was a waste of the Council's time and annoyed them to boot. But artists had no sense of proportion or reality; they saw things only in terms of their own 'vision,' regardless of what was good for the City.
'Is he here?' Lycaelon asked, hoping that the answer was 'no.' This was likely to become a very unpleasant scene, one he was certainly not going to begin in front of the foreigners.
'Outside, my lord. With his manuscript,' Auronwy confirmed.
Lycaelon felt his jaw tense. Why was it that these artists always had to have an audience, even for their tantrums? 'He can wait until out proper business is completed. See that he remains.'
Auronwy bowed and withdrew.
Lycaelon returned his attention to the approvals.
IT was nearly Evensong Bells by the time the Council chamber was cleared of the day's legitimate business. Banarus and Perulan entered, Perulan clutching a leather-wrapped bundle.
Perulan was tall and slender, his pale hair going to grey. He had been born into a Mage family, a younger son, and while it had been something of a scandal for him to turn his back upon the High Art and follow his passion to become a teller of tales, it was only a small scandal, and his success had done nothing to bring real disgrace upon his family. Perulan lived suitably and modestly in the Artists Quarter of Armethalieh upon a small allowance his family made him and the revenues from his writings, and had made no trouble… until now.
If the man had followed proper procedure, he was now holding the only copy of his manuscript, having destroyed all notes and drafts once he had made the fair copy. They would see.
'Who comes before the Council?' Lycaelon asked.
'Perulan, son of Nadar, of House Arbathil,' Banarus answered formally.
'What justice does Perulan Arbathil seek?' Lycaelon responded, equally formally.
'Lord'Arch-Mage,' Banarus said, bowing. 'Citizen Perulan seeks a license to publish for his latest work. The Printers Council has reviewed it and found it… unacceptable. Citizen Perulan challenges this decision, as is his right.'
'Let the manuscript be brought before the High Council for fair, final, just, and merciful irrevocable judgment, as is the right of every citizen of Armethalieh,' Lycaelon said.
Banarus took the manuscript from Perulan's arms and brought it to the end of the bench. Auronwy accepted the hefty bundle and brought it to Lycaelon, setting it on the polished marble before him.
Faintly curious now, Lycaelon untied the leather covering and exposed the first page. The title was written large, in Perulan's flowing clear scribe-hand: Goiden Chains: A Tale of the City.
Not an auspicious title—why should an author of pastoral fantasies now choose to write about the City? And the Arch-Mage did not in the least care for the sound of 'Golden Chains' either. Unless, perhaps, it was a romantic tale, of the sort that foolish women devoured, and the chains were those of love? Lycaelon frowned, and marshaled a small cantrip, one foolishly relied upon far too often by Student'Apprentices: Knowing That Which Is Written. While Knowing would not allow one to master the intricacies of a thick technical volume of Magecraft, no matter how many times it was cast, it was certainly sufficient to put a Master Mage in possession of the contents of a simple work of fiction, no matter how long.
In moments, the contents of the book rushed into Lycaelon's mind. And he was appalled.
It was a saga of love indeed, among other things, and unhappily unlike any other Perulan had ever written. People died unhappily and for no reason at all, true loves proved false, Priests of the Light were corrupt, servants betrayed and were betrayed by their masters for personal gain, masters repaid the loyalty of lifelong servants with indifference, discarding them to poverty when they were no longer useful…
In short, it was 'reality,' and not fantasy, unvarnished, unmasked, and horribly uncomfortable. It was not the escape that the readers of Perulan's previous tales would expect, and in a lesser author, disgust would lead a disappointed reader to fling the book across the room. But Perulan was skilled, highly skilled, brilliant even. No, the reader would persist, drawn into the story against his will, and when he was finished—
Discontent. Unhappiness. Restlessness and a sense of injustice that would seek an outlet.
This cannot possibly be published!. Lycaelon thought in stormy shock, and felt the assent of the Mages around him as his knowledge of the manuscript spilled into the Judgment Spell. This was nothing less than an attack upon the City itself!
'Is this your only copy? You cannot recreate this book? Answer truly,' Lycaelon said.
Out of Perulan's line of sight, Banarus's fingers went up to touch the Talisman around his neck as the Undermage cast a Truthspell upon the writer, cued by Lycaelon's demand for the truth. Perulan's next words would
