A Young Man Without Magic

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Rather more likely, and still not something he wanted to deal with, was the possibility that the townsfolk would try to involve him further in the matter of Urunar Kazien. He was not sure which would be worse, villagers pleading with him to do what he could to save the thief, or applauding the spell Lord Allutar intended to cast with Urunar’s lifeblood.

  Instead he turned west, toward the little patch of woods that crowned a nearby hill. The hill was outside Alzur’s pale, but on the Adirane family lands, and therefore under his uncle’s jurisdiction. Lord Dorias had forbidden the local farmers to clear that land, despite many requests, rejecting arguments that every acre was needed in this era of poor crops, and that outlaws hid among the trees. The burgrave had insisted that the village needed the forest to shelter game and provide firewood.

  It also provided pleasant shade on hot days, and Anrel had spent many hours there as a child. Although the rains had passed and the day was sunny, it was not especially hot; nonetheless, the idea of strolling in that cool green grove, renewing his acquaintance with it, was very appealing. He ambled up the slope toward the trees.

  As he did he heard a sound that he did not immediately identify, a rhythmic thumping. He paid no attention at first, but then realized it was growing louder as he walked; it came from the grove.

  That was the clue that caused him to recognize the sound of an axe chopping wood. Anrel frowned. His uncle never set the foresters to work until after the equinox. The villagers were welcome to gather any windfall firewood they could find, but not to cut their own. Perhaps a large limb, or an entire tree, had fallen, and someone was cutting it up for ease in hauling?

  Whomever it was, it would do no harm to exchange a few pleasantries; Anrel directed his steps toward the sound.

  He had passed through much of the grove before he finally spotted a man swinging a long-handled axe.

  The man was dressed in the well-worn woolens of an ordinary workman—a brown jacket and gray trousers. His old brown boots were wrapped in dirty rags that held sole and upper together, and a faded blue scarf kept twigs and chips from falling down his collar; he wore no hat, and his hair was long, tangled, and none too clean. He was hacking away not at a fallen limb, but at a standing ash tree, and he was not making a very good job of it; his cut was ragged, and wider than it needed to be. He was clearly not a trained forester, nor did he appear particularly strong or well fed. Judging by the hay cart that stood a few yards away, Anrel guessed him to be a farmer.

  “Hello, sir!” Anrel called, as the man raised the axe for another blow.

  Startled, the axe-man stopped midswing and turned. “Who are you?” he exclaimed.

  Anrel had worn his student’s cap out of habit, even though he was back home and had access to a more extensive wardrobe than he had maintained in Lume; now he doffed the cap and bowed. “Anrel Murau,” he said. “At your service. And might I ask your name?”

  “None of your business,” the man replied, shifting his grip on the axe. “Be on about your own affairs, and leave me to mine.”

  Anrel straightened, replaced his cap, and stepped closer. “I fear, sir, that this may be my affair. How is it you are attempting to fell one of my uncle’s trees?”

  “Your uncle?” The man glanced in the direction of Lord Dorias’s house.

  “Indeed,” Anrel said.

  The man looked at Anrel, then down at the axe he held, then at the ash tree he had scarred, then back at Anrel.

  Then, without warning, he charged at Anrel, lifting the axe as he came.

  Anrel had feared such an attack; he dove sideways, clutching at the ground.

  The first blow missed Anrel’s left foot by a few inches, and the axe head bit into the earth. The axe-man promptly snatched it back and raised it to strike again.

  Anrel had rolled aside; now he came back up to one knee and flung a handful of dirt and dust in his attacker’s eyes. Then he went down again as his enraged opponent swung the axe in a swooping horizontal arc that skimmed just above his shoulders.

  Anrel had always avoided fights whenever possible, but he had been an ordinary child, and he had spent four years in the student courts of Lume. He had been in a few childhood tussles and half a dozen tavern brawls, and had twice confronted would-be robbers. After taking a beating or two he had applied himself to improving the odds of preventing a recurrence, and had worked out a few simple rules.

