Above His Proper Station (15 page)

“Indeed, I was.”

Lord Blackfield set his wineglass down. “You know, when I heard that this mysterious Alvos had denounced Lord Allutar for an unjust death, I had guessed that he might be Lord Valin, speaking of Urunar Kazien's death. When you first told me your friend was dead I did you the courtesy of believing you spoke the truth, but assumed that he had died subsequently—perhaps apprehended by the authorities and quietly slain, the killing kept quiet to avoid stirring up public sentiment, or perhaps in some more commonplace manner. But when you told me how he had actually died, I suspected the truth. Thank you for trusting me with it.”

“You said you had heard he was dead?”

“Yes. Certain acquaintances of mine had said so, but I had guessed they were misleading me in an attempt to protect him. There are those who would take great pleasure in hanging Alvos of Naith, but there's nothing to gain in hanging a man who is already dead, so I thought the story of his death might have been put about to forestall further efforts at his capture. I thought he might yet live, and if so, I would be interested in speaking with him. One reason I told Harban to admit you was that I thought you might be here as Lord Valin's representative.”

“In a way, I am exactly that,” Anrel said. “As Alvos I gave voice to
his
beliefs, which were never my own.”

“Really? How droll!” Lord Blackfield picked up a sweet from the tray and popped it into his mouth. “Then you did not believe those impassioned words you spoke that have inspired such unrest?”

“I did not,” Anrel said. “Valin believed that a new order could be created in which every man would be master of his own destiny, and sorcerers would be the servants of the nation, rather than its masters, but I considered this idealistic nonsense. Without magic, how would the government enforce its edicts? And if they are not rewarded with power and status, why would sorcerers use their magic for the public welfare?” He shook his head. “I know that you Quandish have no such arrangement, and that you seem to have managed, but I do not pretend to understand
how
you have managed, nor do I think your systems, if such chaos can be called systems, would work for us here in Walasia.”

Only after the words had left his mouth did Anrel realize how insulting they might sound, and he tensed as he awaited his host's response.

“Quand is not the only place to reject the rule of magicians,” Lord Blackfield pointed out calmly with no sign of having taken offense.

“You mean Ermetia? Where they have two separate governments, one for sorcerers, and one for commoners? I have never understood how
that
system survives, either—why has the Council Arcane not destroyed the Council Terrestrial, overthrown the king, and assumed control?”

“From what they tell me, they have no
desire
to control the mundane government,” Lord Blackfield replied. “Consider, Master Murau—does your uncle, Lord Dorias,
want
to administer Alzur? Not every sorcerer seeks earthly power.”

“For the most part, Walasian sorcerers do,” Anrel retorted. “Indeed, my uncle very much enjoys the authority he holds; it is merely the accompanying responsibility he would prefer to avoid.”

“Do you think he would choose to serve as burgrave, if he did not already hold the post?”

“He could resign, my lord, yet he has not done so. The taste of power is sweet.”

Blackfield leaned back in his chair. “You have dismissed Quand and Ermetia as inexplicable; what of the rest of the Bound Lands?”

“The Cousins?” Anrel snorted derisively. “Surely, you cannot be putting forth
that
madhouse as a model of anything but disaster! For that matter, half of them
are
ruled by magicians!”

“But half are not, and they are not noticeably less successful, on average.”

“But they are not the empire. For almost six hundred years, we have been ruled by sorcerers—and before that, the Old Empire was ruled by wizards. It's all we have ever known here.”

Lord Blackfield sighed. “Does that mean nothing else is possible?”

“It means that this system suits us.”

“And has nothing shaken your certainty on that count?”

Anrel hesitated. He remembered the tainted bread, the flaming demons, the mob in Beynos, the mob in Aulix Square.

Lord Blackfield leaned forward across the table. “Would you like to know an interesting thing, Master Murau?”

“My lord?”

“Did you know there are fewer sorcerers in the empire than there are in Quand?”

Anrel frowned. “But the empire is—” He stopped in midsentence, suddenly unsure of his facts. “Isn't the empire far larger?”

