A Friendly Visit?

Bare moments after Metatarzes disappears into the refectory, a boy rushes out to the wooden frame structure that houses the bell and gives it 6 good raps with the clapper. The tones echo out over the covenant and hang in the still morning air, bringing a number of the covenfolk not up and about their business yet to their doors.

Shortly afterward, the magus Peregrine exits his sanctum and moves swiftly to the main gate area. The two watchmen bow at his approach, and the one on the low wooden tower steps to the back as the Bjornaer wizard climbs easily to the top. The grog points to a low dust smear over the olive orchard outside the gates.

"There they are, my lord, and coming this way quick. Hope it's not another bout of the wasting disease in the land!"

Peregrine peers to the northeast where the road--if you can call it that, rutted and overgrown as it is--disappears behind a half-collapsed fairy chimney. Having already seen the approaching pair during his flight, he knows what he expects to see at that corner very shortly.

"What is it, Peregrine? Or mayhap the better question is WHO is it?" The Bjornaer looks down to see the tall, burly figure of the Rus magus Domazhir Slipoi of Verditius, clad in fine robes and looking for all the world like Master of the entire covenant.

"I could not tell you, Domazhir, except that their colors are those of the governor." He starts down the ladder but leaps easily to the ground from a fair height, causing an approaching dark-haired woman in shimmering gray-green robes to clap her hands delightedly.

"Like a falcon indeed, Master Peregrine," cries Annais of Criamon. "Someday you must take me flying with you so that I may view the land for a great painting...a work that may give greater insight into the Enigma!" She peers around, her eyes drinking in the world, her fingers stroking tattoos on her arms that are sometimes visible, sometimes hidden by her robes. "What mysteries shall these emissaries bring? And how shall we solve their problems for them? Or will we?" And she smiles a secret, knowing smile.

The neatly attired horse-magus Humbertus of Guernicus arrives, clad in silken breeches and tunic in the style of the Seljuks. He smells of oranges, with just the faintest hint of the stable. "Have they arrived yet?" he asks, and Domazhir shakes his head, looking over Humbertus shoulder at the next arrival.

A barking cough heralds Iakovos of Bonisagus, clad as a caliph of Baghdad, with a large turban covering his white hair and his full beard falling almost to his waist. The rich blue and red of his gown contrast with the paleness of his face and the watery gray eyes that seem to shine with a secret fear. He says nothing, but nods to each of the magi gathered then retires to stand in the shadow of the tower. From time to time, a glimpse might show him, head down, and one hand...or is it a tentacle...slipping back into his sleeve.

"Who is not here then," says the high, almost petulant voice of Metatarzes, oldest of the magi of Mystikae Eikona, and currently the head of council, or disceptator. His usual purple robe has fruit stains from his breakfast, and his beard--small though it is--looks distinctly matted. His mustaches, long and white, have apparently dragged in the gruel pot.

Subtle glances away, a cough, and Annais' giggle cause the old wizard to glance down and grimace. "Of course, of course, have your laugh at the expense of the doddering old fool. As if I could not deal with this effectively!"

With a few muttered words,a slight motion of his left hand, and a sudden easy breeze redolent of the moment after lightning strikes, the stains and matting and gruel are swept away and Metatarzes purses his lips.

"And where are the others? Was my request not clear enough?"

The Dalmatian Afosiomenos approached his master and speaks softly so the others cannot hear. Metatarzes eyes flash with irritation.

"Drunk again?! Of all vices to which one could fall victim, common drunkenness?! I'll see him answer charges in council! I'll set him to harvesting olives! I'll..."

"You'll do what, old fool?" The tall, gangly form of Albanus of Flambeau strides, somewhat unsteadily, amongst his fellow magi. His gray hair is pulled back into a messy braid, except for the wide, blonde strand that runs from crown to ear. "I am not drunk, just tired after a long night in the lab. If my familiar ran about telling tales like some do, I should have him whipped and locked in the kennel for a few days."

Afosiomenos snorts and goes to lie in the shade of the watchtower, apparently not bothered by Iakovos and his...problems.

Before the two older magi can begin to argue in earnest, two things happen.

First, Tellus of Bonisagus arrives. He is dressed neatly if not as richly as his cohorts. His hands show evidence of scrubbing but he has clearly been working in his favorite element this morning--the earth.

And the watchmen give a shout for around the distant fallen tower come two horsemen. They ride swiftly into the covenant proper as the grog on the ground holds the gate open, rein in and dismount. Like magic (and maybe it is) two covenfolk appear to hold the horses while the Turks walk toward the gathered magi, brushing dust from their still vibrantly colored clothing.

The man in front is shorter than the man behind, and his clothing is a deep blue with the scarlet and gold sash of the governor's guard across his shoulder. His pointed steel helm glistens in the sunlight. He says nothing but his hand on his sword hilt show he is ready should any danger threaten.

The man behind is of medium height but broad in chest and waist, perhaps having enjoyed a little too much of the Sultan's largesse. He is clean-shaven, and perhaps 50 years of age. He wears a flat cap that fairly drips with jewels and his hair is both short and black. His clothing is even brighter and bejeweled than his cap, and embroidered with intricate designs. On his hand is a large gold ring.

"Assalamu Alikum," he says and extends his hand to Metatarzes.

The old magus' face lights up with joy and he grasps the man's hand and replies, "Peace, mercy, and blessings be upon you as well, Yusuf Muharrem, and what brings you out of Nyssa to our humble home?"