  The first was, don’t be where your opponent expects you to be. In one memorable dispute in Lume, that had meant leaping up on a table and grabbing for the chandelier, but the best solution, if one couldn’t avoid the fight entirely, was usually to drop down and move sideways, as he had done here.

  The second rule was to use whatever tools came to hand, as he had with the handful of dirt.

  His third rule was to do whatever he could to avoid his opponent’s weapons. If his foe held a knife, that meant getting out of reach; on the other hand, if his foe wielded a weapon that used a longer reach, such as a sword or whip, it was better to get in so close that the weapon could not be used effectively.

  And his final rule was, where possible, to fight to disarm, not to hurt. A swordsman with no sword was generally at a loss, where the same man might still be a serious threat after a blow to the head or a slash on the arm. A robber without his cosh would seek easier prey, where an elbow in the gut might only anger him. Few were capable of killing a grown man with their bare hands; removing weapons generally meant removing the risk of death.

  Therefore, rather than ducking away, or trying to regain his feet, or looking for a weapon of his own, he launched himself at the axe-man’s knees, timing his lunge so that he struck just as the axe reached the end of its arc, before the man could turn it around and swing it back, when he was most likely to be off balance.

  The tactic worked; the man stumbled and fell backward, one hand coming off the axe handle to fend Anrel off.

  Anrel ignored that hand and grabbed for the axe, not trying yet to pull it away, but only to push it back where his opponent could not use it. He missed, but his fingers closed on his assailant’s wrist.

  Anrel was not a particularly large man, but neither was he small, and his strength was considerable; he was able to force the axe, and the hand that held it, up by his opponent’s left ear. Then he brought his own left hand across, grabbed the axe handle, and twisted it upward, breaking the man’s grip.

  Anrel made no attempt to use the axe himself; instead he flung it awkwardly aside, out of reach, and shoved his left forearm under his foe’s nose, pushing upward hard, forcing the man’s head back. A moment later he had the man down on his back, head and left hand pinned to the ground, right hand clutching at Anrel’s throat. Anrel made no serious effort to dislodge it; the one hand could cause him considerable discomfort, but unless the man was clever enough to press on a major blood vessel, no more than that.

  He did not appear to be very clever, nor, judging by his grip, very strong.

  “Now, sir,” Anrel said, “let us discuss your presence in my uncle’s grove. You are obviously not here by invitation.”

  “Let me go!” the man managed to say, despite Anrel’s arm across his face.

  “I think not. You are trespassing, are you not?”

  “I’m trying to feed my family!”

  “You also attempted to kill me!”

  “No! I—” He stopped, apparently realizing he could not defend that position. He also realized his struggles were useless. His right hand fell from Anrel’s throat. “Let me up.”

  “In good time. Tell me, have you ever heard of one Urunar Kazien?”

  The man frowned. “Who?”

  “He is the baker’s son, here in Alzur. He is to be executed on the equinox for stealing a handful of Lord Allutar’s herbs. His blood will be used in a spell the landgrave wishes to attempt.”

  “I don’t . . .” The man looked confused.

  “Tell me, do you think the penalty for stealing an entire tree from the burgrave of Alzu
r would be any less?”

  “I don’t . . . I wasn’t . . .” The downed man swallowed uneasily.

  “The landgrave suggested that he would spare the boy, if a more deserving criminal could be found to die in his stead.”

  His eyes widened. “I meant no harm!”

  “What were you hoping to do with that ash?”

  “I . . .”

  “I would strongly advise an honest answer.”

  “I was going to sell it to a sawyer in Kuriel. For the cabinetmakers.”

  Anrel was startled. “You came all the way here for that?”

  “The woods around Kuriel are all guarded now.”

  Anrel drew back his arm. “Are they?” He tried to remember what he had seen from the coach. Kuriel had seemed quiet, but he had not visited any groves or woodlots.

