to allow the entrance of City buyers bringing the fruits of trade caravans or the produce from the outlying villages that served the Golden City to the City warehouses.
Once they had allowed farmers and traders to enter the City itself, but that course of action had proven… unwise. Now City buyers went out and brought the produce into the City, where it was kept fresh and vermin-free under spells of containment until the Merchants and Provenders Council was ready to release it to the City markets. Under their guidance—advised by the Mage Council, of course—all ran smoothly, with neither glut nor famine to disturb the steady workings of the City. Only a few choice items were permitted to enter the markets directly from the fields, to create an illusion of scarcity and a kind of aura of festival—the first crop of early-summer strawberries for instance, and Spring Beer. Such occasions were necessary to give the populace something to look forward to. Gorging on strawberries once a year was hardly harmful, and allowed the masses a chance to feel that they were indulging themselves. Indulgence bred content, and a content population was a quiet one.
As for the traders…
They traded now in Nerendale, the closest of the farming villages, less than a day's ride from the City gates, offering goods to a Journeyman-Undermage who acted as broker. Those that were on the Approved List— or which Armethalieh's broker thought might be approved—were sent on into the City.
It was much tidier.
Lycaelon settled himself in his chair again and reached for his jade teacup, then drew back his hand when he realized the cup had grown stone cold. It would be the work of an instant to summon enough Magefire to warm it, but reheated tea was an abomination. Better to send servants to the kitchens for fresh.
He was reaching for the bell-pull when the door to his office opened, and his confidential secretary, Chired Anigrel, entered. Anigrel was as fair as Lycaelon was dark, and many decades younger than his master, but both men bore the unmistakable stamp of Mage breeding: the narrow saturnine features, high forehead, and slender, long-boned build that set them apart from ordinary men. Anigrel wore the dark grey robes of a Journeyman- Undermage; in a few years, he would be a Master Undermage, released from mundane tasks such as this and on his way to the years of study that would lead to full Magehood. But for now he served and learned.
But given his somewhat elevated position as Lycaelon's assistant and tutor to Kellen, Anigrel was permitted something other than plain grey robes. Although he was not allowed any variation in color, his robes were made of somewhat finer materials than most, and were tastefully ornamented with cursive grey embroidery. It did not suit Lycaelon to have his personal aide taken for an ordinary Journeyman; not when Anigrel carried his master's word and prestige. It had only taken a single instance of Anigrel wasting half the day cooling his heels in some officious little noble's hall instead of discharging his errand and returning to his duties before Lycaelon had ordered the change in wardrobe.
'Master,' Anigrel said, folding his hands and bowing his head submissively.
'There is a problem?' Lycaelon asked, attempting to mask his irritation. Anigrel knew better than to interrupt him with trifles.
'A small problem. But one that can be handled by no one else, Arch-Mage.'
Lycaelon sat back in his chair, sighing. He trusted Anigrel's judgment— or else the man would not have long survived in his current post—but he loathed being interrupted.
'You may continue,' he said grudgingly.
'A merchant family has lodged a complaint—of sorcery within their home,' Anigrel said reluctantly.
Lycaelon leaned forward. 'Sorcery? Uncontrolled Magery? Piffle! More likely their cook has been using the wrong sort of mushrooms in the stew— and if it is sorcery, any trained Undermage could deal with it. You could deal with it!' He glared at the secretary.
Anigrel cleared his throat nervously. 'Forgive me, my lord Arch-Mage, for not making myself entirely clear. The family involved is the Tasoaire family. Apparently this… sorcery… has been going on for some days. They are quite distracted, if I may say so.'
He hummed under his breath for a moment, then added, reluctantly, 'Actually, things are at a bad pass with them, by the report they have given us. It is my opinion that it should be… dealt with, immediately. They are not of exalted status by birth, but they are… influential.'
And very, very rich. Lycaelon added what Anigrel was too tactful to mention aloud. The Tasoaires were one of the wealthy trading families who controlled much of Armethalieh's material wealth, and paid a great deal in taxes for the privilege. Whatever the true nature of their problem, they were important enough to need their feelings soothed by having no less a personage than the Arch-Mage himself deal with their problem, whatever it was.
He focused his attention on Anigrel again. 'Very well. You were quite right to come to me with this. I will go to see them. And now you may stop quaking in your slippers and tell me what else you know about this problem, the part you are certain I will very much dislike.'
Anigrel swallowed hard. 'Naturally we did a preliminary investigation of the complaint—without bringing it to the attention of the family, of course. There does seem to be some actual cause for alarm. And the focus of the disturbance seems to be the, ah, daughter of the house…'