“Less so than it once was, thanks to our brave Quandish pioneers in our overseas colonies, but yes, I believe the empire is still significantly larger, in both land and population, than Quand. Yet we have more sorcerers than you do. Do you know why?”

“I have no idea—assuming you are correct.”

“Because in the Walasian Empire, sorcerers invariably marry sorceresses—if they marry at all. After all, for a noble to marry a commoner would be … 
inconvenient,
in certain regards. In mixed marriages not all the children will inherit the ability to use magic, and it can be embarrassing for, say, a burgrave to find his sons unable to inherit, for lack of magic. So your sorcerers grow ever more inbred, and because many are too busy with other matters to want to raise children, they have small families—after all, a sorceress cannot be got with child against her will; even the feeblest magician can manage that much. Thus, even while the empire's population grows, the number of sorcerers stays constant, or even shrinks.”

“I have never heard this before,” Anrel answered warily.

“Why would you? I am not sure whether anyone in the empire is really aware of it. I assume the keepers of the Great List know the present tally of names to be no more now than it was a century ago, but do they draw any conclusions from this, or even bother to mention it to anyone?”

“I don't know,” Anrel said.

“In Quand, on the other hand, there are no restrictions on who a sorcerer might wed, and while sorceresses can and sometimes do limit the size of their families, sorcerers married to non-magicians often raise large broods. A sorcerer is considered quite a catch for most girls, and his magic can help ensure a healthy family.”

“But the children won't all be sorcerers! Even here, occasionally a sorcerer's child will fail the trials …”

“As you did?”

Anrel fell silent, unsure whether Lord Blackfield's question might imply the Quandishman knew that Anrel had failed the trial deliberately.

“Yes,” Lord Blackfield continued. “About half the children fail to inherit any gift for magic—but even so, the
other
half has been sufficient to keep our population of sorcerers growing, both in absolute numbers and as a percentage of our population. We have plenty of sorcerers for our purposes. Meanwhile, the empire is trying to administer a growing population with fewer and fewer sorcerers—and when a magician
does
turn up outside of the established noble families, he is either labeled a witch and hanged, or if allowed to be acknowledged and trained as a sorcerer, he is often still treated as a nuisance, a minor embarrassment, as Lord Valin was.”

Anrel found himself growing unreasonably annoyed at this foreigner describing flaws in the Walasian system. “What is your point, my lord?”

“My point? Why, that your empire cannot sustain itself indefinitely if it persists in its present policies. You say that it has operated this way for almost six hundred years, and you are quite correct, but that does not mean it can continue this way forever. Cracks are beginning to show, Master Murau—the famine, the Raish wheat, the demons in the Pensioners' Quarter, even Lord Valin's death, these are not signs of a healthy nation.”

“I suppose you think we would be better off adopting the Quandish system, and merging the Grand Council with the Gathering?” Anrel replied angrily.

“No.” Lord Blackfield shook his head. “No, while I am proud of my own nation, you are quite right when you say the empire is different. I would not welcome a merger. It is not my place to dictate what the Walasian people should do, how you should rule yourselves. I merely hope to offer what counsel I can, so that whatever changes may come will do no more harm than they must.”

There was really little Anrel could say to this. For a moment conversation paused, replaced by a contemplative silence as both men picked at their remaining food. At last, though, Anrel broke the silence by asking, “You said you had been told Lord Valin was dead—by whom?”

“Why, by two of Naith's representatives on the Grand Council—perhaps you know them? Derhin li-Parsil and Amanir tel-Kabanim. I understand that Delegate li-Parsil attributes his election to a certain speech.”

“I have made their acquaintance,” Anrel acknowledged. “I cannot say I knew them well. They were Lord Valin's friends, more than my own.”

“I have the impression, my dear Master Murau, that they would be pleased to see you again, and to be assured that you are alive and well.”

“Meeting with me might not be wise,” Anrel replied. “I am, after all, a notorious criminal.”

Lord Blackfield stroked his close-trimmed beard. “Ah, you may have a point. I do not know the legal details of the situation.”