  “Yes. The ones that haven’t been cut down, anyway.”

  “Are circumstances as bad as that, then?”

  “You know they are, surely.”

  “No,” Anrel said, releasing the man’s wrist. “I have been away.”

  “Half of Aulix is starving,” the man said, making no attempt to rise. “The landgrave sends our crops to Lume, and leaves us with nothing. Though I’ve heard it’s even worse in some of the other provinces.”

  Anrel had no reply to that; he had no idea how much truth there was in the man’s claims. He sat up.

  “Are you going to hand me over to the burgrave, then?”

  Anrel shook his head. He knew Uncle Dorias would refer the matter to Lord Allutar, and Allutar would most likely sentence the man to death.

  Whether he would then allow Urunar Kazien to live, Anrel could not say; he certainly did not want to rely upon the landgrave’s good faith. Giving him an alternative would only complicate matters. One death was enough; Anrel did not care to risk the possibility that Allutar would execute them both, and could not guess how Valin would react to any of this if he were to learn of it. “The tree still stands,” he said. “You are indeed trespassing, though, and I expect you to remove yourself, your cart, and your axe from these lands immediately.”

  The axe-man blinked up at him. “You’re letting me go?”

  “I am. I am no watchman or magistrate.”

  “But you said . . . the burgrave is your uncle? You’re a sorcerer?”

  “The burgrave is my uncle, but I am no sorcerer. I am a man without magic, much like yourself, save for my good fortune in choosing my family. Now, be off with you, before I change my mind.”

  “Yes, my lord . . . I mean, yes, sir.” Both men got to their feet, brushing dirt and dead leaves from their clothes. The axe-man gave Anrel a wary glance, then retrieved his axe, being careful to hold it just below the head, in as unthreatening a manner as possible. As Anrel watched, he tossed the axe in the hay cart and began maneuvering it around.

  “A moment,” Anrel said, raising a hand. He slid the other hand in his pocket. If he was going to let this would-be thief go, he did not want him to simply find something else to steal.

  “What?”

  “I want an agreement from you,” Anrel said. “In exchange for your life and freedom.”

  The man eyed him warily. “What sort of agreement?”

  “I want it understood clearly that you will not return to this grove, nor to Alzur.”

  The axe-man grimaced. “Agreed.”

  “You will not speak of this afternoon’s events to anyone, nor shall I.”

  “As you wish.”

  “And I ask you to take this, to seal our agreement,” Anrel said, as he drew a coin from his pocket and tossed it to the axe-man.

  He reached up and caught the coin, and started to say something, then stopped as he felt the size and weight of Anrel’s gift. He looked down at his hand, and stared.

  “This is a guilder,” he said. “I saw one once, when I was a boy.”

  “Yes, it is,” Anrel acknowledged. “I think it sufficient.”

  “More than sufficient! Thank you, my lord!” This time he made no effort to correct himself as he bowed, twice, to Anrel before stuffing the coin in his jacket. Then he turned, hurrying to get away before the overgenerous madman could change his mind. A guilder could feed his family for a few days, at least.

  Anrel watched him go, then turned back toward his uncle’s house. The notion of walking farther had lost its appeal, and his clothes were a mess.

  Back in Lume he could not have thrown guilders about so carelessly, but here—here, he lived on his uncle’s generosity with no clear limits.

  As he walked home, he wondered whether the man had been telling the truth about conditions in Kuriel and the rest of Aulix. It was possible that matters had indeed reached as sorry a state as he described, but Anrel sincerely hoped the rascal had exaggerated.

  Not that there was anything to be done about it, of course, even if every word was true.

  Anrel retired that night enjoying the comforts of his old home, but not entirely at ease about any number of things.

  6

  In Which Anrel Learns of Lady Saria’s Hopes

  The following morning Lord Dorias was as good as his word, and set out immediately after breakfast for the short trip across the river, through the village, and up the hill to Lord Allutar’s estate. He traveled in the company of two of his four footmen, leaving his family at home.

