Above His Proper Station

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “I had not given the matter any thought,” Anrel admitted. “Which was, I suppose, dreadfully naive of me.”

  “I would say it was, yes.” Derhin stared across the table. “You know, Master Murau, I find it hard to believe that you are truly as apolitical as you claim. You are Alvos, after all, who gave fiery speeches in half the cities of the empire.”

  “I did not,” Anrel said sharply. “I gave only two, in Naith and Beynos.”

  “It was not you who spoke in Ferrith?”

  “No.”

  “I knew most were imposters, but I had thought that one genuine.”

  “No. Naith and Beynos, nowhere else.”

  “Not in, perhaps, the Pensioners’ Quarter?”

  Anrel frowned. “I will not deny I spent time in the Pensioners’ Quarter, and was there the day before yesterday when demons set it ablaze, but I gave no speeches there.”

  “But you were there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s true? The watch sent demons into the quarter?”

  “Of course it’s true,” Anrel said, startled. “Was there any doubt?”

  “There are those who claim it was men with torches, perhaps men under a glamour, who set the fires and burned out the beggars and whores.”

  “No,” Anrel said. “Three demons. That was no glamour. And when I departed I saw the magicians who had summoned them, standing on the walkway above Harbinger Court.”

  “You will swear to this?”

  “If you wish; it is the truth.”

  “Would you swear to it before the Grand Council?”

  Anrel glowered at him. “Have you not just explained that I cannot be pardoned? I am under sentence of death for sedition; I cannot appear before the council.”

  “Of course, I understand; I was foolish to ask. But to have Alvos himself, Alvos, swear that the emperor’s men used demons …”

  “I do not see why I would be believed if other witnesses are not; surely, there are a hundred observers who could tell you what they saw.”

  “There are … those who claim to be survivors, yes. Most are reluctant to speak.”

  The implications of the word “survivors” did not please Anrel. He felt suddenly guilty that he had not, in the day and a half since the attack, ventured back into the quarter to assess the damage and see what he might do to help. He had been seduced by the amenities and peace of Lord Blackfield’s home, the return to the leisurely and comfortable life he had known as his uncle’s fosterling, and he had neglected the duties he owed his friends.

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Anrel said.

  “The officers of the Emperor’s Watch reported that one man seemed to be the leader of the mob there. I wondered whether that might have been you.”

  “No. That was—” Anrel caught himself before he gave Doz’s name—even though it was not his real name, it might be enough to track him down. Anrel had quite enough on his conscience without endangering another friend. “That was someone else.”

  Derhin observed the pause, and said, “You know who it was.”

  “Yes. I know him. He once held a knife to my back.” He hoped that would be sufficiently misleading to keep Derhin from pressing for more information.

  “Do you know his name?”

  Anrel shrugged. “He used a dozen names in the time I knew him.” He did not mention that most of these were in service to the various swindles that he and Doz had conducted as partners.

  “Do you think you could locate him, to testify before the Grand Council?”

  “I have no idea,” Anrel said truthfully—his ability to locate Doz would depend on what and who remained in the Pensioners’ Quarter, and he had not yet learned what the situation there might be.

  That was not where he had thought Derhin’s questions were leading, however. He had assumed that Derhin wanted to turn Doz over to the magistrates.

  “Why do you ask?” he said.

  “Because,” Derhin replied, “we are looking for …” He paused, then glanced at the door where Harban had departed.

  “He may well be listening,” Anrel said, guessing the delegate’s thoughts, “but what if he is? He is a Quandish manservant.”

