This was definitely not how he had envisioned his return to Alzur.
3
In Which Attempts Are Made to Dissuade
Lord Allutar from His Intentions
By the time Anrel caught up to Valin they had rounded the corner by the clockmaker’s shop. The rain had lessened to a thin drizzle, but still continued.
Valin glanced at his companion, but said nothing.
Anrel remarked, “I confess, this is not quite the homecoming I imagined.”
Valin smiled at that. “I am sure it’s not,” he said. “I suppose you expected a leisurely walk in the opposite direction.”
Anrel smiled ruefully in return. “In fact, I flattered myself that Lord Dorias might have met me himself, rather than sending you. Perhaps if he had, you would not be rushing off on this fool’s errand.”
“Ah, Anrel! I’m afraid our dear patron said he was not well, and did not feel himself up to the journey.”
“What?” Anrel stopped in his tracks. “Do you mean to tell me that you are marching us off to defend this thieving nobody, when your own guardian, my beloved uncle, is ill? Why did you not rush me to his bedside immediately, rain or no? Valin, I—”
Valin held up a hand, interrupting him. “No, no; the illness, such as it is, is not so severe as that. In truth, I think it as much a sour mood as any physical ailment. There is no danger whatsoever, I assure you, or indeed I would have rushed you to his bedside. As it is, were you at his bedside I fear you would find yourself alone, as when last I saw your uncle he was amusing himself in his orangery, viciously pruning any blossom that displeased him while complaining at length about the emperor’s foolishness and your own perversity in choosing this particular time to return to Alzur. Lady Saria was present to provide an ear for his tirade, so I felt no need to remain there myself, nor to coax him to meet your coach.”
“Ah.” Anrel allowed himself to relax. “That does sound like him, and I can understand not wishing to interrupt him in such a situation.” He began walking again, pulling his cap forward on his brow to better shield his face from the rain. “Let us allow him to cleanse the oranges of unhealthy blooms, then, while we waste our breath in asserting our own moral superiority to Lord Allutar.”
“Father and Mother, Anrel,” Valin said, falling in beside him. “Have you no sympathy for the baker’s son?”
Anrel said, “Should I? He is no friend of mine. Would you have my heart bleed for every stranger who meets an unkind fate, from the sailor who drowns storm-tossed in the southern seas, to the peasant eaten by wolves in Noroda? I fear that such an excess of sympathy would leave me utterly exsanguinated in short order.”
“Anrel, this man is one of our own neighbors, a Walasian and a citizen of Alzur, not some foreign barbarian.”
“Oh? Tell me, Valin, do you know his name? I notice you call him the baker’s son; do you even know the baker’s name?”
“Kazien,” Valin replied defensively.
“That’s the family name, yes—I could have read the sign on the shop for myself to learn that much. But do you know either man’s personal name?”
“No,” Valin admitted. “And I am ashamed that I do not. I have spoken with both of them on more than one occasion, and should have learned their names.”
“Ashamed? Valin, you are a sorcerer, a noble of the empire! You have a true name, recorded on the Great List. Why should you concern yourself with some ordinary tradesman’s calling name?”
“Because he is a man, whether he has any talent for magic or not, and his humanity is deserving of respect. Should I deny my own father respect because he was no sorcerer? Should I disdain my mother’s embrace because she cannot bind spirits to her will? Should I refuse your company, because you lack arcane skills?”
“Your parents deserve your respect because they are your parents, Valin, and I would hope that you take pleasure in my company, though I am, despite my heritage, but a scholar and no magician. We are your family and your friends—but this herb thief is not. By your own admission, in all the years you have lived in my uncle’s home you have never troubled yourself to learn the baker’s name, let alone that of his son, yet you are determined to antagonize the landgrave on his behalf. One thing I was taught in Lume is that we must choose where our efforts are best spent, that no one has the strength to fight every battle, nor study every field of learning. Do you really think this confrontation is the best use of your time and energy?”
