tents and makeshift shelters along the shore showed the desert’s bounty was being gathered. The spice merchants would send donkey caravans through the dunes all this season, only filling their water jars every few days at the infrequent springs. It was also a profitable time for hunters and adventurers, who could hire out as spearmen to guard against sand leopards.
The brief winter day was fading fast when Xerlanthor finally descried the dam. His shout of dismay made sailors startle and Zaryas dash across the slanting deck to his aid. “What is it, what’s wrong?” she demanded.
“They’ve made hardly any progress at all!” he cried. “Look at this!”
Warily she peered into the thick, round mirror. Neither her face nor her surroundings showed, but only a shining mist in which vague colors shifted and blurred. “I’m not a magus,” she reminded him. “Why has’ the work stopped?”
He examined the reflection carefully before announcing, “The magi. Not a hydromant or a geomant do I see.”
“How could that be?” Zaryas exclaimed, but Xerlanthor was sure of the answer.
“Xantallon,” he said. “Xantallon has stolen all my workers away.”
“The Master Magus wouldn’t allow that,”. Zaryas objected.
“He must have.” Fury made Xerlanthor’s fingers clumsy as he slid the mirror back into its bronze case. “Curse of the goddess be on them both!” His gaze burned into her own, the force of his will almost palpably pressing her. “The Shan King himself approved the dam.”
“I’m certain they didn’t mean to defy royal authority,” Zaryas said. “That’s unheard of.
No doubt there’s some reasonable explanation—”
“It’s treason,” Xerlanthor insisted. She had seen such cold rage before only in betrayed wives or Cuckolded husbands. A loyalty had been violated. “Isn’t it your duty to order lapidation when—” “Indeed it’s my duty,” Zaryas interrupted. She had never met this possessive bloodthirsty Xerlanthor before. “You must let me judge.”
She was sure his compressed lips held back scorching words. But when he said nothing she__. rose, balancing against the surge of the deck, and left him to sulk.
The moment they docked Xerlanthor hurried off, presumably to the Neck. Zaryas stole a march on him by summoning Xantallon and the Master Magus so urgently they were waiting when she arrived home. When she recounted Xerlanthoir’s scrying the magi were quite open with their explanation.
“Absolutely unforeseeable,” Xantallon said. “When we come to these outcroppings of bedrock I think they’re the chief drawback to the whole concept of canals. We’re digging so deep now they’re a real obstacle. It took every magus in Mishbil all day to crack it—concentrated geomantic earthquakes, and freezing and heating water over the rock to crack it.”
“A development that in my judgment justified temporary transfer of personnel,” the Master Magus added. “Of course everyone in the dam’s corvee slacked off the moment Xerlanthor left town. But I’m afraid that’s inevitable when no rigid custom keeps everyone busy.”
“He should have conscripted in the traditional way,” Xantallon pointed out cheerfully. “There are two sides to every question, of course, my lady. But this ‘managing by emulation’ idea is nonsense. People obey the proper authorities only to the proper extent. When Xerlanthor demands personal allegiance from the corvee they naturally resent it. They tithe their labor only, not their love. How maddening it must have been to descry all those specially chosen workers taking their ease.”
All of a sudden Zaryas was wearily aware of her salt-stiffened clothes and the weight of her travel boots. “I’ll be grateful when this is all over,” she sighed irrelevantly. “I feel like a juggler spinning too many eggs. Xerlanthor must accede to my judgment on this. But he’s convinced it’s your fault, and he’s not a forgiver.”
The Master Magus smiled indulgently at her. “The Order of Magi has survived these little dissensions before,” he assured her.
Chapter 9: Olhem
The occasional magian dispute is usually an exciting opportunity for gossip. But now the city had no attention to spare. Through all the fuss the two halves of the dam had slowly grown toward each other across the channel. Now only a narrow slot, perhaps ten paces wide was left between them. The Bilcad forced its cold green torrent through quite silently, for the flow is greatly lessened in winter. And that pressure also seemed to force the riven magi together, pooling their strength against this common foe. For only a fool would call the Dragon tamed. Rather, the current ran with an almost menacing quiet. Beware, the Bilcad murmured. You almost have me, for I sleep. But soon I wake—be ready for that day!
One evening in Olhem Zaryas was feasting some city officials. Custom demanded it, but after so many years it was hard to work up any enthusiasm for the occasion. Thumbprint and its attendant side wagers were the only entertainment. Zaryas did not play. Like an army preparing for a clinching battle, Mishbil had been girding itself for the final push. The work had been so hard all Zaryas wanted to do was sleep. “Thank Viris we need but one dam,” she said to her guests. “I haven’t the strength to help build another.”
Norveth said, “All this fuss is very upsetting. Canals really would have been easier to manage.”
He was an ideal second, Zaryas reminded herself. No initiative but any amount of endurance. With a cheerful calm she did not feel she said, “It’s too late to change our minds now” She wondered how many times she had said that this past season.
The servers were carrying round trays of fruit—yellow apples a little wrinkled from storage, and pears that were past their best—when the doorkeeper came in. He waited politely for Zaryas to notice him, and then reported, “It’s noised all over town, my lady, that the magi have begun to close the gap.”
“How exciting!”
“In the dark?” “Really!” the guests exclaimed.
“Oh yes indeed,” the doorkeeper assured them. “There’s a whole line of torches going up the road. No one wants to miss the magery.”
“We ought not let them,” Norveth declared. “It’s unlucky to meddle with magi. Besides, a crowd might get in the way.”
Norveth’s disapproval always tempted Zaryas to be contrary. This once she felt she could indulge herself. “I’d dearly love to see the feat,” she put in. “Let’s go up ourselves, and make a party of it!”
The proposal was greeted with enthusiasm. In no time tiles were put away, cloaks donned and oil lamps plucked from their wall holders. So much of the city’s life had poured into this venture that everyone felt a proprietary interest.
The Sun had laid himself to rest long ago, and the cold was cruel. Zaryas’ embroidered party dress and cloak had no function but the decorative, and she knew the final construction would take all night at least. “Go on ahead,” she1 said. “I’ll just run back and get some warmer leggings.”
Her house was nearly deserted. With resignation she decided the servants had absconded to the Neck too. She stripped off her necklace and rings and shut them away—outright robbery is rare in Averidan but picking pockets, purloining jewelry, and snatching handkerchiefs is a time-honored calling. She pulled quilted trousers on under her dress, and hesitated over a warm purple cloak that would clash dreadfully with her apricot dress. Then she pounced on the leopardskin spread on the platform of the bed. The supple hide clung warmly to her thin silk cloak, and the empty furry paws could knot at her throat. She skipped up the steps and. down the hall again, with the pale golden leopard-tail bobbing behind her.
It was less than five leagues from the viceroy’s house to the Neck, the road paved with oyster shell and lime and shaded by tall sycamores from the summer heats. Ordinarily half a day was necessary to walk it. But from excitement and cold everyone stepped briskly, the torches and lamps shedding sparkles of festive light up either side of the river. “Everyone’s going,” Zaryas observed. “You’d think it was a holiday or a sacrifice.” She was delighted, for Xerlanthor’s sake. He loved approval, especially public approval.
