A Young Man Without Magic

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He wondered whether the landgrave himself was accompanying them, and whether Garras was with them, but he was not curious enough to take a look. Certainly he could not hope to stage an ambush, alone against a company and armed only with a dagger.

  Then the sound was gone, out of earshot, and he emerged from the alley. Finding shelter was now more urgent than ever—when they found he was not at the Boar’s Head they might well come seeking him elsewhere.

  They might check the other inns, Anrel realized, feeling foolish for not having thought of that sooner. Perhaps it was just as well he had not yet found lodging.

  If the inns were all closed to him, he would need to find some other shelter; even if Lord Allutar’s men were not looking for him, he could not sleep in the street in this weather. He looked around the square, hoping for inspiration.

  One side, the south, was open to the river, and the magnificent bridge across the Galdin, with its elaborate railings and grand lampposts, served as a centerpiece. To east and west stood inns, taverns, and shops. To the north, grand houses lined the side, not unlike Lord Allutar’s house on Bridge Street Hill, though these were all smaller and less ostentatious. Anrel looked at them, and a crooked smile spread across his face despite his shivering.

  There was one place in Beynos that no one would ever look for Alvos of Naith, one place besides the Boar’s Head where he had already been made welcome. He turned and trotted northward out of the square, up Bridge Street.

  31

  In Which Anrel Finds Shelter in an

  Unlikely Place

  Naturally, there were lights still blazing in Lord Allutar’s house; there were probably still dozens of guests enjoying the landgrave’s hospitality. A few carriages stood in the drive below the steps; Anrel could see their drivers huddled in a little group in a corner out of the wind, chatting amongst themselves as they awaited their employers.

  One driver was seated upright upon his bench, ignoring the others and seemingly oblivious to the cold; Anrel took a closer look at this individual and realized it was a homunculus, rather than a human being. He had never heard of anyone but the margrave of Kallai using homunculi as drivers—horses were said to dislike them; the margrave of Kallai was said to enchant all his horses to tolerate them—and wondered whether this might mean the margrave was attending the reception.

  It hardly mattered, though. He hurried past the line of vehicles and up the steps to the grand entrance.

  A footman was tending the door; Anrel said, “I’m Dyssan Lir. I was here earlier, and I believe I’ve left my walking stick.”

  “Yes, sir, just a moment,” the footman said, consulting the guest list. “Dyssan Lir—yes, I see. Shall I send someone to fetch your stick?”

  “I’m not sure just where it is—might I just come in and see if I can’t retrace my steps and find it?”

  “Of course, sir.” The footman stepped aside and admitted him. “I believe the festivities have largely moved upstairs to the drawing rooms.”

  “Thank you.” He hurried in, not giving the homunculus tending the cloakroom more than a brief glance. He found it reassuring that the creature was back at its post, though, and not standing guard over Reva somewhere.

  The foyer was empty of guests; the grand ballroom beyond was almost deserted as well, though the chandeliers still blazed, and an elderly fellow in a wine-stained jacket was asleep on a chair against the wall. Empty plates and other such detritus were the only other evidence of the gathering that had filled the room a few hours earlier. The corner where the harpist had played now held a semicircle of four chairs, but no musicians occupied them, and no instruments remained visible.

  Anrel crossed the empty dance floor, glancing into the brightly lit salon where half a dozen guests were scattered on the chairs and couches, talking quietly; he considered joining that party, but decided against it. He had no reason to make idle conversation with these people, and while it was unlikely any of them would recognize him, there was no reason to take even such a small risk. Instead he crossed to the door where Lord Allutar had made his grand entrance, and where Reva had been taken away.

  He had no real hope of finding and rescuing the witch, but if an opportunity presented itself, neither would he ignore it. He had come here not to set Reva free, but only to keep himself free—he was fairly certain this was the one place in Beynos where no one would look for him once he was found to have departed the Boar’s Head. He intended to blend in with the remaining guests, and settle in a quiet corner for the night as if overcome by an excess of wine. In the morning he would leave as early as he could, and see about petitioning the Grand Council for a pardon for Reva.