“Yes, Anrel, I do,” Valin said, as they passed the iron fence that marked the village boundary, and the limit of the burgrave’s authority. Anrel could feel the faint tingle of his uncle’s magic; Lord Dorias had, of course, set wards all along the pale, to defend Alzur from hostile influences—not that any hostile influences were likely to come from outside. “Confronting injustice is every man’s duty, and to value a few herbs over a man’s life is the grossest of injustices.”
Anrel sighed, and looked up the hill ahead, past the neatly trimmed lawns, the carefully placed hedges, and the tidy rows of poplars, at the grand home of Lord Allutar Hezir, landgrave of Aulix. The white stone walls gleamed even in the rain, as water streamed from the turrets and gargoyles; the exterior of the house was designed to impress, to intimidate, but Valin did not seem deterred by its splendor.
Clearly, Valin was determined to see Lord Allutar and argue for the trespasser’s life; further protest could accomplish nothing. Still, Anrel was not at all pleased by the prospect.
In truth, he did not care very much one way or another about the baker or his son; he would prefer to see the youth freed, if only to please Valin, but he did not think it would be possible to sway Lord Allutar. He did not particularly care to see everyone’s time and effort wasted in a doomed attempt to do so.
Anrel did remember the baker and his children. That Valin did not made a point in Anrel’s own mind about his friend’s obliviousness. Anrel knew the baker’s name was Darith Kazien, and while the man was a master of his craft, he was not a particularly pleasant individual in other ways. His son, Urunar, three years younger than Anrel and almost five years Valin’s junior, had been an unhappy child with a streak of cruelty. Although they had seen little of each other and had never been friends, more than once Anrel had stopped Urunar from bullying younger children or tormenting stray animals.
But on occasion he had also seen Urunar comforting his sisters after their father had abused them, or after one of the girls had yet again burned her hand trying to help out at the bakery. The boy had not been without redeeming features. Despite his reluctance to intervene, Anrel had no desire to see him dead—but he did not find the prospect unthinkable, either.
Anrel was not surprised that Valin did not remember Urunar’s name. Ever since Valin’s magical talent had first manifested itself and his parents had sent him to be trained in sorcery and the social graces of the aristocracy by Lord Dorias, Valin had been a dreamer, too caught up in his hopes and schemes, too focused on grand ideas, to notice the details of the everyday world around him.
Furthermore, in their younger years, when Anrel and Lady Saria and the other children of the village had played together, Valin had often been kept in his guardian’s home, studying the arcane arts. Dorias’s tutelage had been strict and time-consuming. Valin had had far less contact with the other households in the area than had Anrel or his cousin.
That fact had done a great deal to please young Anrel with his own failure as a sorcerer; he had enjoyed his freedom. Lady Saria was a sorceress, of course, but had somehow managed to elude her lessons far more often than had Lord Valin.
That isolation, Anrel thought, might also explain why Valin had seemingly not guessed the greatest reason for Anrel’s utter lack of enthusiasm for their errand. Simply put, Anrel had no desire to ever see Lord Allutar again, under any circumstances whatsoever. He did not wish to share a room with the sorcerer, nor breathe the same air. In their every previous encounter Lord Allutar had demonstrated himself to be arrogant, inconsidera
te, and unpleasant, and to have a knack for causing Anrel, who normally prided himself on his cool equanimity, to lose his temper.
With that in mind, Anrel promised himself that he would say as little as possible on this occasion.
The footman at the mansion’s door recognized Lord Valin, and allowed him in—one did not argue with sorcerers, even very minor ones. If Lord Valin was intruding, then it was up to another sorcerer, such as Lord Allutar, to stop him; it was not the place of a lowly servant unless specific orders had been given.
Anrel was admitted solely because he marched in so close on Valin’s heels that the footman could not get the door closed quickly enough.
The footman did, however, manage to hurry past the visitors to announce them before they actually crossed the threshold of Lord Allutar’s hall.
“Lord Valin li-Tarbek, fosterling of the House of Adirane,” he said, a trifle breathlessly, “and Master Anrel Murau.”
