Above His Proper Station (14 page)

“And the palace servants told you that the emperor was rushing that grain here to prevent unrest?”

“Indeed they did.”

That made perfect sense, and there was no reason for Anrel to argue the point further. “Very well, then,” he said. “What does that have to do with today's events, or with black magic?”

Lord Blackfield interlaced his fingers, and touched his index fingers to his lower lip. “Can you not guess?” he asked. “The grain arrived directly from the Raish Valley in Aulix and was rushed to the bakers, so that they might restock their shelves with the bread that would fill the empty bellies of Lume. That was all as the emperor expected and desired. But—did you taste any of that bread your No-Nose Graun brought to the Pensioners' Quarter?”

“No,” Anrel said. “I didn't taste it myself, but something was wrong with it; everyone who tasted it agreed. It was tainted somehow. That baker in Dragonclaw Street must have done something wrong, and thought he could salvage something from the ruin by selling No-Nose the spoiled bread.”

Lord Blackfield shook his head. “The baker did nothing wrong.”

“But the bread was foul!”

“Because the flour from which it was made was befouled.”

“How? Did someone poison one of the barges, perhaps? Ermetian agents, or some madman from the Cousins? Since you're telling me this, I conclude it was not Quand's doing …”

“Not Quand's, nor Ermetia's, nor any foreign power's—Walasia did this to itself. It was not the barges that were polluted, but the earth in which the wheat grew.”

Despite his wine-muddled head, Anrel suddenly understood. “The Raish Valley—you said this was the result of Lord Allutar's folly. You meant the black sorcery he performed last year, to restore the fertility of the Raish Valley.”

“Indeed I do.”

“The spell went wrong?” Anrel shuddered; he remembered all too well what could happen when a sorcerer's spell went wrong. Another possibility occurred to him. “Could Urunar Kazien have done this somehow, when he was dying? An act of revenge?”

Lord Blackfield shook his head again. “That poor boy had no idea how to affect the spell, and no power to do so. Nor, before you ask, did your friend Lord Valin have anything to do with it. This is simply a natural consequence of black magic when applied with insufficient safeguards. Do you think we of the Lantern Society want to eliminate black magic merely because we are a collection of high-minded idealists? No, we sound a warning because we see dangers that others refuse to acknowledge. Back in Alzur you heard me tell Lord Allutar there would be costs beyond Master Kazien's life; I spoke the honest truth, though Allutar refused to recognize it.”

“I had thought you meant that he was harming his soul, and would pay for it in the afterlife,” Anrel exclaimed. “I had no idea you meant worldly consequences like this!”

“Oh, I have no doubt that when Allutar Hezir faces his ancestors he will have much to answer for, and I did indeed intend that interpretation. I fear that experience has taught me and my companions that vague warnings of unforeseen results will elicit only contempt, while a threat to one's prospects in the afterlife may at least cause some hesitation. Every sorcerer who would attempt black magic thinks himself far too clever to be caught in such a trap as this disaster in the Raish Valley.”

“But can you not provide examples?”

“Of course we can! Some sorcerers even listen, and choose not to pursue their darker spells. Most, though, simply say they are not such fools as the people we describe, and will not be caught in such mishaps.” He sighed. “Very few of those mishaps have consequences on such a scale as this. Lord Allutar's little escapade might well bring down your emperor.”

Anrel tried to grasp that idea, and found it hard to encompass. “But … how did it go wrong? Allutar said that he used Urunar's death to summon an earth elemental that bestowed greater fertility on the soil of the Raish Valley.”

“Precisely. That soil yielded forth a crop of unnatural size—but Lord Allutar had failed to concern himself with anything but the quantity. A natural crop draws its life from the Mother, from her essence in the earth;
this
crop drew its life from this artificial elemental that your landgrave bound to that soil. The elemental is not the Mother; it is not even born of the Mother. It is, rather, a creature made from blood and death, and that blood and death poisoned everything that drew life from it.”

“Then the bread is poisoned?”

