Above His Proper Station

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Indeed it would, but I do not think that is his intention.”

  Anrel looked out the window again. He did not like to think of himself as a coward, but neither did he care to take foolish risks.

  “If I may,” Lord Blackfield said, “there are methods I could suggest that would make it very difficult for him to deliver you to anyone.”

  Anrel cast him a sideways glance. “I think, my lord, that you are altogether too knowledgeable in certain areas. Such a mastery of intrigue hardly suits a traveler who only seeks to talk a little sense to our sorcerers.”

  “I am a Gatherman, you will recall, and a hereditary one. Politics is subject to intrigue everywhere, and I learned the skills of the trade at my father’s knee.”

  “But here in Walasia, of course you have no part in any such devices.”

  “Of course not.” He smiled wryly.

  Anrel turned back to the window. “If you can arrange it so that we can meet safely,” he said, “I would be willing to participate, though in truth, I don’t know what Derhin wants of me. I am no one of significance.”

  “You are the mortal manifestation of a legend, Master Murau. As yourself you may indeed be of no particular importance, but Alvos is a hero of the people. Heroes are useful—and dangerous.”

  Anrel stared at the drifting smoke. “I scarcely feel dangerous,” he said. “Or, for that matter, heroic.”

  “Others often see us rather differently than we see ourselves.”

  “Indeed.” He turned away from the window and looked at Lord Blackfield. “You, for example—how do you see yourself, my lord?”

  “Me?” The Quandishman hesitated; Anrel had the impression he had been about to give a flippant answer, but then thought better of it. He said seriously, “I see myself, Master Murau, as a man upon whom the Father and the Mother have bestowed a great many unasked for gifts—magic, wealth, health, a noble birth—of which I struggle to be worthy.”

  Anrel nodded. “When first I met you, in Alzur, I thought you an idealistic fool.”

  Lord Blackfield smiled wryly. “Many people seem to think that.”

  “Having spoken with you here in Lume, though, I have revised my opinion—I no longer know what to think, but I cannot call you a fool.”

  The Quandishman bowed in acknowledgment. “I am flattered to have risen in your esteem.”

  “You’ll arrange a meeting?”

  “Would tomorrow suit you?”

  “It would indeed.” Anrel grimaced. “After all, what else do I have to occupy my time? I am, at the moment, unemployed and homeless, with neither friends nor family to help me, and prevented from pursuing most ordinary activities by the inconvenience of being under sentence of death. Anything that might distract me from these unhappy circumstances, as your admirable ancestor’s book has, is very welcome.”

  “Pray tell me, dear guest, that I do not actually detect a note of bitterness! You have a home here with me for the present, and I hope that someday you may consider me a friend. This sedition nonsense is a mere temporary obstacle, I am sure. After all, are you not meeting with a government official tomorrow?”

  Anrel cocked his head. He had not considered that aspect. “I am, am I not? Do you think that Derhin might be able to arrange a pardon of some sort?”

  “One can hope that he might.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And if no pardon or parole is forthcoming, I scarcely think it means you must spend your entire life as a fugitive. Sedition is not a crime in Quand, and most certainly sedition directed at the Walasian Empire will not trouble anyone in my homeland.”

  Anrel blinked up at his host. “Are you suggesting I might flee the empire entirely, and take refuge in your homeland?”

  “I believe I am, yes. Is the idea so utterly outrageous, then?”

  “I have no means of reaching Quand; I cannot afford passage by sea. Perhaps Ermetia or the Cousins would be more practical—”

  “Oh, nonsense, Master Murau! You can reach Quand quite nicely by riding thither in my coach. I would welcome the company.”

  “Across the Dragonlands? I thought only sorcerers could do that.”

  “I am a sorcerer. If you thought I could not bring others with me, how do you think Harban came here?”

  “Ah,” Anrel said, feeling foolish.