  “He may well gossip with Walasians, though.” He sighed. “But I don’t suppose it can be hidden for long, not when hundreds of delegates have been involved in the debate. Anrel, someone must pay for the crimes that have been committed against the Walasian people. Many of the nobles want to find a scapegoat among the commoners—you, as Alvos, would serve nicely, or this mysterious leader in the Pensioners’ Quarter. Most of us, though, do not believe that would be just—and more important, we do not believe it would help. The people of Lume are angry, Anrel, and they are not angry with you, or with the thieves and beggars, or now that word has spread of what really happened, with the bakers or bargemen. They are angry with the sorcerers who ruined the Raish Valley grain harvest, with the magistrates who allowed it, with the officials who rushed the grain to Lume without noticing its polluted nature, with the watchmen who fought them in the streets, with the foreign magicians who unleashed demons on their fellow Walasians. They are furious, and they demand retribution. Some of the sorcerers on the council have tried to soothe the city with spells, but such is the popular rage that this magic is like sprinkling a handful of water on a raging bonfire. The emperor has refused to take action—his representative to the council told us yesterday, in so many words, that His Majesty considers the matter settled, a misunderstanding that is now past and nothing more. The burgrave of Lume has said it is none of his concern—the grain was not grown within his walls, nor did he order it shipped hither, nor did he have any say in the actions of the Emperor’s Watch, while the City Watch was not involved. The captains of the Emperor’s Watch say they were merely doing as they were ordered. The Lords Magistrate say they can do nothing. Only the Grand Council is in a position to act, and willing to do so—but we are not yet determined upon what action to take. If we had someone the people would accept as a reliable witness who would swear that demons were turned upon Walasian citizens, then we could demand that the foreign magicians be punished, and that would be better than nothing. If the people believed the whole thing to be a plot of the Ermetian king, or of some sorcerous conspiracy in the Cousins, then we might find enough peace to restore order and calm.”

  “But it wasn’t the Ermetians or a sorcerous conspiracy, was it?”

  “No.” Derhin grimaced. “At least, I don’t think so. Some delegates may well believe that it was, but I do not. I think our own government was responsible, not through malice, but through carelessness.”

  Anrel gazed at Derhin thoughtfully. “If the mob wants blood, can you not give them blood? Who was responsible?”

  “I think you know who was, at root, responsible.”

  “Humor me, if you would be so kind. Tell me their names.”

  Derhin sighed. “The demons were summoned by the magicians that the emperor himself had hired at the request of the empress. We believe the magicians were acting on the emperor’s own orders. The Emperor’s Watch, as well, was acting on either the emperor’s orders, or orders given by one of his appointed officers. The grain was rushed to Lume at the emperor’s personal instigation. Every official, every watchman, every sorcerer involved acted at the emperor’s behest.”

  “Can you not say as much to the people?”

  “Anrel, he is the emperor.”

  “And you are a delegate of the Grand Council, which has the authority to remove the emperor.”

  “Anrel, be serious. In theory, yes, we have the authority to do whatever we please, but we do not have the power to do so. The Emperor’s Watch does not answer to the Grand Council. The mercenaries from Ermetia and the Cousins, both soldiers and sorcerers, do not answer to the Grand Council. The sorcerers and their underlings, the guards and watches and armies, do not answer to the Grand Council. If we declare Lurias to no longer be emperor he will declare the Grand Council disbanded, and
the Emperor’s Watch will enforce his decree, not ours, regardless of what the law might say.”

  Anrel was tempted to argue, but he did not; he knew that Derhin was right. “Can you not explain to the emperor that the mob demands a sacrifice? Can he not let them have a few underlings to hang?”

  Derhin glanced at the door again. “I should not tell you this.”

  Anrel shrugged. “Then don’t. I am here at your request; I have no hold on you.”

  “Oh, you most certainly do have a hold upon me, Alvos,” Derhin replied, leaning forward. “Without you I would not be a delegate. Without you the Grand Council would be the emperor’s puppet, and from what I have seen of His Imperial Majesty’s work so far, I fear that might well have meant the empire’s downfall. We owe you a great deal.”

  “But not a pardon,” Anrel replied bitterly.

  “No,” Derhin said, sitting up again. “Not a pardon. Not now. Perhaps someday.”

