The Chaos Balance

XIX

The brown-haired man in the silver robes waited as the officer in the green uniform and white sash advanced into the small receiving hall-a marble-floored room merely large enough for two or three of the Cyadoran steam wagons whose numbers had dwindled from legion to a mere score or so.

“Majer Piataphi?”

“Yes, Your Mightiness?”

“Sit down.”

The majer glanced at the two padded stools, each armless and backless, that faced the table desk behind which sat Lephi on a high-backed stool. Finally, Piataphi seated himself on the front edge of the left stool.

Lephi lifted the scroll. “This is the response we received from the Lornian barbarians. Do you know what it says?”

“No, Sire.” A faint sheen coated Piataphi’s forehead.

“It says nothing-except that we are discourteous. We of the land of Cyador, ancient and mighty, are discourteous. We of Cyador, who brought order out of disorder, cities out of wild forests, we are discourteous. We who brought metal-working and the first trade ships to cross the oceans, we are discourteous. There is no remembrance of the daughters they enticed away generations ago, nor of the dangers to life our ancestors eliminated, such as the stun lizards that were everywhere.”

Piataphi waited.

“That in itself is no matter, Majer. No matter.” Lephi stood and stepped from behind the white-lacquered table desk that dated through at least eight generations of Lords of Cyador. The Emperor walked toward the tinted glass windows, then paused before the oiled wooden frames as his eyes ranged over Cyad, down from the hillside site of the White Palace, toward the harbor, toward the piers that once housed the White Fleet of the ancients, before his grandsire had decided that the barbarians around the Western Ocean had nothing to offer. He smiled faintly as he took in the cranes and the timbers at the shipworks to the west of the white stone piers.

The white-paved streets glistened, glistened from the hiss of brooms as the sweepers continued their endless work to ensure that the White City remained shimmering white. Those who walked the streets were well clad, clean, and scented with oils and spices, as they should have been.

Without turning back to face Piataphi, Lephi continued. “You will teach the barbarians the meaning of discourtesy. They have forgotten that all that they possess came from the ancients of Cyador. Since they have no gratitude, we must use fear. They have existed on the sufferance of Cyador, and we will not suffer that misapprehension to continue.”

“Yes, Sire.” Piataphi remained nearly motionless on the edge of the stool.

“Would that we had the fire cannons. Or the lances of light, but those will be with us again before long.”

“We cannot duplicate the fittings yet, Lord. Nor fill the reservoirs.”

“We cannot duplicate them now,” mused Lephi. “But that is changing. Already, we build a fireship. Then we will re-create the fire cannons. You will not need them now. Cyador is larger, more prosperous than in the time of my grandsire.” He turned back toward Piataphi. “We must have the copper mines of the north; those in Delapra will not last. Take all the even-numbered Mirror Lancers and the Shield Foot-”

“All, Your Mightiness?”

“I am not aware of any other challenges to Cyador. Are you?”

“No, Sire.”

“I wish the barbarians annihilated-those within fifty kays of the mines. The others you may handle as you see fit. If they will not respect us out of gratitude, they will respect the forces you command.”

“There are doubtless many more-they breed like lizards, Sire-than in years previous.”

“You may also take the Shining Foot.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

“Begin your preparations tomorrow. You may use half the steamwagons on the North Highway.”

“As you command, Sire.”

“As I command…yes, as I command, Majer. And I command you to leave a swath of destruction around any that oppose the might of Cyador. Or forget what we have bestowed upon them.”

The majer nodded.

“You may go.”

Piataphi stood and stiffened to attention. “All honor to Your Mightiness and to the glory of Cyador.”

“Go…” Lephi gestured, as if to wave away a fly.

The majer saluted, turned, and marched from the small receiving room.

Lephi’s brown eyes went to the ancient painting on the inside wall-the etched-metal depiction of a wheeled steamwagon with a fire cannon turning a section of trees and animals into ashes. Even a giant stun lizard was shown flaring into flame.

“Cyador will become yet more mighty,” he whispered. “We will have more steamwagons and fire cannon. We will. As I will it to be. As it was in the beginning, and will be evermore.”