Above His Proper Station

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Anrel’s clothes had become shabby enough to limit his ruses at first; he could hardly claim to have only just now fallen upon hard times when his every garment had clearly been suffering for a season or two. He therefore slipped away from Doz long enough to visit a tailor every so often, and began rebuilding his wardrobe. The very first thing he bought, other than food, was a new hat.

  Whenever he found himself alone outside the Pensioners’ Quarter he considered taking a room and looking for honest work, but there were few jobs to be had, and where he could give no references he was eyed with suspicion. All too often he found himself attracting the attention of the Emperor’s Watch; in fact, he seemed to draw more interest from atop the watchmen’s arches when he was looking for work than when he was swindling or stealing.

  All the same, he could have left the quarter—but he did not. He found something appealing in the rawness of his new life, and more important, he felt as if he could contribute more to his neighbors in the quarter than he could elsewhere. Just as he learned the skills of the underworld from them, he did his best to teach them what he could of history, manners, and grammar, and whatever else he thought might prove useful.

  He told himself that by bringing money to the quarter through his deceits, he made it that much less necessary for the others to resort to violence or the destruction of property. Every penny he brought in by trickery was a penny that was not taken at knifepoint, or by breaking a shop window.

  His facility with paper and pen proved unexpectedly valuable; few of the inhabitants of the quarter could read or write, while Anrel was fluent not only in Walasian, but in the written form of the Old Imperial tongue, and he could get by in Ermetian, Quandish, and several other dialects. He taught anyone who wanted to learn the basics of literacy, but he also discovered and carefully developed a knack for forgery, and often found himself drafting false documents of one sort or another for his neighbors.

  He learned to fight, with his fists, his feet, a knife, or a staff, or any combination of those.

  His bleached hair grew out, and his natural coloring returned. Quite aside from any concerns with warmth or fashion, his new hat was needed to conceal this unseemly situation until the growth was sufficient to trim off the blond ends without leaving him bald.

  And though he never mentioned it to Doz, he took lessons in magic from some of the witches living in the quarter. Not all of the witches of Lume dwelled among the city’s castoffs; most had managed to maintain respectable addresses. A few, though, had been driven from their homes for one reason or another, and had eventually found themselves in the Pensioners’ Quarter, where their services were in much demand, and where Anrel could receive occasional clandestine instruction in the arcane arts. These women, regardless of age, were generally happy to trade their knowledge for a few pence and a little flattery from a charming young man.

  There were no male witches in the quarter save himself, or at least none who admitted to their status.

  Anrel kept himself busy. He did so in part because there was so much to be learned, and the need to earn money for the people of the Pensioners’ Quarter was so acute, but also in large part to distract himself from what he had lost. Building a new life kept himself from grieving too greatly for the loss of the old.

  Most of all he missed Tazia Lir. Theirs had not been a great burning storybook passion, but in their time together she had become a comforting presence. Her warmth, her common sense, her beauty, and her admiration for Anrel had made her presence a pleasure like none Anrel had known before. He had intended to ask for her hand in marriage, but Reva’s arrest had put those plans in abeyance, and Reva’s death had snuffed them out. Tazia’s absence left a hole in Anrel’s life, a void that nothing seemed able to fill.

  To a much lesser degree he missed his uncle, Lord Dorias, as well, and his cousin, Lady Saria. The burgrave of Alzur was hardly a great man—in fact, in many ways he was an ill-tempered old fool—but he had been the center of Anrel’s life for more than a decade after his parents’ deaths. And Anrel had grown up with Lady Saria; they had as complicated a relationship as any brother and sister, a mixture of love and rivalry. They had drifted apart when Anrel went off to Lume to study. Saria’s easy acceptance of Lord Valin’s death, and her betrothal to Lord Allutar, the man who had killed him, had put a high barrier between the cousins; still, Anrel wished he could see her again, and speak to her. He thought sometimes of writing her a letter, but letting her know he was alive might provoke her fiancé into efforts to find Anrel, and that would not do.

