The captain slung the cittern's strap over his shoulder, plinked a few strings hesitantly, and began to play.
Lycaelon resisted, though with difficulty, the impulse to cover his ears, and felt the wave of disgust from his fellow Mages through the Judgment Spell. It was like nothing any of them had ever heard—not like the lute, nor the harp, nor the viol, nor any other stringed instrument known in the City. It was loud. It jangled. It was infernally cheerful. Very raucous, barbaric, and not in the least bit calming. If the drinking songs caterwauled in taverns could have been turned into an instrument upon which they might be played, this was it.
As the captain himself seemed about to break into song (which only confirmed the Arch-Mage's impression of the instrument), Lycaelon raised his hand.
'That will be quite sufficient,' he said firmly. He shook his head very slightly, not needing to look to the rest of the Council to feel their agreement and relief. This decision, at least, would be an easy one, with no dissension and no need for a discussion. 'The Council regrets, we cannot permit you to sell this… 'cittern' here.'
'But why?' The captain looked honestly surprised—and hurt, as if he'd offered them a rare treat and been spurned. Lycaelon sighed inwardly. The Light blast all overemotional thin-skinned barbarians back to the First Cause and beyond! If there were some way for the City to do without the trade ships, he, personally, would weave such a spell as would seal Armethalieh's harbors off from the outside world for a thousand years…
'Please understand,' Lycaelon said, projecting a warmth and regret he did not feel into his words. Beneath them, he let an undercurrent of magick flow outward toward the captain: If it were my choice alone, I would welcome this innovation. But we are both of us at the mercy of forces greater than ourselves, and cannot always act as we choose. You and I, we must both make hard choices for the good of those we serve. 'I am certain that this 'cittern' is a lovely instrument, cherished in your homeland. But we of the City have never heard anything like it. It would require new compositions to be written for it, new musicians to be trained in its use. Our City simply isn't ready to accept so great an innovation, we regret.'
He saw the captain step back, glancing toward the rest of the Council, confusion, acceptance—and regret— plain on his features. He would return to his ship, convinced that the High Council—and especially Lycaelon—acted out of hard necessity, but were themselves good men.
As it should be. As it must be—for the good of the City.
'Perhaps next time you might have a new lute to demonstrate instead.'
The captain still looked as if he might be about to protest, but one of his fellows caught his eye, shook his head slightly. The first fellow clamped his jaw shut with a visible effort, bowed, and withdrew, taking his abominable instrument with him.
Lycaelon let him go without comment. 'What is the next item on the agenda?' he asked briskly.
'A new illustrated edition of Pastoral Poems of Golden Days by a Gentleman of Leisure, printed and illustrated in Bariona,' Auronwy announced smoothly, setting the book before Lycaelon with a practiced gesture.
TWO more books—both passed—then a music box that was found acceptable both in form and content, then two more books, one of which was found to have entirely unsuitable illustrations. Why the publisher had chosen to dress the characters in the costumes of the Lothien Archipelago when the book was intended for the City baffled Lycaelon; he must have known they would never allow depictions of barbarian dress within their walls! It was most peculiar.
The Council was preparing to consider an item that its importer assured them was a new timepiece of heretofore impossible accuracy, when a Senior Undermage from the Printers Council appeared in the doorway.
Without being told, Auronwy hurried over to him, and was back in a moment with his message, which he whispered into Lycaelon's ear.
'Lord Arch-Mage. A few days ago Citizen Perulan brought his latest book to the Council to receive his license to publish—'
Though everywhere else in the City the degrees of class and birth were closely noted and observed in forms of observance and address, here within the Council chamber there were only two classes: Mages and citizens. And Perulan, no matter to what class he had been born, now belonged unequivocally to the latter.
Perulan was a fabulist whose popular pastoral fantasies of a magickal idealized life in the farming communities west of the City had gained him fame and following over the last several years. His latest book had been eagerly awaited.
'Challenged on first reading by Banarus, wasn't it? Unpublishable. Nothing like his usual work. Pity,' Lycaelon said softly, leaning back in his chair. The acoustics of the Council chamber were such that nothing said behind the judicial bench would carry to those standing in the center of the floor, though the rest of the Council would be able to hear him if he wished them to.
'He demands a hearing before the High Council, Lord Arch-Mage,' Auronwy said, equally softly. 'He is… not in agreement with Undermage Banarus's decision.'
While it was every citizen's right to take any grievance, no matter how minor, to the High Council itself, it was a right rarely invoked. But artists had no sense of proportion or reality. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it
