A Young Man Without Magic

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “I had not thought the matter so obvious as you do, to say the least,” Anrel said. “It would seem I badly misjudged the situation.”

  “I should say you did. Marry Valin! Augh! Why not just auction me off, like some old-fashioned peasant?”

  “I scarcely think marrying your father’s fosterling is equivalent to a bridal auction. In any event, if not Valin, then who is your intended spouse?”

  “Anrel, don’t play the fool.” She glared at him. “What other sorcerer is there in the vicinity of Alzur?”

  Anrel stared at her in dawning horror. “Surely, you don’t mean Lord Allutar?”

  She lifted her nose. “And why not? Do you think me unworthy of him?”

  “On the contrary, I think him very obviously unworthy of you. He is twice your age!”

  “What of it? Do you think I would prefer an untried boy to a mature adult?”

  “He is a vile, unmannered lout!”

  “He is plainspoken at times, perhaps.”

  “He intends to murder a young man four days from now—does that not trouble you at all?”

  “He is attempting powerful sorcery. That is entirely fitting for a landgrave of the empire. And he is dispensing justice, which is also appropriate.”

  Anrel could find no further words, but merely stared at her in awkward silence, marveling at how little he really knew her. Had she changed so much in the four years he was gone? Perhaps she had; four years was a significant amount of time, after all, especially for one as young as Saria. Those four years were a fifth of her life.

  This, at least, explained some of her behavior in the previous day’s debate over Urunar Kazien’s impending doom. Anrel had taken that for a means of trying herself against Valin; now he saw that she had instead been defending the man she hoped to wed.

  He tried unsuccessfully to grasp the idea. She really wanted to marry Lord Allutar? Had she not once shared his own loathing for the man? Allutar was arrogant, heartless, condescending—but perhaps not to her. Anrel thought back, reviewing his contacts with the landgrave that had formed his opinions, and realized that Saria had not been present for most of them. Lord Allutar had often been rude to Anrel—but Anrel was an orphan and a commoner. Saria was the burgrave’s daughter, and a competent sorceress.

  Lord Allutar was wealthy, powerful, respected, and inasmuch as Anrel was any judge of such things, not unpleasant in appearance—his skin was clear, his hair and beard clean and well maintained, his shoulders broad, his belly flat, his features regular and well-balanced, and he was tall enough to be commanding without being freakish. Was it really so strange that Saria might find him desirable? Anrel’s own dislike of the man was so strong that the possibility had never occurred to him, but now that he thought about it he could see nothing unreasonable about it.

  He could not even be sure he found the idea entirely disagreeable. Allutar was going to continue to live on the hill above Alzur in any case, and Saria might prove a moderating influence upon him. On a purely instinctual, emotional level the notion of Saria sharing Allutar’s bed was nauseating, but on a rational level Anrel had to admit that was her concern, and not his own.

  This might also explain why the constant rivalry between Valin and Saria had acquired a sharper edge—Valin and Allutar despised each other.

  The silence had grown awkward, but it was Saria who broke it. “How long do the ladies of Lume wear their hair these days?” she asked.

  “Shorter than those out here in the countryside,” Anrel replied, relieved to have the conversation once more on safe ground. “Indeed, scarcely past the collar, in some cases, but tightly curled.”

  Some minutes later, to Anrel’s relief, a footman called them to lunch.

  After they had eaten, Saria retired upstairs, while Anrel took a book to the parlor. He had read several chapters when he looked up to see Lord Valin marching in.

  “Ho!” Anrel said. “The conquering hero has returned!”

  “I am in no mood for your badinage,” Valin replied.

  “Then I shall not trouble you with it,” Anrel said. “Is there something you would like to say, or shall I continue with my reading?”

  “By all means, read on,” Valin said. “I will not be fit company for some time yet.”

  Anrel’s curiosity was aroused, but he did not ask for explanation; instead he shrugged, and opened his book anew.

  Valin found a volume of his own on the shelves, and sank into a chair.

