Above His Proper Station (17 page)

Harban refused to admit to any knowledge whatsoever of his employer's plans, but when pressed, did admit that Anrel probably had at least an hour or two before Lord Blackfield returned.

He also explained that Lord Blackfield rented the entire second floor of Dezar House, while the ground floor held four small apartments, one of which was vacant at present, and the top floor comprised several small suites that were all leased by a pair of brothers, but were inhabited at any given time by whichever women the brothers had installed there—not merely their own current mistresses, but other women who had a need for such accommodations. Lord Blackfield trusted that Anrel would not trouble any of his neighbors.

Armed with this information Anrel was able to talk his way into the Quandishman's library, where he settled down to improve his own mastery of the Quandish tongue by working his way through the memoirs of an anonymous traveler who had apparently spent half the previous century wandering the world.

At first he struggled with the unfamiliar language—not only was his Quandish, never as fluent as he might have liked in the first place, somewhat rusty, but the author affected a deliberately archaic style. After an hour or so, though, Anrel found himself settling into it, and losing himself in the narrative.

The descriptions of the Quandish countryside were almost certainly flavored by patriotism and perhaps nostalgia, but were so charming that for the first time in his life Anrel found himself seriously tempted to visit that strange, fogbound country. The account of crossing the Dragonlands from Redcliff to Kallai was thrilling, though that was as much the author's style as the events he described; when Anrel finished that chapter he realized that in fact, the traveler had never been in real danger at any point, and the few dragons he had seen had all been at a safe distance.

The descriptions of the Walasian countryside and people, in Kerdery and Aulix, were far less flattering than the author's report on his homeland, but that was to be expected. If Anrel had the chronology right, the author's adventures there had taken place only five or six years after the War of the Kite, a conflict in which Quand and the empire had fought each other to a bloody stalemate. Some lingering animosity was hardly surprising.

What's more, it became clear that the author had been an officer in the Quandish army, and had served in the War of the Kite—one of the reasons for his journey was to revisit some of the sites where he had fought. His account of meeting one of his former foes in a tavern in Kuriel, an encounter that left both men in tears, was heartrending.

By the time he reached the author's account of his audience before His Imperial Majesty Lurias IX Anrel was utterly rapt, and it came as a shock to hear Lord Blackfield's voice, jarring him out of the traveler's tale.

“I see you have found my great-grandfather's memoirs,” the Quandishman said. “I should warn you, family legend says that the old man was fond of embellishing his adventures. I would not put too much faith in anything he says.”

Anrel looked up from the book, taking a second to gather his wits, then said, “True or not, your ancestor told a fine tale.”

“Oh, indeed he did, and the general outlines of it are definitely factual. It is only the details that were … enhanced.”

“I see.”

“I had not realized you read Quandish.”

“I did spend four years in the court schools; I have some mastery of Quandish, Ermetian, and the Old Imperial common tongue, as well as a smattering of three or four of the Cousiner dialects.”

“Quite the scholar, then,” Lord Blackfield said in perfect Ermetian—the Algard dialect, Anrel thought it was.

“I have some learning,” he replied in the same tongue. Then, in Quandish, he asked, “Have you completed your business for the day?”

“More or less,” the Quandishman replied in Walasian.

Anrel glanced at the library's windows and realized he had read all the morning and part of the afternoon away. “Would it be rude to ask what your business was?”

“Master Murau, my only business, wherever I may go and whatever I may do in your empire, is simply to do whatever I can to stave off the disaster I see looming before you and your countrymen, or at the very least to lessen its impact. My every action is directed toward that end.”

“Disaster?” Anrel took another look out the window, and realized he could again see smoke rising—not the everyday smoke of forge and hearth, but the thick and wild smoke of burning buildings.

And unless he was completely disoriented, this room did not face the Pensioners' Quarter.

“Disaster,” Lord Blackfield repeated. “The empire is nearly bankrupt, your people are starving and at war with one another, the sorcerous nobility is using magic at the slightest whim regardless of cost or effect and seems to ignore anything unpleasant, and the government as a whole seems determined to commit suicide. How can that
not
lead to disaster?”

“I don't know,” Anrel admitted, reluctantly closing his book as he stared out at the smoke.

Lord Blackfield's gaze followed his guest's. “Indeed, the disaster has begun, and you saw it for yourself. Lord Allutar has effectively poisoned the capital's bread. The emperor has loosed demons upon his own people, and burned part of his own city. The Grand Council and the emperor and the nobility are all at cross-purposes, refusing to cooperate to restore order. Do you not consider that disastrous?”

“I confess, it does sound disastrous,” Anrel agreed, setting the book on a table. He could scarcely argue the point after what he had seen the day before.

“There are complications of which you are probably not aware,” Lord Blackfield continued. “The Emperor's Watch is divided—some are unhappy that they are working with mercenary magicians from the Cousins against their own countrymen, and are on the verge of defying their own officers. The City Watch has reportedly been set to spying on them, but their loyalty is also suspect. The Grand Council spent most of this morning arguing over who was to blame for yesterday's fighting, and for the tainted grain, and beyond that they did nothing to attend to the situation. There has been no provision for compensation for those who paid for worthless bread or flour, or for the farmers who grew that ruinous crop. Nothing has been done for the innocents driven from their homes or businesses. Who is to blame, who will pay—they argue about
that,
but do nothing to repair the damage.”

“What would you have them do?” Anrel asked, turning to look his host in the eye. “It is not the Grand Council's responsibility, surely—shouldn't the burgrave of Lume take charge of the situation?”

“The burgrave of Lume, Lord Koril Mevidier, is a member of the Grand Council, and has specifically relinquished any responsibility in this, saying that those who caused the problems should rectify them.” Anrel thought he heard a note of contempt in Lord Blackfield's voice.

