Above His Proper Station

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Anrel found himself growing unreasonably annoyed at this foreigner describing flaws in the Walasian system. “What is your point, my lord?”

  “My point? Why, that your empire cannot sustain itself indefinitely if it persists in its present policies. You say that it has operated this way for almost six hundred years, and you are quite correct, but that does not mean it can continue this way forever. Cracks are beginning to show, Master Murau—the famine, the Raish wheat, the demons in the Pensioners’ Quarter, even Lord Valin’s death, these are not signs of a healthy nation.”

  “I suppose you think we would be better off adopting the Quandish system, and merging the Grand Council with the Gathering?” Anrel replied angrily.

  “No.” Lord Blackfield shook his head. “No, while I am proud of my own nation, you are quite right when you say the empire is different. I would not welcome a merger. It is not my place to dictate what the Walasian people should do, how you should rule yourselves. I merely hope to offer what counsel I can, so that whatever changes may come will do no more harm than they must.”

  There was really little Anrel could say to this. For a moment conversation paused, replaced by a contemplative silence as both men picked at their remaining food. At last, though, Anrel broke the silence by asking, “You said you had been told Lord Valin was dead—by whom?”

  “Why, by two of Naith’s representatives on the Grand Council—perhaps you know them? Derhin li-Parsil and Amanir tel-Kabanim. I understand that Delegate li-Parsil attributes his election to a certain speech.”

  “I have made their acquaintance,” Anrel acknowledged. “I cannot say I knew them well. They were Lord Valin’s friends, more than my own.”

  “I have the impression, my dear Master Murau, that they would be pleased to see you again, and to be assured that you are alive and well.”

  “Meeting with me might not be wise,” Anrel replied. “I am, after all, a notorious criminal.”

  Lord Blackfield stroked his close-trimmed beard. “Ah, you may have a point. I do not know the legal details of the situation.”

  “You are certainly free to assure them of my good health.”

  “Then I will do that.” The Quandishman hesitated, then said, “If you will forgive my impertinence, Master Murau, may I ask what your intentions are? As I have said, I am delighted to have you as my guest, but I wonder whether you have made plans for the future.”

  Anrel grimaced. “In truth, my lord, I have not. I have, for the most part, been too greatly concerned with remaining alive and free to give much thought to any long-term plans. I have no prospects for a career, at present, and as for family—well, there was a young woman, but I am afraid I have lost her forever.” He winced inwardly at the memory of Tazia, but forced himself to continue. “After all, even should some miracle bring her to Lume and we chance to meet again, what do I have to offer her? I have been living among thieves and beggars, and can hardly ask her to dwell there with me.”

  “Will you be returning to the Pensioners’ Quarter, then?”

  “My lord, I am not certain the Pensioners’ Quarter still exists.” He shook his head. “And even if the damage proves to be only superficial, I took up residence there more out of necessity than by choice. I would very much prefer to find another home—but I do not know where I might accomplish this.”

  “Of course.” Lord Blackfield cleared his throat. “Where my previous question was impertinent, I am afraid my next verges on the downright indelicate. Do you have any means of support?”

  Anrel sighed deeply. “I do not really know. Before I was branded a criminal I had certain resources, but their present status is unknown to me. I am sole heir to my parents’ estate—not the land, of course, since my name is not on the Great List I cannot own land, but their other property has been held in trust for me, and that had provided a modest income while I lived in Alzur. My uncle, Lord Dorias, supported me, even to the extent of paying for my education at the court schools, so the income from my legacy has remained largely untouched, but I cannot see any way to collect it while a fugitive—and that assumes it has not been declared forfeit to the state, in recompense for my supposed crimes. Nor was it any great fortune, in any case; I spent those four years in study partly for the joy of learning, but equally in hopes of a career as a clerk to the provincial government in Naith that would supplement my inheritance.”

  “I take it you do not see an administrative career in your future.”

  “Not so long as I am branded a seditionist.”

