Above His Proper Station (19 page)

“Thank you,” Derhin said, taking his seat and keeping his gaze on Anrel's face.

Harban cleared his throat to catch Anrel's attention; Anrel looked up, and said, “Thank you, sir. If you could wait outside, please?”

Harban essayed a quick bow, then slipped quietly out the door to the stairwell.

When he had gone, and the door had clicked shut, Derhin glanced around the room. “Is this where you are living?” he asked.

“No,” Anrel said. “This is somewhere we could meet safely, nothing more. After today I doubt I will ever again set foot in this room.”

“Ah, I see.” Derhin hesitated.

“Come, sir,” Anrel said. “You asked for this meeting; surely you have something to say? Questions to ask, news to impart, requests to make, orders to give?”

Derhin grimaced. “Yes, well, in truth, I was partly motivated by a desire to see whether our Quandish friend was telling the truth when he said he had seen you.”

“He was,” Anrel said. “I can understand, though, how you might wonder about his veracity. I have never caught him in a lie, nor had good reason to doubt what he says, but somehow he does not inspire great confidence in his truthfulness. One often has the impression he is leaving out important details.”

“My own thoughts, exactly!” Derhin smiled.

“I cannot believe, though, that you agreed to be bound and blindfolded and transported through half of Lume merely to test a man's honesty. Surely, you had some other goal?”

“I wanted to see you,” Derhin said. “To see that you are indeed still alive and well. You do know you are a legend, I assume.”

“I have been told as much, yes—but really, Alvos is the legend, and I am merely the man, Anrel Murau.”

“Of course, of course.” Derhin nodded understanding. “Still, this is as close as I can come to meeting the legend.”

Anrel did not reply; he was not comfortable with his legendary status. After a moment's silence, he asked, “You had no other questions?”

“Oh, I have a thousand questions!” Derhin exclaimed. “So many I scarcely know where to begin.”

“Begin wherever you please; I have all day.” Anrel settled back comfortably in his chair.

Derhin paused for a moment, apparently choosing his approach, then asked, “Why are you in Lume? With every watchman in the empire looking for you, why would you come to the capital? I thought you must have fled to the Cousins. When Lord Blackfield claimed to have spoken with you, at first I thought he meant you had sought sanctuary in Quand.”

“I am a loyal Walasian, Delegate, whatever some sorcerers and their lackeys might claim,” Anrel said, his chin held high. Then he lowered it and cocked his head. “Besides, I knew people here, and I know no one in the Cousins, or in Quand. I studied in Lume for four years, remember?”

“Then you have not come here to carry out some grand revolutionary scheme?”

“Unless staying alive and free is a scheme, I'm afraid not.”

“And your speech in Naith—was
that
part of some larger design?”

Anrel sighed. “Would that it were,” he said. “I might look like less of a fool.” He shook his head. “Lord Allutar killed Lord Valin to silence him; I was determined that Allutar would not profit by his crime, and therefore Valin's words must be heard. That was all. I gave no thought to the consequences, for either Lord Allutar, or myself, or the empire; I merely wanted Valin's words to be heard.”

Derhin stroked his beard, then said, “You told the people of Naith to elect
me
as their delegate.”

“I advised them to do so, yes.”

“Why?”

“Because your beliefs, as you described them in that wine garden in Aulix Square, more closely matched Valin's own than did those of anyone else I could name.”

“That was all?”

“That was all. I hardly knew you or Amanir, but no one else I knew in Aulix had taken up anything like Valin's positions. I knew some suitable firebrands in Lume, but I was speaking in Naith.”

“So there was no intention to … to use us, once we were elected?”

“Use you? In what manner?” Anrel shook his head. “No, I had no hidden motive or secret agenda.” He hesitated. “Though now that you mention it, I understand that several members of the Grand Council feel that Alvos in some way contributed to their election.”

“Yes.”

“Then—might it be possible for the Grand Council to grant me a pardon? I would very much like to go home to Alzur, see my uncle, and return to my old life.”