  The two of them sat thus, in silence interrupted by the rustling of turned pages and an occasional quiet remark, for the better part of an hour. They were still thus engaged when the master of the house returned, his presence announced by the stamping of feet and the slamming of doors.

  Lord Dorias was smiling broadly as he walked into his parlor, which Valin and Anrel took as an encouraging sign. The two of them had both put down their books in anticipation of the burgrave’s arrival.

  “What news, then, Uncle?” Anrel asked.

  “Ah, my lads, Lord Allutar has agreed to call on Saria on the morrow.”

  Valin frowned. “What?”

  Anrel glanced at his friend. Perhaps Anrel had not been the only member of the household unaware of Saria’s romantic interest in the landgrave.

  “We have an understanding, he and I,” Dorias said. “I have made plain that I have no objections to the match, and he has expressed an interest in becoming better acquainted with Saria. Naturally, nothing is finalized yet—”

  “That is not what concerns me,” Valin interrupted. “What of the baker’s son? Were you not going to argue for his life?”

  “What? Oh, yes.” The burgrave’s smile dimmed. “I’m afraid I could do nothing. My plea for simple mercy was refused. I did bring up your absurd contention that stealing those herbs indicated an interest in magic, and although the landgrave thinks it ridiculous, he has agreed that if the boy wants to claim a talent for sorcery he may be tested—after all, he must have a true name for the sacrifice in any case, so the test will add little inconvenience. But if he does not make such a claim, or if he fails the tests, the sacrifice will take place at midday on the equinox, as planned. Beyond that, there was nothing more I could say.”

  “Nothing? You could devise no threat, no entreaty, that would help? It hardly seems you tried, if you have consented to allow Lord Allutar within these walls tomorrow!”

  “Valin, I was not about to risk my daughter’s future on behalf of a common thief!” He looked around. “Where is Saria, then?”

  “In her room, I believe,” Anrel said—but just then the door burst open and Saria entered.

  “What did he say, Father?” she asked breathlessly.

  “He will pay his respects tomorrow,” Dorias told her.

  “Oh, wonderful!” She scampered across the room and embraced her father, and his smile was renewed, brighter than ever.

  “I will speak with him here, then,” Valin said. “The baker’s son—”

  “You will not, Lord Valin li-Tarbek!” Saria snapped, releasing her father and whirling to face Valin. “You will not harass him when he comes courting me!” She turned back to Dorias. “Father, make him stop!”

  “But—” Valin began.

  “Did you ask him what the spell is, Father?” Saria asked, interrupting Valin.

  “Yes, I did,” Dorias replied. “He hopes to bind an earth spirit with the boy’s blood, to restore the fertility of the fields in the Raish Valley from Kulimir to Tereth din-Sal. The yields there have been very poor in recent years; several of the farmers have been suffering greatly. We believe this has contributed heavily to the outlawry and general unhappiness in the vicinity.”

  “There, you see?” Saria said to Valin. “He is trying to feed his people, as a landgrave must!”

  “But an innocent boy’s life—”

  “Urunar Kazien is no innocent,” Saria replied sharply. “He is a thief, a seducer, and a scoundrel, and if his blood can revive the fields of the Raish Valley, it wi
ll be well spent.”

  Anrel heard her words with an odd sort of relief; since his encounter in the grove he had sometimes wondered whether he should after all have delivered the stranger to Lord Dorias in exchange for Urunar Kazien, but it was clear that at least one member of the household would not think so.

  “But to kill a man for a binding—” Valin began.

  “Valin, you will not interfere with Lord Allutar when he comes calling!” Saria announced.

  Valin stared at her in silent, frustrated fury.

  “Perhaps, Valin,” Lord Dorias said gently, “tomorrow might be a good day to visit Naith, for the latest news of the planning for the Grand Council.”

  “I do not understand how you can all accept this . . . this abomination so calmly!” Valin burst out.

  “Naith. You will leave for Naith at first light.” Dorias’s tone was much less gentle now.

  Valin glared at him.

