Above His Proper Station

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  The most common reason for adding a name was a suspicion that the sorcerer in question had been practicing black magic, which prompted Anrel to suggest that the committee might do well to speak with members of the Lantern Society.

  That was met by a moment of puzzled silence.

  “Who?” someone asked at last.

  “The Lantern Society,” Anrel said. “It is an organization of magicians from Quand and Ermetia who have been campaigning against the use of black magic. They had hoped to convince the empire to ban such practices.”

  Another, more hostile silence met this explanation.

  “Foreigners, trying to tell Walasians what to do?” Delegate tel-Olz asked.

  Anrel saw his mistake, and tried to ameliorate it. “They offered neither threats nor promises, but only advice,” he said. “The Lantern Society magician I spoke to, a Quandish sorcerer, said that they believed black magic invariably held hidden dangers, and sought only to help make their Walasian comrades aware of the risks. And now we know, from what befell the Raish Valley, that black sorcery does carry risks we had not realized. It would seem that the Lantern Society was right.”

  “If you believe your informant, perhaps,” Gluth murmured.

  “Why would he lie? I have reason to believe this particular Quandishman to be a good and generous man.”

  “And can you be sure he is not in the pay of his nation’s government, sent to spy on us and subvert our government?” Lorsa demanded.

  Anrel hesitated.

  He did not want to lie, and any brief recounting of the truth would not help him—Lord Blackfield was a Quandish Gatherman, after all, and he had recruited spies here in Lume.

  “I have no reason to believe he wishes the empire ill,” he said at last.

  “He is Quandish, and we are Walasian,” tel-Olz said. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “We are not at war with Quand,” Anrel said.

  “We have been in my lifetime, and I suspect we will be again before many years have passed,” tel-Olz replied.

  “These people, this Lantern Society, may be at the root of all our problems,”said a man Anrel did not recognize. “What if they somehow changed Lord Allutar’s spell, and that was why it went wrong? What if they have been damaging our farms all along?”

  “I hardly think they could do anything of the sort without our own sorcerers noticing,” Anrel said. “Magic leaves traces, does it not?”

  “But what if they never worked magic of their own, but only distorted good Walasian spells?”

  Anrel had no answer for that; he simply didn’t know enough about sorcery. Since there were, by design, no sorcerers on the committee, and the observers were mostly Hots who had made sorcerers feel distinctly unwelcome in the room, no one else present knew whether it was possible, either.

  The discussion continued, but Anrel, disturbed by the course it had taken, made his way out to the edge of the bath and did not take part for a time.

  He was standing there, elbows behind him, leaning on the side of the bath, when Delegate Gluth came up beside him. For a moment neither spoke, but then Gluth said, “This Quandish magician you know, the representative of the Lantern Society—that would be Barzal, Lord Blackfield, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” Anrel admitted.

  “And he was most generous with you, so naturally you would be reluctant to think ill of him.”

  “I sought him out in the first place not because I knew him to be generous, but because I believed him a good man,” Anrel said. “Yes, he has been extraordinarily kind to me.”

  “You don’t believe he is acting against the interests of the empire?”

  “Delegate, I no longer know what the best interests of the empire are,” Anrel said gloomily. “I believe Lord Blackfield genuinely wishes harm to no one, and that he seeks to maintain peace—or rather, given the present state of the empire, to restore peace. He sought to dissuade Lord Allutar from using the execution of Urunar Kazien in a spell, not because he knew precisely what the spell would do, but only because he did not trust any sort of magic based on blood or death.”

  Gluth nodded. “Was Barzal of Blackfield present when Allutar Hezir carried out this execution?”

  “No, he was not,” Anrel said angrily. He knew that Gluth was implying Lord Blackfield had tampered with the spell.

  “Are you certain of that? Were you present?”

  “No,” Anrel admitted reluctantly. “I was celebrating the solstice with my family.”

  “Ah, your family. The unfortunate Lord Dorias and his daughter, I suppose.”

  “Unfortunate?” Startled, Anrel turned to look Gluth in the eye.