  “I am owed an uncollectible debt, then.”

  “Yes. I admit it; you are. You are a sensible man; I saw that back in Naith. You understand.”

  “If I were a sensible man, I would have no need for a pardon.”

  Derhin smiled crookedly. “Perhaps,” he said. “Nonetheless, we are here, I am in your debt, and I would appreciate your counsel.”

  “My counsel? Delegate li-Parsil, I am merely an outlaw clerk, a student of law and history who failed to find an appointment.”

  “You are a man my late friend Lord Valin trusted and considered a close friend.”

  Anrel could not deny that; he stared at Derhin in silent frustration for a few seconds, then said, “Please yourself, then, but let it be upon your own head.”

  “We have sent envoys to the emperor,” Derhin said. “We have told him that this was not a mere misunderstanding, it is not past, and it is not settled. We have asked him to deliver to the magistrates, or to the council, the foreign magicians and whatever officials were responsible for distributing polluted wheat. So far, he has refused to listen.”

  “That is unfortunate.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you not have them arrested without the emperor’s involvement?”

  “The emperor has said he will not permit it, that they were acting upon his own orders and are not to be punished for obeying him.”

  “The emperor is a fool,” Anrel replied. There had been times he would not have stated it so bluntly, but he was already condemned for sedition; what further harm could it do to speak plainly?

  “I have been aware of that for some time now,” Derhin said, “but in this case he may have some reason for his reluctance. You know it is traditional to allow the condemned to make final statements; if everyone we hang says he was acting upon the emperor’s orders, that will not enhance His Imperial Majesty’s situation.”

  “True. Could those final statements be prevented, perhaps? Threats made against the families of the condemned to ensure silence?”

  Derhin stared at him. “By the Mother, Anrel! Threaten innocents? Women and children?”

  Anrel gazed back calmly. “Lord Valin was an idealist; I am not. Even so, I am not suggesting such threats be carried out, only that they be made. Harming innocents would not benefit the government; it would instead provoke the populace. If no one but the condemned is aware that such threats were made, though, then the knowledge will pass harmlessly into the afterlife with them.”

  Derhin’s shocked expression faded only slightly. “I don’t … I don’t believe such a thing has been suggested.”

  “You might bring it up, then. How much have you offered the emperor for your scapegoats?”

  Derhin blinked. “What?”

  “Well, you want him to do something he doesn’t want to do. In such a case, you must offer payment for his cooperation.”

  “Oh,” Derhin said. His expression turned thoughtful. “I had not thought of it in those terms. We had told him that he needed to act to appease the people of Lume, but I don’t believe we have offered anything more in return.”

  “He probably does not consider the common people a real danger.”

  “As you said, he is a fool.”

  “You will continue your negotiations with him, then?”

  “I am sure we will.”

  For a moment the two men sat silently, contemplating each other across the table. Then Anrel said, “There is another name you have not mentioned in this matter.”

  He had resisted mentioning this until now, despite the obvious temptation. Here, at last, was a chance to see Lord Allutar brought to trial—not for murder, as Anrel would have preferred, but for the misuse of sorcery and endangering the common welfare. Valin and Reva would be avenged, albeit not as directly as Anrel might have hoped.

  “Oh?”

  “You made a reference to sorcerers who polluted the Raish Valley farmlands, but you surely know that was the doing of one man, not several.”

  “Was it? I have heard rumors …”

  “Yes. The landgrave of Aulix. Lord Allutar Hezir.”

  “How do you know that?”

  That stopped Anrel for a moment. How did he know?

  Lord Blackfield had said that Allutar’s fertility spell was responsible for the pollution, but did Anrel actually know that to be the case?

  He frowned, trying to compose a reply.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Derhin said before Anrel could answer. “We can’t touch Lord Allutar in any case.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because he is a member of the Grand Council.”

  “What?”