  “A young scholar, thoroughly conversant in Walasian history, might well find employment in Ondine,” Lord Blackfield continued. “There are those who take an interest in our largest neighbor, but who prefer not to venture across the border in person.”

  “I … do not think that would suit me,” Anrel replied slowly. “I am a loyal Walasian, whatever I may think of certain officials, or even of our present emperor. To serve a foreign and sometimes hostile government—that seems to me far more treasonous than anything I said in Naith or Beynos.”

  “I understand.” Lord Blackfield nodded. “Indeed, I sympathize. Still, I would think a place might be found that you would deem acceptable.”

  “Much as I appreciate your interest and consideration, my lord, I am not sure I could be happy in a foreign land.”

  “Well, then, perhaps a new name and identity, and a home in some corner of the empire where the odds of encountering anyone who might recognize your face are minuscule? Pordurim, perhaps—that village in Vaun that produced the lovely wine we drank yesterday. I have arranged such things before.”

  Startled, Anrel said, “You have?”

  Lord Blackfield smiled. “Why, yes—a few seasons back, when certain persons were accused of a crime I felt could not possibly have been their doing, I arranged for them to relocate.”

  Anrel scarcely knew what to make of this admission—or perhaps it was not so much an admission as a boast. “Do you make a habit of flouting imperial law, then?”

  “I would not say a habit, sir, but I do not shirk from doing so when I feel justice is better served by my methods than the empire’s.”

  “And you have done this with impunity?”

  “Say rather, I do not believe anyone in authority is aware of my actions.”

  “If you have helped fugitives to disappear, how can the officials involved not be aware that something is amiss?”

  The Quandishman spread his hands. “Oh, I am sure they know things have not gone as expected.”

  “And you have no fear that they might connect these misfortunes to you?”

  “I am a sorcerer, Master Murau, and a good one.”

  Anrel blinked at what seemed an irrelevance. “I do not see how that can ensure your safety from discovery.”

  Lord Blackfield sighed. “I can work a glamour, sir. I can bind perceptions, or memories. For the most part, if I do not wish to be seen, I am not. If I do not wish my presence to be remembered, it is not. If I want someone to see me as a bent old woman, or a beardless child, why, then, that is how I will be seen!”

  “But that … I have never heard of … Isn’t a glamour a difficult spell?”

  “Oh, fair to middling difficult, yes. As I have said, I am a powerful sorcerer.”

  Anrel had known Lord Blackfield was a sorcerer, but had not realized his magical skills were as great as that. The witches Anrel had known had considered glamours to be far beyond their own abilities, and Uncle Dorias had certainly never attempted one. “I had not known anyone in Quand could work magic of that sort,” he said.

  One side of Lord Blackfield’s mouth rose wryly. “Well, we would hardly tell you, would we?”

  “I suppose not,” Anrel acknowledged. “You surprise me, my lord, and you once again make me suspicious of your motives.”

  Lord Blackfield sighed. “I wish no one harm, Master Murau—not you, nor any of your friends, nor for that matter, any of your enemies. I came to Walasia on behalf of the Lantern Society, just as I have said. The society was created to discourage the use of dark sorcery—to cast a light into dark places, as the name suggests, in an attempt to make our world a better place. That is what brought me into the empire;
I intended merely to visit with sorcerers and try to dissuade them from using black magic. When I arrived, though, I found signs of impending catastrophe on every side—famine, oppression, injustice. I could not ignore these wrongs. I have sought to alleviate them; I freely admit that I have pursued justice and mercy, rather than law and order. I cannot stop the coming disaster, whatever form it may take, but I hope I may be able to lessen its severity and perhaps spare a few individuals from its fury.”

  “So you have aided criminals in escaping.”

  “No, sir, I have aided innocents in escaping. I have been quite selective.”

  “You did not save Urunar Kazien.”

  “He was not innocent of the crime for which he died, nor was he yet at liberty when his circumstances came to my attention.”

  “I suppose not.” Anrel stared at his host for a long moment. “I did just what they say I did,” he said at last.