Anrel was mildly surprised the footman remembered his name, as it had not been mentioned at the door. He had expected to be “and companion,” or ignored entirely. He nodded an acknowledgment to the footman, hanging back for a moment as Valin strode into the hall.
The room was large and magnificent; carved stone arches supported a high ceiling where golden stars gleamed on a deep blue background, and a long row of lancet windows admitted the gray light of day. Lush blue and gold carpets from somewhere in the Ermetian mystery lands covered most of the stone floor, while tapestries adorned the walls. Heavy tables were pushed back against the walls, leaving most of the room open; the hearth, cold and dark this time of year, occupied one end of the long room, while a dais filled the other. A homunculus somewhat larger than a man stood motionless in one corner, its back against the wall, its features utterly still and lifeless. Anrel gave it a curious glance; his uncle had never made or owned one, and the few Anrel had seen in Lume had been busy on their masters’ business and had not provided him much of an opportunity for study, so he would have liked a chance to give the creature a close inspection.
But he was not here to study the homunculus; he was here to support Valin against the master of the hall.
Lord Allutar was seated upon a grand chair upon the dais—was it still a throne, Anrel wondered, when it was merely a landgrave’s chair, rather than the seat of an emperor? It certainly looked like a throne. Allutar appeared as unpleasant as ever, glaring down his long nose at everyone.
A stranger was standing on the dais beside the throne, a tall blond man Anrel had never seen before—a foreigner, by the look of him, perhaps Quandish, or from somewhere in the Cousins. Anrel guessed this might be the Lord Blackfield Valin had mentioned.
Although he had not seen the Quandishman before, the stranger’s presence jogged a memory loose—wasn’t Lord Blackfield the name of one of the foreigners involved with the previous year’s scandal surrounding Prince Sharal, and the murder of Lady Arissa Taline? Anrel could not recall the exact connection.
Whether this was the same man or not, he was standing beside Lord Allutar like a trusted friend.
The baker, Darith Kazien, knelt on the steps of the dais at Lord Allutar’s feet; his wife and his two daughters knelt beside him. Several servants were standing attentively to one side or the other. There was no sign of Urunar himself.
Lord Valin, Anrel was dismayed to see, was marching across the room as if preparing to chastise a misbehaving dog. He stopped only when he could go no farther without kicking aside some member of the baker’s family.
“Lord Valin,” Allutar said, gazing mildly at the intruder. “What brings you barging into my home?”
“I have come to add my voice to those demanding that you free the baker’s son!” Valin announced.
“Demanding? Demanding?” Anrel thought Allutar was genuinely surprised by this effrontery; the tone of his raised voice seemed to be more astonishment than anger. “By what authority can you possibly make demands of me?”
“By the authority of our shared humanity, and of common decency!” Valin cried.
“What authority is that?” Allutar asked, his astonishment turning to amusement. He leaned on one elbow, rested his chin on his hand, and stared at Valin.
“Lord Allutar, we are all brothers, as the deacons tell us,” Valin proclaimed, “and as your brother, I have the right to ask you to show mercy to this unfortunate youth.”
“The right to ask, perhaps, but hardly the authority to demand,” Allutar said, straightening up again. “I am the landgrave of Aulix, appointed to that post by the emperor himself, after assessment by the Imperial College in Lume; that is my authority to do as I please with this thief. I think that sufficient.”
“But you cannot just ignore the rights of a fellow human being!” Valin exclaimed.
“Oh? Are you claiming that these rights supersede the authority of the Walasian Empire?” Allutar shook his head. “I don’t think you would find many who would agree with you—certainly not among the magistrates. The empire has far more men and horses and cannon enforcing the emperor’s orders than you will find defending common decency. Not to mention that in addition to his soldiers, the emperor has magicians such as ourselves subject to his whims.”
Valin appeared about to shout a response, and was taking a breath, when one of the baker’s daughters—Felizza, was it?—looked up from where she crouched and murmured, “Please, Lord Valin, don’t make him angry.” Anrel did not think she intended it to be heard by anyone but Valin, but as fortune would have it the words emerged during one of those momentary silences that can occur in any conversation, and were clearly audible to everyone present.
