A Young Man Without Magic

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Why, I believe I do have another factor to add,” Valin said. “I believe that the emperor himself has provided an element that you must consider before taking any hasty action.”

  Allutar’s tight little smile vanished. “Oh?”

  “My friend here is newly arrived from the courts of Lume, and he will confirm what I say,” Valin said, gesturing at Anrel. “The emperor has summoned the Grand Council.”

  “That’s hardly news,” Allutar snapped. “We received word a quarter season past. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Why, you say you are acting on your authority as landgrave of Aulix, but when the Grand Council meets, it supersedes all other authority in the empire—the emperor himself is not safe on his throne, should the council decide to depose him. How do you know you will remain landgrave of Aulix? The council may not look kindly on those nobles who abuse their power by slaughtering harmless tradespeople.”

  Allutar stared at Valin for a moment in apparent disbelief, then chuckled.

  “You’re a fool, Valin,” he said. “Why would the Grand Council care about a single thief? I intend to be on that council, and I assure you, I have no intention of prying into the household affairs of every landgrave in Walasia. The council is convening because the emperor wants to be bailed out of a century’s debts accumulated by himself and his ancestors, not because he gives any credence to the fools who say we sorcerers have been ruling our lands too firmly.”

  “That may indeed be the emperor’s reason,” Valin said, “but once summoned, the Grand Council has the authority to do anything it pleases, and though he can call it, the emperor cannot dismiss it. The council may well see the wisdom in Lord Blackfield’s arguments, and ban black magic. The council could throw out our entire outmoded system of government. The days when political power required magical power are gone, Lord Allutar. The council might well decide that magicians are more suited to service than supremacy. Some talented clerk might well be made landgrave of Aulix in your stead, and do a better job of administering the province because he would not be spending his time experimenting with sorcerous bindings and blood sacrifices when he should be overseeing his farmers.”

  Allutar laughed. “My dear Lord Valin, our current system has persisted for . . . let me see . . . five hundred and eighty-eight years, is it? Why, yes, I believe that’s the number. It has functioned quite adequately for almost six centuries. Why, then, would the Grand Council change it? I admit that the council would have the power to do so, but I cannot see that it would have any reason to do so—especially since I expect the council to be made up of sorcerers and their dependents. Why in all the Bound Lands would they deliberately throw away their own positions? And in any case, what the council might do is of no import here—the council has not yet met, and right now, I have the authority and the right to do as I please with this miscreant.”

  “The authority, but never the right,” Valin replied. “To take away a man’s entire existence because he picked a few plants cannot be right.”

  “It is my right, as landgrave,” Allutar insisted. “I am working for the greater good, my lord, and the lives of every commoner in Aulix are at my disposal. My sorcery requires a death, and the Father has seen fit to deliver a criminal into my hands at this time; would you rather I chose some innocent and killed him?”

  “Like Lord Blackfield, I would rather you abandoned the practice of black magic,” Valin said. “The benefits it yields never justify the costs.”

  “What you seem to have missed,” Allutar replied, “is that I won’t be the one paying the cost, any more than you. Urunar Kazien will be.”

  “His death will not be the only cost,” the Quandishman said, speaking for the first time since Anrel’s arrival and startling everyone. His Walasian was clear and unaccented. “There are other, subtler costs, and at least some of those you will pay yourself.”

  “So you say,” Allutar replied. “I cannot help but wonder, though, whether it’s true, or whether, perhaps, you and your foreign friends are campaigning to see black magic outlawed in Walasia not out of any altruistic motive, but rather, to remove a significant weapon from the empire’s arsenal. Our two nations have been at peace for forty years, but that peace may not last forever, and anything that might weaken Walasia would benefit Quand, in the unhappy event that war should break out.”

  Anrel noticed that Valin seemed shaken by this response; obviously, he had not thought of this possibility.

  “I am no warmonger,” Lord Blackfield protested. “I assure you, Lord Allutar, that I wish no harm to any living soul, Walasian or not.”