“You are certainly free to assure them of my good health.”

“Then I will do that.” The Quandishman hesitated, then said, “If you will forgive my impertinence, Master Murau, may I ask what your intentions are? As I have said, I am delighted to have you as my guest, but I wonder whether you have made plans for the future.”

Anrel grimaced. “In truth, my lord, I have not. I have, for the most part, been too greatly concerned with remaining alive and free to give much thought to any long-term plans. I have no prospects for a career, at present, and as for family—well, there was a young woman, but I am afraid I have lost her forever.” He winced inwardly at the memory of Tazia, but forced himself to continue. “After all, even should some miracle bring her to Lume and we chance to meet again, what do I have to offer her? I have been living among thieves and beggars, and can hardly ask her to dwell there with me.”

“Will you be returning to the Pensioners' Quarter, then?”

“My lord, I am not certain the Pensioners' Quarter still exists.” He shook his head. “And even if the damage proves to be only superficial, I took up residence there more out of necessity than by choice. I would very much prefer to find another home—but I do not know where I might accomplish this.”

“Of course.” Lord Blackfield cleared his throat. “Where my previous question was impertinent, I am afraid my next verges on the downright indelicate. Do you have any means of support?”

Anrel sighed deeply. “I do not really know. Before I was branded a criminal I had certain resources, but their present status is unknown to me. I am sole heir to my parents' estate—not the land, of course, since my name is not on the Great List I cannot own land, but their other property has been held in trust for me, and that had provided a modest income while I lived in Alzur. My uncle, Lord Dorias, supported me, even to the extent of paying for my education at the court schools, so the income from my legacy has remained largely untouched, but I cannot see any way to collect it while a fugitive—and that assumes it has not been declared forfeit to the state, in recompense for my supposed crimes. Nor was it any great fortune, in any case; I spent those four years in study partly for the joy of learning, but equally in hopes of a career as a clerk to the provincial government in Naith that would supplement my inheritance.”

“I take it you do not see an administrative career in your future.”

“Not so long as I am branded a seditionist.”

“How have you provided for yourself since fleeing Naith?”

“By theft and fraud, for the most part,” Anrel admitted. “I am not proud of that, but I did what I thought necessary.”

“I take it you would prefer not to resume that line of work.”

“Indeed.” While his stay in the Pensioners' Quarter had not been so dreadful as he might once have anticipated, neither had it been particularly pleasant, and the day's events could only have made his circumstances there worse. He was more than ready to move on, to reinvent himself again.

Lord Blackfield considered that for a moment, then placed both palms on the table and rose to his feet, pushing back his chair. “Well,” he said, “I do not think we can solve all the world's problems tonight. You must be weary, after your adventurous day; shall I have Harban show you to your room?”

“That would be most kind of you, my lord.” Anrel drained the last of his wine, then stood. “There is one more thing I would like to ask you, though.”

“Oh? What would that be? If you want the name of my tailor, I'm afraid his shop is in Ondine, on the far side of the Dragonlands, but I do know a fellow in Silk Street who does a very decent job.”

Anrel smiled. “No, my lord, I am not yet ready to further replenish my wardrobe. You have been apologetic about asking me some very basic questions tonight, though you had every right to inquire into my situation, given that I had arrived uninvited on your doorstep and imposed upon your hospitality, so I hope you will forgive me asking one at least as rude as any of your own.”

“You intrigue me, sir! What would this question be?”

“Simply, why?”

Lord Blackfield cocked his head to one side. “Why what?”

“Why are you being so kind to me? Your generosity has been entirely unreasonable. I am a confessed criminal, a virtual stranger, who presented himself unannounced, in disarray and none too clean, yet you have taken me into your home, answered my questions, and fed me most sumptuously. You have treated me like an honored guest, rather than an intruder, and have shown no sign of delivering me to the authorities, though my presence here might endanger you. You are a sorcerer and a Gatherman, a Quandish lord, clearly a man of wealth and education, yet you have treated me in every way like an equal. Why?”