Above His Proper Station (26 page)

“He has the Great List, of course,” Anrel said. “But you are proposing to overthrow
all
the sorcerers, not just a handful.”

“Would the Great List not serve to neutralize them all?”

“I suppose it would, if you found someone other than a sorcerer who could use it, but it would take time, and power—”

“We can afford the time.”

Anrel shook his head. “What of our defenses against invasion? We need magic to protect the empire from its foes.”

“No longer,” Lorsa said. “We have cannon now, and they do not.”

It was Anrel's turn to glance at Lord Blackfield before speaking to Lorsa; the Quandishman was looking carefully blank. “Do you think we can keep our methods of manufacturing cannon secret indefinitely?” Anrel asked. In truth, he suspected that Quand could already produce cannon if its people felt any need for them, and he was quite sure from his readings of history that Ermetia could, if not necessarily up to the technical standards of the Walasian weapons.

“Not forever,” Lorsa said, “but long enough to raise up a generation of magicians who are loyal to the empire, rather than only to themselves.”

“And what will you do with sorcerers, or for that matter anyone, who doesn't agree?”

“They will be outlaws, and will be punished accordingly. Since there are alleged to be practical difficulties in hanging sorcerers, those who resist will be burned at the stake, as rebels were in the empire's early days.” His voice rose. “Our new empire will be cleansed in fire and blood, and made strong as forged iron!”

Anrel shook his head. “I cannot agree with that. Aside from any moral issues, considering only the pragmatic, you will not forge unity so much as resentment in the survivors, in the friends and families of those you kill.”

“They will be swept aside,” Lorsa insisted.

Anrel stared at him, then turned to Gluth.

“Delegate Lorsa's beliefs are perhaps a little extreme,” Gluth said calmly. “Surely, it won't be necessary to shed any significant quantity of blood—the sorcerers will recognize the futility of their cause, the sheer numbers that oppose them, and will yield peacefully. Why, many of them will probably welcome relief from their administrative duties!”

Anrel remembered his uncle Dorias; he could hardly deny that the burgrave of Alzur would be at least slightly relieved to give up his post, and surely Lord Dorias was not unique. Anrel hesitated.

The debate continued, and in the end neither side convinced the other, but other issues emerged.

If Anrel refused the appointment then another man would eventually be found for the job, but at present there was no other candidate under consideration, nor could anyone think of any who would be as enthusiastically received as Alvos. The Hots would be leaderless and voiceless for a time, and that might allow the Cloakroom to strengthen their position. Lord Allutar might well escape any penalty for Amanir's murder.

If Anrel accepted the appointment, he need not stay with the Hots indefinitely. Once he had led the campaign to punish Allutar, he would be free to shift his allegiance to some other faction—the Beaters, perhaps, or the Atrium. What the Hots wanted from him was not so much his leadership, nor a long-term commitment, but a few days' use of his talent for oratory. They needed a spokesman in their campaign to see Lord Allutar brought down, and they could hardly hope for better than Alvos.

“Remember, Anrel, I am not among the Hots,” Derhin said, “and I am the one who is to name Amanir's successor. I am not going to demand that my choice hold all the same positions poor Amanir did. I have agreed that his heir should speak for him, and for the Hots, in the matter of Lord Allutar's responsibility for his death, and we are all agreed on that. Beyond that, you will be free to follow your conscience.”

That was, in the end, what decided Anrel. A pardon, room and board, and the chance to denounce Lord Allutar yet again—not, this time, to a powerless crowd of commoners, but to the Grand Council—was enough incentive to overcome any lingering doubts.

“I will accept the appointment,” he said at last.

And with that settled, it was agreed that he would accompany Derhin to his official lodgings in Lourn Street, so that the two might walk to the baths together on the morrow for Anrel's presentation to the Grand Council.

Lorsa and Gluth went their own way, and then Anrel took his leave of Lord Blackfield while Derhin waited at the door.

“My lord,” he said, “I cannot begin to express my gratitude for all you have done for me.”

