After breakfast, Aralim set out for the Magistrate’s Hall with most of his companions in tow. Only Velad’na remained at the Shipwright Stead, content to study from his books while the others pursued the investigation. Miresh’s training was proceeding well, but her studies had begun not three years earlier; she was adept at picking up certain skills, but others took hours of long practice. Nill was surprised that magic was not a thing that happened instantly—most spells took recurring and drawn-out focus to achieve the desired result. It was only through great repetition that magicians were able to perform some results in mere moments.
The Magistrate’s Hall of Maykren was a three-storey building, shaped like a great long-house instead of a keep or fortress. The third storey couldn’t have been wide enough for anything more than private quarters or attic storage, while the second storey likely had private meeting-chambers and perhaps the Magistrate’s more illustrious quarters—Aralim assumed. The first storey ran most of the length of the building in a great hall; with a full, public audience received, it likely could shelter some two-hundred people.
Today, however, the great space of the wooden-shingled stone-walled Hall was inhabited by smaller groups of merchants, politicians, servants, and scribes. Clusters met in comfortable distances from one another. A guard bowed when Aralim introduced himself and showed the Ambassador’s group to an unoccupied area to await their summons from Magistrate Matad.
The guard returned a moment later, while Miresh and Nill were chatting. To Aralim, he quietly said, “My lord was expecting just you, master Walker.”
“Ah yes,” Aralim murmured, smiling to himself. “I to tend to work against expectations. My friends are quite used to standing though, if you don’t have sufficient chairs.”
With a confused nod, the guard returned to Matad, presumably. Moments later, he returned and escorted Aralim and his friends to the second storey. They entered a rustic hallway lined with tapestries and paintings, and soon neared the door to an adjoining meeting room. As they arrived, they were joined by a robed fellow with a short beard and a braided knot amongst his hair—likely an advisor to the Magistrate that was summoned at the last moment.
The room, Aralim soon realized, was not large enough for the group he had brought. Narr waited in the hall, at a nod from Miresh; his sizeable absence helped the rest fit. The quiet Aura cut off the robed advisor in short order—unwilling to wait in the corridor like Narr. Aralim supressed another smile as they crowded into the meeting chamber across from the heavy-set, middle-aged Magistrate.
Matad, who seemed a little distraught by the difficulty with which his servants began delivering refreshments, intoned, “Welcome to Maykren, Ambassador and friends. How was your river voyage?”
Aralim insisted on receiving a tea from the servants last, though they kept trying to serve him first. He smiled at Magistrate Matad as the commotion continued and answered, “Nostalgic. Miresh and I used to travel by boat quite frequently. I’ve always been fond of travel. How are you feeling? The city seems to be busy, to say the least.”
Busy with arson, disappeared magicians, and rumours of unrest in Rema, he thought.
“Maykren is always busy, always bustling.” Matad sipped his wine. He leaned forward. “Are most Walkers of the Path also sailors? You originate in a far-off land, yes? Is it so there?”
Aralim blinked, but distracted from his reaction by clasping his hands around the warm tea he had been provided. “No, I gave up sailing after…well, some significant life events. I was actually quite late to begin, as far as Walkers go.”
The Magistrate smiled. “Ah, but in your home, there are many? How many of the Path’s followers generally feel the call to wander—as I hear it, to seek enlightenment along the Path?” His questions, though far afield, seemed full of genuine curiosity. He spoke earnestly, and awaited the Walker’s reply.
Aralim smiled, wondering how much his questions were affected by the presence of a new religion in the Empire. “In my land, most everyone follows the Path in some way, but how that manifests itself in a person’s life depends on that person. In Miresh’s home, lanterns fill the streets, but there were no wanderers in sight. I’m sure your own religion in Numa’nakres has pilgrims? We are much the same, but instead of holy sites, we travel in search of lessons.”
“Fascinating!” Matad lowered his wine once more. “What does the lantern symbolize?” he asked.
“Light,” Aralim replied. He chuckled.
The Magistrate laughed as well, but in the crowded room it seemed he enjoyed the joke more than he ought to have.
“I recently saw many pilgrims travel to the valley of the Emperor’s birth,” Aralim recounted. “They too carried lights with them, although not as extravagant. To commit yourself to always looking for ways to grow—this requires you to carry your own light. You cannot rely on others, but must light your own way.”
Magistrate Matad mulled it over thoughtfully, nodding. Then he paused and bowed his head. “I could speak about such things at length, I’m afraid, but I suspect you are here for more than a tour of the sights and to talk culture with a curious governor.”