  He was not optimistic about such a petition—if only he had more time! But he saw no better alternative. He had done nothing to help Urunar Kazien, and very little to aid Lord Valin li-Tarbek, but he would not stand by this time and let Reva Lir die without making some attempt to prevent it. He just could not think of anything that would be effective in saving her.

  Beyond the door, as he had expected, he found a dining hall, where an elaborate candlelit buffet had been thoroughly picked over. A young couple was whispering to each other in one corner, but the room was otherwise abandoned by the revelers. Anrel found an apple that had somehow been overlooked and took a healthy bite as he looked around.

  Double doors stood open at one side, revealing a well-lit marble-floored hallway and a broad white marble staircase. That was obviously the next stage of the public rooms; the other doors were small and closed, clearly intended for servants. Anrel judged that the hallway would also connect to the salon, which made sense. He ambled in that direction, his boots loud on the marble.

  He could hear voices from upstairs, men speaking and women laughing. The only open doors off the hallway on this floor led to the dining hall and the salon; the rest of the party was clearly on the next level up, as the footman at the door had suggested. He started up the wide steps, in no particular hurry.

  If he was going to play drunk, he thought, it would add verisimilitude if he could find a bottle of wine, or perhaps some stronger spirit. He had downed three or four glasses at the Boar’s Head before Tazia had sought him out, but the walk in the cold had cleared that from his head quite thoroughly, and he feared it had removed the odor from his breath, as well. He had not seen any displayed on the buffet, not even empty bottles; presumably the staff had already cleared away whatever little had been left.

  The stairway emerged into a spacious gallery with several doors opening off it; three men were standing near the head of the stair arguing politics, while a courting couple was discussing far more personal matters in the shadows beyond. Anrel nodded at the debaters as he passed; he did not take a very close look at them, lest one look too closely at him in response, but he did not think he knew any of them.

  The first door he came to opened into a large drawing room where perhaps a score of people were still celebrating; one wit had gathered an audience of half a dozen women who were laughing vigorously as he held forth, but most of the conversations were being carried on in groups of three or four.

  Lord Allutar was in one such group, talking to Mimmin li-Dargalleis and a man and woman Anrel did not recognize. Anrel was mildly startled that the landgrave had not accompanied his men to the Boar’s Head—but then, on second thought, why should he? He had guests to attend to, and apprehending a traitor was the job of the town’s watchmen, not a landgrave’s responsibility at all.

  Besides, he probably did not want to be in a position to tell his fiancée that, yes, he had personally overseen the capture of her favorite cousin. If the burgrave of Beynos happened to take Anrel and execute him, that was unfortunate, but there was no need for Allutar to emphasize his own role to Lady Saria.

  The presence of Mimmin li-Dargalleis was another small surprise. Apparently no one had made any connection between Reva and Mistress li-Dargalleis; it was obvious from their expressions that she and Lord Allutar were anything but hostile tow
ard each other.

  At least Garras was nowhere to be seen; his presence would have been disastrous. Presumably he had gone with the men sent to fetch Anrel; after all, they would need to have someone who could point out their target. Lord Allutar had presumably felt it would be inappropriate to leave his own reception on such business, but Garras could identify Anrel as well as anyone.

  Even without Garras, though, Anrel dared not set foot in that drawing room; either Allutar or Mimmin might spot him. He walked on.

  The next open door revealed a library—easily a hundred fine volumes stood on well-made shelves. Unlike most of the rooms Anrel had seen up to this point, the room was fairly dim; a single lamp burned on a desk.

  Its light sparkled from a cut-glass decanter half full of golden liquid; that was exactly what Anrel had hoped to see somewhere. He turned his steps into the library.

