A Young Man Without Magic

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Of course. And the third?”

  “An apology for the murder of Lord Valin, who had committed no crime deserving death.”

  “An apology? An apology?”

  “Yes.”

  Lord Allutar leaned back in his chair. “You amaze me. You are bargaining for your life, yet you still concern yourself with an apology that will change nothing?”

  “Yes.” Anrel made no attempt to explain. He was not sure he could explain why an apology was important; he merely knew that it was.

  “And if I refuse to apologize, what will you do? You would not die for the sake of this woman; will you die for an apology?”

  “Will it harm you to make one, my lord?”

  “Harm is not the issue. Do you think you can make demands of me because I intend to wed your cousin? I have offered you your life after you threw it away for the sake of your friend’s memory, and you are not satisfied? I have offered you your freedom after you invaded my private study to rescue a condemned felon, and you want more? Do you feel no gratitude at all that I am allowing you to go unharmed? Father and Mother, man, but your insolence astonishes me!”

  “And your arrogance appalls me, my lord. You have taken an innocent man’s life, you have by your own admission enslaved a woman the law does not consider deserving of such treatment, yet you cannot bring yourself to make a simple expression of regret?”

  “Oh, I have my regrets, sir!” Allutar exclaimed. “I regret I did not kill both of you!”

  “You can, of course, remedy that omission, if you are willing to forgo my cousin’s embrace.”

  “You forget yourself, sir! And you forget who and what I am. I could enchant Lady Saria, as this witch would have enchanted me, and wipe all memory of your existence from her mind—have you forgotten that? I do not do so because I am an honorable man and would prefer my marriage to be built upon genuine affection, but you provoke me—do not think it beyond me.”

  “Oh, I am sure it is not, my lord. A man who would rather hang a helpless young woman than be seen to change his mind, a man who would rather commit a second murder than apologize for his first—what could be beyond you? But you know as well as I do that memory spells are difficult and unreliable, and that Lady Saria is an accomplished sorceress herself. Ensorceling her effectively would not be an easy task. Better to tolerate my insolence, and allow yourself a pretense of benevolence.”

  Lord Allutar stuttered with rage, and leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over backward. “You dare? You, a mere commoner, speak to me like that?”

  Anrel rose, as well. “I speak as I choose, my lord. I am a free man, commoner or not. Your wards could not keep me out, and your words cannot intimidate me.”

  “Get out!” Allutar bellowed, pointing at the door. “Get out, before I forget my own best intentions and rip your heart out!”

  Anrel hesitated for a fraction of a second, tempted to stay and argue—but Lord Allutar could indeed rip his heart out with a spell, and was even now raising his hands as if preparing to cast one. If Anrel fled now he might still find a way to free Reva; if he died, or stayed under Lord Allutar’s eye, the witch was doomed.

  And he had not yet sworn to any part of Lord Allutar’s bargain, a fact that the landgrave might recall at any instant. Nor had he revealed how he passed the wards, a bit of information that might well alter Lord Allutar’s attitude toward him.

  Anrel turned and ran.

  34

  In Which Anrel Marshals His Resources

  Anrel made no attempt at stealth or discretion as he fled; he ran up the stairs at full tilt, and charged through the house and out the front door, past a footman and the homunculus, without pausing.

  His first impulse was to direct his path toward the city gate and head for Lume, but what could he possibly hope to accomplish there? Half the morning was gone, and he had only the vaguest notion of how he might locate members of the Grand Council in the capital’s sprawling labyrinth of streets, courts, and alleys. There simply wasn’t time to arrange a pardon, and after what he had just heard he was not at all certain Lord Allutar would respect one if by some miracle it were issued. Wasting the one day Reva had on such a hopeless effort would be foolish. He needed to find some other way to rescue her.

  A pardon was not to be had, nor would Lord Allutar show mercy. A direct attempt to free her had failed, and Anrel could see no way another attempt would fare better—she was held fast by chains and spells, and Lord Allutar was aware that efforts were under way to save her, so she would almost certainly be guarded even more thoroughly now.