  “How have you provided for yourself since fleeing Naith?”

  “By theft and fraud, for the most part,” Anrel admitted. “I am not proud of that, but I did what I thought necessary.”

  “I take it you would prefer not to resume that line of work.”

  “Indeed.” While his stay in the Pensioners’ Quarter had not been so dreadful as he might once have anticipated, neither had it been particularly pleasant, and the day’s events could only have made his circumstances there worse. He was more than ready to move on, to reinvent himself again.

  Lord Blackfield considered that for a moment, then placed both palms on the table and rose to his feet, pushing back his chair. “Well,” he said, “I do not think we can solve all the world’s problems tonight. You must be weary, after your adventurous day; shall I have Harban show you to your room?”

  “That would be most kind of you, my lord.” Anrel drained the last of his wine, then stood. “There is one more thing I would like to ask you, though.”

  “Oh? What would that be? If you want the name of my tailor, I’m afraid his shop is in Ondine, on the far side of the Dragonlands, but I do know a fellow in Silk Street who does a very decent job.”

  Anrel smiled. “No, my lord, I am not yet ready to further replenish my wardrobe. You have been apologetic about asking me some very basic questions tonight, though you had every right to inquire into my situation, given that I had arrived uninvited on your doorstep and imposed upon your hospitality, so I hope you will forgive me asking one at least as rude as any of your own.”

  “You intrigue me, sir! What would this question be?”

  “Simply, why?”

  Lord Blackfield cocked his head to one side. “Why what?”

  “Why are you being so kind to me? Your generosity has been entirely unreasonable. I am a confessed criminal, a virtual stranger, who presented himself unannounced, in disarray and none too clean, yet you have taken me into your home, answered my questions, and fed me most sumptuously. You have treated me like an honored guest, rather than an intruder, and have shown no sign of delivering me to the authorities, though my presence here might endanger you. You are a sorcerer and a Gatherman, a Quandish lord, clearly a man of wealth and education, yet you have treated me in every way like an equal. Why?”

  The Quandishman’s expression turned serious. “A thoughtful question, sir, and one that deserves an honest answer, but to answer fully would take half the night, and we both need our rest. I will say this much—we are both the children of the Mother and the Father, and whatever differences in rank or station we may have are the doing of our human fellows, not our divine ancestors. I believe that every man, woman, and child should be judged by his actions, and not by his name or other accidents of birth, and I try to live in accordance with that belief. The world is a harsh enough place without adding any unnecessary harshness of our own. But I said you deserved honesty, so I will not pretend that my reasons are entirely unselfish; I expected you to provide me with information I may find useful, and you have indeed done so. I might have gotten it from you while treating you with disdain, but it was surely more pleasant for both of us to exchange information while conversing like the equals we are in the eyes of our ancient ancestors, rather than in some sordid game of threats and bargains. I remembered you from our brief encounters in Alzur, and you struck me there as a sensible and presentable young man; why should I not enjoy your society, then? Yes, you have fallen on hard times, while
I have flourished, but that means nothing, really, except that I can well afford any generosity I have shown you. I have merely treated you as I would like to treat everyone, as I would prefer to be treated myself were I in your position.”

  “You have my heartfelt thanks for that treatment, my lord,” Anrel said.

  The Quandishman waved a hand in dismissal. “Now, sir, let us be off to our rest, and if you think of further questions tonight, pray, ask them in the morning.”

  Anrel bowed in response, then turned and found the white-haired servant, Harban, standing in the open door.

  “This way, Master Murau,” Harban said with a bow just slightly deeper than Anrel’s own, and a gesture toward the hallway beyond the door.

  “Thank you,” Anrel said.

  He glanced back as he left the room, and saw Lord Blackfield still standing behind the supper table, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

  13

  In Which Anrel Enjoys a Quiet Morning

  Anrel awoke feeling utterly relaxed and thoroughly rested for the first time in a season. This had been his first night in a real bed since fleeing Beynos, and an excellent bed it was. He lay there for several minutes, enjoying the cool smoothness of the linen sheets and admiring the gleaming whiteness of the bedchamber ceiling. Nothing in the Pensioners’ Quarter was ever so clean as that painted plaster.

