A Young Man Without Magic

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  And to some extent, this was his fault. He had climbed up on that statue in Aulix Square and given his speech, meaning only to honor Valin’s memory and anger Lord Allutar, and it was as if he had struck sparks into the sawdust on a carpenter’s floor—flames smoldering everywhere and every so often flaring up unexpectedly.

  He had never before thought the actions of an ordinary man could really matter, but that conviction was shaken. If he had not spoken, surely the news from Lume would be less disconcerting.

  He began to wonder whether his hope of hiding in Lume until Lord Dorias could intervene on his behalf still had even the faintest possibility of realization. Alvos the orator was not just guilty of a dangerous prank, but of subverting the order of the empire. If the mad stories about Alvos continued to circulate, and the authorities in Aulix held all of Alvos’s crimes against Anrel, an ordinary burgrave of no particular reputation could not save the notorious criminal from the consequences of his actions.

  Furthermore, Lume was no longer a refuge where people could be relied upon not to ask a stranger his business. If the streets were full of foreign magicians and their demons, and nervous watchmen, and Grand Councillors, all of them familiar with the name Alvos, staying just another anonymous young man without magic might not be possible.

  Perhaps, Anrel thought, not for the first time, he should simply stay with the Lir family. He might take his courtship of Tazia further; up until now he had tried to keep their growing friendship and mutual respect from turning into a firm commitment, since he had intended to leave her behind, with her parents and sisters, when he made his way to the capital, but now he was considering other possibilities. He was technically a witch himself, though he had performed little magic, so why not marry a witch, and take up her peripatetic lifestyle permanently? He thought Tazia would welcome his advances.

  No, he told himself; to be honest, he knew she would welcome his advances.

  Garras might not be so pleased, of course. He had allowed Anrel to accompany the family partly because of the threat of mutual destruction, but more important, because of that eleven guilders Anrel had contributed to the family’s finances. That money was gone, and while Anrel still had a significant sum hidden away, he had not let any of the others know that. So far as they were aware his purse was now empty, every coin spent.

  What’s more, Anrel and Garras had, over the past half season or so, realized that they did not much like each other. Garras did no witchcraft, had no magic of any kind, yet it was usually he who collected the fees from the family’s customers, only reluctantly doling out the pennies the women needed for their own expenses. He drove the wagon, leaving his women to walk; when they were not moving, Reva maintained the wagon, while Tazia and Perynis tended to Lolo. Garras did not cook, did not clean, did not sew, did not hunt; he did bargain with villagers seeking the services of his wife and daughters, but that was all.

  Yet Garras ruled his family with a firm hand. He controlled the money, determined their route, set their schedule; he was served first at every meal, and when he was present the women did not speak without his permission. It had long ago become clear that it was Garras, not Nivain, who had decided that the daughters would not be permitted to face the trials that might have made them noblewomen.

  He was, in short, a petty tyrant, and Anrel had never thought much of tyrants.

  For his own part, Garras had made it plain that he considered Anrel a reckless fool, with a dangerous wit and a misplaced sense of humor. Anrel had the definite impression that Garras had thought the presence of another man might further cow the four women, and had felt betrayed when Anrel instead treated the women with respect and consideration.

  The two had been able to coexist peacefully thus far largely by ignoring each other as much as possible, but the knowledge that their relationship had a definite end in sight had made that easier. If Anrel announced he had changed his plans and intended to stay with the Lir family, Garras might not cooperate.

  Or perhaps he might; it was hard to say.

  And there was always a third possibility—that Anrel and Tazia might split off from the family, as Reva hoped to, and make their own way in the world. Anrel had told himself when he first fled Naith that he had to build himself a new life, and he now hoped to build it around Tazia. If she was willing to leave her parents behind, that might well be the best of all possible outcomes.

  It bore some thought, and there was no need to rush into anything; they had spent the morning settling accounts and loading up the wagon, and were about to leave Kolizand for Beynos. The walk would take half the afternoon, and then when they reached Beynos they would settle in somewhere. Once that was done they would probably spend several days attending to customers, healing the sick and injured, calming the frightened, selling love charms and happy lies. Anrel could use that time to think over his situation, and perhaps discuss it with Tazia, or with Nivain, or even with Garras; if he decided to continue on to Lume he could leave at any time, but if he decided he wanted to stay with Tazia—well, he would have a few days to consider his options.

  “Ready, Anrel?” Perynis asked, as Garras climbed onto the driver’s bench and shook out the reins.

  “Of course,” Anrel and Tazia said simultaneously. Anrel smiled, and Tazia giggled, and Anrel reached out and caught Tazia’s hand as they began walking.

  They had scarcely taken a step when the first flakes of snow began to fall.

  Kolizand was too small for an actual wall, but like Alzur it had an iron fence called a pale that marked its statutory limits and the extent of the burgrave’s authority. It was less than a quarter mile from the inn on the village square to the southeastern gate, but by the time the wagon had covered even that distance the weather had gone from merely overcast to snowing heavily, and the brown fields beside the road were already turning white.