“Ah,” Anrel said. “And who does
he
say is responsible?”

“He blames three people,” Lord Blackfield said. “He blames Lord Allutar for ruining the wheat, and he blames the emperor for turning his watchmen and his Cousiner magicians loose on the city.”

“That's two,” Anrel said. “Who is the third?”

Lord Blackfield looked down at him and smiled wryly.

“You,” he said.

14

In Which Anrel Considers His Culpability
in the Capital's Misfortunes

“
Me?
” Anrel asked, astonished. “How would the burgrave of Lume know anything of me?”

“Lord Koril knows nothing of Anrel Murau,” Lord Blackfield replied, “but he is quite familiar with the reported activities of Alvos of Naith.”

“Oh.” Anrel blinked.

“Lord Koril is convinced that if the mysterious Alvos had not stirred up popular discontent, Lord Allutar's ghastly error would have been seen as an isolated mishap. If Alvos had not spoken, no one would have dared defy the Emperor's Watch, and a few unfortunate incidents would not have escalated to the level of summoning demons to lay waste to a portion of Lume. If Alvos had never been heard, the Grand Council would be united and able to effectively confront the issues that trouble the empire.”

“That's absurd,” Anrel said. “I did not
create
discontent; I merely gave it a voice.”

“Do you think that so insignificant, then?”

Anrel did not reply immediately; instead he weighed the facts, considered the question carefully, and came to a conclusion he did not like at all.

He
had
contributed to the crisis. Intentionally or not, he had added to the chaos.

“If I had not spoken, someone else might have,” he said, trying to find a way to disclaim responsibility. “After all, others spoke in the name of Alvos, all over the empire. Earlier you mentioned someone in Sharam; that was not me. Only in Naith and Beynos was
I
the one who used that name.”

Even as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He knew he sounded like a child trying to spread blame for his mischief, and thereby lessen the portion that would fall on him.

“But you were the first,” the Quandishman said mildly. “You were the one who inspired the others.”

“Another might have done so,” Anrel said before he could stop himself.

“And another sorcerer might have attempted the fertility spell Lord Allutar used. That does not diminish his responsibility, nor does it diminish yours. Another
might
have done it, but you
did
.”

Anrel knew he could deny it no further, but he still felt compelled to defend himself. “I did not think this would … I did not intend—” He stopped. Saying what he had
not
done would not help. He sighed. “I meant only to embarrass Lord Allutar, and to see that Valin's murder did not profit him.”

“I think it is Urunar Kazien's death that is going to ruin him,” Lord Blackfield remarked. “
You,
on the other hand, may be responsible for far more extensive damage.”

“But all I did was tell people to choose their own delegates for the Grand Council, and not let the sorcerers control it!”

“Hmm.” Lord Blackfield tapped his cheek. “Is that all? The reports have you saying rather more than that.”

Flustered, Anrel said, “I don't … I don't remember my exact words …”

“No one does, and undoubtedly the tale has grown in the telling. Some would have it that you spelled out a detailed plan for overthrowing the present system of government and instituting a paradise of equality and prosperity.”

“I did no such thing! That's ridiculous. That's not even remotely possible.”

“Well, we agree on that much.”

Anrel turned and stared out the window again, at the smoke rising from somewhere east of the emperor's palace. “You said you were working to stave off disaster,” he said. “Could you be a little more specific?”

“I have been trying to talk sense to those in a position to influence the course of events,” he said. “Today, for example, I spoke at length with Delegate li-Parsil, in hopes he might steer the debate in the Grand Council in productive directions.”

“Derhin li-Parsil?”

“The very man. You might be interested to know that his account of your speech in Naith does not differ greatly from your own, and is quite free of any descriptions of an egalitarian paradise.” The Quandishman sighed. “I regret to say that his compatriot, Delegate tel-Kabanim, is not as restrained.”

“From what little I saw of those two, Derhin was always the more sensible,” Anrel said.

“That is why I spoke with him, rather than some of the other delegates.”

“Of course. And what did you recommend he do, then, to mitigate the disaster that has befallen the empire?”

“I suggested he take immediate steps to reconcile the various elements of the empire—do what he can to reassure the emperor that the Grand Council has no intention of overthrowing him, see to it that good food is brought to the city as quickly as possible and that this is seen to be a joint effort by the council and the emperor, and give no credence to either the radicals who would bring down the entire system, nor the reactionaries who would happily kill countless Walasians if it would ensure their continuance in power.”

Anrel nodded. “That sounds sensible,” he acknowledged, though privately he thought that overthrowing the emperor and seating his brother might be better.

“Alas, Delegate li-Parsil had doubts about whether these modest goals could actually be attained. He believes that the radicals and the nobles may be so far apart now that peace cannot be made between them. Your name came up in that discussion, just as it did when I spoke with Lord Koril—Delegate li-Parsil wondered what would happen to any peace that might be arranged if you were to reappear and speak against it.”

“But I wouldn't!” Anrel exclaimed.

“Ah, but how is the esteemed delegate to know that? Unlike many of the radicals, you have not published letters explaining your position. You have appeared without warning in two cities—I would have said three, but you deny the one in Sharam—and spoken eloquently, sparking riots in both cases. The possibility that you might appear in the capital and take some unexpected position has been the cause of great concern among the delegates.”

“But I
wouldn't,
” Anrel repeated. “I have no interest in politics. I spoke only on behalf of my friends, one living and one dead at the time, and both now dead.”

“But how is anyone to know that, when you have not
said
so?”

Anrel had no answer for that.

“In fact, Master Murau, I have taken a liberty I hope you will forgive me,” the Quandishman said. “I told Delegate li-Parsil that I knew your whereabouts, and could deliver a message, should he wish to do so.”