“Nonsense, Master Murau,” the Quandishman replied. “The pleasure has been entirely my own—a guest as amiable as yourself is a treasure not easily come by! I trust you will enjoy your new home and your new post, and that you will serve your empire wisely. I think I know you well enough to be certain you will not give in to some of the follies Delegate Lorsa espouses, and the Grand Council can certainly use another voice of sanity and moderation.”

“I will do my best,” Anrel assured him.

“Then be off with you, and I will watch from the gallery tomorrow to see how good that proves to be!”

With that, Anrel joined Derhin, and the two men made their way down the stairs and through the entry hall, then down from the porch to the boulevard. As they ambled through the shadowy streets, from one flickering lamp to the next, they discussed what Anrel should expect in the morning. There would be procedural matters, and then Derhin would be called upon to speak; he would present Anrel, but Anrel would not at that time say anything beyond a sentence or two indicating his willingness to serve.

Then the council would vote on his confirmation. After that, assuming his appointment had been accepted, there would be a few congratulatory speeches, and then, at last, he would be called upon to address the council.

That
was when he would unleash his very best oratory in denouncing Lord Allutar as Amanir's killer, and demanding justice.

“By law, nothing said in the council can be considered seditious or treasonous,” Derhin told him, “so say whatever you feel is right.”

Anrel nodded.

The town house in Lourn Street was significantly older and less elegant than Lord Blackfield's rented rooms, and there was no faithful Harban there to assist them, nor a Mistress Uillea to feed them, but it was comfortable enough, and the two men had the entire house to themselves. Anrel's assigned room was considerably larger than Lord Blackfield's guest chamber, though it smelled of must rather than fresh linen, and Anrel settled into it happily, looking around at the faded tapestries and wondering how long this would be his home.

He wished he had something else to wear, though; he had found no trace of his other clothes in the ruins of the Pensioners' Quarter, and his garments were beginning to suffer from use. He promised himself that when he received his first stipend payment he would visit the tailors in Satchel Court at the first opportunity, and start assembling a wardrobe once again.

With that in mind, he undressed and went to bed.

He was awakened with a start by Derhin's hand on his shoulder. He had slept so soundly that the remainder of the night had seemed to pass in an instant, and the morning light pouring through the curtains had appeared as abruptly as if a steel shutter had been flung open. He did not dawdle, though, and in moments he was up and dressed and joining Derhin in the kitchen.

Breakfast was a dismal affair compared with the pleasant morning meals he had shared with Lord Blackfield, as Derhin was not much of a cook nor interested in becoming one. Derhin also proved much less of a conversationalist than Lord Blackfield. They made no effort to take their meal to the breakfast room, but simply ate in the kitchen, leaning against the cabinets.

Despite this rude beginning to the day, in short order Anrel was awake, clothed, fed, and on his way to the baths at Derhin's side.

Anrel had heard of the Aldian Baths many times, but had never seen them before. Until the calling of the Grand Council they had been just one more set of little-used Old Empire ruins cluttering up the capital's landscape, like the Garz Hill Towers or the Forbidden Street, and he had never had any reason to approach them. Unlike the Diel Courts they had not been restored and returned to everyday use, nor had they been, like the Wizard Gate, the subject of centuries of drunken student pranks.

Now he gazed ahead with intense interest as they neared the baths, eager to see where the council met.

The first thing he noticed, though, was not the baths themselves, but the crowds in the street. Men, women, and even a few children stood shoulder to shoulder, filling the street's width for more than a hundred yards, shouting slogans and shaking fists. Some of the slogans were intelligible; others were not. “Bring us Allutar!” and “Allutar's blood!” were common. “Down with the emperor!” was clear. It took Anrel a moment to puzzle out “No foreign magicians!” as it was often accompanied or overlapped by the simpler “No magicians!”

This was the first time since the burning of the Pensioners' Quarter that he had encountered such a mob firsthand. He had heard about several, but he had not
seen
them, and the reality had a visceral impact that even the more lurid descriptions had lacked. These people were angry, and they were dangerous.

