Above His Proper Station

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  And in fact, he had never learned the use of true names. He had not actually lied.

  “Then who would use it?”

  “Any sorcerer,” Anrel said. “You might offer some noble amnesty for his crimes in exchange for his assistance in this.”

  “Or we might follow the emperor’s example, and hire a magician from the Cousins,” Gluth suggested. “There are several possibilities.”

  “But we do not have this list!”

  “We have the full authority of the Grand Council,” Anrel said. “In theory, we can require the Emperor to allow us access to it. We can note down the names we need—most particularly, Lord Allutar’s true name—and then proceed from there.”

  “In theory,” Gluth said.

  “In practice,” Anrel said, “I am sure we can find something to offer His Imperial Majesty to obtain his cooperation. Consider the existence of our sister committee, and who sits on it—is it not true that the Cloakroom considers the emperor himself to be responsible for the recent unrest? Is the Committee for the Restoration of Order not charged with identifying and punishing those responsible? Is that committee not staffed with several powerful sorcerers who might well be capable of enforcing an edict against even the emperor?”

  “Despite the Emperor’s Watch and his foreign mercenary magicians? I do not think they could …”

  “That would be treason!”

  “I don’t believe …”

  “It’s madness!”

  The discussion collapsed into chaos for a few moments until Lorsa was able, by sheer volume, to shout it down and restore order. When he had finally obtained relative calm, he said, “Perhaps we are not all in full accord as to what would best serve the empire, but permit me to set forth a course of action, step by step, and see how far we can proceed before disagreeing.”

  There was a murmur of acceptance.

  “The Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery has been created by the Grand Council for the purpose of investigating the misuse of magic.”

  No one objected to that.

  “The most egregious recent misuse of magic was the pollution of the farmlands of the Raish Valley.”

  Again, no protest.

  “It is generally believed that this pollution was the result of black sorcery performed by Lord Allutar Hezir, landgrave of Aulix, in an attempt to increase the yield of those lands.”

  Still, no one argued.

  “The people of Lume are calling for Lord Allutar’s blood, and if nothing is done to appease them, we can expect more violence.”

  That one set a few feet to shuffling, and eyes to glancing warily about, but no one spoke up.

  “Therefore, we must assign a high priority to questioning Lord Allutar regarding his actions last year.”

  “But we can’t …”

  “He won’t …”

  Lorsa held up his hands for silence. “I have said nothing about how this task is to be undertaken,” he said. “I have merely said that we should give it a high priority. Can anyone argue with that?”

  Again, silence fell.

  “Now, you have all heard Allutar speak. Many of you have dealt with him on occasion. Is there anyone here who thinks he would cooperate with us voluntarily?”

  That drew mutters, and someone called, “He might.”

  “If only to mock us,” someone else added.

  “What can we do if he doesn’t?”

  “So this, then,” Lorsa said, “is where we first encounter difficulties. Leaving aside the question of whether he will, does everyone here think that Allutar Hezir should cooperate?”

  The chorus of agreement was slow and hesitant, but it came in time. No one denied the premise.

  “And if, if a means could be found to compel his cooperation, should we not use it?”

  Again, feet shuffled and eyes darted about uneasily, but again, the entire committee clearly agreed, however reluctantly.

  One man spoke up, though. “But only against Lord Allutar,” he said.

  “At least for now,” another added.

  Anrel glanced about, studying the faces. Many of the committee members were uneasy, and he understood that; all their lives they had been taught that sorcerers were above the ordinary laws, subject only to the rulings of the emperor or their fellow magicians, yet here these ordinary men and women were talking about forcing sorcerers to testify, perhaps to incriminate themselves. It was a frightening prospect.

  Perhaps more worrisome to Anrel than the uneasy expressions, though, were the eager ones—including Lorsa’s, when he occasionally allowed his emotions to show. Some of these people clearly wanted revenge against the sorcerers for past slights; they were not interested in investigation, but in retribution.

  That urge must be kept in check, Anrel thought, or the committee could do severe damage.

  “Then let us send two or three of our esteemed members to negotiate with the emperor’s men,” Lorsa said. “It may be that we can obtain access to the Great List simply by asking, and thereby learn Allutar’s true name. After all, surely His Imperial Majesty has no great love for the landgrave of Aulix, the man whose ruined wheat caused so much strife here in the capital! Surely, the Great List would not exist at all if there weren’t occasion for its use, and isn’t this such an occasion?”

  “I’ll go,” Anrel said. He had little left to lose, should the negotiations go badly.

  Lorsa frowned, and shook his head. “No, Delegate Murau, I don’t think that would be wise. We all know of your connections to Allutar Hezir, and who knows what word might have reached the emperor’s court about your identity as Alvos? I think we should send someone with a better claim to be dispassionate.” He grimaced. “I am afraid I am no more suitable than yourself. Perhaps …” He looked at the committee. “Perhaps Delegate Savar?” He pointed at a dark-haired young man with a long face and intense eyes.

  “It would be an honor, sir,” Savar replied with a bow.

  “And … Delegate tel-Olz?”