  Writing to Lord Dorias was out of the question, as well—while such a missive might be a comfort to Anrel’s uncle, it might not. Depending on the burgrave’s mood when the letter arrived he might burn it unread, or hand it directly to Lord Allutar, or treat it as some sort of betrayal.

  And Anrel missed Lord Valin, the fosterling Lord Dorias had raised alongside Anrel and Lady Saria, the inept sorcerer who preferred to play the advocate of the common people, the political firebrand who had antagonized Lord Allutar and gotten himself killed. Valin had been Anrel’s best friend in childhood, and his death had brought the lingering remains of that childhood crumbling into disaster. Anrel still felt he owed Lord Allutar some sort of retribution for that murder; the speech in Naith had not truly balanced the scale. Valin’s memory deserved a better vengeance.

  There had been other friends and other losses, but those four were the ones most deeply felt, the ones that drove Anrel to learn everything he could about crime and fraud, about life in the Pensioners’ Quarter, and anything else that could focus his mind on the future rather than the past.

  For one thing, any consideration of the past was shadowed by the knowledge that Lord Allutar still lived, untroubled by his crimes against humanity.

  Anrel learned quickly that the people of the Pensioners’ Quarter had their own social structure; cooperation was highly prized, since it made a hard life easier for all involved. Those who did not cooperate, either through temperament or inability, were outcasts among outcasts, and might well find themselves left to starve, abandoned to the watch, or even quietly murdered in a corner somewhere. Those who had and shared useful skills were treated with respect, and would find themselves offered at least stale bread or sour wine after even the most unsuccessful day. If one of these worthy members of the community ran afoul of some outsider, or even the watch, he could be sure of a dozen friends aiding his escape.

  Anrel soon established himself as a worthwhile member of the community, and was accepted as someone who could be relied upon, and who could rely upon his new friends.

  There were also a few individuals who were, to all intents and purposes, the rulers of the Pensioners’ Quarter. Doz was one of these; he had a knack for devising schemes that brought in food or money. He avoided trouble when possible, but was utterly fearless and completely ruthless should a fight break out despite him.

  Another of the ruling council was Queen Bim, an old woman who knew a great deal of medicine, who had trained several generations of whores in the more esoteric skills of their unhappy trade, and who had served as midwife to every new mother in the quarter. She was a formidable creature, despite being little more than half Anrel’s size.

  The Judge was a one-eyed old man who had, by the look of him, once been a hulking giant; now he could barely stand, his shrunken shanks almost unable to support his still-considerable weight, but he was treated with obvious respect. He was the arbiter for disputes among the quarter’s inhabitants; as a woman called Filzi explained to Anrel, “He used to settle these matters by soundly thumping anyone who disagreed with him. After a time, people stopped arguing with him—and after a longer time, they realized his decisions were usually good ones, fair and reasonable. After that, it didn’t matter whether he could thump them or not.”

  There was Mother Baba, chief among the witches of the quarter. There were Goriden, and Kedrig vo-Kedrig, and Half-Hand Tobbi, and the Goose, and a few more—it was sometimes hard f
or Anrel to judge who was truly part of the ruling elite, and who was merely popular at the moment, or clever, or boastful.

  Anrel learned that Mieshel’s explanation of why people did not speak of their pasts was not the real reason; rather, it was because that knowing someone’s background all too often provided grounds for blackmail or extortion. Often even a little information would allow a clever listener to locate a family the speaker did not want found, or to determine which upholders of the law might be interested in that person’s current whereabouts. That was why no one ever asked him for a family name; when it was necessary to distinguish Anrel from the other men named Dyssan who had taken refuge in the Pensioners’ Quarter, he was called Handsome Dyssan.

  “Handsome,” in this case, was a relative term; Anrel did not consider himself particularly attractive, but in comparison with Scarred Dyssan and Toothless Dyssan he was willing to accept the description. Certainly his mentors in witchcraft considered him presentable.

