Above His Proper Station

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “I see,” Anrel said.

  “Once order was restored, a compromise was put forth whereby a committee would be created that would investigate the entire matter—the ruined grain, the riots, the destruction of the Pensioners’ Quarter, everything—and would then report back to the Grand Council. Our friend tel-Kabanim rose up and denounced this idea in no uncertain terms, maintaining that this would at best delay any prospects for justice, and at worst would allow the council to ignore the whole thing indefinitely. And when it appeared that the vote might go against him, he led the Hots, all of them, out of the chamber and onto the street, where they led the crowd in fresh chants of ‘Bring us Allutar!’ At that point it became clear that no further business would be conducted today, and Lord Guirdon declared the council adjourned, and I returned here—but it required a cordon of watchmen to see me safely out of the baths, through that chanting mob to my coach.” He sighed deeply. “Most distressing!”

  “I wonder how Lord Allutar was able to depart safely. Are there enough watchmen in Lume to protect him from such a mob?”

  “Oh, there are hidden ways in and out of the baths,” Lord Blackfield said with a dismissive gesture. He leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall back. “They are, of course, reserved for the delegates, and heavily warded.”

  “Of course.” Anrel pursed his lips, then said, “Though it is by no means of the significance of your own report, I may have a bit of news that might brighten your day a little.”

  “Oh?” The Quandishman raised his head.

  “You said you wished to meet some of my acquaintances from the Pensioners’ Quarter, and I have taken the liberty of inviting one of them for supper. I suggested he might bring a friend or two, but I cannot say whether he will.”

  “Splendid!” Lord Blackfield sat upright, clapping his hands together. “That’s excellent, Master Murau! When shall we expect them?”

  “Perhaps an hour before sunset, at the rear entrance,” Anrel replied. He held up a hand to forestall protest. “I know that it is hardly appropriate to ask a guest to come that way, but given the boy’s appearance I thought it wise to make an exception in this case, to avoid unwelcome attention.” He did not mention specifically how he and Shoun had drawn stares on their walk, but was prepared to do so if the Quandishman argued.

  “Ah, I see,” Lord Blackfield said. “An acceptable precaution, I think. Thank you.”

  Anrel nodded an acknowledgment. “I should mention that he is quite young. A boy, in fact.”

  “That does not trouble me in the slightest, I assure you.”

  “I did not commit you to any particular circumstances, though I did promise they would be fed.”

  Lord Blackfield flung his arms wide. “Then they shall dine with us!”

  “I had hoped you would say so, my lord.” While a meeting of such different classes might have its awkward aspects, Anrel thought it would be very educational for both sides.

  For a moment, then, neither man spoke, as Lord Blackfield sat back in his chair, and Anrel marked his place and set aside his book. Then a thought occurred to him, and he asked, “So Amanir is one of the appropriately named Hots?”

  “Indeed he is.”

  “What of Derhin li-Parsil? Is he, too, a Hot?”

  “Li-Parsil? No, he has more sense than that. He is, at least for the moment, in the Atrium—a fairly moderate faction that believes fundamental changes are necessary, but looks for compromise, peace, and gradual transitions, rather than a complete and immediate overthrow of the present system.” The Quandishman sighed. “I fear that he is not entirely happy with some of his fellows in that group, though, and that he may soon switch his allegiance to a more radical party.”

  “I see,” Anrel said. “And if you were a delegate, rather than a foreign visitor, what faction would you choose?”

  Startled, Lord Blackfield said, “Oh, don’t ask me that!”

  “I am afraid I already have.”

  “Master Murau, I am not a Walasian. I am not entitled to an opinion on how your nation should govern itself. I only wish to see bloodshed and misery kept to a minimum. For that reason I would certainly support neither the Hots nor the Cloakroom, as they both seem willing and eager to inflict harm upon those who disagree with them, but I cannot choose among the others.”

  “You would not find the Atrium intolerable?”