  “Are you sure we want to travel in this?” Anrel called to Garras, standing to one side as Lolo pulled the wagon through the unguarded gate.

  “Yes,” Garras snapped. “It’s not more than six or seven miles to Beynos, and if we’re going to be snowbound, I’d much rather be there than here.”

  Anrel glanced back at the unprepossessing village where they had spent the last four days, and saw Garras’s point. There was no further work for witches in Kolizand, and little to do there for anyone. Beynos was much larger, with a fine bridge across the Galdin, several grand houses, a paved square, and even a few paved streets.

  Still, the snow was coming down fast, great fluffy white flakes that clung to his hat and coat.

  “Let’s hurry, then,” Anrel said.

  Garras snorted. “We will go as fast as Lolo will go,” he called back over his shoulder. “I’m not going to kill our horse because you don’t want snow in your beard.”

  Anrel hurried through the gate, close behind the wagon, still holding Tazia’s hand; he could not very well argue with Garras about Lolo’s capabilities, but he still did not like the idea of traveling six miles in thick snow at their usual leisurely pace. He trotted alongside the wagon, catching up to Garras.

  “Perhaps, sir,” he said, “I might go on ahead, with whichever of your family might care to join me, to arrange our lodging, so that Lolo will be able to get in out of the snow that much sooner.”

  “Lolo? You mean so you can get out of the snow. What a sorry excuse for a man you are, Anrel, to be so frightened of a few flakes!”

  “Not frightened, Master Lir, merely discomfited.”

  “You need not stay with us if you do not choose to do so, Master Murau. As I recall, our agreement was that you would accompany us to Beynos, where we would part our ways and trouble each other no further. Well, we are almost to Beynos, and if you would prefer to end our pact a few miles early, I certainly won’t object.”

  That confounded Anrel for a moment; he glanced at Tazia.

  “Father, you’re being unkind,” Tazia said. “Master Murau makes good sense—why not make sure a warm stall is waiting f
or Lolo, and a hot fire for the rest of us?”

  Garras turned to glare at her, and noticed that Perynis and Nivain were both walking nearby and listening, as well.

  “I am in no hurry to depart your company, sir,” Anrel said. “In fact, I had hoped to speak to you about my future plans once we had reached Beynos, and ask your advice.”

  That drew Nivain’s attention; she threw Tazia a glance that her daughter pointedly ignored.

  Garras considered Anrel for a moment, and Anrel did his best to keep his expression open and honest—which meant letting snow blow into his eyes, causing him to blink uncontrollably. He suspected that made him look like a simpering fool, which was not the impression he had been aiming for.

  “I cannot stop you from hurrying on ahead,” Garras said at last, “and I will not insist that any such separation must be permanent. I would ask you, though, to leave my family with me.”

  Anrel hesitated, and again looked at Tazia.

  “He’s my father,” she said quietly. “We’ll be fine. We’ve traveled in snow before.”

  “I’ll have the innkeeper make everything ready,” he said. “A roaring fire, good wine, and a generous dinner will be waiting for you, if I can possibly manage it.”

  Tazia smiled at him.

  His own words brought a question to mind, though; he turned back to Garras. “I have never stayed in Beynos, Master Lir, but I have passed through it, and seem to remember a multiplicity of signboards,” he said. “Is there a particular inn you would prefer?”

  Garras nodded thoughtfully. “A good question,” he said. “In the past we’ve been made welcome at the Boar’s Head, on Cobbler Street—try there first.”

  “We’ll look for you there,” Tazia said, releasing his hand.

  “If circumstances allow, I may instead meet you at the gate,” Anrel said. “But if not, then yes, look for me in Cobbler Street.” He waved a salute to Nivain, and then to Garras, as he broke into a trot. He resisted the temptation to blow Tazia a kiss; he did not think Garras would appreciate such a gesture.

  Old Lolo gave Anrel half an eye as Anrel passed, then returned to concentrating on his own feet, trudging steadily onward through the storm.

  Anrel hoped that the horse knew the road well, because by the time he had gone a mile from Kolizand’s gate the wheel ruts were full of snow and the highway and verge had turned equally white. Anrel could see no more than a dozen yards in any direction; the snowfall was astonishingly dense, as if the Father had decided to make up for a dry and snowless autumn by delivering an entire season’s precipitation in a single storm. The sky was so thick with clouds and snow that even now, in the early afternoon, it was as dark as twilight.

  Fortunately, the wind was neither strong nor especially cold—there was no chance that the snow would melt anytime soon, but neither did it bite through Anrel’s doubled coats, or freeze his breath in his beard. There was little danger anyone would freeze to death in such weather, but losing one’s way in the endless, featureless whiteness would be easy.

  A glance over his shoulder revealed no trace of the Lir family or their wagon, nor could he distinguish any trace of Kolizand. He broke from his brisk trot into a full run, as much to keep warm as to reach Beynos the sooner.

  Almost an hour later he was beginning to wonder whether he had somehow lost the road when he saw lights ahead. It was still midafternoon, but the darkness was apparently enough to cause lanterns to be lit. He slowed his pace and squinted into the swirling gloom, trying to identify the source of the light.