Lord Allutar froze for an instant, then turned his gaze on the kneeling girl.
“I am not angry, child,” he said. “Nor does this jumped-up imitation of a sorcerer have the power to anger me. I am not so easily troubled as that.” He looked back to Valin. “However, I do not take kindly to my inferiors making demands of me.”
Anrel watched Valin struggle with himself before he spoke, and could guess what his friend was thinking—he wanted to continue as he had begun, to denounce Lord Allutar as an insensitive monster, to argue with everything the man said, but he had heard the girl’s protest, and knew that he might well be hurting his own cause were he to remain belligerent.
Circumspection, and the desire to save the youth’s life, won out over Valin’s righteous wrath.
“Your pardon, Landgrave,” Valin said. “My emotions got the better of me. Perhaps you are always able to restrain your anger, but I fear in that respect, if no other, I may indeed confess myself the weaker man.”
Allutar smiled a tight little smile of satisfaction, and nodded almost imperceptibly. “Well said,” he acknowledged. “Now, I have been listening to the pleas of the scoundrel’s family, and have been touched by them, if not yet swayed from my course. I have also heard some argument from my Quandish guest, Lord Blackfield.” He gestured at the blond stranger. Anrel’s guess of the man’s identity had been correct.
“However,” Allutar said, “no one has yet given me any reason to doubt that the boy did indeed trespass upon my private gardens and attempt to carry away a basketful of valuable herbs. No one has yet caused me to doubt the legality of putting him to death for this offense. I have heard a great deal about the supposed benefits of mercy, which I have countered with arguments I think just as sound on the deterrent effects of a strong and prompt punishment. Furthermore, as it happens I have a use for someone’s death—there is a binding I would like to attempt that requires the sacrifice of a man or woman’s lifeblood.”
The Quandishman made an unhappy wordless noise at that; Allutar did not appear to notice. Such a sacrifice clearly fell into the category the Quandish considered black magic; Lord Blackfield’s efforts had obviously not swayed his host.
“So,” Allutar continued, “I find myself weighing these various elements. I believe I have every legal right to carry out this execution, and no one seems to be questioning tha
t. The moral right is another matter, and I admit that is far less certain, but I am willing to risk the stain on my soul, and will leave any consequences in the hands of our ancestral spirits. With the legal and moral issues thus resolved to my satisfaction, that leaves practical considerations. Obviously, I have the physical capability of disposing of young Urunar as I see fit, but do the benefits to be achieved outweigh the costs? His family have presented their case for heavy emotional costs to themselves, and some small economic consequences to the village. They argue that showing mercy will enhance my reputation. I cannot deny any of these, but against them I set the costs of being thought foolishly lenient by other would-be thieves and trespassers—not a trivial matter in these unsettled times—and the sorcerous benefits I hope to derive from the planned blood sacrifice, not merely for myself but for our entire province. I find the balance still favors butchering the baker’s boy.” He smiled grimly at his little wordplay. “Lord Blackfield has suggested some potential risks in my proposed course of action, and some vague possible benefits of eschewing it, but frankly, I do not take these very seriously. Lord Blackfield and his friends have been presenting these same arguments here and there for several years now, and I remain unconvinced. So, Lord Valin—do you have any new factors to add to the equation? Have you new elements that might tip the balance the other way?”
Anrel suppressed a sigh. Lord Allutar had already won—not that there had ever been much doubt of his eventual victory. He had made himself out to be the voice of reason, the avatar of dispassionate logic, and Valin had allowed it to happen. Barring some miracle of eloquence, Valin could not hope to change anything now; no matter what arguments he might present, Allutar needed only to consider them for a moment, and then declare them insufficient.
But Valin did not seem to know that. He had not spent the last four years studying logic, rhetoric, and oratory in the court schools, as Anrel had.
A Young Man Without Magic Page 3