There is murmuring at Metatarzes' words. Can it be the governor himself riding out to a nest of heathens and giving the Islamic greeting to them?

"You know me too well, Tarzuhs," the governor says, "to believe I am out for a pleasure ride. There is a serious matter to discuss with you and the brethren, concerning enough that I should ride out on a high day of the Christians and risk the anger of their priests. Let us adjourn to your council hall so that ears not intended should not hear what I have to say."

And as swiftly as that the covenfolk are dispersed and the magi follow Metatarzes and Yusuf Muharrem Beg into the great rock formation that contains the great hall and the council chamber of Mystikae Eikona.

(to be continued)

Morning Has Broken, Please Can You Fix It?

August 15, 1220.

The sun rises early on the Feast of the Dormition, even in Cappadocia. Even on a covenant full of possibly heretical magicians and wizards.

So the day dawns in heat and humidity, for this summer has been hot and wet, far more than is usual in this part of Asia Minor.

The covenant of Mystikae Eikona begins to awaken, though not as early as the monastic houses a few miles to north and south. In fact their bells tolling the death and resurrection of the Most Holy Theotokos which is commemorated on this day are what awaken those whose duties require them to be up early.

The handful of covenfolk about at this hour are not at all bothered by the falcon which stoops from the sky over the fairy chimneys and other rock formations of the covenant, but they do turn and watch expectantly as the handsome avian wheels around one of the single-capped chimneys and then lands on a small balcony near its top before fluttering through a door leading inward. A few moments later a fresh-faced young man in a simple homespun robe steps out onto the balcony and stands watching those below.

This central area of the covenant is triangular, bounded on the southeast by a long, low stone building that houses servants quarters and the kitchen; on the northeast by the large, multicapped fairy chimney which contains the covenant great hall, library and other such “public rooms”, and to the west by three singlecapped chimneys (from one of which the young man watches).

Heavy brush fills most of the gaps to the east, but to the west haphazardly placed fair chimneys lead to the western wall of the small valley, and a Byzantine-style carved façade which clearly opens into caves within the cliff.

Only the space between the east end of the building and the east end of the “great hall” fairy chimney is unobstructed, but two armed and armored men are visible there, one on a wooden platform raised about 10 feet above the ground, the other standing beside the clearly marked pathway at its foot.

Around the base of the “falcon tower” appears an old man. He is of medium height and balding, with gray hair around the crown of his head, a light tuft of the same on his chin, and long—very long—gray mustaches. At his side trots a beautiful Dalmatian hound. The old man does not seem to notice the younger man gazing down from the balcony, but the dog looks up and says “Good morning, Master Peregrine, did you have a pleasant outing this morning?”

Master Peregrine laughs aloud and replies “Indeed I did, good Afosiomenos, though not as pleasant as the hunt we enjoyed two days past.”

Afosiomenos, which is Greek for “Spot”, snorts. “A wasted effort, Master Peregrine, for Master Metatarzes would not let either of us enjoy that feast of quail which we flushed, citing the strictures of the Dormition Fast. A waste of good meat, and at any event *I* am a hound and not a Christian.”

Again Master Peregrine laughs. “Say that not so loudly that the monks hear you, oh hound. But today the fast is ended and you shall have a feast indeed, if I know your Master at all in spite of my brief time here. But look you, tell Metatarzes that as I passed over the Zelve road, I spied two horsemen riding fast from the direction of Cavuscin and as they wear the colors of Yusuf Muharrem Beg of Nyssa, I daresay they are coming here.”

The hound looks toward the receding back of his Master, then back at the young man above. He gives a low “wuff!” like a clearing of the throat and then says in a voice more reedy and petulant than before, “Then as the youngest and newest of the covenant’s magi I suggest you attire yourself in something other than a blanket to cover your nakedness after indulging your heartbeast, and get you to the entry tower to greet out visitors. Meanwhile I shall have breakfast. Afosiomenos shall call the others.”

The Dalmatian turns and runs off toward the other fairy chimneys, but not before giving Master Peregrine a sly wink.

=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=

Each of the magi except Peregrine is called to his door by Afosiomenos and asked to come as soon as possible to the central court.

Metatarzes message to you is thus:

“A visit from envoys of Muharrem Beg is not to be taken lightly. What he may want I do not know, but for him to send men on one of the twelve great feasts of the Christian church is highly irregular. That they ride swiftly and not at the usual leisurely pace of the Seljuk Rum is also irregular. Pray that it is more a social visit than one requiring our…especial skills. Come quickly. Iakovos, for God’s sake try to be presentable! Humbertus, do NOT come smelling of horses! Nor Domazhir, should you smell of the forge and sweat—I know you were working all night! And…do you know the olive trees are bearing rather early this summer? It must be all the rain we’ve had…”

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Definitions:

Feast of the Dormition -- the Eastern Orthodox name for what the Western Church calls The Assumption. The Orthodox do not hold the bodily assumption of the Virgin Mary into heaven after her death to be a dogmatic matter but rather one of personal opinion--that is, a Christian may believe it or not. What *is* required is a belief in Her death and resurrection by Her Son, the Christ. It is preceded by a fast from August 1st.

Theotokos - literally "God-bearer". The Virgin Mary.

Yusuf Muharrem Beg - the Beg is a provincial governor of the Seljuk Turks. Yusuf Muharrem being the current officeholder in the city of Nyssa.