Lord Blackfield hesitated. “Perhaps that was not the best word to use,” he said. “I do not think that eating the bread will harm you—but I doubt it will nourish you, either. It is not so much a toxin as a deception, empty of life.” He shook his head. “I confess, I do not know its nature with any certainty. This was not a spell that has been often used, nor has it been properly studied. I can only guess at its ramifications.”

Anrel considered this, his mind still hazy with wine and weariness. There was a certain bitter satisfaction in knowing that Lord Allutar, the man who had caused so much misery in Anrel's own life, was responsible for this disaster. “And
all
the bread baked with the Raish wheat is bad?”

“Yes. At least half the bakeries in Lume produced the same foul stuff that No-Nose Graun brought to the Pensioners' Quarter.”

“What happened?”

Lord Blackfield sighed. “I do not pretend to know all the details of every incident, but there were disturbances throughout the city. Like your friends, most of those who tasted the bread thought the bakers were trying to cheat them somehow. Bakers were beaten, their shops destroyed. Every man of the Emperor's Watch was called out to restore order, and order was restored, but only by clearing the streets. The cannon on the emperor's palace were loaded and aimed, though thank the Mother and the Father they were not fired into the crowds. Only in the Pensioners' Quarter, though, was the watch defeated, and only in the quarter were arches torn down; I assume that was why it was only in the quarter that the emperor's mercenaries from the Cousins unleashed demons.”

“I see,” Anrel said unsteadily.

The
emperor's
mercenaries. Anrel did not doubt that Lord Blackfield knew what he was saying, and that it had been the Walasian emperor himself, and not the Ermetian-born empress, who had ordered the demons to be summoned. His Imperial Majesty, Lurias XII, had set demons upon his own people.

That made Lord Allutar's crimes seem petty by comparison.

“You look unwell, Master Murau, and it strikes me that I have been an absolutely
abominable
host!” the Quandishman exclaimed. “I have given you wine, but not a thing to eat!” He reached up and tugged at a cord; a bell jingled somewhere. “I'll have Harban fetch us some supper, shall I? I assure you, there will be no Raish wheat in it. My cook, Mistress Uillea, uses only the finest ingredients in her creations.”

“Thank you,” Anrel said. A bite to eat would be very welcome; he had had nothing since breakfast.

He sat quietly, trying to gather his thoughts, as Lord Blackfield went to the door of the sitting room and exchanged a few words with his white-braided servant. When the Quandishman had done that he returned to the little table and resumed his seat, but said nothing, allowing Anrel the time to consider everything he had been told.

After several minutes, Anrel said, “The famine—not the tainted grain, but the shortages we have suffered in recent years. Is it all natural?”

“Do you mean, is it the result of black magic?”

“Yes.”

Lord Blackfield shook his head. “I do not believe it is. Your Walasian sorcerers have not been as careless as all that. Callous as they may be, few use black magic with any frequency, and I do not believe any but Lord Allutar has attempted anything of that nature, and on such a scale, heretofore.” He shrugged. “Though I could, of course, be wrong. I am not omniscient.”

“But sorcerers have been using magic to increase their crops for as long as I can recall, even if it was not
black
sorcery. Might that have had some effect?”

“It might,” the Quandishman acknowledged. “They may have coaxed more from the Mother than she wanted to give, and left that much less for subsequent years. My learned Ermetian comrade in the Lantern Society, Kerren of Algard, has propounded such a theory at tedious length, but we have little evidence for it.” He sighed. “And, I must concede, none against it.”

“Is there any way to undo the damage?”

“We do not even know whether there
is
damage.”

“I meant to the Raish Valley.”

“Ah! Of course. Well, Lord Allutar can dismiss his elemental at any time, and that will put an end to the artificial fertility. Whether the land's natural bounty will be immediately restored, or whether it will require years to return, I cannot say, nor, I believe, can any man.”

Anrel shuddered. “And the city—what will happen here in Lume, do you suppose?”

“I would suppose that the Emperor's Watch will maintain order for the present—reports of the demons' rampage in the Pensioners' Quarter will undoubtedly aid them in their efforts. In time, more natural and wholesome crops will reach the mills and bakeries and grocers, and life will return to normal.”