  “Had you not heard?” Gluth said, meeting his gaze calmly. “The home of Lord Dorias Adirane, then burgrave of Alzur, was burned to the ground by irate townsfolk when he made the mistake of trying to defend Allutar Hezir’s estate. He and his daughter have taken refuge in the Adirane family property here in Lume.”

  Anrel stared at the other man in astonishment, then asked, “Then burgrave? Do you say he is burgrave no longer?”

  “No, no,” the other said, smiling faintly. “To the best of my knowledge he retains the title, for the present.”

  Anrel found it infuriating that Gluth maintained an imperturbable calm while making these vicious implications, but forced himself to contain his rage and restrict his response to the simplest facts. “But you say he is here in Lume?”

  “So I am given to understand, yes.”

  “His house in Alzur was burned? My home was burned?” Anrel was surprised at how painful the thought was. He had never expected to dwell there again, had not really expected to ever again set foot across its threshold, but the idea that the Adirane manor had been burned still hurt him badly.

  “Your uncle’s home in which you were suffered to reside, yes.”

  Anrel glared at him.

  He had spent more than half his life in that house, which had stood for almost four centuries, and which had been in the Adirane family for well over a hundred years. To have this miserable little man speak so casually of its destruction was almost unbearable.

  Perhaps the reports were exaggerated. Perhaps it was merely damaged. After all, its outer walls were solid stone. Even so, the thought of those lovely old polished wood floors and paneled walls ruined by fire and smoke was horrible. The books, the carpets, the tapestries …

  And the people. “Was anyone hurt?” he asked. “My uncle maintained a staff of six.”

  “I am not aware of any injuries,” Gluth replied.

  “Thank the Father for that, then.”

  “You seem untroubled by your uncle’s attempt to aid Allutar,” Gluth said.

  “My cousin is betrothed to Lord Allutar,” Anrel said calmly. He had regained control of his temper. “I would scarcely expect my uncle to be entirely heedless of his daughter’s future happiness. Besides, burning down a house hardly seems an appropriate way to punish Lord Allutar for his crimes. Would it not be better to take that house away from him and give it to someone more deserving? Maybe one of those he has wronged. Transform it into a hospital, perhaps, or an orphanage.”

  “An interesting suggestion.” Gluth smiled a tight little smile. “Alas, too late to be of any use.”

  “Unfortunate.”

  “Yes.” Gluth eyed Anrel consideringly. “I confess, Delegate Murau, that you puzzle me sometimes. I am accustomed to men who have chosen a side and adhere to its every tenet, which you do not seem to have done. You seem determined to see Allutar Hezir brought to justice, yet you will speak no ill of his allies, and you appear to regret actions his own people have taken against him.”

  “I do not like disorder,” Anrel said. “I want to see Lord Allutar punished, yes, but punished in accordance with the law. Wanton destruction should not be encouraged, no matter the excuse.”

  “I see. And you seem to put a great deal of trust in this Quandish sorcerer, while claiming to be a loyal Walasian.”

  “I am a loyal
Walasian,” Anrel said. “That does not mean I must consider every foreigner a scoundrel and villain, or every Walasian a paragon. We are all human, Walasian and Quandish alike, and I judge Lord Blackfield to be a good man, worthy of my trust.”

  “Let us hope you are correct in that assessment—but forgive me if I do not take it as proven.”

  “You are, of course, free to form your own estimate of his character.”

  “Of course.” For a moment the two men were silent; then Gluth said, “Delegate li-Parsil tells me you were a student in the court schools.”

  Anrel nodded. “Four years.”

  “Then I take it you can write a fair hand.”

  “I suppose I can, yes.”

  “We may have a use for your services soon.”

  “Oh? Who is ‘we’?”

  “The committee.”

  “Taking notes? I had thought someone had already assumed that chore.”

  “Oh, Master Fuilier is recording our proceedings. No, I meant something else entirely.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Copying the Great List.”

  Anrel blinked. “What?”

  “Oh, not the entirety! I assume it is a massive document, and most of it would be useless to us. But I believe we might find a portion of it useful.”

