Many of the inhabitants of the Pensioners’ Quarter were going to their beds hungry every night. Anrel made a point of sharing his own food with those who seemed most in need, and as a result his own belly was often empty and grumbling when he fell asleep.
Relief was expected soon, though. The Raish Valley was said to be extraordinarily fertile this year, and it was anticipated that the prodigious wheat crop would be harvested, and much of it shipped down the Raish to Naith, and then up the Galdin to Lume, before the solstice.
Fifteen days before the solstice came word that the granaries of Tereth din-Sal were full to bursting, the barges loaded and on their way.
Anrel heard this news with mixed feelings. He knew what was responsible for this bounty.
This was the blood of Urunar Kazien, the young man Lord Allutar had sacrificed to the spirits of the earth. The landgrave had cut the youth’s heart out on the last autumnal equinox, and used it to summon an elemental that promised to restore the fertility of the Raish Valley. That killing had been what provoked Lord Valin into defying the landgrave, and that defiance had led to Valin’s death. Valin’s death had, in turn, led to Anrel’s playing orator and being driven into exile. Lord Allutar Hezir had been behind the ruination of Anrel’s life, and it had all begun with the condemnation of Urunar Kazien.
It would have been pleasant to attribute all his misfortunes, and the deaths of Urunar and Valin and Reva, to simple malice on Lord Allutar’s part, but Allutar’s black sorcery, intended to benefit the public, had worked. The earth elemental had been bound successfully, and the land was reborn. The people of Kulimir and Naith and Alzur and Beynos and Tereth din-Sal and Lume itself would have bread because a thief had died on the last autumnal equinox, and the landgrave of Aulix had used that death to work a great spell.
Hundreds would be fed—which meant Lord Valin had been wrong, and Lord Allutar had been right.
That was not a pleasant realization for Anrel, but as he looked at the hungry faces of his roommates, he could not say he would have wished otherwise.
7
In Which the Pensioners’ Quarter Is Disturbed
The first grain barge from Aulix tied up at Ildir Wharf four days before the solstice. Little Po was in the crowd that gathered to watch the unloading, though he was not there to watch, but to pick pockets.
The next barge reached the dock before the first was emptied, and the third was in sight when Po decided he could not safely carry any more and headed for home. Each time a barge was spotted, the crowd would roar their approval.
“You wouldn’t think that grown men would cheer for bread,” Shoun remarked, when Po described the scene later while counting his take.
“It’s not bread yet,” Po said.
“But it will be,” Mieshel answered.
“Some of it as soon as tomorrow,” Anrel agreed.
“We won’t get any for days yet,” Shoun said. “Not until those first loaves have time to go stale.”
“I don’t think any will last long enough to go stale,” Mieshel replied.
“Probably not,” Anrel agreed. “But at least we can buy it.” He gestured at the pile of coins Po had harvested from the crowd at the docks, which added up to almost two guilders.
“Or get the leftovers from the sorcerers’ tables,” Po said.
Mieshel shook his head. “The servants will be eating it all themselves for a while.”
“It’ll be days yet,” Shoun agreed.
“The bakeries will be full,” Anrel said.
“And charging high prices,” Mieshel replied.
“At first,” Anrel acknowledged. “But the price will come down.”
“Eventually,” Mieshel said.
“Why didn’t you steal more?” Shoun asked Po, with a gesture at the stacked money. “Did someone feel your hand?”
“Of course not!” Po snapped, insulted. “But there were watchmen on the arch over Beoun Street. I knew if I stayed much longer they would come down after me. One of them followed me across the roof to the arch between Lord Athriessen’s bank and the Barley Hall, and I thought he might take me, but then he stopped. I think he was making sure I didn’t double back.”
“You think he knew you’d been picking pockets?” Shoun asked.
“Of course he did!” Mieshel said. “The watchmen aren’t stupid, just lazy. If he thought Po had gotten enough to be worth taking for himself, he would have been down the Barley Hall stairs in a heartbeat.”