  That was an older man, his hair streaked with gray. He shook his head. “I would rather not, Master Lorsa,” he said.

  “Well, I won’t insist. Delegate Guirdosia, then?”

  He, too, accepted.

  “One more, please,” Savar called as Lorsa hesitated. “In case Master Guirdosia and I disagree about some detail, a third vote to break the tie?”

  “As you wish. Delegate Essarnyn?”

  “Delighted to be of service.”

  It was at that point that the promised luncheon finally arrived, and business was put aside for a moment as bread, cheese, carrots, and wine were distributed. Anrel noticed that Lorsa gathered Savar, Guirdosia, and Essarnyn to him, presumably to discuss their mission. Anrel was debating whether to eavesdrop when Pariel Gluth tapped him on the arm.

  “Master Murau,” he said.

  “Master Gluth,” Anrel acknowledged.

  “I meant what I said about martyring yourself,” Gluth said without further preamble. “If you are having second thoughts, it isn’t too late to flee. You have done your full duty and then some today; I am not at all sure we could have ever have made such progress without you. I would not fault you if you chose to vanish; it’s too late now to undo these committees, and I think we can now deal with Lord Allutar without you.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Anrel replied. “However, I have not come this far only to turn and flee; I will see through what I have started. Delegate Lorsa is … intemperate, and I fear that he may go too far and bring what we have begun today to disaster. I hope to be a moderating influence.”

  “Ah, I see.” Gluth glanced at Lorsa, who was speaking with quiet intensity to Fulsio Essarnyn. “You may have a point.”

  “Still, I am not suicidal; I would prefer not to be a literal martyr. Should you hear anything you think I should know, please do inform me.”

  “Of course.”

  Gluth turned away, and Anrel watched him go.

  He thought he understood Lorsa—he was an
idealist like Lord Valin, but one who had turned fanatic, allowing his righteous wrath and revolutionary fervor to overcome everything else. Gluth, though, puzzled Anrel; he seemed so calm and rational, yet he was one of the Hots, devoted to overthrowing the old order. He spoke of the value of martyrdom, but then suggested Anrel avoid it. If he was an idealist, he had nonetheless somehow managed to retain a pragmatic streak. This mix of moderation and extremism was not something Anrel could easily grasp.

  Well, it didn’t matter what motivated Pariel Gluth. What mattered was guiding the empire through the present crisis and into a peaceful and prosperous future. To accomplish that the Grand Council would need to see the sorcerers brought to heel, and the revolutionaries silenced. The mob would need to be appeased, and the emperor’s debts retired.

  And then, with order restored, the Grand Council would dissolve itself, and everything could return to normal.

  Anrel hoped he would survive long enough to see it.

  24

  In Which Anrel Is Reunited with an Old Friend

  The Grand Council’s afternoon session was devoted to debates on any number of topics. The Committee on Imperial Finance gave a report that said, in essence, that the situation was exactly what everyone knew it to be—the imperial court’s debts could not be paid unless a new source of funds was found, the nobles controlled every possible source under present law, and they were unwilling to yield up any of that money. All attempts to change the law so that the emperor could levy new taxes or increase existing ones were being blocked—the Grand Council invariably fell half a dozen votes short of passing the necessary resolution.

  “You realize that will probably change at last,” Gluth whispered in Anrel’s ear. “The Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery ought to be able to sway a dozen sorcerers’ votes.”

  Startled, Anrel looked at him.

  “Had you not thought of that?” Gluth asked with a cold little smile. “That possibility may convince the emperor to give us access to the Great List.”

  Anrel had not thought of that, nor could he think of anything intelligent to say in response. Once again, he found himself marveling at Delegate Gluth’s turn of mind.

  The Committee on Agriculture and Distribution presented a very brief and very depressing report—they were trying to find some way to determine whether sorcery had permanently damaged the empire’s croplands, and envoys were negotiating with merchants in Ermetia, Quand, Azuria, and Skarl for grain imports, but as yet none of these efforts had produced any results. Several provinces were already running out of food.

  There were reports from towns and cities around the empire, as well, brought by friends and family of various delegates, and Anrel was dismayed to learn that the recent violence had not been restricted to the capital. Bakeries and granaries in the Raish Valley had been burned, and several communities had seen rioting and arson. Several sorcerers who were thought to be involved in black magic, or who had taken a suspicious interest in increasing crop yields, had been driven from their homes, or had their estates burned in their absence. Many of these nobles had taken refuge in Lume, and while they were hardly likely to join the mob in the street calling for Lord Allutar’s blood, they were certainly not feeling conciliatory.

  Finally, Anrel was surprised to learn that most of the neighborhoods in Lume were forming their own militia. It seemed few people still trusted the Emperor’s Watch, overstretched as it was, to defend the city against itself and keep crime under control; in fact, some of the people who spoke seemed to consider the watch part of the problem, one more thing to be defended against, and given what he had seen in the Pensioners’ Quarter, Anrel was not inclined to argue with that position.

  Instead of relying on the watch the heads of household in the various neighborhoods were forming their own miniature councils, more or less after the model of the Grand Council, and each of these had named a warden to be in charge of maintaining order in that neighborhood and defending it against intruders. The Grand Council had apparently known about this, and even encouraged it.