  “I had thought … why would we need any of it copied? We want Lord Allutar’s true name, of course, and perhaps a handful of others we choose to investigate, but noting those down should hardly tax the skills of whichever of our representatives is given access.”

  “Indeed—but I think we may find it advantageous to obtain a little more information than that, while we have the chance.”

  “I suppose we might,” Anrel admitted. “But we would need the emperor’s permission, surely, and as I understand the ancient pact, he should not give that permission. He is to be the sole keeper of the list.”

  “That was the old agreement, yes, but we are the Grand Council, Delegate Murau. We are free to change the terms of the pact should we believe it will benefit the empire.”

  Anrel stared at him, unable to think of a response.

  Gluth stared back for a few seconds, then turned away.

  “We will call upon you when the time comes, Delegate Murau,” he said. “Do not disappoint us.”

  “I will hope to avoid it,” Anrel murmured.

  He watched, puzzled and wary, as Gluth moved away to speak to someone else.

  26

  In Which Anrel’s Services Are Called Upon

  On the fifth day after Anrel’s appointment to the Grand Council negotiations between the three representatives of the Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery and the emperor’s court were said to be progressing nicely, but all details were held in secret, even from the remainder of the committee. Zarein Lorsa seemed to be reasonably satisfied, at any rate, with what his three envoys told him.

  Not that he allowed that to temper his speeches, which remained fiery—so fiery that even some of the other Hots were clearly uncomfortable with his open denunciations of various sorcerers.

  Anrel was not comfortable with any of the Hots, and had retreated to the Atrium for the morning conferences. He still remained active on the Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery, though, where he tried to restrain Lorsa’s wilder enthusiasms.

  Nivain Lir was still hesitating over the propriety of allowing her daughters to take up employment in the home of two unmarried young men, and whether or not she wanted to remain in her own present position as housekeeper to a prosperous wine merchant and his family, so Anrel and Derhin still tended to their own needs in the town house on Lourn Street.

  The Committee for the Restoration of Order was said to be collaborating with the burgrave of Lume in compiling a list of individuals to be questioned, and a list of actions to be taken. Everyone knew that Anrel’s name headed that first list, but it was taken for granted that nothing but planning would be done until everything had been properly prepared and the Grand Council as a whole had received a report of the committee’s intentions.

  The remainder of the Grand Council was continuing its endless debate of various schemes for revising the empire’s governance, and listening to reports of disasters great and small. A sense of urgency was building, though—where before various plans had been suggested that would take years, or even decades, to implement, most proposals now were targeted at a mere season or two in the future. It was now acknowledged that simply finding and storing enough food to make it through the next winter without widespread starvation might be a more important issue than the emperor’s debts.

  On the advice of Derhin li-Parsil and Pariel Gluth, Anrel had had no further contact with Lord Blackfield; associating with a Quandish sorcerer and suspected spy was deemed too dangerous to his reputation. The glorious Alvos could not be permit himself to be tainted by familiarity with such people.

  Due to her employment and her mother’s reservations, Anrel had seen much less of Tazia than he had hoped. Perynis had been equally absent, but that was of far less concern to him. He had also lost all contact with the various unfortunates and scoundrels he had known during his residence in the Pensioners’ Quarter; he believed that Mieshel, Shoun, and Po were reporting regularly to Lord Blackfield, but Anrel had cut that connection, and he still had no idea what had befallen Doz or the rest.

  He wished he knew more of their circumstances. He wished that he could spend his time in Tazia’s company, rather than at the Aldian Baths listening to speeches and arguments; he wished he could see more of Lord Blackfield than an occasional glimpse of him in the gallery. He wished he knew that Doz and Mieshel and Shoun and Po were all safe and well. He wished he knew how Lord Dorias and Lady Saria were faring. He saw Lord Allutar at the baths, and was tempted to ask after his fiancée, but thought better of it—any discussion with the landgrave was likely to turn ugly very quickly.