  He was in no great hurry to rise and begin the day; there was nothing he particularly needed to do, and after the magnificent supper and plentiful wine Lord Blackfield had provided the night before he felt no need for a quick breakfast. Eventually he knew he would have to get up and be about his business, whatever business that might be, but he allowed himself to savor the moment.

  At last, though, memories and guilt began to seep in, dissolving his contentment. His home in the Pensioners’ Quarter was probably destroyed, and most of his meager belongings with it. He hoped that his friends—Po, Shoun, Mieshel, Doz, Bim, Mother Baba, even Apolien—had all survived the demonic attack, but he did not know; he had no idea how many people had died at the hands of those monsters, or in the fires they had started. He remembered the bodies sprawled in Duty Street, but he had not seen most of their faces; the ones he had recognized had been mere acquaintances, he had seen none he would call friends.

  Still, they had been his countrymen, and they had been killed by demons, demons that had surely been summoned by the Cousiner magicians in the emperor’s employ. They had been betrayed and murdered by their own government.

  And he really had no idea how extensive the damage was. How much of the Pensioners’ Quarter was still standing? How many of its inhabitants still lived?

  The emperor had done this—or if the rumors were true, perhaps the empress, or some underling, but certainly the emperor had permitted it.

  There was a popular myth among the commoners of Walasia that the emperor’s purpose was to keep the excesses of the nobility in check, that the emperor was required to not be a magician himself so that he would always remember the needs of ordinary citizens and defend them against the sorcerers. The Great List gave the emperor the ability to render any sorcerer powerless, and the widespread belief was that he would use this to prevent sorcerers from abusing commoners too blatantly.

  Sorcerers, on the other hand, believed that the emperor’s role was to keep any one sorcerer, or any one faction, from gaining power over the others, and that his position had nothing to do with protecting commoners.

  It seemed to Anrel that the attack on the Pensioners’ Quarter demonstrated that the sorcerers’ theory was closer to the truth. This emperor plainly had no great love for the lowliest citizens of his empire.

  This emperor was, in fact, a disgrace to his position. He had turned foreign magicians loose on loyal Walasians. Anrel found himself more sympathetic than ever before to the idea that the empire’s whole system of government needed to be replaced.

  Overall, though, he still believed that so radical a change was not worth the risk. Replacing Lurias with his brother Sharal, or with a regency in the name of his infant son, would probably be enough to restore sanity and order to the empire—though it would not restore the Pensioners’ Quarter, nor restore the dead to life.

  As for his own role in the disaster, Anrel hesitated to assess that. Some might argue that he had been a coward to evade the demons and flee the quarter as he had, and indeed, a part of his own heart seemed to believe this, but rationally he told himself that he had done what he could. He had intended to stop the demons by stopping the magicians who had summoned them, but he had been unable to do so alone, and he had been unable to find any help. Nothing would have been accomplished by an attempt to stop the demons directly, or by climbing a stair to the walkway above Harbinger Court and attacking the magicians there; the result would most likely have been his own death or incarceration.

  That assumed he could have climbed such a stair in the first place; the iron gates at the top and bottom of every stair had undoubtedly been locked, and despite his recent training in many of the criminal arts he was not a skilled lock-breaker.

  Perhaps he could have helped others escape from the quarter, but really, everyone there knew the streets as well as he did. He suspected that the surviving residents of the quarter were now scattered all through Lume.

  No, rationally, he had done the best he could, even if in the end he accomplished nothing but delivering himself to this delightful bed. The guilt that nagged at him was unjustified.

  Knowing that did not make it go away, of course, but it allowed him to keep it under restraint.