  A white-haired man was asleep in one of the red leather chairs, making it even more perfect. Anrel helped himself to a glass of brandy, deliberately not swallowing it quickly, then settled in another chair. He leaned his head back against the upholstery, and pulled his hat forward to cover his face.

  He hoped that Lord Allutar would not disturb sleeping guests, leaving them to wake and depart in their own time. Anrel intended to spend the night here, in this very chair, and in the morning he would make his way to Lume as quickly as he could, and seek out allies on the Grand Council. If he found them, and could arrange a pardon or at least a stay of execution, he would return posthaste to Beynos; if he could not, then he would do his best to vanish into the streets of Lume.

  That would mean giving up Tazia, and the thought pained him, but how could he possibly return to her if he allowed her sister to die? He was sure that in that event Tazia would not forgive him for refusing to die in Reva’s place.

  He could not leave the city until the gates opened at dawn, though, and he would need to be as rested as he could contrive to be.

  Staying in his enemy’s own home was audacious, but he honestly believed it his best course of action. Watchmen were probably scouring the inns and taverns at this very moment, perhaps even rousing innocent citizens who might be suspected of harboring outlaws, but no one would look for him here. If his suspicion that Lord Allutar would prefer not to find him at all was correct, then even if he was found, it might not prove fatal. He could think of nowhere safer in all Beynos.

  He tried to sleep, but the chair was designed for reading, not sleeping, and he could not find a truly comfortable position. The light of the lamp was mildly distracting, but far more so was the knowledge of where he was, and at what risk. He was also eager to get on with the business at hand, of finding some way to save Reva. The taste of brandy lingered on his tongue, but the alcohol did little to ease his mind. He considered drinking more.

  He wanted to be alert in the morning, but which would be worse for that, a sleepless night, or the lingering effects of an excess of brandy? He had never been a heavy drinker; it would probably not take much to send him to sleep. He pushed his hat back and reached for the decanter.

  Just as he did, he heard a woman’s quiet laugh. He looked up.

  Mimmin li-Dargalleis and Lord Allutar were standing in the gallery, just outside the library door; Mimmin’s head was resting on the landgrave’s shoulder. It was she who had laughed, presumably at some witticism Allutar had whispered in her ear.

  “My lord,” another voice said—Hollem’s voice. Anrel froze for an instant, then slowly sat back in his chair, praying that none of them would glance in and recognize him. He tugged his hat back down over his face.

  “I’m going to bed,” Lord Allutar said. “See to our remaining guests, would you?”

  “Of course, my lord,” Hollem said. Anrel could not see him, but he imagined the servant bowing politely. “To what limits shall I extend your hospitality?”

  “I would prefer to have them all safely in their own beds by dawn, and I certainly don’t want to find any carriages still waiting out front when I arise, but if anyone doesn’t look fit to go home, offer a bed here. There’s no need to move anyone who’s already asleep, either—let them stay until morning.” Anrel thought he could feel the landgrave glance into the library as he said that. “Don’t feed them, though, or we’ll never get rid of them.”

  “Very good. And the witch?”

  “She should be fine where she is, but see she has water, and food if she asks for it.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good night, Hollem.”

  “Good night, my lord, Mistress li-Dargalleis.”

  Then there were footsteps, and blessed silence descended. Anrel waited several long minutes, staring at the dark inside of his own hat and becoming far better acquainted with the smell of his own sweat than he liked, before he dared move.

  When at last he dared lift his hat, his hand trembled. He looked quickly out the door.

  The gallery was silent and dim; obviously, several lights had been extinguished. There were no signs of life; the voices from the salon had ceased.

  Anrel decided he really needed that drink. He poured himself another brandy.

  That was followed by a second, and a third, and by then his hands were steady again. He set the decanter back in its place, took a final look around, sighed, then sank back and pulled the hat down once more.

  32

  In Which Anrel Attempts a Rescue

  At first, upon awakening, Anrel did not remember where he was. His back was stiff, and his side was sore where he had been slumped against the arm of the chair. He brushed his hat off his face before he was entirely awake, thinking it was some random bit of material that had fallen onto him as he slept.