  Anrel was not comfortable with many of his fellow delegates, in fact, while others were not comfortable with him—the legendary Alvos did not fit easily into their society.

  As a result, he sometimes felt himself to be very much alone and at loose ends when the Grand Council was not actually in session, and on that fifth day, after the Council adjourned in midafternoon, he resolved to do something about his relative isolation.

  He had hoped that Lord Dorias and Lady Saria might track him down, as Tazia had, but as yet there had been no indication that they were making any such attempt, so he decided that he would save them the trouble, and obtained their address from Delegate Gluth, along with directions on how to reach it. Tazia would be working for another two or three hours, and Derhin was lingering in the atrium with his friends, so Anrel set out alone to find his uncle.

  The Adirane town house was on Wizard’s Hill Court in the Old Heart, just down the slope from the Forbidden Street—a much older neighborhood than either Dezar House or Lourn Street, but one that was still very respectable. Old Heart had, as the name suggested, once been the core of the city, but that had been long, long ago, centuries before the Old Empire fell. Now it was a quiet backwater, and Wizard’s Hill was one of the older, quieter neighborhoods therein.

  Anrel had been to Adirane House only once before, very briefly, when his uncle had brought him to Lume to be enrolled in the court schools, and he had not paid any particular attention to its location at the time, so he had not remembered how to find it. He followed Pariel Gluth’s directions carefully, making his way along the narrow, cobbled streets of Old Heart, walking under the watch’s arches and past statues worn faceless by centuries of rain and wind.

  These streets did look familiar from that one prior visit, but Anrel did not remember any specific landmarks, and relied on the delegate’s guidance.

  There were few people on the streets, and those he did see seemed to eye him warily before hurrying on about their business. The only coach he saw passed him without incident.

  The directions brought him at last to an entry that he was fairly
certain led into Wizard’s Hill Court; it was sufficiently familiar from that brief visit five years ago that he was sure the directions he had followed had been accurate. He glanced up and saw no watchman standing on the arch above this entry, but as he started forward a man in a black coat and hat stepped out of a doorway and put an arm on his sleeve.

  Startled, Anrel turned.

  “What is your business here, sir?” the man in the black coat asked, his voice firm.

  Anrel was very tempted to say, “None of yours,” but he resisted. “Why do you ask?” he said instead.

  “Because I am the warden for this block, and I do not recognize you.” He pointed to a badge of red cloth sewn to the lapel of his coat, with the word WARDEN embroidered on it in yellow.

  Anrel looked at the warden a little more closely, and saw that he had a cudgel thrust in his belt. The hand that had touched Anrel’s sleeve was hovering near it.

  “My apologies, sir,” Anrel said. “I did not recognize you, either. My name is Anrel Murau, and I am a relative of the Adirane family. I have heard that my uncle is in residence at number two Wizard’s Hill Court, and I had thought to pay him a visit.”

  The warden pursed his lips as he considered this, then glanced up and down the street. Then he looked up at the empty rampart atop the arch, then back at Anrel.

  “Allow me to accompany you as far as the door, sir,” he said.

  That was hardly an unreasonable request, and Anrel certainly wanted no trouble. “Of course,” he said.

  That settled, the two men walked under the arch side by side into Wizard’s Hill Court.

  The court was circular, and the circle was entirely paved, with not a trace of greenery showing through the stones. Six houses fronted on the court, and the Adirane property was second on the left—although no numbers were visible, and his memory was not necessarily completely reliable, Anrel was absolutely certain he had found the correct address when he saw the escutcheon over the big black front door. It bore the same incomprehensible design he had so often seen over the fireplace in his uncle’s study. When he was thirteen Anrel had asked Lord Dorias to explain the heraldry of that blazon, and Dorias had admitted its significance was long lost. The burgrave had been sure that the sinuous curve across the top was meant to be a vine of some sort, and not, as Anrel had first thought, a dragon’s tail, but Uncle Dorias had said that Anrel’s theory that the angular thing on the left was a book of some sort was as good a guess as any, and no one in living memory had ever been able to make any sense of the interlaced lines on the right.