And these were not the beggars, whores, thieves, and witches of the Pensioners' Quarter, but ordinary citizens—many were dressed better than Anrel, with his unlined coat and false cuffs, was. These were tradesmen and craftsmen and housewives, commoners of every description, calling for the blood of a landgrave, or even for the overthrow of the emperor himself.

What's more, men in the green and gold uniforms of the Emperor's Watch were standing here and there around the edges of the crowd, or observing from the nearest arches, and doing nothing at all to silence the shouting.

For the first time Anrel really understood that drastic changes to the empire's governance were not merely possible, but had already begun. A year ago, when he had still been a student in Lume, a gathering like this would not have been tolerated, and watchmen would not have stood idly by while Walasians shouted, “Down with the emperor!”

A thought struck him. “Why are they
here
, instead of the emperor's palace?” he asked Derhin.

Derhin's mouth twisted wryly. “Two reasons,” he said. “No, three. First, they can hardly expect the emperor to overthrow himself, while the Grand Council might at least make the attempt. Second, if they want Lord Allutar's head, well, Lord Allutar is a delegate here, not a courtier at the palace. And finally, we have no cannon on the ramparts.”

Anrel had no answer to that.

A few seconds later they rounded a gentle curve in the street, and Anrel got his first look at the baths. The main building was largely intact, but was surrounded by scattered heaps of bricks and stone where other structures had crumbled completely, so that the baths seemed to be rising from a broad expanse of rubble.

The central facade had once been a grand expanse of marble, adorned with columns and statuary; now much of the marble facing was gone, revealing the dull brown brick beneath. Only two columns still stood, supporting nothing, and most of the niches were empty. The few remaining figures were all missing limbs or heads or half a torso.

“Come on,” Derhin said, beckoning Anrel to one side.

Startled, Anrel followed, and found himself being led past a large watchman into a sort of aisle, separated from the crowd in the street by a low wooden railing. Watchmen stood guard along the railing, one every twenty or thirty feet, and ahead of him Anrel could see a few other people hurrying toward the entrance to the baths.

“Delegate!” someone shouted, inches from his ear. “Delegate! Do your duty, and give us Lord Allutar!”

“Kill the sorcerers!” someone else bellowed from a few feet away.

After that the voice of the crowd became an undifferentiated roar, and Anrel could no longer make out any words at all. Derhin hustled him forward, past hands grabbing at him, and a moment later he found himself led around a corner and thrust through an empty doorway into the baths.

21

In Which Anrel Accepts His Position

The interior of the building was surprisingly bright and airy, and it took a moment before Anrel realized that that was because the windows were all empty frames, without glass, bar, or shutter, and parts of the roof had fallen in, leaving some areas open to the clear blue sky of a beautiful morning.

Meeting here in the winter could not have been pleasant, he thought, though he could see from the smoke stains on the remaining ceilings that there had been some provision of heat.

He and Derhin were in an entry hall; they had not come in through the front, but through a small side door, so that the grand doors were on their right, most of the building's interior was on their left, and directly ahead was a particolor stone archway leading into a good-sized room. Anrel could see figures moving in that room, and hear voices.

“That's the cloakroom,” Derhin said, pointing at the arch. “You would be very unwise to set foot in there.”

“Thank you,” Anrel said as he looked around.

The floor on which they stood was mostly white tile, though there were elaborate patterns in blue and green around the edges, and many tiles were missing. The wall to the right had once been a magnificent concoction of tile, marble, and gilding, but large areas were now bare brown brick, so that the original grand design could only be guessed at. There were three sets of doors, all of bronze-bound wood, though the bronze was now green and crumbling, and the wood black with age. The side doors were of roughly normal height, perhaps seven feet tall, but the central pair was easily twelve feet tall, and sunlight leaked through a few holes near the top where the wood had rotted through, or perhaps been eaten by worms or insects.