Anrel listened to this with a mixture of admiration and dismay. It was sad that boys this young were so hardened, so certain of humanity’s greed and corruption—but they were so good at what they did! And their assessment of the watchman’s actions was almost certainly accurate.
“Four days,” Shoun said. “That’s how long before we’ll get any of the new bread.”
“We can wait four days,” Po said.
But it wasn’t four days; the following afternoon a stir went through the Pensioners’ Quarter when the word came in that No-Nose Graun had struck a deal with one of the bakers in Dragonclaw Street, and needed help to haul bread back to the quarter.
Anrel watched in amazement as half a dozen men and women returned from Dragonclaw Street carrying sacks of bread. He watched as the people of the quarter swarmed around the dry and long-broken fountain where this party stopped to distribute their burden.
He did not join the happy throng, though, because he had noticed two men of the Emperor’s Watch standing on the arch across Tranquillity Street, watching the proceedings with interest.
One of the watchmen turned and left hurriedly when the first loaves of bread were pulled from one of the sacks. Anrel frowned. That was not right; ordinarily watchmen never set foot in the Pensioners’ Quarter alone, not even up in the safety of their arches and walkways. Was the departing guard going to fetch more men? Why was that so urgent that he left his companion alone?
Before Anrel could mention his observation to anyone, though, a wail went up. A child’s voice rose in a wordless cry of dismay. The bread distribution abruptly ceased as everyone turned to see who was crying, and what had distressed the child.
Anrel did not recognize the girl, who was surely no older than four. She was standing on the cracked rim of the fountain, clutching a chunk of bread in one dirty little hand, the other hand grabbing at the faded and stained skirt of her dress. She had taken a bite of bread, but now the crumbs fell from her mouth, down the front of her dress.
“What’s wrong?” a woman, presumably the girl’s mother, asked.
“It’s bad,” the girl cried.
Dozens of other people suddenly turned to look uneasily at the bread they held. Several lifted their pieces to their noses and sniffed suspiciously.
“What do you mean, bad?” the woman asked, worried.
“It tastes bad!”
“Could it be poisoned?” someone asked.
“No-Nose, who did you get this from?”
“Would they do that?”
“They might try to poison us, but would they waste this much bread to do it?”
Then there were several voices speaking at once, and Anrel could no longer follow what was being said—but his attention was elsewhere, in any case.
There were now five watchmen on the Tranquillity Street arch, and one of them was an archer, his bow strung and ready.
Anrel turned his gaze.
There were watchmen on the walkway along the rooftops facing Reward Street. More were appearing on the arch across Peace Street.
A loud voice drew Anrel’s attention back to the crowd by the fountain. Doz had arrived and taken charge, hands raised.
“Calm down!” he ordered.
When the shouting had died away, Doz turned to the little girl and asked, “What’s bad about it? How does it taste?”
“Like dirt,” she said.
Doz frowned. “How do you feel? Do you feel sick?”
“I’m fine!” she said, offended. “I’m not sick. The
bread is bad.” She held out the chunk she had bitten.
Doz reached down, and the girl handed him her bread, then vigorously wiped her hands on her dress.
Cautiously, Doz lifted the bread to his mouth and sniffed it.
The crowd watched in silence; many of them held their breath.
Doz’s frown deepened. Cautiously, he tore a little shred loose and placed it in his mouth. He chewed.
Then he spat it out, and the crowd gasped.
“She’s right,” he said. “It tastes like dirt.”
“You mean the baker cheated me?” No-Nose Graun bellowed.
“I don’t understand,” someone said. “Is it all like that?”
“Maybe it’s just one bad loaf!”
Crumbs flew as a dozen people tore at loaves of bread.
The watchmen were gathering into groups, Anrel noticed, and those groups were, he realized, near the various stairs that led down into the quarter—stairs that were usually blocked off by heavy iron gates.
He heard hinges creak behind him. He whirled.
There were watchmen at the top of the stair by the Golden Street arcade, and they had just opened the gate there.
“Doz,” Anrel called.