  He wondered whether there was anything he could do to remedy his errors of the evening before. Was there some way he could help the survivors of the quarter? Some way he could ensure that the emperor never again unleashed such horrors on his own people?

  And at root, the cause of all the catastrophic events was Lord Allutar’s arrogance, and his sacrifice of Urunar Kazien’s life to fuel black magic. It was that spell that had poisoned the fields of the Raish Valley, and triggered yesterday’s events. It was Master Kazien’s death that had driven Lord Valin to denounce Lord Allutar and provoke his own death. It was, in turn, Lord Valin’s death that had led to Anrel’s own speeches in Naith and Beynos.

  Lord Allutar had killed Urunar Kazien, and Lord Valin, and Reva Lir, to maintain and enhance his own position. He had cheated half the city of Lume of their daily bread, and brought on riots and disaster.

  Anrel had considered Urunar’s death an acceptable cost of maintaining the traditional order. He had deplored and protested Valin’s death, but only on a personal basis; he had not thought it meant Allutar did not deserve his position as landgrave of Aulix. But ruining the grain harvest—that was a grave failure in Lord Allutar’s performance of his duties, and one that had led not to one death, but indirectly to dozens.

  But what could be done about it? Once appointed, landgraves served for life, unless either successfully challenged by another sorcerer, or deposed by the emperor.

  Or, perhaps, removed by the Grand Council. Anrel mused on that for a moment.

  Lord Blackfield had said that Derhin and Amanir were on the council. Could they introduce some motion to censure Allutar, perhaps?

  Anrel shook his head. Even if they did introduce such a measure, it wouldn’t pass. Half the council was made up of sorcerers or their appointees who would surely vote to protect one of their own. No, Lord Allutar’s misdeeds would go unpunished.

  Unless, of course, Anrel found some way to punish him. Anrel had no idea what that might be, but he certainly wouldn’t find it lying in bed; he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  As if he had been waiting for this signal Lord Blackfield’s manservant appeared in the door of the room, a bundle in his arms.

  “Your pardon, Master Murau,” he said. “I took the liberty of having your clothes cleaned, and ordering a few items.”

  “Thank you—Harban, is it?” Anrel accepted the bundle.

  “Y
es, sir.”

  “Do you know whether Lord Blackfield is expecting me to join him for breakfast?”

  “Lord Blackfield breakfasted some time ago, sir, and has gone out.”

  “Oh, has he?” Anrel glanced at the nearest window, trying to judge the time. He had assumed he had awoken at his usual early hour, but perhaps the fine bed had coaxed him into more than his usual amount of sleep.

  “Indeed.”

  “Did he leave any instructions concerning me?”

  “Your breakfast will be ready momentarily, sir, and Lord Blackfield would consider it a favor, should you leave the house before his return, if you would inform me before you go.”

  “Thank you.”

  Harban bowed, and left the room.

  Anrel dressed himself quickly, and took a good look out the window at the streets and the sky. The streets were still not as crowded as their norm, but neither were they as deserted as they had been at yesterday’s dusk.

  The sky was streaked with smoke, more than seemed entirely appropriate for a warm day, and Anrel guessed that the Pensioners’ Quarter was still smoldering. He hoped it was the Pensioners’ Quarter, and not some other part of the city.

  And as Harban’s remarks had implied, the angle of the sunlight through the smoke showed that Anrel had slept much later than his usual custom.

  Well, he told himself, he was up now. He straightened his coat.

  This was not his old, much-abused brown velvet coat; that was lost forever in the ruins of the Pensioners’ Quarter. This was a dove-gray garment he had bought perhaps a quarter season ago, to help him pass for a wealthy man. Upon casual inspection it gave every appearance of being a fine and costly garment, but a closer look would reveal that it had no lining, that the lapels had no backing, and that the fabric was not of the first quality. The cuffs were made to look as if a generous bunch of lace had been tucked back into them, when in fact there was only a narrow strip of real lace, and the rest a bit of well-worn rag.