  “Our reliance on the sorcerers has made us weak,” Lorsa explained when Anrel commented on these developments. “We need to rely on ourselves, on the common people of the empire.”

  “The sorcerers themselves mistrust the emperor enough that they’re happy to allow it,” Gluth added.

  And when Anrel wondered why he had not heard about this before, Gluth suggested that perhaps living with a wealthy foreigner in rented quarters was not the best way to stay in touch with the doings of ordinary Walasians.

  After that the reports and discussions began to wind down, and at last the speaker named his successor, who would conduct business the following day, and adjourned the session.

  Anrel found Derhin, and the two men left the baths together by the same door they had entered that morning, as did dozens of others.

  Anrel was startled to discover that the crowds were still standing in the street—or perhaps this was a different crowd; he did not pretend to recognize anyone. They were not chanting as the delegates filed out; most watched silently, though a few called questions or taunts.

  “Have you decided how to save the empire yet?”

  “Will your arguing fill our children’s bellies, Delegates? Why aren’t you home working on your farms?”

  “It’s been two seasons—have you accomplished anything yet?”

  “Down with Lord Allutar!”

  “Down with the emperor!”

  Anrel paid little attention; he was walking with his eyes down, thinking over the day’s events. Then a new cry arose.

  “That’s him! That’s Alvos!”

  Startled, Anrel looked up to see someone pointing at him.

  “Alvos!”

  “Alvos!”

  “Alvos! Alvos! Alvos!”

  Much of the crowd began to cheer; others booed. “Traitor!”

  “Fraud!”

  “Come on,” Derhin said, tugging at Anrel’s arm.

  Anrel did not answer, but he picked up his pace. The two men did not run; that would invite pursuit. Instead they walked briskly.

  “You said there are hidden ways out,” Anrel said. “Perhaps we should have used one of them.”

  “I prefer not to skulk about like a criminal,” Derhin said with a glance over his shoulder. “You may have a point, though.”

  Watchmen were holding the crowd back as more delegates exited. More shouting had broken out, though Anrel could not make out what this round was about, and some members of the throng were shoving one another. Something was thrown—Anrel had a glimpse of something dark and fist-sized flying through the air, but he could not be sure what it was; a rotten fruit, perhaps, though it was hard to imagine anyone would waste food in the present climate.

  He and Derhin rounded the first corner, and the din behind them was muffled. They did not slow, though; in fact, at the second corner first Derhin and then Anrel broke into a trot, which they maintained for several blocks. Only when they came to the corner of Lourn Street did they drop back to a casual walk.

  “I … had not expected that,” Anrel said, as they ambled toward the burgrave of Naith’s town house.

  “Expected what?” Derhin asked.

  “The shouting mob, the cheering, the … the scheming.”

  Derhin glanced at him. “You should have,” he said.

  “I suppose I should,” Anrel agreed. That ended the brief exchange; they walked the final few yards in silence, and entered their temporary home without comment.

  Remembering breakfast, Anrel did not wait for Derhin to make any supper preparations, but set about feeding himself, which suited both men. The food had all been provided by Derhin, but he told Anrel to help himself; they could worry about repayment later.

  Cold salt beef, good hard cheese, and a bottle of inexpensive red wine made an adequate meal for Anrel. Derhin made do with yesterday’s bread and some of the cheese, and drank his share of the wine. They had both finished eating and were sitt
ing in the drawing room, sipping the last of the wine, when Anrel heard a knock.

  “What was that?” he said.

  “What?”

  Anrel did not answer, but listened.

  The knock sounded again. This time Derhin heard it as well. “There’s someone at the door,” he said.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” Anrel asked.

  “No, are you?”

  “Who even knows I’m here?”

  “Lord Blackfield, of course, and several of the Hots,” Derhin replied. “It’s hardly a secret.”

  Anrel got to his feet. “Then I should see who it is,” he said.

  Derhin quickly rose, as well. “No, I should,” he said. “You are the legendary Alvos, and it could easily be some madman who imagines you his enemy.”

  “But I …” But Anrel was addressing Derhin’s back; the other man was already on his way out of the drawing room.

  Anrel followed, but hung back a few feet. Much as he hated to admit it, Derhin had a point about his fame—or infamy, depending on how one viewed it. A few days ago he would never have hesitated to speak for himself, but the crowds shouting for him outside the Baths had shaken his confidence.

  A third knock sounded as Derhin approached the front door. He swung the door in a few inches and peered out at the street, which annoyed Anrel; he could not see anything of who or what might be on the stoop. He moved slowly forward, intending to look for himself.

  “Yes?” Derhin said.

  A woman’s voice asked hesitantly, “Does … does Anrel Murau live here?”

  Anrel stopped dead. That voice …

  “May I ask—” Derhin began, but before he could complete his question he was interrupted by a shout from Anrel.

  “Tazia?”

  “Anrel?”

  “Tazia!” Anrel ran forward and snatched the door handle out of Derhin’s hand, pulling the door wide.