  He continued to share a room with Apolien, Mieshel, Shoun, and Po, and sometimes worked with the boys, serving as their lookout or decoy, or just providing another pair of hands to help carry whatever goods they managed to acquire. More often he worked with Doz in their various deceptions intended to separate the wealthy from some of their possessions.

  He did not work with Apolien; the old man worked alone. Exactly what he did Anrel was not entirely sure, but it apparently involved using some of the ancient tunnels beneath the city to gain access to places he did not belong, and fetch out unguarded valuables.

  When pursuing his life of crime Anrel assiduously avoided the court schools; he did not want to risk being recognized. He also preferred to prey on strangers, rather than his former compatriots.

  He avoided any sort of violence. Doz more than once had occasion to knock a man down with his fists, and every so often Mieshel or Shoun might resort to tripping or otherwise harassing pursuers, but Anrel managed to avoid involvement in these disputes.

  Had he ever found himself in a situation where his new allies resorted to more permanent or damaging methods, he was unsure what he would have done. Yes, he was now a criminal in fact as well as in name, a thief as well as a witch and a seditionist, but he had no desire to physically harm anyone—except perhaps Lord Allutar, should the opportunity present itself.

  It was generally believed that Doz had killed more than one man, and Anrel had no reason to doubt it, but he had never actually seen it happen, and therefore found himself able to ignore the moral issues implicit in working with a murderer.

  Although he had lived four years in Lume at the court schools, his new life overlapped his old so little that he might almost have been living at the far end of the empire; he did not walk the same streets he had as a student, nor dine in the same establishments, nor converse with the same people. In fact, from the time he first entered the quarter he did not see a single face he recognized from his former existence until early spring.

  And when he did, it was not a welcome encounter.

  He and Doz were walking through a well-to-do neighborhood north of the Galdin, across the Varestine Bridge from the emperor’s palace. Anrel was dressed in his best clothes, playing the role of a scion of some wealthy clan, while Doz, also somewhat better attired than when they had first met, had the role of a tradesman Anrel had hired. They rounded a corner, and Anrel found himself facing an unusually fine carriage that had stopped in the street ahead.

  The coachwork of this vehicle was black and midnight blue, detailed in gold and white, and the brass was polished and gleaming; the windows were glass, yet showed none of the cracks or chips that a carriage window was likely to sustain in normal usage, from the flexing of the frame or the impact of pebbles.

  The design of it was unusual. Walasian noblemen generally liked their coaches to be tall and imposing and covered in fancywork, but this vehicle was sleekly elegant, with no painted landscapes, no crowns nor coronets nor crests. A small black escutcheon bearing a golden figure of some sort was mounted above the door, but that was the only such decoration. A white-haired driver sat on the bench holding the reins; he paid no attention to Anrel or Doz, and Anrel did not think he had ever seen the man before.

  The tall blond man who was standing in the open door of the carriage, one booted foot on the running board and the other on the ground while he spoke to a man wearing lace and velvet, was another matter.

  “Lord Blackfield,” Anrel said, stopping in his tracks.

  “Keep moving,” Doz murmured. “Don’t draw attention.”

  Aware of the wisdom in Doz’s words, Anrel turned. “I say,” he said, in conversational tones, “I believe I’ve forgotten the drawings.”

  “My lord?” Doz said.

  “I must have left them at the inn; what a bother! Come on, my good man, let us fetch them at once.” With that he led off at a brisk pace, turning his back to the Quandish magician’s carriage.

  When they had gone a hundred yards or so and were, at least for the moment, well clear of other ears, Anrel slowed his pace and said, “I’m sorry, Doz, but that Quandishman is a friend of the man I was fleeing when I came to Lume. I don’t want him to see my face.”

  “Would he remember you?” Doz asked, glancing back.

  “I don’t know,” Anrel replied. “He might.”

  “And he’d tell his friend he had seen you?”