“It’s all bad!”
“I don’t understand!”
“How can this be?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Doz!”
Doz turned, and saw Anrel pointing at the watchmen descending the stairs.
So did several others; the noisy chaos of the bread-tasting was swiftly replaced by wary silence. People drew closer together—children ran to their mothers, women stepped behind their men, men stood shoulder to shoulder and drew weapons from their belts, from their pockets, or from beneath their garments. Knives gleamed, and clubs were raised. The older children stooped for rocks, cobbles, or chunks of brick.
At the sight of this, the watchmen abandoned stealth; orders were shouted, and they formed up into lines as they reached the streets at the foot of each stair, swords drawn but held low, points toward the ground.
“All right, you people,” shouted one of the watchmen, “we don’t want any trouble! We just want the thief who stole that bread.”
For a moment there was stunned silence; then No-Nose Graun bellowed in outrage, “I didn’t steal it! I worked for it!”
“Oh, of course you did,” the watchman called back. “How could I possibly think that someone like you might have resorted to dishonest means to feed his friends?”
“I worked for it, you motherless homunculus! I earned this! Go ask the baker—Master Heileun, in Dragonclaw Street, he’ll tell you! I cleaned out his cellars.”
“In Dragonclaw Street? He paid you what, a hundred loaves of bread for a little scrubbing? That’s at least ten guilders at what they charge there!”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“A liar and a thief, indeed I am.”
No-Nose let out a wordless roar of rage, but Doz grabbed him before he could charge the watchman.
“Officer,” the Judge called from the door of his house, “might I suggest you taste the goods before making an estimate of their value?”
“Are you trying to bribe me, old man?”
“Not at all. I’m just trying to avoid a misunderstanding. Here, Shallien, take the watchman a piece of bread, would you?” He beckoned to a girl of about eleven who was clutching half a loaf of the tainted bread.
She, in turn, looked to her mother for confirmation. The mother turned to Queen Bim, who nodded.
A hundred eyes watched as Shallien walked slowly and hesitantly up the street to where the watchman stood. Then, with a final glance over her shoulder to see her mother motioning her forward, she held out the bread.
Puzzled, the watchman took it. Without taking his eyes off the crowd, he raised it to his mouth and took a healthy bite.
His expression changed, and he spat the bread out.
“If you’re looking for a thief, Sir Watchman, go talk to Master Heileun,” No-Nose called. “He cheated me! I worked all last night and this morning scrubbing and sweeping, and this is how he paid me!”
“What’s wrong with it?” the watchman demanded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and staring at the bread he held. “It tastes like dung!”
“I don’t know,” No-Nose said. “The baker said it wasn’t his best, but this …”
An angry murmur ran through the crowd.
“Go arrest the baker, Watchman!” a woman called.
“Shut up, you,” another watchman replied.
“They probably did something to it themselves so the baker would let them have it,” a third watchman suggested loudly.
“You think we want it when it tastes like that?”
“Why not? You eat garbage all the time!”
That was too much for someone; Anrel didn’t see who, but a stone was flung at the watchman who had asked that final question, and flung hard and accurately. It caught him just below his right eye, and he went down, falling backward onto the street with a clatter of armor.
An officer shouted a command, and two dozen swords flashed up into guard position.
Stones and bricks began flying, and the scene dissolved into shouting, screaming chaos as watchmen and outcasts ran at one another.
For the third time in less than a year, Anrel found himself in the midst of a riot, but this time there was one very significant difference.
This time, he did not flee. Instead he jumped the nearest watchman and joined in the fight.
8
In Which Changes Are Made to the Capital’s Architecture
The battle did not last long; the men of the Emperor’s Watch were hopelessly outnumbered. The bowmen on the arches over the streets did not shoot into the melee for fear of hitting their own comrades, and because the foe was so numerous that they saw no point; the watchmen were fighting the entire population of the Pensioners’ Quarter, men, women, and children alike. Most of the invaders went down almost immediately under a hail of brickbats; some managed to fend off these missiles and gather into little knots of three or four men apiece, but then could do little but try to retreat toward one of the open stairs.
