Reva shook her head. “No,” she said.
“Your mother, perhaps?”
“I don’t think so, but maybe.”
Anrel gazed thoughtfully at the witch.
She was quite right that a glamour could change one’s appearance, or at least make everyone think it had changed—it worked more on people’s perceptions than on the subject’s own physical self. That could be a very useful spell, and Anrel wondered why he had never heard of criminals using glamours to escape justice.
But then, most magicians were sorcerers, who were automatically members of the nobility; why would they need to commit any crimes? And most of them couldn’t cast glamours, in any case; it was, as Anrel understood it, a difficult and specialized skill that most magicians did not bother to learn, since its uses were limited.
If someone did use glamours to commit crimes, would anyone else know it?
There were other spells that would also be of great use to criminals—memory-altering spells, for example. If a thief could make his victim forget the stolen goods had ever existed . . .
This was part of why sorcerers were made nobles. Put them in charge, and they had no reason to steal, or to go meddling with anyone’s thoughts.
Or at any rate, less reason.
Witches, on the other hand, were outlaws by definition. Why didn’t witches ever tamper with memories, or use glamours to hide from the authorities?
Perhaps they did, and were so successful at it that no one knew it happened. Anrel had been traveling with four witches for almost a season and hadn’t seen them do anything of the sort, but maybe other witches were more gifted.
Or maybe he simply didn’t remember seeing them cast glamours or bind memories. Did he still have the money he thought he did? Perhaps the witches had already taken it, and had altered his memories.
But no, he could feel the weight of it in his coat, and had they taken it and tampered with his memory, why would they allow him to remember it had ever existed at all?
He shook his head. Such treachery, such complex magic, was far beyond these people. Indeed, it was likely that no witch ever managed to learn such advanced magical techniques. If they could perform such feats, why would they bother with false luck spells and fortune-telling?
No, the witches were probably no more than they seemed—but then why did Reva want him to accompany her? “I think it would be unwise for me to attend the reception,” he said.
Reva looked annoyed by this—and something more, Anrel thought. He studied her face, and tried to sense her emotions.
Then suddenly he understood. “You’re afraid,” he said.
“No!”
“Yes, you are,” Anrel insisted. “You want me there—why? In case the spell goes wrong? But what do you expect me to do, in such a case? I’m no great hero from the old folktales, to carry you off on a winged horse before the guards can seize you.”
“But you’re a witch,” Reva said. “Not a very good one yet, but a witch, and you know Lord Allutar. If something goes wrong, you can . . . I don’t know. Hold him back, perhaps, or distract him somehow.”
“I doubt it,” Anrel said dryly. “I’m less a witch than either of your sisters, let alone your mother.”
“Tazia thinks you can do anything,” Reva retorted bitterly.
Anrel grimaced. “Tazia is a wonderful girl, but no great judge of my abilities.”
“What am I supposed to do, then? My father has no magic at all!”
“Your mother is a more talented witch than either of us.”
“Yes, but . . .” Reva hesitated, unable to find the words she wanted.
Anrel thought he understood. “You don’t want your mother to see you fail.”
“I don’t want to put my mother at risk!”
“But you have no qualms about endangering me,” Anrel said.
Reva had no reply to that; she simply stared at him.
Anrel sighed. “I’ve said all along you shouldn’t attempt this spell.”
“But sixty guilders!”
“Is that money worth your life?”
She glared angrily at him. “It’s worth taking a risk, yes,” she said.
Anrel shook his head again. “I think you’re acting like a fool,” he said. His hand rose to his lapel, where he could feel the weight of a golden five-guilder piece. Sixty guilders, along with the other expenses he had incurred since fleeing Naith, would leave him with no more than twenty—he was not sure of the exact amount. Still, he was about to say something, to suggest an alternative to attempting to enchant the landgrave.
“I think you’re acting like an arrogant ass!” Reva snapped back before he could continue, and Anrel’s hand fell from his coat.
“Then why would you trust me to help you? Why not bring someone you trust—Nivain or Tazia or Perynis? Why me?” Even as he asked, he dreaded the thought that she might drag Tazia along into such dangerous circumstances.
“Because I don’t want my mother or my sisters to know how frightened I am!”
For a moment after she said that, the two of them stared silently at each other. The fire in the little stove crackled, but there was no other sound. Reva’s gaze was defiant, unwavering—but Anrel could see her underlying terror.
“I may have a way out of this,” Anrel said at last, stroking his coat.
Reva shook her head. “I said I would do it.”
“What if I knew another way you could earn sixty guilders? A far less dangerous way?”
“I said I would do it,” Reva repeated. “I told Mistress li-Dargalleis I would. I can’t back out now.”
“But if it’s just for the money . . .”
“It’s not,” Reva said. “I said I would do it.”
“You could tell Mistress li-Dargalleis that Lord Allutar’s wards are too strong.”
“I will tell her that if they are too strong. I won’t lie about it.”
“Why not?” Anrel demanded. “You lie often enough when you tell fortunes!”
“That’s not the same thing!”
“How does it differ?”
“My father would know I was lying about the wards. He knows me too well, and he wants that fifty guilders!”