  If he could not convince Lord Allutar to free her, and could not free her himself, what other possibilities remained?

  He could not immediately think of any, but nonetheless, he no longer saw any point in going to Lume. Instead, once he had stumbled down the sweeping stair from Lord Allutar’s front door to the street, he turned his steps toward the bridge, not because he had any great need to cross the Galdin, but simply because it gave him a direction.

  The sun was bright, and overnight the air had turned unseasonably warm; the snow underfoot was melting, turning to slush and puddles as he hurried down the slope. Several townspeople were taking advantage of this thaw to go about business they had put off over the past few days, and the streets were busy.

  The sight of all those other people finally brought the obvious answer to his question to Anrel’s mind. If he could not free her, and Allutar would not free her, then he must find someone else who could and would—or several someones.

  None of Reva’s family could do anything. The best any of them could devise was Garras’s plan to trade Anrel’s life for Reva’s.

  Lady Saria—Anrel did not know for certain where she was, whether she was in Beynos or Alzur or somewhere else entirely, and he not only doubted that she could persuade Lord Allutar; he doubted that he could persuade her to intervene. Her affection for Anrel would probably not extend to making demands on her own future husband on behalf of Anrel’s possible future sister-in-law.

  The person Lord Allutar seemed to most trust in all the world was that servant of his, Hollem tel-Guriel, but Anrel could think of no way to sway Hollem to aid Reva, and trusted or not, Hollem was still Lord Allutar’s servant, not his master.

  There was, in fact, no one Anrel could see how to usefully recruit—as Anrel Murau.

  But Alvos of Naith, on the other hand . . .

  He paused at the foot of the bridge and looked at the dozens of townspeople around him, wrapped in coats of fur and wool and leather, going about their business. These were the ordinary people of the empire, not sorcerers and witches, but workmen and merchants and housewives. These were the common people that Valin had spoken about, the people he had said should be running the empire, should be in charge of their own destinies.

  These same workmen and merchants and housewives hired witches to treat their ills and tell their fortunes, to place their wells and bless their livestock—and a good many of them would probably come tomorrow morning to watch one of those witches hang.

  Perhaps these ordinary people should be given a chance to assert the authority Valin had claimed for them. Perhaps Alvos could advise them to do so, if he had the opportunity to speak at the hanging.

  Anrel frowned. Where was the hanging to be? Hangings were traditionally public spectacles, allowing everyone to see justice being done. In Lume there was a permanent gallows in a place called Executioner’s Court, perhaps a hundred yards downwind from the emperor’s palace in the direction of the Pensioners’ Quarter, near the headquarters of the Emperor’s Watch; it was surrounded on all sides by arcades surmounted by watchmen’s walks, to allow for control of unruly crowds. Anrel had seen no evidence of such a place in Beynos.

  Alzur did not hold hangings; had any criminal ever been captured there he would have been sent to face the magistrates in Naith. Anrel had never seen a hanging in Naith, but they did occur, and he had the impression that they took place in a yard behind the courtho
use.

  Did Beynos operate on the same model as Alzur? Would Reva be sent to the Executioner’s Court in Lume? That seemed unlikely—but if it was the case it opened new possibilities, as her escort to the capital might be waylaid on the road.

  But it really did seem unlikely; Anrel could not imagine the bureaucrats of Lume allowing outsiders to hang someone in the Executioner’s Court without days of negotiation and paperwork. No, Beynos presumably had a gallows somewhere, or a place where one could be improvised. He would need to learn more.

  He also needed to plan out exactly what he intended to say and do.

  The inns—the Sunrise House and the Flying Duck and whatever others there might be—were presumably open for business now, as they had not been late last night; he could get something to eat and drink and talk to a few people, find out where Reva was to die, and perhaps get a feel for the mood of the populace, and an idea what words might best sway them. He turned back toward the square.

  He did not think Lord Allutar intended to pursue him; the landgrave wanted Anrel to live, or at least he did not want to be responsible for Anrel’s death. Anrel did not think Allutar would send either his own men or the burgrave’s watchmen to canvass the inns and taverns, looking for the fugitive. He should be safe enough.

