They had gone to the Iron Palace the day before, walking right up to a big closed gate. Overhead, the flat balcony on top of the fortress had loomed like a tower, though the buildings dimensions more resembled a cube. From there, only one face could be seen, an enormous wall of shining iron columns.
On the second day of each week, the guards had said, the Emperor kept his privacy. They were to return on the third day of the week.
And so they did. Aralim was stunned; it was a different city. They followed the same route, the same streets. A line of metal had been poured along the centre of Rema’s main street—the day before it had been the only thing visible on the cobblestones. Now, they could barely see it. There were sandals and boots scuffing the iron line, and wagon wheels forced Aralim, Naeen, Hayan, and Miresh to wander to and fro across that line. When their dance with the iron guide ended, they stood in front of the massive Palace once more and its metal gates were open.
Men and women in orange robes stood in a line in that gateway. Guards stood on either side, but the crowd from the street milled in and out as though it was an open window in a rainstorm. Aralim led his friends into the Eternal Emperor’s steadfast.
The orange servants looked them over slowly, but did not speak. They were not armed, but Aralim felt more concern about their opinion than about the guard’s. After his group was through the checkpoint, Hayan spoke up. “They are called the Emperor’s Aura,” he said. “They permeate the city; if the Emperor’s influence is his web, reaching across the world, the Aura are the arms of the spider.”
Aralim did not like this metaphor, for it made him nothing but a fly. “The Emperor is no spider. He is a man; a man of great ability and power, doubtlessly. But we will meet him as men meet, not as spiders.”
Hayan smiled. “Agreed.”
Naeen shook her head. “Delusional, more like.” Despite her jeer, she smiled sarcastically and led them to the Third Court of Rema. They had to cross a busy courtyard to get there, full of men and women. Many were in open discussion of business, city policy, even personal matters. Aralim saw mercenaries and street magicians, thieves and aristocrats, prostitutes and military generals. By the variety of garb in the Third Court, they were no less varied a mix.
“Hayan,” Aralim said. “You ready?”
Hayan nodded and held out a small bronze box. He didn’t open it. The sound magnet was inside. “Of course,” his friend said with a smile. “Time to impress the audience.”
Aralim smiled. “Miresh? Naeen?”
“We’re ready,” Miresh said. “If I can, I’ll do some actual magic!” She grinned as she spoke, so hopeful of things to come. If she did actual magic, Aralim thought, it would certainly expedite the process.
The Third Court of Rema was held in a stone amphitheatre that descended ten feet below the side of the Iron Palace itself. The Selected sat on the stairs of the amphitheatre; most of them had cushions or chairs as well. They faced away from the Palace, while the massive line of applicants paced down, across a stage, and then out again. Each was given their own turn to speak from the stage, but the turns did not last long at all.
Aralim and his friends waited in that line for most of the day. Long enough that Hayan rejoined them until they were closer to the Court. It started to rain, but none of the business stopped. It was just a light drizzle, and didn’t bother Aralim any. Nothing really bothered Aralim.
“What if they don’t want to help us?” Miresh asked.
Aralim shrugged. “Then we either try something else to meet the Emperor, or we find where the Path is leading us next.”
Naeen spoke up. “You’d leave all this behind after journeying for what? Four moons to get here?”
“The Path led us here,” Aralim explained, with a shrug. “It may lead us away.”
Naeen shrugged. “I don’t understand. Yet. What do you see in this Path? What does it get you, aside from a lot of sleepless nights in old chapels or shelters?”
Aralim nodded. “You’re right. You don’t understand it yet.”
They waited for another hour, after that conversation, until at last they could cross the stage. Aralim led the way, his lit lantern staff pounding across the stone dais until they stood in its centre. Miresh stood squarely, at his right, while Naeen waited behind them.
The Selected all did their own thing. Some were reading. Many were chatting with their neighbours. No one was looking at the stage. A few seemed to be asleep.
Aralim cleared his throat and then began. “I have journeyed from a far away land to seek the guidance of your Emperor. None of you have heard of the Ehdburn Coast, but it from there I hail. Aralim is my name. When I was a young man I discovered my giftedness with magic, and I have pursued this ability beyond all things. North, I journeyed, across the scattered islands of your Stormy Sea, whereupon I met a young apprentice, Miresh. The Eternal Emperor is the greatest wizard in your lands, so I seek his tutorage.”
Throughout his monologue, no one looked up. Aralim raised his staff and hammered its butt down onto the stones with a boom. Hayan, standing behind the crowd, nonchalantly shifted his pose. The sound magnet would be active now. Aralim opened his mouth and raised his voice. “Your assistance has been foretold!”
The declaration boomed off the rocks, and more than a few stood up. The guards blinked, and a few reached for their weapons. One or two members of the Selected seemed particularly interested by the outburst, a short man wearing grey stood up and nodded. “Are you an accomplished magician then?”
Another, a heavyset woman near the back of the group, spoke as well, though she did not stand. “What is it that you think the Emperor will grant you? If you have travelled the world so, what can you learn from him?”
“Are you yet another seeking immortality?” called another voice, though Aralim could not determine where it came from.
“I am not—”
“It is not magic,” said a bald man in the front row. “It is metal, bending the sound. A parlour trick.”
“A fake,” said the first man. “Wasting our words.”
Aralim nodded. They saw his ruse, so he owned it. Naeen had said no one would mind trickery, if it was used well. Before they called for him and his friends to be ushered off the stage, Aralim made one last declaration. “I am not a magician, it is true. But my apprentice is. Miresh has never been trained by a sorcerer before, and has had two visions with repetitive details. I swear to you by any gods you name, that Miresh is gifted. We seek the Emperor’s guidance.”
“Anyone?” asked the first man.
For a moment, Miresh and he waited while the Selected considered what had been said. He glanced at his young friend. She was looking at the Court with a faint smile. Her head was bowed, from a nod at Aralim’s words. She had told him she did not mind him sharing her abilities, if it was necessary.
A woman stood up; she had brown hair and olive skin, and a ring of iron around her head. “You may visit me at my estate on the morrow. We will discuss this matter.”
Anyone who had not been paying attention now was. A few people, including the bald magician in the front of the theatre, turned to look back at the woman who had spoken. A few members of the Selected murmured to one another. Aralim only bowed, to the woman who had spoken. Just a short bob of his head to acknowledge her interest.
“My chief servant, Ka’Tar,” the woman held out her hand, gently, to indicate her servant on the side of the amphitheatre, “will give you directions.”
“Thank you…”
“Mistress Athanu will suffice,” the woman said, as she seated herself again.
No one else spoke up; no one contested her offer. Aralim and his friends paced across the stage, where an elderly man with green tattoos waited. Hayan met them soon after, and they received directions to Mistress Athanu’s estate.