“I thought the money was for you,” Anrel said.
“It is, but . . . you don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t,” Anrel agreed. “Explain it to me.”
Reva looked around the room as if seeking assistance, then turned back to Anrel. “We owe him a debt,” she said. “My mother and my sisters and I, we all owe him a debt, and I need to pay my share of it before I can go.”
“What sort of debt?” Anrel asked, genuinely puzzled. “How much?”
“I don’t . . . I can’t say. I can’t tell you exactly.”
“Would fifty guilders be enough to pay your share?”
“I’m not sure. I think . . . I’m not sure.”
Anrel stared at her.
Hesitantly, Reva said, “You said . . . you said you might have another way to earn sixty guilders?”
“I might,” Anrel said.
“But then if I did that, as well, I would have more than a hundred! Father would surely release me for that much!”
Anrel remembered what Tazia had said, that no matter how much money they earned, their father would never release any of them. If Tazia understood that, why didn’t Reva?
He shook his head. “No. You cannot do both.”
“Why not?”
He could not think of any palatable way to present the truth, to admit that he had been hiding money from them all, to say that he wanted to pay her to save her own life, but would not give her the money if she continued with her spell. He was more certain than ever that if he gave her the money, she would still take Mimmin’s fee, as well, and attempt the spell.
But a lie occurred to him.
“I have reason to believe,” he said, “that Lady Saria would pay you sixty guilders not to enchant her betrothed.”
Reva stare
d at him, then shook her head. “No,” she said. “I can’t do that.”
Astonished, he asked, “Why not?”
“Because it’s a trap.”
“What?” Anrel blinked. “Why do you think that?”
“I grew up a witch’s daughter, Anrel. While it may be possible that a sorceress would hire a witch honestly, I know better than to trust one in a situation like this. No, she would pay me the money, then claim I had stolen it and send me to the gallows. Or if she did not, then when I told Mistress li-Dargalleis that I was refusing her request, she might summon the watchmen, and neither of them would feel the slightest guilt about sending a criminal to her death. Don’t you see? As a witch, I never dare betray a customer. If a spell goes wrong or a fortune fails to come true I can always say the spirits were uncooperative, or another witch interfered, but if I were to betray a trust as you propose—no. I can’t do that.”
Anrel stood silently for a moment, absorbing that, and then nodded reluctantly. He thought he understood. As a witch and the daughter of a witch, Reva’s life had always been in danger, and always would be. Casting a spell on Lord Allutar would increase the danger briefly, yes, but any course of action—or inaction—might get her killed. Anything that antagonized a customer could put her head in a noose. She had lived her entire life in the shadow of the gallows.
Perhaps if he had spoken sooner, before she had agreed to cast the love spell, he might have been able to persuade her, but now it was too late. He simply couldn’t see any way to convince her to abandon the job she had accepted.
He felt he had failed her by allowing the situation to reach this state, and that being the case, he could not refuse to do whatever he could to help her survive. “I’ll want your help disguising myself for the reception,” he said. “My hair hasn’t been cut since I fled Naith, and surely we can do something with that.”
“Agreed,” she replied.
Anrel knew he was making a mistake, and that Reva was probably making an even worse one, but she was so determined that he saw no alternative. He tried to make the best of it.
“Even if you can’t cast a proper glamour, could you perhaps change my skin color, or reshape my features a little?” he asked.
“I can try. I might not be able to change it back.”
“I’ll live with it.
“One more thing,” he said.
“What?” Reva asked warily.
“When this is over, you’ll help me talk to your father. About Tazia.”
“Oh.” She relaxed slightly. “Oh, yes. Of course.” She smiled. “I’m happy for you two, you know. I hope it will work out.”
“Thank you,” Anrel said. “I hope so, too.”
28
In Which Anrel Prepares for Lord
Allutar’s Reception
When the two of them returned to the dining hall they found Garras asleep in the corner, his head flung back against the wall. He was snoring softly.
The other Lir women, though, were still gathered around a table. Anrel and Reva joined them, and found themselves facing three questioning faces.
“Well?” Perynis demanded.
“We saw Mistress li-Dargalleis leave,” Tazia said. “She seemed nervous.” Her own expression was hopeful as she looked at Anrel.
“She has to sell her jewelry,” Reva said. “We agreed on sixty guilders.”
Tazia’s head snapped around to look at her sister, then swung back to Anrel. “She agreed? Even though he’s betrothed?”
“She knew about the betrothal,” Anrel said. “She will be satisfied to be the landgrave’s mistress, rather than his wife.”
“I think she prefers to be his mistress,” Reva said.
“Then why did she agree to a higher price?” Nivain asked.
“I said there might be a binding between Allutar and Saria,” Reva explained. “That it was more dangerous than I had realized.”
“It is too dangerous!” Tazia said. “How could you agree?”
“Sixty guilders, Tazia. Sixty guilders, and a good reputation here in Beynos.”
“How could you let her agree?” Tazia demanded, turning to Anrel once more.
“How could I stop her? She’s a free woman, or so I assume.”
“Of course she is, but . . .” Tazia frowned.