  “Can you prove it?” He waved a hand before Lord Blackfield could consider a response. “No, you cannot. No one can know what is in your mind. Were you a commoner I might be able to bind you to the truth, but you are a sorcerer, quite possibly as powerful a sorcerer as myself, which means no binding I can place upon you would be guaranteed of success.”

  “I give you my word, as a sorcerer and a Gatherman.”

  Allutar gazed curiously at the Quandishman. “Do you know your own mind that well, then? Do you know the hearts of every member of your Lantern Society, to be so certain that they have not played you for a fool? And present intent aside, can you be sure that abandoning the darker magic will not be seen as a sign of weakness and lead to an attack by Quand, or Ermetia, or some other power? No, I fear that the sorcerers of Walasia cannot afford to relinquish any sort of magic while we have foes on our borders.”

  “You are making foes of your own people, as well, then,” the Quandishman said.

  “Listen to him,” Valin said. He gestured at the baker and his family. “These are your people—you should be protecting them, not murdering them!”

  “I am protecting them. From each other,” Allutar retorted. He sighed. “Has anyone else a fresh argument to present? Lord Valin? Lord Blackfield? You, Master Murau—you haven’t said a word. Do you have anything to add?”

  “No, Lord Allutar,” Anrel said. “I am here to accompany Lord Valin, and nothing more.”

  “And do you think I should execute the thief?”

  “I recognize your authority to do so,” Anrel said. “I would prefer that you not exercise it.”

  This answer seemed to intrigue Allutar. He leaned forward and asked, “Why?”

  Anrel sighed. “Because my friend wishes it. Because I enjoy the pastries and confections the baker sells, and would rather not see him suffer such a loss. Because as a child I saw Urunar comfort his sisters when they needed comfort.”

  Allutar clasped his hands and stared at Anrel. “You have no ideology to promote, then? You do not see in this case a reflection of some greater principle?”

  Anrel shrugged. “I am just a young man without magic, my lord, not a philosopher. I have spent the last four years in Lume studying ideologies and principles, as well as history and literature and a great many other things, and I have come to realize that ideologies and principles are mere theory, while a father’s sorrow and a sister’s grief are facts. Likewise, the Grand Council is as yet a theory, while your power in Aulix is a fact. If I thought theories would sway you I would be happy to spout them at length, to argue every angle, but I believe you are a man who prefers facts, and I have none to present of which you are not already aware. The decision is yours to make. I will add my voice to those saying we would prefer you let the lad live, but beyond that, I have nothing to offer.”

  Allutar smiled, and pointed at Anrel. “You may not be a magician, Master Murau, but you are a man of sense. I commend you for it.” He sat back on his throne. “Now, here is what I will do. For the greatest efficacy, my spell should be cast on the equinox, when day and night are of equal length, and I therefore intend to forgo the customary visit to the sacred grove, and remain here to execute my unhappy thief and perform this binding. That is some six days from now. During those six days, I will permit the family to speak with the prisoner as they please. I will accept any documents anyone may
care to prepare in the case, arguing whatever grounds may present themselves. I will entertain requests for private audience. I may be swayed, should anyone produce arguments of sufficient power. If by some peculiar happenstance another, more heinous criminal shall be apprehended in that time, I will gladly put him to death instead, and set Master Kazien free—perhaps after a few strokes of the whip, but free he will be if a more suitable prisoner falls into my hands.” Then he rose, and his voice became a bellow. “But I will not tolerate anyone, whether sorcerer or commoner, barging in here with baseless pleas or unjustified demands! You will respect my home, and set foot inside only when invited! Now, begone, all of you!”

  The baker and his family groveled and began backing away, almost tripping Lord Valin; the young sorcerer began to protest, but Anrel stepped forward and caught him by the arm, pulling him hence.

  “This is not the time,” Anrel hissed in Valin’s ear. “You have six days. Marshal your words and march them in proper order; don’t send them charging forward unprepared and in disarray!”