  There was a stone wall, he realized—white trimmed with green. There were windows, and lights in the windows.

  And directly ahead of him was a city gate, where stood a guard holding a pike. That was mildly unusual; gates were usually left open and untended these days.

  Or rather, they had been in days recently past; now that the Grand Council was in session and demons had reportedly been seen on the streets of Lume, who knew what was normal?

  “Who goes there?” the guard called as Anrel approached.

  “Just a traveler seeking shelter,” Anrel replied, stepping forward into the light of the lantern hung above the gate.

  “Traveling in this weather? Are you mad?”

  “It wasn’t yet snowing when I left Kolizand,” Anrel explained. “By the time I realized the storm’s severity, it was as easy to press on as to turn back.” He glanced up at the arch above the gate, but snow was plastered across the stone, and if there was any sign there, he could not read it. “Is this Beynos?”

  “Yes, of course,” the guard said. “Where else could it be?”

  “In this weather? It could be Ondine, for all I know.”

  The guard laughed at that. “Well, it’s Beynos,” he said.

  “I am delighted to hear it, Master Guardsman. May I be admitted to the city, then?”

  “You’re wearing a sword?”

  “I have been traveling in lands less civilized than this one,” Anrel said. “I would have put it in my pack when I left those barbarous realms, but it didn’t fit.”

  “Fair enough—but then I’ll need your name, and your destination. The burgrave is wary, in these unsettled times.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Anrel said. “My name is Dyssan Adirane, and I’m bound for the Boar’s Head Inn, on Cobbler Street—a friend recommended it.”

  “How long will you be staying in Beynos, then?”

  “Perhaps five or six days; then I’ll probably go on to Lume, unless I should find reason to change my plans.”

  “Are you familiar with Lume?”

  “I lived there for a time.”

  “You’ll find it changed, I think. These are not happy days, Master Adirane.”

  “So I have heard.” Anrel hesitated, then said, “By the bye, I passed a wagon on the road—a family of traveling peddlers, I think. They seemed no more inclined to turn back than I was. I spoke with them, and said I might meet them here. If they arrive, and ask after me, tell them where I’ve gone, would you?”

  “The Boar’s Head?”

  “Exactly. Just to reassure them that I wasn’t lost in the snow.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.” Anrel tipped his hat, then started through the gate.

  The guard stepped aside to let him pass, but there was something else, something invisible, that held him back for a moment.

  The burgrave of Beynos had apparently been tending to his business; Anrel recognized the hindrance as a powerful warding spell. He wondered just what characteristic of his own made it slow him; he was not here with hostile intent, and he was a loyal Walasian. Could it somehow sense that he was a thief? Anrel had never heard of a ward that sophisticated.

  Then it yielded, and Anrel stepped through the wards into the city of Beynos.

  22

  In Which Anrel Arranges Lodging

  and Hears Certain News

  Anrel said nothing to the gatekeeper about the wards; he was not sure whether an ordinary traveler would even have felt them. To him, though, their presence was unmistakable, and after he was through, Anrel thought he could sense their nature after all. He thought the spells were intended to keep unnatural creatures outside the walls of Beynos.

  As an untrained magician Anrel had seemed unnatural enough for a brief delay, but no more.

  What did the burgrave fear, to set such wards? What unnatural creatures were abroad? The demons that the empress’s hirelings were rumored to have summoned?

  Once past the gate and the wards, however, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The snow-covered streets were deserted, though there were enough tracks, and enough mud and slush mixed with the snow, to make it clear that the townsfolk had not been driven indoors by the first flakes. Light shone from several windows, though it was still midafternoon.

  Anrel hurried through the eerie silent streets, trying to remember whether he had ever known just where Cobbler Street was. He should have asked the guard at the gate for directions; h
e cursed himself for not having done so.

  As he neared the plaza and bridge at the center of town he saw a few figures moving about—apparently not all the streets were deserted. Admitting to himself that nothing looked familiar, and that he was not sure he would have done much better even without the snow blanketing everything, he resolved to ask one of these people for directions—but then he glimpsed a signboard swinging in the wind down a side street, and stopped to peer at it.

  It showed an inverted shoe on a cobbler’s last.

  Some spirit was apparently feeling helpful. He turned down the side street—little more than an alley, really—and started looking at the other shop fronts.

  Yes, they were shoemakers, bootmakers, and cobblers, and what’s more, at the end of the little street was a wrought-iron archway surrounding an open gate, and at the peak of the arch was a black iron fantasia largely obscured by wet snow, but which had ears, tusks, and an unmistakable snout protruding from its white covering.

  Anrel trotted down the alley and through the gate and found himself in a snowy stable yard; an animal snorted somewhere in the shadows to his right, and Anrel could smell leather and horses. Directly ahead a lantern glowed above a heavy oaken door; he hurried up to the door and knocked.

  For a moment nothing happened; then a panel slid aside and a pair of eyes stared out at him, glinting in the lantern light.