Above His Proper Station (18 page)

“Oh,” Anrel said, startled. He blinked. “Did he give you a message?”

“He did. I felt we should discuss certain other matters, as we just have, before I delivered it.”

“I see. What is it, then?”

“Frankly, Master Murau, Delegate li-Parsil does not entirely trust me. I am, after all, a foreigner, and an official of a sometimes hostile government. He has therefore asked me to tell you that he would like to arrange a meeting, so that he might speak with you directly.”

“Oh,” Anrel said again. He frowned. “But how am I to know he doesn't intend to deliver me to the authorities to be hanged?”

Lord Blackfield smiled. “I see you do not trust him any more than he trusts me. I had thought you two were friends.”

“Acquaintances,” Anrel said. “He was Valin's friend, and
I
was Valin's friend, but Derhin and I scarcely knew each other. Their friendship had developed while I was studying in Lume.”

“Yet you entreated the people of Naith to choose him as their delegate.”

“Because in Lord Valin's absence, he was the closest available approximation. I would not have chosen him myself; I was speaking on Valin's behalf, not my own.”

“Does Delegate li-Parsil know that?”

Anrel grimaced. “I have no idea.”

“If my opinion means anything, I doubt very much that he intends to betray you.”

In fact, Anrel had a great deal of respect for Lord Blackfield's opinion; the Quandishman seemed a sensible, if overly idealistic, person. Still, gambling his own life on Derhin li-Parsil's good faith was not something to be done lightly. “You said he fears what I might do, what I might say in another speech,” Anrel said. “Surely, sending me to the gallows in Executioner's Court would put an end to his concerns in that regard.”

“Indeed it would, but I do not think that is his intention.”

Anrel looked out the window again. He did not like to think of himself as a coward, but neither did he care to take foolish risks.

“If I may,” Lord Blackfield said, “there are methods I could suggest that would make it very difficult for him to deliver you to anyone.”

Anrel cast him a sideways glance. “I think, my lord, that you are altogether too knowledgeable in certain areas. Such a mastery of intrigue hardly suits a traveler who only seeks to talk a little sense to our sorcerers.”

“I am a Gatherman, you will recall, and a hereditary one. Politics is subject to intrigue everywhere, and I learned the skills of the trade at my father's knee.”

“But here in Walasia, of course you have no part in any such devices.”

“Of course not.” He smiled wryly.

Anrel turned back to the window. “If you can arrange it so that we can meet safely,” he said, “I would be willing to participate, though in truth, I don't know what Derhin wants of me. I am no one of significance.”

“You are the mortal manifestation of a legend, Master Murau. As yourself you may indeed be of no particular importance, but Alvos is a hero of the people. Heroes are useful—and dangerous.”

Anrel stared at the drifting smoke. “I scarcely feel dangerous,” he said. “Or, for that matter, heroic.”

“Others often see us rather differently than we see ourselves.”

“Indeed.” He turned away from the window and looked at Lord Blackfield. “You, for example—how do you see yourself, my lord?”

“Me?” The Quandishman hesitated; Anrel had the impression he had been about to give a flippant answer, but then thought better of it. He said seriously, “I see myself, Master Murau, as a man upon whom the Father and the Mother have bestowed a great many unasked for gifts—magic, wealth, health, a noble birth—of which I struggle to be worthy.”

Anrel nodded. “When first I met you, in Alzur, I thought you an idealistic fool.”

Lord Blackfield smiled wryly. “Many people seem to think that.”

“Having spoken with you here in Lume, though, I have revised my opinion—I no longer know
what
to think, but I cannot call you a fool.”

The Quandishman bowed in acknowledgment. “I am flattered to have risen in your esteem.”

“You'll arrange a meeting?”

“Would tomorrow suit you?”

“It would indeed.” Anrel grimaced. “After all, what else do I have to occupy my time? I am, at the moment, unemployed and homeless, with neither friends nor family to help me, and prevented from pursuing most ordinary activities by the inconvenience of being under sentence of death. Anything that might distract me from these unhappy circumstances, as your admirable ancestor's book has, is very welcome.”