“I—don't know,” Derhin said. He bit his lip. “No, that isn't the truth. I
do
know. I'm sorry, sir; it isn't possible.”

“You are certain? I could give my parole to refrain from political activity.”

“I'm certain. I know the alliances and loyalties in the Grand Council all too well. To grant you absolution—well, you see, in the early days, when we still had high hopes for what we might accomplish, we set forth rules, and we are now too divided to alter any of those rules. Certain actions require more than a simple majority. Granting any sort of pardon or parole requires the approval of three-fourths of the entire council, and these days it is almost impossible to get three-fourths to vote, let alone all vote the same way.” He grimaced. “It was feared that anything less than a three-fourths majority would encourage corruption, that wealthy criminals might purchase pardons, or that we might grant pardons for our own political gain—which, frankly, would seem to be exactly what you are asking of me.”

“What? No, no—I want nothing more to do with politics. I want only to be allowed to live openly again.”

“But do you not think there would be political consequences were it to become widely known that I had arranged a pardon for the infamous, the brilliant, the mysterious, the legendary Alvos?”

“I had not given the matter any thought,” Anrel admitted. “Which was, I suppose, dreadfully naive of me.”

“I would say it was, yes.” Derhin stared across the table. “You know, Master Murau, I find it hard to believe that you are truly as apolitical as you claim. You are
Alvos,
after all, who gave fiery speeches in half the cities of the empire.”

“I did not,” Anrel said sharply. “I gave only two, in Naith and Beynos.”

“It was not you who spoke in Ferrith?”

“No.”

“I knew most were imposters, but I had thought that one genuine.”

“No. Naith and Beynos, nowhere else.”

“Not in, perhaps, the Pensioners' Quarter?”

Anrel frowned. “I will not deny I spent time in the Pensioners' Quarter, and was there the day before yesterday when demons set it ablaze, but I gave no speeches there.”

“But you were there?”

“Yes.”

“Then it's true? The watch sent
demons
into the quarter?”

“Of course it's true,” Anrel said, startled. “Was there any doubt?”

“There are those who claim it was men with torches, perhaps men under a glamour, who set the fires and burned out the beggars and whores.”

“No,” Anrel said. “Three demons. That was no glamour. And when I departed I saw the magicians who had summoned them, standing on the walkway above Harbinger Court.”

“You will swear to this?”

“If you wish; it is the truth.”

“Would you swear to it before the Grand Council?”

Anrel glowered at him. “Have you not just explained that I cannot be pardoned? I am under sentence of death for sedition; I cannot appear before the council.”

“Of course, I understand; I was foolish to ask. But to have Alvos himself,
Alvos,
swear that the emperor's men used demons …”

“I do not see why I would be believed if other witnesses are not; surely, there are a hundred observers who could tell you what they saw.”

“There are … those who claim to be survivors, yes. Most are reluctant to speak.”

The implications of the word “survivors” did not please Anrel. He felt suddenly guilty that he had not, in the day and a half since the attack, ventured back into the quarter to assess the damage and see what he might do to help. He had been seduced by the amenities and peace of Lord Blackfield's home, the return to the leisurely and comfortable life he had known as his uncle's fosterling, and he had neglected the duties he owed his friends.

“I am sorry to hear that,” Anrel said.

“The officers of the Emperor's Watch reported that one man seemed to be the leader of the mob there. I wondered whether that might have been you.”

“No. That was—” Anrel caught himself before he gave Doz's name—even though it was not his real name, it might be enough to track him down. Anrel had quite enough on his conscience without endangering another friend. “That was someone else.”

Derhin observed the pause, and said, “You know who it was.”

“Yes. I know him. He once held a knife to my back.” He hoped that would be sufficiently misleading to keep Derhin from pressing for more information.

“Do you know his name?”

Anrel shrugged. “He used a dozen names in the time I knew him.” He did not mention that most of these were in service to the various swindles that he and Doz had conducted as partners.

“Do you think you could locate him, to testify before the Grand Council?”

