To Light A Candle

Some puzzled looks, perhaps, but no outright objection. “The second Wardency upon the Commons I can understand,” said Harith, sounding as puzzled as he looked. “And it is more than reasonable—the commons are so easily led and manipulated, after all, that I am surprised we had not instituted such a thing before. But why a tax upon Magick?”

Anigrel gave him a look of empathy, as if to say that there was every reason to be puzzled. “My lords, Magick is a great gift. We Mages tirelessly labor for the good of the City, expending our lives and our Art like water poured out upon the sand—and our work is as little regarded by the average Armethaliehan, I assure you! They take the privileges we exhaust ourselves to provide as no more than their rightful due. This must change. If the common people wish to profit from the wisdom we have spent so many painful years laboring to acquire, they should pay a price for the benefits we bestow. And if they doubt those benefits, well, it would be no bad thing to permit the farmers from the Delfier Valley to be allowed some free gossip, so that our own citizens understand the calamities that can befall when those benefits are withdrawn.”

He sat back, indicating he had finished.

“This is, as you well know, Lord Anigrel, three separate matters,” Perizel said, sounding bored. “Let us settle the matter of how—and if—you are to fund your grand plan before deciding whether it is to go forward, shall we?”

“Very well,” Lord Lycaelon said, with a faint sigh. “We will consider the matter of the tax first—and separately. Continue.”

“But… the Commons already pay for our services,” Lord Lorins pointed out, after a moment.

“They pay for the spell, yes,” Anigrel said. “But do they pay for the privilege of being allowed to have the spell at all? And so many spells are not actually paid for—those that control the weather, for instance. Or those that keep buildings in repair. I am suggesting a tax, not an increase in fees.”

“They’ll never accept it,” Lord Arance said dryly.

“Then let them do without,” Lycaelon suggested. “Naturally this would not apply to matters affecting the City as a whole—at least, not at first. Simply to private, individual matters—the ones we all find so tiresome. Or simple things that do not truly affect much except minor comfort. Weather Spells for instance. Those that prevent snow from falling within the walls; those that keep rain from falling except at night. A few days of slogging through wet streets might change some minds.”

“But… a new tax?” Lord Lorins asked hesitantly.

To Anigrel’s surprise and delight, here he had an ally, and an entirely unexpected one. “Actually,” Lord Perizel drawled, “it is a very old tax. It merely has not been assessed in the last few hundred years. But you will find it still on the tax rolls, Lorins, if you take the trouble to look. I see no reason we should not reinstate it. We can always use the money for something, and Light knows we have spent enough Golden Suns on the Selkens this past quarter to leave the Treasury in need of replenishment.”

Anigrel should have known that Perizel, that peruser of ancient records, would know there had once been such a tax! That made things much simpler.

Something new—well, that would be resisted. But something old—oh, that was to be embraced.

After a bit more discussion, the measure to institute—or reinstitute—the tax on the privilege of calling upon the Mages for Magick was passed.

The discussion over the formation of the Magewardens and the Commons Wardens took far longer. Everyone was in favor of keeping a closer eye on the Commons, of course, but no one was completely comfortable with the idea of spying—for that was what it amounted to—upon their own kind. Only when Anigrel promised that he would head the Magewardens Council himself, and make full and detailed reports of everything it discovered, was Lycaelon able to at last call the vote.

The measure passed, nine to two. Perizel and Arance abstained.

—«♦»—

“YOU take too much work upon yourself, Anigrel,” Lycaelon said afterward, as the two of them walked toward Tavadon House through the winter evening. “You will burn yourself out, and end up a doddering friendless old man—like me.”

Spirits of Darkness, the Arch-Mage was making a joke. Anigrel smiled. “Dear Arch-Mage, that will never happen—not while I am alive. But you must see, it was the only way to gain a majority in Council. I confess, I was surprised at how the vote went, at the end.”

Who would have thought that so many of the witless sheep could be stampeded so easily? He’d have to keep an eye on Perizel and Arance, though.

“As am !” For a moment the Arch-Mage’s expression went hard and distant, then it softened again. “But we shall soon bring those doubters to heel. And now we shall go… home, my son.” Lycaelon’s voice was fond.