“Yes,” the boy said.
“He was staying at the Elbow?”
“Yes.”
“You will pardon me, sir,” the knife wielder said, his breath once again filling Anrel’s ear. “I am puzzled by my companion’s discovery.”
“It does seem peculiar that a lad his age would be carrying so much money,” Anrel said.
“Let us drop this pretense, sir. Although that money is ours now, it was yours, and you surely knew it was there, yet you took lodging at the Emperor’s Elbow?”
“I did.”
“While I regret the necessity of speaking ill of a local institution, and particularly one that has been the pride of the Guirion family for a dozen generations and of great use to many of my friends, it cannot have escaped your notice that the Emperor’s Elbow is in all likelihood the worst inn in all of Lume. You had the money in your pocket to pay for a far better one. Why, then, your choice of lodging?”
“I had other uses for that money,” Anrel said.
“Would you care to be more specific?”
“No.”
For a moment there was a baffled silence as the man considered that response; then the boy spoke up.
“It was heavier than this,” he said.
“What?” The man’s breath was gone again.
“The coat. It was heavier. Four guilders and a tinderbox—it was heavier than that. There’s something else in it. That’s why I held on to it as long as I could.”
“Four guilders is a good night’s work in any case,” the man said.
“There’s more,” the boy insisted. “I know there is.”
“The coat’s velvet,” the man said, not convinced. “That’s a heavy fabric.”
“Not as heavy as wool, and that coat weighs more than it should.”
“Well, friend,” the man said, addressing Anrel anew, “is there anything you would care to tell us? My compatriot is young, but he knows his trade well.”
Anrel hesitated, and the man added, “We would regret the necessity of cutting the coat apart to discover your secrets. We would likewise regret the necessity of cutting you apart, should you fail to cooperate.”
“And if I do cooperate, you’ll release me?”
“That is indeed the bargain I propose, yes.”
Anrel hesitated again, thinking over his situation. He held no weapon, but his father’s dagger was still in his boot, and he had one other weapon that these people could not know about. He had denied it for most of his life, and he was unskilled in its use, but he did have his magic.
If he gave up all his money, what would he do with himself? He had no friends or family, no home, no income; he was an outlaw, a fugitive who had violated the empire’s laws and who could therefore expect no protection from them.
It might be simpler if he did die here, alone in the snow, fighting these thieves. He had failed Valin and Tazia and Reva; he scarcely deserved to live. He scarcely wanted to live, knowing he would never see them again—Valin and Reva because they were dead, and Tazia because he was not worthy of her.
He would resist. He would fight. The Mother and the Father would decide whether he lived or died.
He began to draw power from the earth beneath his feet up into his heart. He did not yet know what he intended to do with it, whether he would attempt a binding or a ward or some other spell, but he meant to try something.
4
In Which Anrel Agrees to Terms
The knife pressed a little harder into Anrel’s back. “You seem reluctant to speak,” the thief said. “What secret can you have that’s worth your life?”
That question, combined with the growing awareness of forbidden magical energy in his breast, the memory of Reva’s death less than twenty-four hours before, and his despair at Tazia’s loss suddenly struck Anrel funny, and to everyone’s shock, not excepting his own, he burst out laughing.
The arm around his throat loosened, then withdrew, and the knifepoint’s pressure lessened.
“He’s mad,” someone said—a new voice, one that Anrel thought was probably a woman’s.
“Or perhaps he truly does have a secret worth more than his life,” the knife man said.
“Not more,” Anrel said, struggling to catch his breath. “But a secret worth my life? Oh, yes. More than one.”
That was no more than the truth. The knowledge that he was the infamous Alvos who had incited the riots in Naith and inspired the commoners to vote dozens of populist radicals onto the Grand Council was worth his life. The fact that he was a witch, a magician whose name was not on the Great List, would also be sufficient to hang him. Compared to those the thirty-five guilders hidden in the coat’s lining were trivial, yet the money was the secret he had chosen to keep.
“You intrigue me, sir. You will not say why you were at the Emperor’s Elbow, nor what weighs down your coat?”
Anrel was suddenly tired of this confrontation. It was the middle of the night, and he was out in a snowstorm, in perhaps the most dangerous part of Lume, arguing with thieves who had threatened to kill him, one of whom was still holding a knife to his back. He was cold and angry and exhausted, it was less than a full day since he had lost any hope of marrying the woman he loved, and he could feel the Mother’s energy in his heart, ready to be used.
He would indeed use it, he decided. He would attempt a ward, a protective spell—wards were simple, and the only magic he had any real experience in using. It would be as general as he could make it, designed to turn aside blades or fists. In his present sorry state he did not have the subtlety to ward off anger or other emotions, but physical attacks were straightforward.