“I have no idea,” Anrel said truthfully—his ability to locate Doz would depend on what and who remained in the Pensioners' Quarter, and he had not yet learned what the situation there might be.

That was not where he had thought Derhin's questions were leading, however. He had assumed that Derhin wanted to turn Doz over to the magistrates.

“Why do you ask?” he said.

“Because,” Derhin replied, “we are looking for …” He paused, then glanced at the door where Harban had departed.

“He may well be listening,” Anrel said, guessing the delegate's thoughts, “but what if he is? He is a Quandish manservant.”

“He may well gossip with Walasians, though.” He sighed. “But I don't suppose it can be hidden for long, not when hundreds of delegates have been involved in the debate. Anrel,
someone
must pay for the crimes that have been committed against the Walasian people. Many of the nobles want to find a scapegoat among the commoners—
you,
as Alvos, would serve nicely, or this mysterious leader in the Pensioners' Quarter. Most of us, though, do not believe that would be just—and more important, we do not believe it would help. The people of Lume are angry, Anrel, and they are not angry with
you,
or with the thieves and beggars, or now that word has spread of what really happened, with the bakers or bargemen. They are angry with the sorcerers who ruined the Raish Valley grain harvest, with the magistrates who allowed it, with the officials who rushed the grain to Lume without noticing its polluted nature, with the watchmen who fought them in the streets, with the foreign magicians who unleashed demons on their fellow Walasians. They are
furious,
and they demand retribution. Some of the sorcerers on the council have tried to soothe the city with spells, but such is the popular rage that this magic is like sprinkling a handful of water on a raging bonfire. The emperor has refused to take action—his representative to the council told us yesterday, in so many words, that His Majesty considers the matter settled, a misunderstanding that is now past and nothing more. The burgrave of Lume has said it is none of his concern—the grain was not grown within his walls, nor did he order it shipped hither, nor did he have any say in the actions of the Emperor's Watch, while the City Watch was not involved. The captains of the Emperor's Watch say they were merely doing as they were ordered. The Lords Magistrate say they can do nothing. Only the Grand Council is in a position to act, and willing to do so—but we are not yet determined upon what action to take. If we had someone the people would accept as a reliable witness who would swear that demons were turned upon Walasian citizens, then we could demand that the foreign magicians be punished, and that would be better than nothing. If the people believed the whole thing to be a plot of the Ermetian king, or of some sorcerous conspiracy in the Cousins, then we might find enough peace to restore order and calm.”

“But it
wasn't
the Ermetians or a sorcerous conspiracy, was it?”

“No.” Derhin grimaced. “At least, I don't think so. Some delegates may well believe that it was, but I do not. I think our own government was responsible, not through malice, but through carelessness.”

Anrel gazed at Derhin thoughtfully. “If the mob wants blood, can you not give them blood? Who
was
responsible?”

“I think you
know
who was, at root, responsible.”

“Humor me, if you would be so kind. Tell me their names.”

Derhin sighed. “The demons were summoned by the magicians that the emperor himself had hired at the request of the empress. We believe the magicians were acting on the emperor's own orders. The Emperor's Watch, as well, was acting on either the emperor's orders, or orders given by one of his appointed officers. The grain was rushed to Lume at the emperor's personal instigation. Every official, every watchman, every sorcerer involved acted at the emperor's behest.”

“Can you not say as much to the people?”

“Anrel, he is the
emperor
.”

“And you are a delegate of the Grand Council, which has the authority to remove the emperor.”

“Anrel, be serious. In theory, yes, we have the authority to do whatever we please, but we do not have the
power
to do so. The Emperor's Watch does not answer to the Grand Council. The mercenaries from Ermetia and the Cousins, both soldiers and sorcerers, do not answer to the Grand Council. The sorcerers and their underlings, the guards and watches and armies, do not answer to the Grand Council. If we declare Lurias to no longer be emperor he will declare the Grand Council disbanded, and the Emperor's Watch will enforce his decree, not ours, regardless of what the law might say.”