  Anrel took a final glance upstream toward Lume. Was he doing the right thing? Was his trust in his own ability in oratory misplaced? Might it be better to rush to Lume and try to find Derhin, to try to arrange a stay of execution, pending a pardon?

  But he doubted he could find and sway Derhin in time. A fiery speech asking the townspeople to intervene might not save Reva, but it seemed to Anrel the best of the available options.

  Now he had to devise one.

  The Sunrise House was open for business, and his presence in the saloon there was accepted without question. A few pence got him a breakfast of bland hash and scrambled eggs that were not as fresh as one might have hoped, washed down with a mug of small beer. A smile and a few wry remarks got him the ear of two of the locals, who filled his appetite for information as well as the hash and eggs had filled his belly.

  Hangings, he learned, were conducted on the famous bridge itself. A structure that Anrel had taken for mere decorative elaboration that extended out over the water on the downstream side was, he was informed, a hoist that also served as a gallows. The remains of the condemned would dangle over open water, simplifying the eventual cleanup. If no friends or relatives claimed the body and paid the appropriate fees within the customary three days the rope would be cut, dropping the corpse into the river to be carried away by the current; there would be no need to put any effort into disposal of the remains.

  This did not strike Anrel as a particularly healthy idea for anyone downstream, as everyone knew the dead carried harmful influences if not properly placated and buried, but he did not suppose the people of Beynos greatly concerned themselves with such details.

  Word that a witch was to be hanged on the morrow had indeed spread through town. Not everyone at the inn had been aware of it, but one of Anrel’s breakfast companions knew the entire tale of how some poor foolish woman had been caught trying to enchant Lord Allutar at the landgrave’s own reception, and had been flung into a dungeon, where she was now awaiting her doom.

  Some details in his version were not quite what Anrel knew to be the truth; they had altered in the telling, as such things are wont to do. The witch was now reported to have been in the pay of Quandish agents who had hoped to force Lord Allutar to spy for them. Anrel supposed this theory came from Reva’s improvised code phrase.

  “I had heard it was a love spell,” he said. He hoped this might displace the story of Quandish duplicity. It would be far easier to defend a woman hoping to capture a man’s heart than a witch attempting to subvert a government official, and this story had the advantage of being the truth. “I had heard she made up some foolish tale about Quandish spies to protect the identity of the girl who had hired her, some poor young thing with more money than sense who had fallen madly in love with the landgrave.”

  “Well, if she didn’t admit it, how do you know?” the man who had brought up the espionage theory demanded.

  “From Lord Allutar’s servants, of course. The witch revealed the truth later, when Lord Allutar questioned her. I suppose he ensorceled her. Anyway, that man Hollem heard the whole thing, and told my cousin Nilue, and she told me.”

  “My brother’s mistress was at the reception, and she said it was Quandish spies.”

  “That’s what the witch claimed, yes, but Nilue swears that the truth came out under later questioning. Just a girl smitten with the landgrave, no Quandish agents. After all, friend, have you seen any Quandishmen in town? I haven’t.”

  “Well, they wouldn’t admit they were Quandish!”

  “Could any foreigner pass for Walasian? You don’t think his speech and appearance would give him away?”

  “Speaking of appearance,” another man remarked, “you look Quandish.”

  Anrel suddenly found himself the focus of attention for everyone else in the room.

  “I won’t deny some Quandish blood,” he said, in the most casual tone he could manage, “but I was born and raised in Aulix.”

  “How do we know that? Maybe you hired the witch!”

  “Friends, I can barely afford this beer—how would I pay a witch enough to enchant Lord Allutar? It would take far more money than I have to pay for such folly! I’d say overcoming a witch’s common sense that way must have cost at least a dozen guilders, and if I had a dozen guilders, do you think I’d be wearing this hand-me-down ruin instead of a good warm coat?”

  That seemed to mollify most of the drinkers’ suspicions, but one man was not so easily deterred. “It could be a disguise,” he said. “How do we know you don’t have half the Quandish treasury to draw on?”