  “You spoke out against injustice. I cannot consider that a crime, no matter what your magistrates may say.”

  “I have committed other crimes to survive, many of them. I cannot claim innocence.”

  The Quandishman shrugged. “No one is entirely innocent. I believe you to be a good man at heart. You spoke out in honor of a friend, and in an attempt to save a life, not for your own benefit.”

  That was true, but somehow did not seem to entirely satisfy Anrel’s objections. He had spent the past season deceiving, swindling, and robbing Lume’s wealthier citizens. Did that count for nothing?

  But then, Lord Blackfield did not actually know what Anrel had done during his stay in the Pensioners’ Quarter, and Anrel felt no need to tell him. He asked, “So you would spirit me out of the country, or hide me away in some village somewhere?”

  “If you wished it, yes.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Anrel said, meaning it. “But let us wait and see what Derhin has to say before we make any hasty decisions.”

  “Of course.” The Quandishman bowed. “I will leave you to your book, then.”

  He turned, and left the room.

  Anrel stared after him, and did not pick up the book again for several minutes.

  15

  In Which Anrel Speaks with a Delegate

  to the Grand Council

  Anrel watched as the blindfolded Derhin was led into the room, and his hands untied.

  Anrel was sitting at a table in an upstairs room above a ruined bakery—the baker and his family had fled the city, at least for the moment, and his abandoned home made as good a meeting place as any. The mob had done considerable damage to the apartment, as well as to the shop, but the table and two chairs remained intact. Anrel found it amazing that the entire building had not been burned to the ground—though there was a faint whiff of smoke that implied someone had made the attempt. Why the flames had not spread Anrel did not know, and did not much care; it was enough that the place was still here, and suitable for this meeting.

  Harban had fetched Derhin hither, his wrists bound and his eyes covered so that he would not know where he was being brought. Anrel had arrived earlier and had prepared the room, making sure the doors were closed and the windows covered so that there would be no clue to their location.

  Now Derhin li-Parsil stood quietly as Lord Blackfield’s manservant unwound the rope from the delegate’s wrists. Harban stuffed the cord into one of the pockets in his brown woolen coat, then reached up and removed the black leather blindfold, as well.

  Derhim blinked; the room was dim with the shutters and curtains closed, but still brighter than what he had seen on the way here. He took a second to focus; then his gaze fell on Anrel.

  “Delegate li-Parsil,” Anrel said. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it? Congratulations on your election to the Grand Council.”

  “Anrel Murau,” Derhin said, eyeing him warily. “Or should I say, Alvos the orator?”

  Anrel shrugged. “Either name will serve. I understand you wished to speak with me?”

  “I did. I do.”

  “Sit,” Anrel said, gesturing at the other unbroken chair. “Let us talk.”

  “Thank you,” Derhin said, taking his seat and keeping his gaze on Anrel’s face.

  Harban cleared his throat to catch Anrel’s attention; Anrel looked up, and said, “Thank you, sir. If you could wait outside, please?”

  Harban essayed a quick bow, then slipped quietly out the door to the stairwell.

  When he had gone, and the door had clicked shut, Derhin glanced around the room. “Is this where you are living?” he asked.

  “No,” Anrel said. “This is somewhere we could meet safely, nothing more. After today I doubt I will ever again set foot in this room.”

  “Ah, I see.” Derhin hesitated.

  “Come, sir,” Anrel said. “You asked for this meeting; surely you have something to say? Questions to ask, news to impart, requests to make, orders to give?”

  Derhin grimaced. “Yes, well, in truth, I was partly motivated by a desire to see whether our Quandish friend was telling the truth when he said he had seen you.”

  “He was,” Anrel said. “I can understand, though, how you might wonder about his veracity. I have never caught him in a lie, nor had good reason to doubt what he says, but somehow he does not inspire great confidence in his truthfulness. One often has the impression he is leaving out important details.”