  “No, not intolerable, but neither do I agree with them upon every particular, and the same could be said of several others.”

  Anrel nodded. He hesitated, debated saying more, then reached for his book again.

  Some time later Anrel descended to the rear entrance to await Shoun’s return, and found Shoun, Mieshel, and Po had already arrived, and were sitting in the little yard behind Dezar House, engrossed in a game of pebble toss. Anrel did not interrupt immediately, but watched as Po attempted a tricky ricochet off the bottom step, trying to knock Shoun’s stone away. Unsurprisingly, his shot missed, leaving the way open for Mieshel’s next throw to fall in no more than two inches from the line.

  Anrel cleared his throat.

  “We saw you, Dyssan,” Shoun said without looking up.

  “We wanted to finish the game,” Po said.

  “It’s my shot,” Shoun said, and with a quick snap of the wrist he sent his stone skittering forward until it stopped dead even with Mieshel’s.

  “A draw?” Mieshel said.

  “Good enough,” Shoun agreed.

  Po frowned, but did not protest. All three boys pocketed their pebbles, then turned to face Anrel.

  He looked them over thoughtfully. All three were dirty, their clothes in sad condition, but they seemed to have made an effort to make themselves presentable—their faces had been wiped, however ineffectually, and their clothes appeared to have been brushed, the worst tears pinned closed. Po had even managed to find a battered gray cap that partially disguised the sorry condition of his tangled hair.

  Ordinarily Anrel would never have brought them into a respectable man’s home in this condition, but Lord Blackfield was not an ordinary householder. Once inside the Quandishman’s rooms, protected by his wards, they would be away from prying eyes. Anrel took a quick glance at the watch’s walkway, running along a rooftop some fifty yards to the east, and saw no one, but he knew a watchman might come along at any moment.

  “This way,” he said, beckoning them in and up the stairs, hoping they would not encounter anyone from any of the other households in Dezar House. At this hour the rear stair saw little use, but the possibility of a meeting existed, and Anrel had no idea how he would explain the presence of the three urchins.

  Fortunately, they reached the second floor undetected. There he paused and looked them over again.

  “I’m not sure whether I need to tell you this or not, but I think I had better, just in case,” he said. “Our host, Lord Blackfield, is a sorcerer. He is also a friend of mine. You will not take anything that belongs to him without permission, no matter how tempting—not only would you be stealing from a friend of mine, but you don’t know what wards he has in place, or what he’d do if he caught you. Is that clear?”

  “It’s clear to me,” Shoun said.

  Mieshel looked at Po.

  “I won’t touch anything!” the youngest protested. “Not even if he’s left guilders lying everywhere!”

  “Good,” Anrel said. Then he turned and knocked on the back door of Lord Blackfield’s suite.

  Harban opened it immediately and nodded to him. “Master Murau,” he said. “And are these our dinner guests?”

  “Yes, Harban,” Anrel replied. “This is Mieshel, and Shoun, and Po.”

  Mieshel bobbed his head, and Po took off his cap, but Shoun held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said.

  Harban shook the proffered hand solemnly, then said, “The pleasure is mine. Lord Blackfield is awaiting you all in the sitting room, and I do not recommend making him wait, but if I might offer a suggestion, I think you all might wan
t my assistance in cleaning up before we dine.”

  Mieshel cast Anrel a startled glance. “Dine?”

  “Lord Blackfield has asked that you do him the honor of joining him for dinner,” Anrel said.

  Po suddenly looked very nervous.

  “I told you he’d feed us,” Shoun said.

  “But you didn’t say we’d be eating with him!” Po answered.

  Shoun glared at the younger boy.

  “We’ll be fine,” Mieshel said. He glanced at Harban. “They seem very nice.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Harban said. “This way?”

  Together, the five of them walked through the wards, and down the passage to the sitting room where Lord Blackfield awaited them.

  18

  In Which Anrel Refuses an Offer of Employment

  “Another slice?” Lord Blackfield said, holding out a platter of ham.