  “Perhaps Anrel will accompany you,” Dorias said. “He has not seen Naith in four years.”

  “I would be happy to,” Anrel volunteered.

  Valin swallowed. “Yes, my lord,” he said.

  7

  In Which Lord Valin Introduces Anrel

  to the Society of Aulix Square

  The provincial capital was much as Anrel remembered it; Naith yet stood atop its hill, behind its massive walls, overlooking the surrounding country as it had for generations.

  The streets and squares that had seemed so large and crowded when Anrel was a boy were far less impressive after his years in Lume, though, and there were far more beggars than he recalled. He gave a few coins to some of the most pitiful. The general population seemed less cheerful, as well; he saw very few smiles.

  Lord Valin moved through the streets with the ease of familiarity, and seemed to not notice the crowds and beggars at all. Anrel commented, “I take it you come here often.”

  “Often enough,” Valin said. “At least I can sometimes find an intelligent conversation here, which is by no means likely in Alzur. Really, Anrel, I sometimes wonder how we managed to grow up with our brains still functional after so long in that dismal little town!”

  “We had each other,” Anrel pointed out. “Perhaps that was enough.”

  They passed through the largest of the several plazas within the city walls, Aulix Square, where assorted statuary stood between the courthouse and the Provincial College of Sorcerers, and Valin led the way to a wine garden just beyond the square, a few paces from one gargoyle-carved corner of the college. There he took a seat at a table, and gestured for Anrel to do the same.

  “I assume, since you have brought us directly here, without so much as a glance elsewhere, that you had some particular destination and purpose in mind,” Anrel remarked.

  Valin shrugged. “Lord Dorias said we should gather the latest news. This is an excellent place to do so.”

  “I would have thought a visit to the notice board on the courthouse wall might also have been appropriate,” Anrel said mildly.

  Valin shrugged again. “Here we will get the real story; the notice board says only what the lords and magistrates wish us to believe. Besides, the wine here is very reasonable—or if you’ve developed exotic habits during your stay in Lume, they serve Quandish ale, as well, and even some outlandish brew from the Cousins.”

  “I would be content with tea,” Anrel said. He looked up; the sun was still at least an hour short of its zenith, which seemed to him too early to be drinking wine.

  “Then tea you shall have,” Valin said, rapping the table.

  A girl in a wine-stained apron, her thick black hair already beginning to come down over one ear, hurried over at the sound. “Lord Valin!” she said. “A pleasure to see you again. Your usual?”

  “That would be fine, Binna,” Valin said.

  “And for your friend?” She turned to Anrel.

  “You have tea?”

  “The very best Ermetian leaf . . .” She hesitated, then said, “my lord.”

  Anrel smiled wryly.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” he said.

  Binna flushed slightly. “Sir,” she said.

  “You know they do not grow the tea in Ermetia?” Anrel remarked. “The Ermetians import it from somewhere in the mystery lands.”

  Binna looked puzzled. “We buy it from an Ermetian merchant, sir, wherever it’s grown. It’s really excellent, I assure you.”

  “Then I will have some of this excellent tea, thank you,” Anrel said.

  Binna bobbed at the knee, then hurried away.

  Anrel watched her go, then turned back to his companion. “Your usual?” he said, eyeing Valin.

  “A modest white wine,” Valin replied. “She knows which vintage and which vineyard.”

  “You do come here often.”

  “And here is one of the reasons I do,” Valin said, starting to rise.

  Anrel turned, startled, to find two young men approaching the table. One was tall, handsome, and athletically built, and wore a blue brocade jacket cut unfashionably short; the other was of medium height and softer in face and form, but superbly turned out in white linen and yellow silk.

  “Lord Valin!” the shorter one called. “I had not expected to see you back here so soon!”

  “I had not expected to be here so soon,” Valin answered. “My guardian insisted.”

  “Did he? You will have to tell us more,” the new arrival said. He glanced at Anrel. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is my guardian’s nephew, and my dearest friend in all Alzur, Anrel Murau,” Valin explained. “He has just returned from four years of study at the court schools in Lume.”