“I hope—”

Anrel's reply was interrupted by a knock at the door. Lord Blackfield strode over and swung it open, admitting his servant, who bore an immense and heavily laden silver tray. Lord Blackfield snatched this from the older man's hands and whisked it to a table—not the small side table where he and Anrel had been drinking, but a larger one toward the back of the sitting room.

Then he turned to his guest and said, “Master Murau, if you would do me the honor of joining me for supper?”

Anrel doubted there was any honor in his presence, but he did not let that stop him.

“I would be delighted,” he said.

12

In Which Anrel Dines with Lord Blackfield

For the most part the food, while plentiful and varied, was simple, hearty fare, somewhat unfamiliar in content and preparation. Anrel supposed it was the result of Quandish cookery. Whatever its origins, the meal was entirely satisfactory.

Of course, Anrel knew his standards might well be lower than they once were; it had been half a year since he had regularly eaten well. Nivain Lir and her daughters had been decent cooks but could not afford the best ingredients, and in the Pensioners' Quarter anything that one could keep down was considered good enough.

When the edge had been taken off his appetite and he was content to nibble a little here and there, rather than devouring everything on his plate, Anrel looked up and said, “It's most generous of you to make me welcome in this fashion, my lord.”

“Ah, it's nothing, I assure you.”

“On the contrary, it was quite presumptuous of me to arrive here unheralded. We barely know each other, and we have almost nothing in common.”

“Oh, I think you misjudge. I should say we have several similarities. After all, when we first met, were we not both hoping to convince Lord Allutar not to put young Urunar Kazien to death?”

Anrel grimaced. “In truth, my lord, I was there in hopes of keeping Lord Valin out of trouble, not because I thought I could save Master Kazien.” He shook his head. “I regret to say I failed.”

“Oh?” The Quandishman dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Has misfortune befallen Lord Valin?”

Anrel winced. “Lord Valin is dead, my lord.” He had somehow assumed Lord Blackfield had known all about it, but why would he? The unfortunate killing of a very minor sorcerer in a village in Aulix was hardly the stuff of international gossip.

Lord Blackfield dropped the napkin. “How dreadful! I had been told as much before, but could not believe it. How did it happen, pray?”

Anrel proceeded to tell his host the sorry history of how Lord Allutar had deliberately misinterpreted Valin's insults as a challenge to trial by combat, a trial to ascertain whether Allutar would remain landgrave of Aulix or be replaced by Valin. He described the grotesquely mismatched contest that had ended in Valin's death.

“I see,” Lord Blackfield said. “And—forgive me if I am rude, and do not feel you are under any obligation to answer so impertinent a question—does this have something to do with how you came to be here in Lume, and a resident of the Pensioners' Quarter?”

“Yes,” Anrel replied. He hesitated, unsure what more to say; it wasn't really any of Lord Blackfield's business, and admitting that he, Anrel Murau, was the infamous Alvos of Naith, might be unwise. After all, the Quandishman had no reason to protect him, and might well take the opportunity to curry favor with the emperor by turning him over to the authorities.

Seeing his hesitation, Lord Blackfield said, “You need not say anything incriminating, Master Murau, but I assure you, anything you
do
say will be held in the strictest confidence. You have my word as a Gatherman and as a sorcerer.”

That was reassuring, but Anrel still did not feel any need to be specific. “Let us just say, then, that after Lord Valin's death I said certain things in public that the magistrates considered highly inappropriate.”

Lord Blackfield sipped wine, then said, “Might it be that you said these things in, perhaps, Aulix Square, in Naith?”

That guess surprised Anrel; he had not thought he was being so obvious. “It might,” he admitted. Having come this far, he saw little point in lying. He was at the Quandishman's mercy.

“And did you perhaps, while speaking, give another name?”

“I did.”

“Did you speak again with that name in Sharam?”

Startled, Anrel said, “I have never been to Sharam.”

“Ah, that wasn't you? But were you perhaps present at a hanging in Beynos this past winter?”