councilor as he or she sat down. Most of them would not meet his eyes. Most of them, in fact, sat with
their heads down, guilty expressions on their faces.
Cowards.
All was not lost, though. Chrissa had left before the vote. If she had already couriered the necessary information to him,
and if it had been delivered safely to the house, he could do what needed to be done to put the new measure into practice
in spite of the vote.
And then the last of the councilors sat, and the Grand Master picked up the black jar that held the votes, and the clear jar
into which they would be counted, and took his place at the table. Before all of them, he carefully poured the contents of
the black jar into the clear jar, careful not to touch any of the balls that passed between the jars—for even in this stage,
he might be accused of tampering with the vote if he was not careful.
And the mass of councilors gasped. The vote was unanimous. Every single ball that fell from the black jar into the clear jar
was purple.
Shocked, Rone leaned back in his chair and stared at his fellow councilors, who—wide-eyed—were staring at each other.
The Grand Master looked at the balls. He rolled them from the clear jar into the voting groove carved into the table. Each
ball rolled to a numbered slot. The vote lay clear before everyone. Twenty-five votes in favor of adopting the measure. No
abstentions except for that of the Grand Master. No abstentions with prejudice. No nays.
“Please record the vote,” the Grand Master said, looking at the Master of Histories. The Master of Histories nodded and wrote
the vote into the meeting log.
“The vote has been recorded,” the Master of Histories said.
“Then record this, also. ‘Following the unanimous vote by the membership of the Council of Dragons in favor of the question
of the use of human souls as fuel to run the Empire, the 872nd Grand Master of the Council of Dragons submitted notice of
his resignation from the Grand Mastership, from the Council, and from the Dragons, and announced both his retirement and his
decision to emigrate from the Empire of the Hars Ticlarim to the outlands—effective immediately.” He looked around the table
at all of them, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn, and when he looked into Rone’s eyes, Rone felt the Grand Master’s
disgust with him, his distaste for this heinous thing they had all done—and in that one moment, Rone doubted that expediency
was the best course to follow.
But the Grand Master picked up his belongings and said, “I am ashamed that this iniquitous thing has happened on my watch,”
and turned to Rone and said, “You were third after Chrissa, and I do not doubt that she meant her resignation as deeply and
as sincerely as I mean mine. Which makes you acting Grand Master for the rest of my term, and obviously leaves the wolves
in charge of the sheep; I hope this nightmare that you and all your fellows have enacted does not soon turn and devour you.”
And he left.
And with the old Grand Master gone, and Rone placed abruptly and solidly in the Chair, he realized that all of his doubts
about the rightness of his vote were erased. His conscience eased. He was among men and women who understood what was best
for the Empire of the Hars Ticlarim, and who would do what had to be done to lead it to new heights of greatness.
Chapter 5
I n the warm summer currents, festival globes spun the sea into rainbows, and the many-colored streamers brought forth fish
by the tens of thousands, so that they became like living stars dancing in the liquid sky.
Music swept out into the currents—the sweet strains of romantic ballads, the cheerful lilt of dance music, the martial strains
of the military bands that were the only public remnant of the Hars Ticlarim’s warrior past. Mingling in the water, the many
strains produced not discord but a magnificent upwelling, a wondrous and stirring symphony that
their heads down, guilty expressions on their faces.
Cowards.
All was not lost, though. Chrissa had left before the vote. If she had already couriered the necessary information to him,
and if it had been delivered safely to the house, he could do what needed to be done to put the new measure into practice
in spite of the vote.
And then the last of the councilors sat, and the Grand Master picked up the black jar that held the votes, and the clear jar
into which they would be counted, and took his place at the table. Before all of them, he carefully poured the contents of
the black jar into the clear jar, careful not to touch any of the balls that passed between the jars—for even in this stage,
he might be accused of tampering with the vote if he was not careful.
And the mass of councilors gasped. The vote was unanimous. Every single ball that fell from the black jar into the clear jar
was purple.
Shocked, Rone leaned back in his chair and stared at his fellow councilors, who—wide-eyed—were staring at each other.
The Grand Master looked at the balls. He rolled them from the clear jar into the voting groove carved into the table. Each
ball rolled to a numbered slot. The vote lay clear before everyone. Twenty-five votes in favor of adopting the measure. No
abstentions except for that of the Grand Master. No abstentions with prejudice. No nays.
“Please record the vote,” the Grand Master said, looking at the Master of Histories. The Master of Histories nodded and wrote
the vote into the meeting log.
“The vote has been recorded,” the Master of Histories said.
“Then record this, also. ‘Following the unanimous vote by the membership of the Council of Dragons in favor of the question
of the use of human souls as fuel to run the Empire, the 872nd Grand Master of the Council of Dragons submitted notice of
his resignation from the Grand Mastership, from the Council, and from the Dragons, and announced both his retirement and his
decision to emigrate from the Empire of the Hars Ticlarim to the outlands—effective immediately.” He looked around the table
at all of them, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn, and when he looked into Rone’s eyes, Rone felt the Grand Master’s
disgust with him, his distaste for this heinous thing they had all done—and in that one moment, Rone doubted that expediency
was the best course to follow.
But the Grand Master picked up his belongings and said, “I am ashamed that this iniquitous thing has happened on my watch,”
and turned to Rone and said, “You were third after Chrissa, and I do not doubt that she meant her resignation as deeply and
as sincerely as I mean mine. Which makes you acting Grand Master for the rest of my term, and obviously leaves the wolves
in charge of the sheep; I hope this nightmare that you and all your fellows have enacted does not soon turn and devour you.”
And he left.
And with the old Grand Master gone, and Rone placed abruptly and solidly in the Chair, he realized that all of his doubts
about the rightness of his vote were erased. His conscience eased. He was among men and women who understood what was best
for the Empire of the Hars Ticlarim, and who would do what had to be done to lead it to new heights of greatness.
Chapter 5
I n the warm summer currents, festival globes spun the sea into rainbows, and the many-colored streamers brought forth fish
by the tens of thousands, so that they became like living stars dancing in the liquid sky.
Music swept out into the currents—the sweet strains of romantic ballads, the cheerful lilt of dance music, the martial strains
of the military bands that were the only public remnant of the Hars Ticlarim’s warrior past. Mingling in the water, the many
strains produced not discord but a magnificent upwelling, a wondrous and stirring symphony that
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