  “But . . .”

  “The landgrave of Aulix has bidden us go,” Anrel insisted. “We must go.”

  Valin hesitated, staring at Allutar, then tore his arm from Anrel’s grip. “Fine!” he said. “Fine, then! Let us go.”

  He turned, and stamped out of the hall, with Anrel on his heels.

  4

  In Which Lord Dorias Welcomes Anrel Home

  The sun was low in the west, and the clouds had diminished enough to leave its disk visible, by the time Valin and Anrel finally trudged up the granite steps and into Lord Dorias’s home. Valin’s mood had brightened considerably.

  “It is true that Lord Allutar did not set the boy free,” he said to Anrel as they reached the front door. “But to have the poor lad there in his home for six days, in abject terror—I think that must certainly soften the landgrave’s heart, to observe such suffering. Indeed, I think his refusal to yield the point immediately must have been merely to save face; surely, he cannot be so inhuman as to carry out this execution!”

  “It is a shame you have not studied more history,” Anrel said, as he stepped across the threshold. “If you had, you would know that even respectable, civilized men are capable of the most appalling barbarities.”

  Valin opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak a female voice shrieked.

  “Anrel! You’re home!”

  Before Anrel could respond his cousin had bounded down the stairs and flung herself at him, embracing him so vigorously that he could scarcely find the breath to speak.

  “Father and Mother, Saria, you’ll injure him if you aren’t careful!” Valin said.

  “What took you so long?” Saria demanded. “The coach was due hours ago! Did it break a wheel, perhaps, or did one of the horses go lame? You didn’t encounter bandits?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Anrel assured her as he gently disentangled himself. “But we decided to wait out the rain at Master Harrea’s cook-shop, and then Lord Valin set out to play the hero and rescue a young man from a bitter fate.”

  “Valin, a hero?” She glanced from one young man to the other. “What was this?”

  “Lord Allutar has condemned the baker’s son to death for trespassing and theft,” Valin said. “I had hoped to convince him to commute the sentence.”

  “The baker’s son?”

  “Urunar Kazien,” Anrel said. “You remember him?”

  “The bully? Of course I do! How generous of you, Valin, to speak on his behalf. I assume it was no use?”

  Valin looked hurt. “Do you think so little of my persuasive abilities, then?”

  “By no means! It is not that I think your words inadequate to such a task in the ordinary way of things, but that I know Lord Allutar to not be easily swayed.” Anrel thought he heard something unspoken in the tone of her voice—admiration, perhaps? “He has spoken of late of the need for firm discipline, given the shortages.”

  Somewhat mollified by her words, Valin said, “The matter is not yet decided. Lord Allutar has said he will consider the circumstances for another six days; it seems he wishes to use the death in a spell, and the equinox is the most propitious time for it.”

  “Is he making heartsblood wine, then?” Saria asked.

  “He spoke of a binding,” Anrel replied.

  “Whatever his intention, he may yet reconsider,” Valin said.

  “I do not think it likely,” Anrel said, as he removed his cap and tried to impose some order on his damp hair. “Do not raise your hopes too high, Valin, lest they crush you when they fall.”

  “Ah, you are always the voice of despair, Anrel,” Valin said. “I had forgotten how gloomy you are, and how your presence makes the rest of the world seem brighter by contrast.”

  “Nonsense!” Saria said. “My cousin merely refuses to blind himself to unpleasant truths.”

  Anrel bowed to her. “I thank you for your defense, Cousin.”

  “The family forms a united front against me,” Valin said. “But I tell you, someday you will see me proven right—we can make the world a better place, one where we need not tolerate the abuses of men like Lord Allutar. Lord Blackfield and his friends have the right of it; nothing good can come of black magic, and we must stamp it out.”

  “Lord Blackfield is a very pleasant fellow,” Saria said, “but even he acknowledges that his Lantern Society is making little headway.”