  “My own thoughts, exactly!” Derhin smiled.

  “I cannot believe, though, that you agreed to be bound and blindfolded and transported through half of Lume merely to test a man’s honesty. Surely, you had some other goal?”

  “I wanted to see you,” Derhin said. “To see that you are indeed still alive and well. You do know you are a legend, I assume.”

  “I have been told as much, yes—but really, Alvos is the legend, and I am merely the man, Anrel Murau.”

  “Of course, of course.” Derhin nodded understanding. “Still, this is as close as I can come to meeting the legend.”

  Anrel did not reply; he was not comfortable with his legendary status. After a moment’s silence, he asked, “You had no other questions?”

  “Oh, I have a thousand questions!” Derhin exclaimed. “So many I scarcely know where to begin.”

  “Begin wherever you please; I have all day.” Anrel settled back comfortably in his chair.

  Derhin paused for a moment, apparently choosing his approach, then asked, “Why are you in Lume? With every watchman in the empire looking for you, why would you come to the capital? I thought you must have fled to the Cousins. When Lord Blackfield claimed to have spoken with you, at first I thought he meant you had sought sanctuary in Quand.”

  “I am a loyal Walasian, Delegate, whatever some sorcerers and their lackeys might claim,” Anrel said, his chin held high. Then he lowered it and cocked his head. “Besides, I knew people here, and I know no one in the Cousins, or in Quand. I studied in Lume for four years, remember?”

  “Then you have not come here to carry out some grand revolutionary scheme?”

  “Unless staying alive and free is a scheme, I’m afraid not.”

  “And your speech in Naith—was that part of some larger design?”

  Anrel sighed. “Would that it were,” he said. “I might look like less of a fool.” He shook his head. “Lord Allutar killed Lord Valin to silence him; I was determined that Allutar would not profit by his crime, and therefore Valin’s words must be heard. That was all. I gave no thought to the consequences, for either Lord Allutar, or myself, or the empire; I merely wanted Valin’s words to be heard.”

  Derhin stroked his beard, then said, “You told the people of Naith to elect me as their delegate.”

  “I advised them to do so, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your beliefs, as you described them in that wine garden in Aulix Square, more closely matched Valin’s own than did those of anyone else I could name.”

  “That was all?”

  “That was all. I hardly knew you or Amanir,
but no one else I knew in Aulix had taken up anything like Valin’s positions. I knew some suitable firebrands in Lume, but I was speaking in Naith.”

  “So there was no intention to … to use us, once we were elected?”

  “Use you? In what manner?” Anrel shook his head. “No, I had no hidden motive or secret agenda.” He hesitated. “Though now that you mention it, I understand that several members of the Grand Council feel that Alvos in some way contributed to their election.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then—might it be possible for the Grand Council to grant me a pardon? I would very much like to go home to Alzur, see my uncle, and return to my old life.”

  “I—don’t know,” Derhin said. He bit his lip. “No, that isn’t the truth. I do know. I’m sorry, sir; it isn’t possible.”

  “You are certain? I could give my parole to refrain from political activity.”

  “I’m certain. I know the alliances and loyalties in the Grand Council all too well. To grant you absolution—well, you see, in the early days, when we still had high hopes for what we might accomplish, we set forth rules, and we are now too divided to alter any of those rules. Certain actions require more than a simple majority. Granting any sort of pardon or parole requires the approval of three-fourths of the entire council, and these days it is almost impossible to get three-fourths to vote, let alone all vote the same way.” He grimaced. “It was feared that anything less than a three-fourths majority would encourage corruption, that wealthy criminals might purchase pardons, or that we might grant pardons for our own political gain—which, frankly, would seem to be exactly what you are asking of me.”

  “What? No, no—I want nothing more to do with politics. I want only to be allowed to live openly again.”

  “But do you not think there would be political consequences were it to become widely known that I had arranged a pardon for the infamous, the brilliant, the mysterious, the legendary Alvos?”