  Anrel rose to greet the pair, hand outstretched. As he took the first man’s hand Valin said, “Anrel, these are Derhin li-Parsil, clerk to the second magistrate, and Amanir tel-Kabanim, assistant to the house master at the College of Sorcerers.”

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” Anrel said with a bow. He noticed that although they were well dressed, neither man appeared to hold noble rank; there were no badges of office nor family crests to be seen, and in the introductions Valin had not called them lords. Valin’s professed interest in commoners, it would seem, was not limited to theory, or to condemned criminals.

  “The court schools?” Derhin said, speaking for the first time. “Are you looking for a position with the magistrates, then?”

  “I have not yet settled on a course of action,” Anrel said.

  “I want to hear why Lord Valin’s guardian sent him to Naith,” Amanir said.

  “He is entertaining a guest I despise, and he feared I might make a scene,” Valin said.

  “And would you have done so, given a chance?”

  “Almost certainly,” Valin admitted. “The man is unspeakable.”

  “Who is this regrettable guest, then?”

  “Lord Allutar.”

  Derhin choked. “The landgrave?”

  “None other.”

  Amanir chuckled nervously. “You speak very freely, dear Valin, to call him unspeakable.”

  “Why should I not? We are Walasians. We are civilized men, free to speak our minds. I say only what everyone in Naith believes, whether they would admit it or not.”

  Anrel almost protested, despite his own dislike for Allutar, but held his tongue; he did not as yet know these people well enough to talk so openly with them.

  “I think you misjudge,” Derhin said. “A great many people still think him a fine man and a worthy one, despite the sorry condition of the province. Those who have had dealings with him may know otherwise, but most of the citizens of Aulix have not had that misfortune.”

  “I think you could name at least one person in Alzur who has had dealings with him who yet thinks him a fine man,” Anrel suggested.

  “Don’t remind me,” Valin said, clapping a hand to his temple.

  At that point the serving girl returned with Valin’s wine and Anrel’s tea; Derhin and Amanir sent her off to fetch anoth
er bottle and two more glasses.

  The interruption had broken the thread of the conversation. When she had left, the four seated themselves and resumed speaking, but not about Lord Allutar himself; instead they discussed the Grand Council, and the eighteen seats that were rumored to be designated for Aulix.

  “Four for Naith, I heard,” Derhin said. “Fourteen more for the rest of the province. And Lord Allutar will probably take it upon himself to name all eighteen.”

  “That must not be allowed!” Valin said.

  “It won’t be,” Amanir said. “The college will insist on the right to name at least one. I would expect the magistrates to have their say, as well.”

  “The magistrates will name whoever Allutar wants them to name,” Derhin said. “There isn’t a man among them with the courage or ambition to do otherwise.”

  “What about the burgraves?” Amanir asked. “Will they also all yield to Allutar, do you think?”

  “Does it matter?” Valin demanded. “They’re all of a kind.”

  “Even your guardian?” Derhin said.

  “He is even now closeted with Lord Allutar, auctioning off his daughter’s virginity,” Valin replied. “I think that says all we need know.”

  “You are speaking of my uncle,” Anrel reminded him sharply. “The man who raised me, who paid for my education, and who trained you in the arcane arts.”

  Valin turned to him. “But look at what he’s done, Anrel! He has not only failed to persuade the landgrave to free the baker’s son, but has instead offered him his daughter! The man has no integrity, no sense of justice. He cares only for his own place in society, and his daughter’s.”

  “The baker’s son?” Derhin inquired.

  “Offered him his daughter?” Amanir asked.

  Anrel sighed, and Valin launched into a highly colored account of the last few days.

  When all had been made clear, and the first bottle of wine had been consumed, the conversation came back to the question of who might be sent to the Grand Council. A few names were suggested, none of them familiar to Anrel; then Derhin said, “Perhaps Lord Dorias will see to it that you are named to the council, Valin.”