  Ordinarily, of course, Harban would have been offering the meat from behind each guest’s shoulder, but Lord Blackfield had noticed that the boys—or at any rate Mieshel and Po—did not seem entirely comfortable being served in such a fashion, and had ordered that the serving dishes be left upon the table, so that the diners might help themselves.

  He had also seen to it that the foods provided were simple ones, nothing that would present too great a challenge to an untrained palate. Anrel wondered whether Mistress Uillea had been irked by this limitation upon her skills.

  “Thank you,” Mieshel said as he speared a slice with his fork. Given how rarely he had ever had the opportunity to use one, he wielded the implement well.

  Shoun, too, took another serving, but Po shook his head; Anrel thought he was too awed to take proper advantage of this opportunity to stuff himself, but perhaps his small belly was simply already full.

  Harban had done a good job of tidying the boys up, given how little time he had; he had managed to get all three faces and all six hands surprisingly clean, had removed Po’s cap entirely over the boy’s loud objections and brushed the hair beneath into a semblance of order, and had even managed to provide Mieshel with a clean, whole blouse that fit him reasonably well, replacing the ragged mess he had arrived in.

  So far, everything had gone well. Lord Blackfield had introduced himself to his guests and learned their names; there had been a slightly awkward moment when he inquired about their surnames, but Anrel had explained that no one in the quarter used them, and the Quandishman had let the matter drop.

  Then Harban had swept them off to be cleaned, and ten minutes later the entire party had gone in to dinner.

  So far the conversation had been restricted to the meal, the weather, and other such trivial pleasantries, but now, as Lord Blackfield set aside the platter of meat, he said, “Shall we get down to business?”

  Po looked up at the Quandishman, and Mieshel alternated between his host and his food, but Shoun threw Anrel a quick glance before saying, “Whatever you like, my l—lord.” He stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar honorific.

  “While you are here as my guests, and are under no obligation to do anything but enjoy your supper, I do confess to an ulterior motive,” Lord Blackfield said. “I am hoping to hire someone—or perhaps two or three someones—for certain duties here in Lume, and I believe you three might be suitable.”

  “What duties, my lord?” Shoun asked before stuffing another forkful of ham into his mouth.

  “Well, that’s a little difficult to explain. I am looking for someone who will keep me informed of any news that may be circulating in the streets in such a way that it would not ordinarily reach a man of my station. As I’m sure you understand, this calls for an individual of good judgment—someone who will know what I want to hear, and what can safely be ignored as of no interest. This person might also be called upon to serve as a messenger on occasion, and perhaps run other errands for me. An ability to go places that not everyone can go would be greatly valued. The ability to listen to conversations without being noticed, and report their contents accurately even if it seems meaningless or irrelevant, would also be welcome. A certain degree of self-confidence is required, but I think, after watching the three of you here, that will not be an issue—I am quite aware that my table is as foreign to you as the jungles of some Ermetian mystery land, and you have all acquitted yourselves well here.”

  “You want a runner with a good ear,” Mieshel said. “That’s what we’d call it in the Pensioners’ Quarter.”

  Lord Blackfield stared at him for a moment, then let out a bark of laughter. “I daresay,” he said. “A runner with a good ear—of course you’d have a name for it! Indeed, I believe that’s precisely what I am seeking, a runner with a good ear.”

  “You’re new at this, my lord?” Shoun asked.

  Lord Blackfield turned to the middle boy. “Not entirely, lad, not entirely. I’ve had my equivalents of runners with good ears here and there in Quand and scattered around the empire, but never on the streets of Lume. You three, if you take the job, will be my first here.”

  “What’s it pay, my lord?” Shoun asked. Mieshel cast him an annoyed glance, as if he thought the younger boy was usurping his prerogative as the eldest.

  Lord Blackfield glanced quickly around all three faces—no, all four, as he included Anrel as well as the boys.

  Anrel had an idea what the going rate for this sort of service was, but he was not about to tell Lord Blackfield that and ruin the boys’ negotiations. He kept his expression carefully blank.