  Then he blinked at the white plaster ceiling and realized he was neither at the Boar’s Head, nor back in Alzur, nor in his rented rooms in Lume. He sat up, and the previous evening’s events came back to him. He snatched up his hat and clapped it back in place.

  The white-haired man was still snoring gently in the other chair; the lamp on the desk had long since gone out, but more than enough sunlight was leaking in through the shutters to let Anrel see his surroundings—and to tell him that it was well past dawn, and well past when he should have headed for Lume. He got to his feet and straightened his coat.

  As he did, he began reconsidering his intentions. He remembered that his plan the previous night had been to rush to Lume to see if he could use his reputation as Alvos to coax a pardon for Reva from the Grand Council, but now that he had slept on the idea, it seemed even more hopeless than he had thought it last night. The Grand Council was not in session, after all—that was why Lord Allutar was in Beynos in the first place. Yes, the three-day recess in honor of the emperor’s new heir would be ending soon, but Reva was to hang tomorrow morning, and the Grand Council would not reconvene so quickly as that. Could enough of them somehow be convinced to issue the pardon in time anyway? Not all of the delegates considered Alvos a hero, after all—roughly half of them were sorcerers or their supporters.

  Even getting to Lume quickly would not be very easy; the road was probably a mix of mud and snow, and the morning coach on this route ran westward, from Lume to Beynos, rather than the reverse. He would have to walk, and that would mean arriving in Lume muddy and tired, not in the ideal condition to impress delegates.

  What’s more, he was right here in Lord Allutar’s home, where Reva was being held. Was there no way he could free her himself? It seemed cowardly not to try. He had followed the rules and obeyed the law when Urunar Kazien had been sentenced to die, and again when Lord Valin had inadvertently challenged Lord Allutar, and they were both dead, while he had saved himself in Naith by taking direct action, heedless of laws and limits. If he was to save Reva, perhaps he should once again discard rules and propriety.

  She was in Lord Allutar’s study, which would ordinarily be where Anrel would expect to find the landgrave himself, but last night Allutar had apparently taken Mimmin li-Dargalleis to bed with him, and surely he
would be gracious enough to entertain her for a time this morning before sending her about her business. Furthermore, he might involve himself in the search for Alvos, if that was ongoing. He had charged Hollem with seeing that Reva had the essentials, so Hollem would presumably be checking in on her every so often, but Lord Allutar himself would quite likely be kept busy elsewhere.

  Anrel thought he could handle Hollem, should the need arise, though he now rather regretted leaving his sword at the inn.

  This was certainly as good an opportunity for rescue as Anrel could reasonably hope to have; at the very least, he thought he should investigate further. Where, then, would the landgrave’s study be?

  There were, Anrel knew from growing up among sorcerers, two schools of thought as to the best location for a magician’s workroom. One was to put it as high as possible, as close to the sky as it could be, so as to draw upon the power of the heavens. The other was to put it as deep in the ground as possible, so as to draw upon the power of the earth. The other, lesser power sources—chiefly blood, death, and sex—were not limited to a specific location.

  Any competent sorcerer would draw on both sources, of course, as well as the lesser forces, depending on just what he wished to accomplish with a given spell, but a central location, where they might be in balance, was never considered; apparently centuries of experience had demonstrated this to be less effective than choosing one or the other. Since magic often consisted of disturbing the natural balance, this was perhaps not surprising. No magician would set his place of power in the center of a structure; it would always, always, be at the top or bottom. Some would even maintain two workshops, one in a tower or attic and the other in a cellar or earthen-floored room. Anrel’s uncle Dorias had his primary workroom under the drawing room at the rear of the house, but kept a small area in the attic clear, as well.

  From all Anrel had heard, despite his drawing on the sky to strike down Valin, Lord Allutar was generally given to the magic of blood and earth. That would imply that his study was in the cellars.