  “Have I not mentioned that? Has no one told you? Delegates to the Grand Council are granted a full pardon for any and all crimes they may have committed prior to their election. It became necessary to enact such a decree to prevent a constant stream of accusations and attempts to discredit or depose delegates—in the early days, just after the winter solstice, some factions developed a tactic of having opposing delegates arrested on purely fictional charges just long enough to prevent them from voting on certain matters. The blanket pardon put an end to it. Delegates are now answerable only to the council itself, not to any lesser authorities or magistrates.”

  The audacity of this staggered Anrel. “That’s … that’s very convenient,” he said.

  “It was necessary,” Derhin replied. “At any rate, Lord Allutar cast his fertility spell before his election, so he has a pardon that we cannot withdraw without casting the council into renewed chaos. Even assuming that any magistrate would find a landgrave guilty of a crime for trying to improve his land’s wheat yield—and we both know how outrageous an assumption that is—we cannot make any such charge.”

  “So of those guilty of malfeasance in the recent events, all of them are protected by either the emperor, or by the Grand Council itself.”

  “I am afraid that is indeed the case.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Nonetheless, it is the case.”

  Anrel glanced at the shuttered windows, and sighed deeply. “Delegate li-Parsil,” he said, “I am beginning to think that the empire deserves the disasters facing it.”

  “Only the Mother and the Father can say whether that is so, Master Murau,” Derhin replied. “But I fear you may be right.”

  16

  In Which Anrel Visits Several Parts

  of the Imperial Capital

  The remainder of the conversation achieved nothing of any great significance; Anrel told Derhin something of a few of his exploits and inquired after the health of Amanir tel-Kabanim, while Derhin told Anrel a great deal about the work and workings of the Grand Council since it had first convened. At last, though, both ran out of questions, and they agreed to separate.

  Anrel waited while Harban once again blindfolded Derhin, bound his hands, and led him out to Lord Blackfield’s coach, and once he heard the rattle of harness and creak of the wheels, Anrel descended to street level himself and set out on foot—not for Dezar House, but for t
he Pensioners’ Quarter.

  The damage was far worse than he had expected; anything that might burn had burned, and not a single structure in the quarter still had a roof. Even most of the walls of stone and brick had fallen; bricks had cracked and crumbled in the intense heat, and mortar had burned away. Blackened corpses still lay in the rubble here and there. The major streets had largely been cleared of rubble, but for the most part the watchmen and laborers had not yet ventured into the still-smoldering ruins on either side.

  Ordinarily after two days in the summer heat the stench of those bodies would be horrific, but these were so badly scorched that the smell of decay was almost undetectable.

  The smell of smoke, on the other hand, was overpowering.

  Anrel avoided the workmen clearing the wreckage as best he could; there were half a dozen teams moving through the streets, hauling away debris. Each of these groups was composed of three watchmen and half a dozen laborers, and Anrel did not want any contact with watchmen—though these wore the deep red of the City Watch, rather than the green of the Emperor’s Watch.

  Except for those crews, the only signs of life were insects—ants and buzzing flies. Even the rats had not yet returned.

  This devastation was at the emperor’s orders, and according to Derhin, His Imperial Majesty considered it a mere incident, over and done with. Anrel wondered whether His Imperial Majesty had seen just what his hired magicians had done, seen it with his own eyes.

  He made his way through the once-familiar streets now rendered strange, and found his way to his own erstwhile home on Tranquillity Street.

  The house, once home to a dozen people, was now not even a shell, but merely a collection of fragmentary walls in a sea of ash and charcoal. Anrel took some comfort in the fact that he could see no evidence of human remains; apparently all his housemates had escaped.

  Or perhaps they had died in the streets, but at any rate they had not been caught in their beds. He had not thought that any of the three boys would have allowed themselves to be trapped here, but the old man, Apolien—well, who knew what he might have done? He had always been incomprehensible. And there had been the people in the other rooms—a mother and two daughters in one, a husband and wife in another, a pair of brothers and their adopted son in a third.