  “He might.” Anrel sighed. “I don’t really know. I know he disagreed with his friend on certain matters, but still—well, I prefer not to risk it.”

  “I’d say that’s a smart attitude.” Doz looked around. “Shall we try another street, then?”

  “Let us do just that,” Anrel agreed.

  That night, as he settled onto his bedding—by this time he had managed to acquire a fairly comfortable pile of rags; bringing an actual mattress into the quarter would have been considered unacceptable ostentation—Anrel went over the brief encounter in his mind.

  He did not think Lord Blackfield had seen him; the Quandishman had been busy with his conversation. There was no real danger, nothing to be done about the chance meeting, but it did set Anrel to thinking about things, people, and places he had given very little thought to of late.

  Since arriving in the Pensioners’ Quarter he had been far more interested in building a new life than in considering the one he had left behind. When he had given the past any thought at all it had been grief over Valin’s death, grief over Reva’s death, anger and revulsion at Lord Allutar, wondering about Lord Dorias and Lady Saria, and most of all, longing for Tazia and regret for how their time together had ended. He had devoted very little attention to anyone else he had known in Alzur or Naith or Lume.

  It might be interesting to learn what Lord Blackfield was doing in Lume. Why was he not back home in Quand? Was he trying to convince some sorcerer in the capital to abandon the use of black magic? Where was he staying? For how long?

  Anrel mentioned his interest in these topics to his roommates the following day.

  It was not long after that mention that he learned, mostly from Shoun, that Lord Blackfield had taken an apartment in Dezar House, in the block where Anrel had seen him, but spent most of his time either sitting in the gallery at the Aldian Baths listening to the Grand Council’s debates, or talking to the delegates when the council was not in session. The exact nature of these conversations was not detailed, but the general impression was that the Quandishman was attempting to be a voice of moderation. Whether he spoke only for himself or represented some larger group—such as the Lantern Society, or perhaps even the Gathering, Quand’s own ruling body—was not known.

  Anrel had, of course, heard something of the doings of the Grand Council; the entire city took an interest, since at least in theory the council ruled the empire and could do anything it pleased.

  And most of what it pleased the council to do, it seemed, was talk. Delegates regularly spoke for hours at a stretch, setting forth utopian plans for restructuring the empire
, or ranting about the need to return to old values and ways that had fallen into disuse, or arguing about arcane technical details in proposed legislation.

  Some of these discussions escalated into arguments, and there were rumors that several of these had been settled by violence or magic. There were stories of murdered or ensorceled delegates, though details were scarce.

  It was in mid-spring, not long after Anrel’s glimpse of Lord Blackfield, that the committee system was introduced. Henceforth, rather than force the entire council to debate everything, committees were to be created, each devoted to a single issue, which would meet independently, and then report back to the council as a whole when a consensus had been reached. A Committee on Imperial Finance had been established to deal with the emperor’s debts, and a Committee for Agriculture and Distribution was considering measures to alleviate the growing famine. Not long after, the emperor was reported to be spending much of his day, every day, closeted with the Committee on Imperial Finance.

  There was a flurry of interest and hope when the news of this change reached the city streets. Surely, this new system would allow the Grand Council to accomplish more, and bring much-needed change to the empire!

  Hope quickly faded, though, as the committees seemed just as prone to endless debate as the council as a whole had been.

  Anrel, though he did take a casual interest in the council’s doings, was far more concerned with where his next meal was coming from. His hidden funds had been spent, little by little, much of it in providing for the less-successful residents of the Pensioners’ Quarter, and the schemes he and Doz employed seemed to be bringing in less than they had at first. Worse, the shortages that had been cropping up here and there for the past few years were finally beginning to seriously affect the capital; the winter stores were exhausted, but for most of the spring fresh supplies were not pouring in with their customary speed. The price of bread soared; a loaf that would have sold for a penny in any previous year now cost as much as eightpence, and any baker who offered even the worst bread for threepence a loaf was risking a riot when his supplies ran out.