“Pray tell me, dear guest, that I do not actually detect a note of bitterness! You have a home here with me for the present, and I hope that someday you may consider me a friend. This sedition nonsense is a mere temporary obstacle, I am sure. After all, are you not meeting with a government official tomorrow?”

Anrel cocked his head. He had not considered that aspect. “I am, am I not? Do you think that Derhin might be able to arrange a pardon of some sort?”

“One can hope that he might.”

“Indeed.”

“And if no pardon or parole is forthcoming, I scarcely think it means you must spend your entire life as a fugitive. Sedition is not a crime in Quand, and most certainly sedition directed at the Walasian Empire will not trouble anyone in my homeland.”

Anrel blinked up at his host. “Are you suggesting I might flee the empire entirely, and take refuge in your homeland?”

“I believe I am, yes. Is the idea so utterly outrageous, then?”

“I have no means of reaching Quand; I cannot afford passage by sea. Perhaps Ermetia or the Cousins would be more practical—”

“Oh, nonsense, Master Murau! You can reach Quand quite nicely by riding thither in my coach. I would welcome the company.”

“Across the Dragonlands? I thought only sorcerers could do that.”

“I
am
a sorcerer. If you thought I could not bring others with me, how do you think Harban came here?”

“Ah,” Anrel said, feeling foolish.

“A young scholar, thoroughly conversant in Walasian history, might well find employment in Ondine,” Lord Blackfield continued. “There are those who take an interest in our largest neighbor, but who prefer not to venture across the border in person.”

“I … do not think that would suit me,” Anrel replied slowly. “I am a loyal Walasian, whatever I may think of certain officials, or even of our present emperor. To serve a foreign and sometimes hostile government—that seems to me far more treasonous than anything I said in Naith or Beynos.”

“I understand.” Lord Blackfield nodded. “Indeed, I sympathize. Still, I would think a place might be found that you would deem acceptable.”

“Much as I appreciate your interest and consideration, my lord, I am not sure I could be happy in a foreign land.”

“Well, then, perhaps a new name and identity, and a home in some corner of the empire where the odds of encountering anyone who might recognize your face are minuscule? Pordurim, perhaps—that village in Vaun that produced the lovely wine we drank yesterday. I have arranged such things before.”

Startled, Anrel said, “You have?”

Lord Blackfield smiled. “Why, yes—a few seasons back, when certain persons were accused of a crime I felt could not possibly have been their doing, I arranged for them to relocate.”

Anrel scarcely knew what to make of this admission—or perhaps it was not so much an admission as a boast. “Do you make a
habit
of flouting imperial law, then?”

“I would not say a
habit,
sir, but I do not shirk from doing so when I feel justice is better served by my methods than the empire's.”

“And you have done this with impunity?”

“Say rather, I do not believe anyone in authority is aware of my actions.”

“If you have helped fugitives to disappear, how can the officials involved not be aware that something is amiss?”

The Quandishman spread his hands. “Oh, I am sure they know things have not gone as expected.”

“And you have no fear that they might connect these misfortunes to you?”

“I am a sorcerer, Master Murau, and a good one.”

Anrel blinked at what seemed an irrelevance. “I do not see how that can ensure your safety from discovery.”

Lord Blackfield sighed. “I can work a glamour, sir. I can bind perceptions, or memories. For the most part, if I do not wish to be seen, I am not. If I do not wish my presence to be remembered, it is not. If I want someone to see me as a bent old woman, or a beardless child, why, then, that is how I will be seen!”

“But that … I have never heard of … Isn't a glamour a difficult spell?”

“Oh, fair to middling difficult, yes. As I have said, I am a powerful sorcerer.”

Anrel had known Lord Blackfield was a sorcerer, but had not realized his magical skills were as great as that. The witches Anrel had known had considered glamours to be far beyond their own abilities, and Uncle Dorias had certainly never attempted one. “I had not known anyone in Quand could work magic of that sort,” he said.

