Above His Proper Station (36 page)

One by one, with varying degrees of reluctance, the others surrendered their lists to the committee's chairman.

“What are you going to do with them?” Guirdosia asked.

“I am going to have copies made,” Lorsa said. “Indeed, if any of you would care to aid in that, your assistance would be most welcome, but I would think your hands must be tired.”

“I would advise organizing the material,” Gluth said. “At present, these lists are a jumble, very roughly arranged by age; I would recommend a geographical list, or perhaps ordered by rank or family. The time may come when we cannot spare a minute to shuffle through these pages seeking a particular name; a properly ordered list might be essential.”

“Excellent, Delegate,” Lorsa agreed.

“I would be happy to assist with that.”

Lorsa clapped Gluth on the shoulder. “Come with me, then. We will let these other fine men go to their well-earned supper while we devote ourselves further to the task of freeing the empire from these magical parasites.”

The two of them turned away, leaving the other delegates standing there. The aides had already drifted off.

“But what are they going to
do
with the list, after they copy it?” Guirdosia asked. “He didn't say!”

“Perhaps it's best if we don't know,” Savar replied.

“They'll use it to make sure any sorcerer we question will answer us,” Essarnyn said. “What
else
could they do with it?”

Anrel could have answered that with a dozen possibilities, none of which he liked. He was beginning to think that he had made a very grave error in agreeing to serve on the Grand Council. Giving the speech that led to the creation of the Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery was even worse. He had long thought that the council was doomed to be ineffectual, to accomplish nothing significant; now he
hoped
it was. That list could make the committee, if not the council as a whole, very dangerous indeed.

It could make Zarein Lorsa, in particular, very dangerous.

But it was too late now to stop it; the list was made, and in Lorsa's hands, and despite Anrel's best efforts, most of it was accurate.

Surely, someone should be warned—but who?

“Well, whatever it's for, we have done our part,” Guirdosia said. “I'm going home. I wish you all a good night, fellow delegates.” With a tip of his hat, he set off down the Promenade.

Anrel glanced at the other two, wishing he knew them better, knew whether he could trust them—but he did not. For all he knew, they might think a scheme to destroy every sorcerer in the Empire would be a fine and glorious thing. He could not share his concerns with these men. He needed to talk to someone, but not his fellow committee members.

“Good night,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.

Then he, too, turned and departed, bound for Lourn Street.

29

In Which Anrel Receives a Letter

The next day's council meeting was uneventful, in large part because certain delegates were not in attendance. Among the Hots, Lorsa and Gluth were noticeable for their absence. In the cloakroom most of the delegation from Lume itself had failed to arrive. No explanations were given.

There were always a few people who could not be at any given session, but the number was unusually large on this occasion, and the missing voices included several who were normally among the louder and more insistent. The result was a relatively brief session in which nothing of note was accomplished.

Anrel sat on the steps of the great pool and listened to the reports, speeches, and debate, but he did not address the council himself; he felt he had said quite enough already. He was uneasy, to say the least, about the previous night's exploits; what did the Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery intend to do with those names?

Or really, what did the Hots intend? There could be little doubt that Lorsa, Gluth, and their fellows were solidly in control of the committee, and therefore in control of the names they had copied from the Great List.

Anrel wished there was someone he could talk to about this, someone who would understand his concerns, but he could not think of such a person. Every member of the Grand Council was pursuing his own agenda, and would see the news of the copying of the Great List through the lens of that agenda, while others, such as Tazia, lacked a grasp of the politics involved.

Lord Blackfield might have provided a sympathetic ear, but as a foreigner he could not be trusted with the knowledge that the Hots now knew the true names of hundreds of sorcerers. If Quandish or Ermetian spies were to obtain a copy of the list, the empire would be almost helpless before an invasion.

The longer he sat there, listening to his countrymen droning on, the more Anrel regretted his role in the creation of Lorsa's list. This might be the worst thing he had ever done, worse than his speeches in Naith and Beynos, worse than allowing Valin to die, worse than any of the crimes he had committed when he lived in the Pensioners' Quarter.

As he walked back home at Derhin's side, Anrel wondered whether he should resign his position on the council. He did not feel he was doing any good as a delegate; on the contrary, the list aside, he seemed to have inadvertently given Lorsa and the Hots encouragement that might lead to fresh disasters. He glanced at Derhin, almost ready to speak of his concerns, then decided to hold his peace a little longer. At the very least, he wanted to know what Lorsa and Gluth had been doing that had prevented their attendance—he had never before seen either of them miss a day. The abbreviated Lume delegation was another mystery. Some of them were members of the Committee for the Restoration of Order, and he expected someone representing that committee to arrest him, sooner or later; could their absence mean they were preparing a strike?

They would probably not dare to arrest the notorious Alvos right there in the Aldian Baths, but he half expected to see watchmen waiting for him on Lourn Street.

There were no watchmen, and he and Derhin entered without hindrance.

They had been home for scarcely a quarter hour, though, when Anrel heard a knock at the door. Hoping to see Tazia, he hastened to answer it, and instead found a messenger holding a letter.

“Delegate Anrel Murau?” he asked.

“Yes,” Anrel replied, startled.

“This is for you.” He handed Anrel the letter, then turned away. By the time Anrel had gathered his wits sufficiently to ask any questions, the man was twenty feet away and there seemed little point in calling him back.

Puzzled, Anrel stepped back inside, unfolded the letter, and began reading.

He recognized his uncle's handwriting immediately, but was surprised by the lack of any of the customary greetings. The letter read,

Anrel:

I am given to understand that you came to my door the other day hoping to speak with me. I am writing to ask you not to make any further attempt to intrude; you are not welcome here.