  Anrel shook his head. “You poor, poor man. Do you think the Quandish government would be stupid enough to send a spy dressed like this?” He tugged at his coat. “Do you think they can’t afford walnut juice to dye their man’s hair? That’s the easy part of disguising a man! It’s getting the language, the accent, and the manner right that’s difficult, but here I am, blond as any Ondiner, dressed in castoffs and speaking Walasian as well as any of you.”

  “You could be a Quandish sorcerer, casting a glamour on your speech!”

  Anrel laughed outright. “Oh, certainly, they would send a sorcerer who can cast a glamour to hire a Walasian witch, rather than having him ensorcel Lord Allutar himself. And of course, such a master magician would enchant his speech, but not his appearance! Tell me, friend, do you see a great many Quandish spies around here? Perhaps hiding in your woodpile, or sweeping the streets?”

  That got a laugh from the crowd. Anrel’s questioner looked angry for a moment, but then glanced around at the smiles on his neighbors’ faces, and his expression turned sheepish. “You’re right,” he admitted. “A sorcerer wouldn’t need to hire a witch, and a Quandish spy wouldn’t dress like you.” His features hardened. “But there could be a Quandish spy involved, all the same!”

  “That girl who wanted the love spell,” someone suggested. “Perhaps she’s the Quandish spy, and both stories are true! She planned to control Lord Allutar with her charms.”

  “That could be,” Anrel said. He shrugged. “Who knows?” He drank, then asked, “What does your burgrave think of all this? It sounds to me as if Lord Allutar seized this witch and plans to hang her without so much as asking the burgrave’s blessing.”

  “Lord Diosin?” Someone laughed. “Lord Diosin isn’t going to argue with the landgrave of Aulix. If Lord Allutar wants to hang someone, Lord Diosin will gladly hand him the rope.”

  “Not jealous of his prerogatives, then?”

  “Not if it would get in the way of toadying to his betters.”

  “Ah,” Anrel said. He beckoned to the innkeeper. “Another beer, if you please?”

  As he waited for his mug to be fi
lled, Anrel looked over the crowd and listened to their chatter. They were now making crude jokes about the burgrave of Beynos; clearly, Lord Diosin was not greatly beloved by his people.

  The jokes were good-humored, though; they did not seem to feel any real rancor against the burgrave.

  Mentions of the promised hanging were surprisingly few, really. These people did not seem particularly upset about the coming execution, nor particularly pleased by the prospect.

  Anrel thought it would be easier to sway them if there were more obvious resentment of Lord Allutar’s high-handed actions, but at least they were not applauding the witch’s capture. They were more concerned with Lord Diosin’s sexual habits and imaginary Quandish spies than with Reva’s impending death.

  Bringing these people to acts of open defiance would be difficult, very difficult—but Anrel had no other choice. He would, he decided, spend the rest of the day trying to lay the groundwork.

  And tomorrow, he would gamble Reva’s life, and quite possibly his own, on the legend and oratorical skills of the infamous Alvos.

  35

  In Which Anrel Attempts the Impossible

  Anrel was on the bridge across the Galdin bright and early the next morning, taking a place by the upstream railing and settling in for a wait. He had blackened his coat with char from the inn’s fireplace, and stuffed rushes into his shirt to pad it out and make himself appear a much larger man. He kept his hat pulled down to hide his face as much as he could without drawing suspicion, and spent much of his time looking out over the water.

  The river had never entirely frozen over, so far as Anrel had seen, and right now it was mostly open water, flowing sluggishly between ice-covered banks. He could see no boats moving—hardly surprising, this time of year. Several were tied up along either side, most of them at least partially icebound.

  There were a good many pedestrians around, though, encouraged by the milder weather to get out into the fresh air and go about their business. No one paid any attention to Anrel, so far as he could tell. He had feared that someone might notice him there, recognize him, and call the watchmen, but the townsfolk seemed happy to attend to their own concerns and leave him undisturbed.