Within five minutes of that first thrown rock, a score of thieves and outcasts, Anrel among them, held watchmen’s swords. The only watchmen still on their feet were backing up stairways. Within ten minutes the streets were clear, the iron gates on the stairs slammed shut and locked. Anrel jabbed uselessly through the bottom gate on Golden Street one last time, then lowered his blade and turned to look over the situation.
At least a dozen watchmen were still in the streets, but down and disarmed; most had children sitting on them, holding them down, while a few had women standing over them with improvised clubs of one sort or another. None were putting up any resistance. Some of them appeared to be unconscious or dead.
Doz had chased one group of watchmen up the Tranquillity Street stair, preventing them from closing the gate at the bottom; the top gate, though, was secured. Now Doz and his men were emerging back out onto the street, talking and laughing excitedly.
“Doz!” Anrel shouted.
Doz turned. “Dyssan?”
“It’s not over, Doz. They’ll be back with reinforcements. Maybe sorcerers.” He pointed up at the walkways; a few strategically placed archers were still in sight, but the other watchmen were either hurrying away or already gone.
“He’s right,” someone called.
“Let them come!” a woman shouted.
“No,” Doz barked back, as he walked toward Anrel. “No, Dyssan is right.”
“But there are hundreds of us!”
“There are hundreds of them, and they have swords and bows,” Doz replied. He turned to look at the wounded guardsmen on the street.
“We should slit their throats. That would be a dozen fewer of them.”
Doz shook his head. “No. Then they’d kill all of us.” He looked around as he walked, then beckoned
to a witch. “Keila, take a look at them, see what you can do for them.”
The witch nodded, and stepped forward.
“They’ll come back, whether we kill these men or not,” Anrel said, as he stepped forward to meet Doz.
“Are you saying we should kill them?” Doz demanded, stopping his march a few feet away.
“Oh, by no means! You’re absolutely right, we should do what we can for them and send them on their way; anything else would be tantamount to cutting our own throats as well as theirs. But we should also ready ourselves for another visit.”
Doz looked around at the other inhabitants of the Pensioners’ Quarter. “And how would you suggest we do that?”
“I don’t know,” Anrel admitted. He pointed up. “But they’ll be coming along those walkways before nightfall, I’d wager.”
Doz looked up thoughtfully at the arch across Golden Street. “They’ll be exposed up there. We’ll see them coming.”
Anrel frowned. “Do you think they might come in on the streets, then?”
Doz shook his head. “They’d be worried about ambushes—and with good reason. They always use the walkways. I just meant they couldn’t take us by surprise.”
“Perhaps the women and children should seek shelter elsewhere, until this is over?”
“Where?” Queen Bim demanded. Anrel had not noticed her approach, but she was there at Doz’s shoulder.
“I don’t know,” Anrel said.
“If we had anywhere else to go, why would we be here in the first place?” another woman demanded.
“I don’t know,” Anrel repeated.
“We could hide in the tunnels,” Mieshel suggested. “Watchmen won’t go down there.”
“Neither will I,” declared a woman Anrel didn’t recognize. “There are things down there.”
“The ruins on Wizards Hill?” Shoun suggested.
“That’s worse than the tunnels.”
“These are our homes, and we didn’t do anything wrong!” Mother Baba said. “Why should we hide?”
“Right or wrong doesn’t come into it,” Doz said. “We fought the Emperor’s Watch, and that means they’ll come teach us a lesson.” He was still gazing thoughtfully at the arch. “But you know,” he added after a brief pause, “we don’t need to make it easy for them.” He turned and looked at the crowd. “All right, I want the witches and anyone else who knows any healing to tend to those watchmen, and then get them to the old hospital, and I want anyone who can swing a hammer to find tools.” He pointed at the arch. “They’ve been able to keep an eye on us too easily for too long. Let’s make it a little more difficult.”
Above His Proper Station Page 7