It pains me to do this, but I have no choice. Your actions have made it clear that you have no respect for me, or for the rule of law and the good order of the empire.

When my sister died I took you in, and raised you as if you were my own son. When you failed the trials I was bitterly disappointed, but I allowed you to remain in my home, and I like to think I continued to treat you honorably, with respect and affection. When it became clear that you would never be a sorcerer I sent you, at my own considerable expense, to study in the court schools of Lume so that you could find a position suitable to a commoner born of a noble family.

Perhaps it was the foolish ideas that circulate at such schools that poisoned your mind against me; I cannot know. Whatever the cause, from the time of your return you behaved abominably, encouraging the late Lord Valin in his mad follies, attempting to dissuade my daughter from a most suitable marriage, and conspiring with that Quandish scoundrel. When Lord Allutar protested your actions, you goaded Valin into challenging him, forcing Lord Allutar to kill the poor lad.

Unsatisfied with encompassing the death of a man you had claimed was your friend, you then preached treason and sedition in the provincial capital. You assaulted and robbed a watchman, commandeered a canal boat, stole a farmer's fishing boat, and in general pursued a career of reckless, unbridled criminality, of which the only benefit was that I needed no longer concern myself with you, since you had vanished from civilized society.

At first your actions pained me, as much for the heartache they must surely have inflicted on my daughter, your cousin Saria, as for their effect on my own emotions. In time, though, I realized that I was well rid of you. I cannot guess why you have acted as you have; your parents were fine people, but either you have willfully denied your own blood, or you are not truly their son at all, but some changeling. I have, in my darker moments, wondered whether you might be responsible for their deaths—perhaps my true nephew died as well, all those years ago, and the monster that killed them assumed his form.

But no, it is probably merely human evil, such as we have seen all too much of in the past year, that drives you.

Do you know what befell us after you left? The mobs you inspired to rebellion in Naith spread the poison to Alzur, where our own people, who should have loved us, burned our home and drove us out, forcing us to flee. Alzur is now in the hands of mutinous commoners calling themselves “wardens,” while we are exiled here, awaiting an audience with His Imperial Majesty, in hopes that he can spare a company of soldiers to root the traitors from their holes and hang them all.

And what should we hear, upon our arrival in Lume, but that you, too, are within the city walls, and what's more, you have somehow arranged to take a seat on this supposed “Grand Council,” where you can once again spew your venom upon susceptible ears.

All that is of a piece with your prior behavior, of course, and should by now come as no surprise, but I confess I am surprised that even you would have the effrontery to stand on my doorstep and ask to see me, as if you were a decent person paying a social call.

Perhaps you thought I had not comprehended the depths of your depravity, that I might allow our alleged shared blood to influence me to overlook your actions; rest assured that while my eyes are not as sharp as they once were, I can still see the truth when it is thrust under my nose. You are not welcome in Wizard's Hill Court, nor within the pale of Alzur. That you have received a pardon does not make your crimes go away. The law may forgive you, but I will not.

Do not reply to this letter, nor attempt any further contact with me; it will be refused. Do not dishonor us further by pretending to an apology you cannot mean and I cannot accept. I must, to my shame, acknowledge you as my kin, but neither law nor custom requires me to tolerate your presence.

Dorias Adirane, Burgrave of Alzur

As Anrel read this unpleasant missive his chest seemed to tighten and his heart to sink heavily; he felt physically ill.

He knew, though, that there was no point in arguing, either in person or by letter; Uncle Dorias had never been willing to listen to anyone once his mind was made up.

“A letter?”

Derhin's voice startled Anrel; he turned to see the other man standing in the passage.

“Anrel, what is it?” Derhin asked when he saw Anrel's face. “Your face is white, and your hand is trembling!”

Anrel started to speak, but could not. He stopped, swallowed, and forced himself to calm.

“My uncle,” he said. “He takes issue with my actions.”

“From the look of you, he does more than that!”

“He takes issue
strongly,
” Anrel said.

Derhin hesitated, then said, “Come have a drink. It will calm your nerves.”

“Thank you,” Anrel said. “I think you're right.” He followed Derhin to the dining room, where the wine cabinet yielded up a dark, sweet Lithrayn red.

An hour later the letter had been safely tucked into Anrel's blouse, and the better part of three bottles of various wines from Lithrayn had been emptied into Anrel's belly. Derhin had not abstained, by any means, but Anrel had clearly needed the larger share of each bottle.

They had spoken on a variety of subjects, but Anrel had not told Derhin the contents of the letter, so it was something of a surprise when he finally said, without preamble, “He puts the worst possible light on
everything
.”

“Who does?” Derhin asked a bit muzzily.

“Uncle Dorias. I always knew he was prone to seeing things in his own way, but in this letter he blames me for
everything,
no matter who was actually at fault.”

Derhin shrugged. “It's convenient, having a single target for all blame. Zarein Lorsa blames sorcerers for everything, Lord Koulis blames the emperor for everything, the mob blames Lord Allutar for everything—it's convenient.”

“It is not
just.
”

“No,” Derhin agreed sadly. “Merely convenient.”

“And who do
you
blame for everything?”

“Oh, I think there is quite enough for all of us to have a share.”

“That's generous of you.”

Derhin looked at Anrel. “Who do
you
blame?”

“I will claim my share, no question about it,” Anrel replied. “I have done a great deal of harm, though that was never my intention. And Lord Allutar, too, has earned a good portion of despite. The emperor cannot be entirely excused. Indeed, I can think of no one who is wholly innocent. Perhaps you're right, in saying we all deserve it.”

“Well, there you are, then—we are all at fault. But what's to be done about it?”

“Stop laying blame,” Anrel answered immediately. “Try to atone for our errors, if we can.”