  “I was thinking a penny a day, to start,” the Quandishman said.

  Mieshel opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Lord Blackfield added, “Each.”

  Po looked from Shoun to Mieshel, clearly struggling not to say anything lest he somehow ruin this opportunity.

  “For that, of course, I would expect you to stop by at least every sixth day,” Blackfield continued. “If I am not readily available, you would report to Harban, or perhaps Master Murau.” He nodded at Anrel.

  “They know me as Dyssan, my lord,” Anrel said.

  “Ah, of course. Dyssan, then.” He nodded. “You would deliver not merely any news you may have heard, but also a report on what you judge the mood of the city to be—are the people happy or miserable, angry or resigned to their fate? Do they blame their miseries on themselves, or the Father, or the emperor, or the burgrave, or the Grand Council? That sort of thing.”

  “I understand,” Mieshel said.

  “We can do that,” Shoun said.

  “Also, I am looking for a Kerderian fellow by the name of Revard Saruis, from a place called Darmolir. He is getting on in years, but I’m afraid I can give little more description than that. Any news of him will earn you an extra penny or two.”

  “Revard Saruis.” Mieshel nodded.

  Anrel recalled that Lord Blackfield had asked him about this Master Saruis, as well. He wondered what the Quandishman’s interest in him was.

  “You haven’t heard of him?” Lord Blackfield asked.

  Mieshel, Shoun, and Po exchanged glances. “No, my lord,” Shoun said.

  “Ah, well,” the Quandishman said. “There would be additional payments for any additional duties, of course, and you would always be free to refuse a given assignment, though should that happen I would not take it amiss if you suggested someone who might undertake it in your stead.”

  Po did not seem to follow this sentence and started to ask a question, but Mieshel shushed him quickly. “Fair enough,” Shoun said.

  “Should you ever find yourself without any other recourse, and your funds, for whatever reason, insufficient to feed you, you will always find a meal here—though probably not a dinner like this so much as a little something from the servants’ table, handed to you at the back door. Should you ever need shelter, or a way out of the city, I will do my best to arrange it, but do not expect to be welcome guests here.”

  Anrel hardly thought that last needed to be said, and judging by the expressions on the other faces, Mieshel and Shoun had con
sidered it unnecessary, as well. Po, on the other hand, appeared disappointed.

  “And finally, while I’m sure this is obvious, I am going to say it all the same, so that you cannot ever claim ignorance. This is all confidential. You are not to ever mention to your friends, or for that matter to anyone else, that you know me, that you have spoken with me, that you are in my employ.”

  “Of course, my lord!” Shoun said.

  “Runners with good ears and closed mouths,” Mieshel said. “I’m good for that, my lord.”

  “How long is this for?” Po asked.

  “For as long as I am in Lume,” Lord Blackfield replied. “Whenever I am in Lume—if I leave and return, we will pick up where we left off. Does that suit you?”

  Po threw Shoun a wary glance, then nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good. Then you’re hired. Mieshel?”

  “I’m good for it.”

  “That’s two. Shoun?”

  “I would be honored, my lord.” The boy made a sketchy attempt at a bow, complicated by the fact that he was seated at the table.

  “Excellent! Then let us see what confections Harban and Mistress Uillea have for us to round out our meal.”

  Harban and Mistress Uillea proved to have a glittering pink and white sugar cake, which was quickly devoured. As it was consumed Lord Blackfield began questioning the boys about the mood in the streets, taking their first reports; Anrel listened with interest.

  If what he heard was accurate then the people of Lume were even more unhappy than he had realized, and placed the blame for their unhappiness on two parties—the emperor, and the sorcerers responsible for the famine. It seemed to be taken as an established fact that the mistakes of sorcerers were indeed responsible for all the crop failures of recent years, and not just the ruined harvest in the Raish Valley. Anrel did not know how much truth there was in this, but it was clearly widely accepted.