One side of Lord Blackfield's mouth rose wryly. “Well, we would hardly
tell
you, would we?”

“I suppose not,” Anrel acknowledged. “You surprise me, my lord, and you once again make me suspicious of your motives.”

Lord Blackfield sighed. “I wish no one harm, Master Murau—not you, nor any of your friends, nor for that matter, any of your enemies. I came to Walasia on behalf of the Lantern Society, just as I have said. The society was created to discourage the use of dark sorcery—to cast a light into dark places, as the name suggests, in an attempt to make our world a better place. That is what brought me into the empire; I intended merely to visit with sorcerers and try to dissuade them from using black magic. When I arrived, though, I found signs of impending catastrophe on every side—famine, oppression, injustice. I could not ignore these wrongs. I have sought to alleviate them; I freely admit that I have pursued justice and mercy, rather than law and order. I cannot stop the coming disaster, whatever form it may take, but I hope I may be able to lessen its severity and perhaps spare a few individuals from its fury.”

“So you have aided criminals in escaping.”

“No, sir, I have aided
innocents
in escaping. I have been quite selective.”

“You did not save Urunar Kazien.”

“He was not innocent of the crime for which he died, nor was he yet at liberty when his circumstances came to my attention.”

“I suppose not.” Anrel stared at his host for a long moment. “I did just what they say I did,” he said at last.

“You spoke out against injustice. I cannot consider that a crime, no matter what your magistrates may say.”

“I have committed other crimes to survive, many of them. I cannot claim innocence.”

The Quandishman shrugged. “No one is entirely innocent. I believe you to be a good man at heart. You spoke out in honor of a friend, and in an attempt to save a life, not for your own benefit.”

That was true, but somehow did not seem to entirely satisfy Anrel's objections. He had spent the past season deceiving, swindling, and robbing Lume's wealthier citizens. Did that count for nothing?

But then, Lord Blackfield did not actually
know
what Anrel had done during his stay in the Pensioners' Quarter, and Anrel felt no need to tell him. He asked, “So you would spirit me out of the country, or hide me away in some village somewhere?”

“If you wished it, yes.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Anrel said, meaning it. “But let us wait and see what Derhin has to say before we make any hasty decisions.”

“Of course.” The Quandishman bowed. “I will leave you to your book, then.”

He turned, and left the room.

Anrel stared after him, and did not pick up the book again for several minutes.

15

In Which Anrel Speaks with a Delegate
to the Grand Council

Anrel watched as the blindfolded Derhin was led into the room, and his hands untied.

Anrel was sitting at a table in an upstairs room above a ruined bakery—the baker and his family had fled the city, at least for the moment, and his abandoned home made as good a meeting place as any. The mob had done considerable damage to the apartment, as well as to the shop, but the table and two chairs remained intact. Anrel found it amazing that the entire building had not been burned to the ground—though there was a faint whiff of smoke that implied someone had made the attempt. Why the flames had not spread Anrel did not know, and did not much care; it was enough that the place was still here, and suitable for this meeting.

Harban had fetched Derhin hither, his wrists bound and his eyes covered so that he would not know where he was being brought. Anrel had arrived earlier and had prepared the room, making sure the doors were closed and the windows covered so that there would be no clue to their location.

Now Derhin li-Parsil stood quietly as Lord Blackfield's manservant unwound the rope from the delegate's wrists. Harban stuffed the cord into one of the pockets in his brown woolen coat, then reached up and removed the black leather blindfold, as well.

Derhim blinked; the room was dim with the shutters and curtains closed, but still brighter than what he had seen on the way here. He took a second to focus; then his gaze fell on Anrel.

“Delegate li-Parsil,” Anrel said. “It's been some time, hasn't it? Congratulations on your election to the Grand Council.”

“Anrel Murau,” Derhin said, eyeing him warily. “Or should I say, Alvos the orator?”

Anrel shrugged. “Either name will serve. I understand you wished to speak with me?”

“I did. I do.”

“Sit,” Anrel said, gesturing at the other unbroken chair. “Let us talk.”