Aralim glanced at Miresh with a smile. She knew he would have enjoyed an extensive sharing of cultures, but it was not the time. “Perhaps we can enjoy a cup of tea and such stories when we’re finished with business. Let me start with the hardest question then. What are the extremes of your governance? What makes you the most proud, and what the most concerned?”
“An interesting question—and a revealing one. I must say that I am of a long line of leaders. My ancestors were tribal chiefs, my forefathers managed jungle villages, my great-grandmother was appointed Magistrate of Maykren, and so it has passed on through time. My pride is only to bring them pride, if you would,” the Magistrate explained. Then he grimaced. “But, my health is not what it used to be. And let that be a sufficient answer to your latter curiosity.”
Nill leaned forward, and, at a nod from Aralim, asked, “Are political positions passed by blood, then, in Numa’nakres?”
Matad rubbed his silver-flecked beard. “They have been at times and they have not been at times. These days, most positions can change regardless of heritage, based on one’s favour with the rest of the Empire and based on merit, but many are able to maintain both and retain their authority.
“What of you, Master Aralim?” the broad man asked. “What is it that makes you the most proud? And what makes you the most concerned?”
Aralim found himself caught off guard by the question. “Pride is not something I give much thought to,” he said, and paused to consider it. “I suppose I’m most proud of this little one. In her, lies a truer, purer version of everything I believe, even though she would argue that.”
Miresh gave him a smile and Aralim looked back to the governor. “As for my concern…” Aralim began, “I fear that despite my efforts, I will be unable to build Numa above its current position. Although I do my best to walk away from that fear and not towards it.”
“You care so deeply for a land that is not your home?” Matad questioned. He hesitated, then rephrased: “Your homeland, I should say.”
“Numa’nakres has presented me with the greatest opportunity to test my limits. Something I value greatly as a Walker,” Aralim explained.
Matad tilted his head. “And how would you say a better Numa’nakres ought to be?”
It was a discerning question, and one that—answered poorly—could cause offense. Aralim glanced at his friends, then turned back to Matad and answered, “I haven’t decided yet. I have spent little time outside the capital. Hence my visit. It would be unfair to judge the whole by a single part.”
The Magistrate nodded approvingly. “A most pragmatic approach.”
For a moment, the room was quiet. Nill sipped her wine, while the robed advisor that Matad had summoned looked at them vacantly. Aralim wondered why he had been summoned in the first place, as he had said nothing. Once again speaking to Matad, Aralim offered, “I’m sorry to hear about your health. A poor time to have lost Master Tussom, I imagine…”
“Truly so,” Matad said, grievously. “I had heard you were investigating his death—please, tell me of whatever you learn.”
“Investigating is a very formal word,” Aralim replied, with a smile. “Power dynamics are a matter of curiosity for Walkers, and the death of such a powerful individual is fascinating to me. Speaking of fascinating, perhaps we should walk and talk? I’m sure that, for my friends, seeing the city through your eyes would be more interesting than our trading questions.”
Matad smiled, glancing around the crowded room. “Of course, master Walker.”
Soon enough, the group had managed to file out of the small meeting room. It took a few moments for the Magistrate to cross the great hall as he was stopped by a number of councilmen and merchants as he attempted to cross. Once they were outside, Matad and his guards turned abruptly and descended the slope against the east side of the Magistrate’s Hall; Aralim was surprised to see they were going to be touring the city by boat. It made ample sense upon consideration though—Maykren was built across a wide river delta, and Matad was a man of some girth who might not be as comfortable walking.
Of note, they saw a shrine that predated the rule of the Eternal Emperor and they also viewed much of the city from an angle that Aralim had not seen. Dozens of small watercraft filled most of the waterways, and some market stalls served boaters directly, forming river-side markets as expansive as those he had seen on the isles and shores of the city’s streets.
Aralim learned more of the investigation into the Overseer’s untimely death—or, as Aralim assumed, disappearance. Several crew members of the coupled barge The Prince of the Bay had provided accounts of the event. One had seen Tussom slip from a high deck and fall; another had found blood on a rail he had struck on his descent. Lastly, several had seen his body in the waves, but the body had sunk into the depths before anyone had been able to reach it.
After the rather pleasant conversation they had shared, Aralim refrained from pointing out to Matad how obvious it was that Tussom was not dead. A magician “falling to his death”? Surely Tussom could have faked his death in a more believable fashion, he thought. But as the Ambassador, Aralim said nothing and took in the sights of Maykren with his friends.