“Anrel has agreed to accompany me to Lord Allutar’s reception, to aid me should anything go wrong,” Reva said. “And he did try to sway me.” She threw him a glance. “I don’t think he entirely understood what a witch’s life is like—neither the risks we take nor how much sixty guilders will mean to us.”
Anrel bowed in acknowledgment. “But I fear, mistress, that you may not understand how very dangerous Lord Allutar is. I have seen him kill a man in cold blood, and I do not think he would scruple to hang a witch.”
“Nor would any landgrave,” Reva retorted. “And I will have you there to protect me.”
“But—doesn’t Lord Allutar know Anrel?” Perynis asked.
“He does,” Anrel admitted. “I will be attending as one Dyssan Lir, Reva’s brother, and it is my hope that you might all assist in disguising me, so that Master Lir will not be recognized as either the fugitive Murau or the notorious Alvos.”
“Disguise how?” Nivain asked.
Anrel glanced at Reva. “I thought perhaps a spell to change my features, or my skin—a glamour, if any of you know how.”
The four witches looked at one another, then all leaned forward across the table, shutting Anrel out, as they began discussing the possibilities.
None of them knew how to cast a proper glamour; the three daughters all looked expectantly at their mother, but she shook her head. “No,” Nivain said. “I tried it once. It’s beyond me.”
“Then we might lengthen his nose,” Perynis suggested.
“I was thinking about his ears,” Reva replied.
In the end they decided not to alter Anrel’s features—for one thing, Tazia vigorously objected to the idea. “I like his face the way it is,” she insisted.
While Anrel was flattered by that, he found Nivain’s argument for avoiding any magical changes much more convincing. She was unsure how stable any such magic would be, in particular in a house as heavily warded as Lord Allutar’s surely was, and if the spell were disrupted the result would almost certainly draw more attention than Anrel’s own face.
“I’ll just stay out of sight as much as I can,” he agreed.
Later, after supper, when Tazia was able to get Anrel alone in a quiet passageway, she tried to convince him not to go at all. “Lord Allutar knows you!” she said. “Even if he doesn’t particularly want you dead, do you think he’ll just let you go if he sees you there in his own house?”
“I don’t intend to let him see me,” Anrel said. “I’ll stay in the shadows, in the corners. If I see anyone looking at me, I’ll slip away.”
“If you can,” Tazia retorted.
“Yes, if I can.”
“It’s dangerous!”
“Of course it is, but I told Reva I would go.”
Tazia frowned. She did not bother to argue further, but she did say emphatically, “I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” Anrel said. “But if there’s a chance I might save your sister by being there, then I must be there.”
“Why should you go, and not my mother? She’s a much better witch, and Lord Allutar doesn’t know her!”
Anrel smiled. “I asked Reva the same thing, and I respect her answer.”
Tazia stared at him for a moment, then said, “But you aren’t going to tell me what she said.”
“No, I am not.”
“Anrel, this is madness. You’re risking your life.”
“I am, yes. I’m risking it in hopes of preserving your sister’s life.”
Tazia’s eyes were suddenly wet. “I don’t want to lose both of you!”
“And I don’t want to lose you,” Anrel said gently. “If I let Reva go to her death without at least trying to help he
r, I wouldn’t be worthy of you—and you would know it, in your heart. You wouldn’t want me if I did that.”
Tazia hesitated. “I think you overestimate me,” she said.
“I know I do not,” Anrel said. “If I will not face danger for those I love, then what is my love worth? How can I call it love at all? Would you have a man who knows nothing of love?”
“But you don’t love Reva!” Tazia protested.
“No,” Anrel agreed, “but I love you, and you love her.”
At that Tazia broke down in tears, and Anrel took her in his arms, offering reassurances that needed no words.
Anrel spent much of the following day in the room above the stable, preparing his attire. He needed to dress in a way that he would not be obviously out of place at a landgrave’s reception, but that would allow him to at least partially conceal his identity. Fortunately the weather was still cold, so at least at first he could wrap a scarf around the lower half of his face and pull a hat down on his forehead without attracting suspicion. If he stayed near the door, that might be enough.
He brushed out his brown velvet coat, and with Tazia’s assistance made some alterations—it seemed unlikely that anyone would recognize it after so long, in any case, and he had been wearing it openly, but there was no point in taking any unnecessary risk. New trim on the lapels and white lace at the collar transformed it sufficiently to satisfy him. His hidden money remained in the lining; if Tazia had noticed the extra weight she did not mention it.
Anrel’s hat had been utterly nondescript to begin with, and had become rather more battered since his speech in Naith, so that it was even less noticeable. It only needed a little cleaning.
His beard, which he had customarily kept trimmed evenly, he carefully reshaped to a point below his chin. He decided he rather liked the effect, and might want to keep it permanently.
He had thought that would probably be sufficient disguise, but shortly after lunch Tazia dragged him aside and proceeded to bleach his hair and beard—not with magic, but with some foul-smelling liquid she had spent much of the morning in obtaining. When she was done he looked in a glass, and marveled at the result—the blond hair and pointed beard made him look somehow foreign, more like a Quandishman or a Cousiner than a Walasian. He hardly recognized himself.
A Young Man Without Magic Page 28