  “Then you’ve met him?” Anrel asked, as he peeled off his coat.

  “Oh, he stayed here for several days,” Saria said. “Not that it took him that long to convince my father of anything; he had made his case there before his first night here was out. You know how Father dislikes using any magic; convincing him not to work black magic, which I don’t believe he has ever attempted, was no great challenge. But Lord Blackfield remained our guest until he was able to coax an invitation from the landgrave, and you can guess how difficult that was.”

  “And how is your father?” Anrel asked. “Valin told me he was rather out of sorts today.”

  “The rain depressed him, I think,” Saria said. “His mood has been foul all day. He sent the servants off on various errands, saying he wanted them where they wouldn’t bother him. He’s well enough, though. He says the dampness troubles his joints, but he always says that.”

  Anrel had wondered why none of the household staff had been in evidence, and was relieved by this explanation; he had feared financial reverses or some other disaster.

  As for the painful joints, those were indeed a familiar story, but that did not mean they were not real. “It may always be true, when he says it,” Anrel said. “What do we know of the innermost working of the human knee, or how our fingers are assembled? Perhaps there are tissues that swell in wet weather, and the swelling pains Uncle Dorias. May I see him, do you think?”

  “Of course! He was waiting for you, you know. He refused to leave the house until he had word of your safe arrival. That dreadful Master Pollibiel who claims to speak for the shop keep ers wanted to talk to him about something earlier; he was quite disagreeable, and Father sent the man away, told him that it could wait until tomorrow, whatever it was.”

  “Then let us find my uncle at once, before he dismisses an imperial messenger or an Ermetian envoy; I would not care to be responsible for any shirking of his duties as burgrave of Alzur.”

  With that, the three of them made their way down the passage and through the salon into the kitchens, where they found Lord Dorias arranging biscuits on a table.

  “Keeping them dry,” he explained, before anyone asked. “So they won’t get moldy.”

  “Of course, Uncle,” Anrel said.

  “So you’re finally back from Lume,” the master of the house grumbled.

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “I wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t find employment there, and stay there.”

  “Alas, no such opportunity presented itself.”

  “Then did you learn anyth
ing worth knowing there, or was that all just a waste of your four years and my five thousand guilders?”

  “I think I learned a great deal, actually,” Anrel said. “How much of it will prove to be of any use remains to be seen.”

  “You learned nothing of sorcery, I suppose.”

  “Only a little history and theory, Uncle. Nothing has happened to change the results of my trials.”

  “That’s a shame,” Dorias said. “Such a shame. My sister was a talented sorceress, and that husband of hers was not totally useless. How the two of them could produce a child with no arcane skill whatsoever remains a mystery to me.”

  “Yet for my own part, Uncle, when I remember my parents as I last saw them, or when I see how troublesome your duties as burgrave are, I find myself unable to regret having failed that examination. Not everyone can be a sorcerer, and I am content to be among the ungifted majority, unencumbered by the risks and duties of the magician.”

  “Humph.” Dorias placed the final biscuit, then looked up from his array and met Anrel’s eye. “I confess, it’s good to see you again, Anrel, sorcerer or not, and employed or not.”

  “I assure you, Uncle, any pleasure you take in my return is as nothing compared to my own delight at being once more beneath your roof.” He stepped forward, and Dorias accepted a brief, restrained embrace, his reaction far less enthusiastic than his daughter’s, but no less sincere, Anrel was sure.

  “I might ask,” Dorias said, when they had separated, “why, if you are so happy to be here, you were not here sooner.”

  “Ah, Uncle, we were caught in the rain, and took shelter in town.”

  “The rain ended hours ago!”

  “Lord Valin had an errand to run,” Anrel said. “I accompanied him, in hopes I might be of some use.”

  Dorias turned to glare at Valin, but still directed his question at Anrel. “I knew I should have come to meet you myself, despite my pains. And what errand did my erstwhile apprentice think was so urgent?”