  Valin announced his intention to pursue some errand of his own, which left Anrel and Saria in each other’s company for much of the morning.

  Saria did not share her uncle’s fascination with the court schools, nor Valin’s interest in politics, but she did want to know what the fashionable ladies of Lume had been wearing. Anrel did his best to satisfy her curiosity, but eventually he was forced to remind her, “I did not spend much time among the elite, dear Saria. I was, after all, only a student and a commoner.”

  “I do wish you would stop reminding us that you are technically a commoner.” Saria pouted.

  “I wish you would not make it necessary to remind you,” Anrel retorted.

  “So you did not go to fancy balls at the palace?”

  “By no means. Generous as your father’s stipend was, by the time I paid for my room, my books, and my professors’ fees, I had enough trouble keeping food in my belly and shoes on my feet. I attended no cotillions, danced at no balls, and never set foot inside the emperor’s palace. On those occasions when my funds extended to anything beyond necessities, I generally made do with a glass of wine at one of the taverns in the courts, and perhaps a few songs with my fellow students.”

  “You did not entertain the ladies of the capital, then?”

  “I am afraid I did not.”

  “Really, Anrel, have you no interest in the other members of my sex?”

  “Oh, I assure you, dear cousin, I watched the women of Lume with great interest, but with my limited funds I could do little more than watch.”

  “And here I had wondered whether you might not bring home a wife, or at least inform us of a betrothal.”

  Anrel snorted derisively. “I think you have a very unrealistic idea of my circumstances in Lume—and for that matter, anywhere. Much as I might wish otherwise, I am a young man without magic, and with no family trade but sorcery; what do I have to offer a bride?”

  “A charming manner, when you trouble to use it, as well as a quick wit, and a face that is pleasant enough to look upon.”

  “But no employment, nor any great prospects. No lands, nor mastery of any art or trade. A family of some note, true, but one from which I am of necessity outcast.”

  “Anrel! You are no outcast.”

  “You asked me to stop reminding you that I am a commoner, yet once again you force me to do so. In all our extended family, whether Adirane or Murau, is there another commoner to be found? How can I not be considered an outcast?”

  That could hardly be argued, but Saria was not to be deterred so easily. “That doesn’t make you an outcast—but I concede it does alter the situation somewhat. Sti
ll, you are an educated man, one whom several sorcerers look upon with favor even if you are no sorcerer yourself—what young woman would not be willing to at least look at you?”

  “A great many, to judge by my experience in Lume.”

  “They are all fools in Lume, it would seem.”

  Anrel decided he had had enough of defending his own position, and that the time had come to turn from defense to offense. “And you, Cousin—do you have some young man you hope to wed?”

  He had an idea of what answer he might expect, so her blush was not a great surprise, but her words destroyed his theory completely.

  “Not a young man,” she said.

  Momentarily at a loss, he stared at her for a few seconds before asking, “Who might this fortunate man be, then?”

  “Can you not guess? After all, Anrel, if I am to avoid scandal I must marry a sorcerer, and I have had little opportunity to travel beyond the limits of my father’s burgravate.”

  “Indeed,” Anrel said. “I had thought that the obvious match would therefore be yourself and our own Lord Valin.”

  The blush vanished, and Saria’s jaw dropped. “Valin?” she said. “You thought I might marry Valin?”

  “I fail to see why this should so astonish you,” Anrel said.

  “But he’s been like a brother to me!” she protested. “I could no more marry him than I could marry you!”

  “On the contrary,” Anrel said. “There is no legal impediment whatsoever to marrying him, whereas I am quite out of the question. He is a sorcerer, as I am not; he is unrelated by blood, while I am your first cousin, a degree of consanguinity that would require an imperial decree of license to allow marriage. To marry me is twice impossible; to marry Valin would be entirely permissible.”

  “But we grew up together!” Saria said. “You don’t really think I could stand to share my bed with him, do you?” She shuddered with disgust.