He doubted he had the skill to cast a truly effective ward, but it might help. He turned the power in his breast outward, but did not release it.
That might be enough to save him from the attack he expected, or it might not, but in his present slough of anger and despair he did not really care. He wanted this over, one way or another.
“I will say nothing to you, sir,” he said. “You have your four guilders, and I am going back to my bed.” He started walking toward the gate—not running, but walking slowly and deliberately. He waited for the feel of the knife plunging toward his back, and wondered whether the ward would turn it aside, or whether it would stab into him. Perhaps it would be deflected enough to turn the stab into a slash. He debated stooping to pull his own dagger from his boot, to be ready for the fight that now seemed inevitable.
Shadows appeared, blocking his path. Anrel stopped, frowning. He could not see any features in the darkness, but the size and general outline indicated that he was facing at least two large men.
“Did you think there were just the two of us?” the man with the knife asked, his voice as casual as ever.
“I had thought that at this time of night even most denizens of this unfortunate neighborhood would have the sense to stay indoors, out of the snow,” Anrel replied angrily. His hand fell toward his boot.
“Sense hasn’t a thing to do with it,” said the voice that had called him mad, from somewhere on his right. “Now, what’s in that coat?”
“I am,” Anrel said, “and I intend to stay in it.”
“I admire your nerve, sir,” said the man with the knife. “But be reasonable—if you leave here, where will you go? Back to the Elbow? Surely by now you’ve realized why Master Guirion requires payment in advance.”
In fact, Anrel had not thought of that, but now it was obvious. The innkeeper clearly knew his guests were likely to be robbed, and did nothing to prevent it, or even to warn them. He probably received a share of the proceeds. Anrel could expect no safety there. If he went back there it would presumably merely put matters off briefly. Even if the innkeeper feigned innocence and allowed him to return to his bed unmolested, he would not stay there long. The thieves had taken a very definite interest in himself and his coat, and would undoubtedly corner him there. There were no other guests to make common cause with him in defense against such p
redators.
He could find another inn—but perhaps not at this hour, in the snow, in Catseye. And if he went wandering about the streets, what would stop these people from following him and waylaying him at the first opportunity?
He could find a watchman and ask for protection—but he was a wanted criminal himself, out well past curfew. The thieves had no way of knowing he was a fugitive, but they did know about the curfew, and that he had a secret of some sort. They probably guessed that his secret, whatever it might be, would make him reluctant to invite official involvement. The curfew ensured that anything he did or said would be met with official suspicion.
“That coat is velvet,” said the man with the knife. “It was a fine garment when it was new, but it’s far from new. Handed down to you, perhaps? You had four guilders in your pockets, yet you were staying at the Elbow—”
“He had no baggage,” the boy who had originally taken the coat interrupted. “Not so much as a purse.”
The knife man continued, “And you have no baggage. You say you have secrets worth your life. If I were to venture a guess, my friend, I would say you are most likely a servant who stole from his employer, was caught in the act, and fled. What’s in the coat, then? The family silver, perhaps?”
“I did not rob my employer,” Anrel said, both annoyed and amused by the accusation.
“Still, I cannot think of any reason for an honest man with four guilders in his pocket to stay at the Emperor’s Elbow. I believe you went there to hide. No one would think to look for you there.”
Anrel did not reply to that.
“Kill him and take the coat so we can all get some sleep,” a new voice called from the darkness.
“Hear that, friend?” the knife man said. “I am not so bloodthirsty as some of my neighbors, but I am not especially squeamish, either, and I am running out of patience.”
“Then get on with it,” Anrel snapped. “Try to kill me, and I will defend myself, and we will see what happens.” He stretched his hand down and began to stoop slightly, preparing to grab his father’s dagger.
“I would prefer to avoid that,” the knife man said. “Let us see if we cannot arrive at an agreeable alternative.”
“Let me go,” Anrel said. “And don’t follow me. That will be the end of it.”
“No,” the man said judiciously. “No, I do not think that would suit us. Now there are at least half a dozen of us awake and involved, and while that four guilders divided six ways will be greatly appreciated, I still have hopes for better. You have aroused both my curiosity and my cupidity. I think you came to the Elbow to hide—do you deny it?”
Anrel became aware of a faint rustling; people were moving in the surrounding gloom, people he could not see. He heard whispering, as well, a sound he had previously taken for the hiss of falling snow but now recognized as quiet conversation. He was not sure what was being said, or what these people were doing, but he doubted it bode well. “I deny nothing,” he said. “Neither do I confirm it.”
“Let us assume that you were, in fact, seeking a sanctuary. Has it occurred to you that we who live in the Pensioners’ Quarter do so because it is our sanctuary?”
Startled, Anrel turned, trying to make out the other’s face through the gloom. “What does that have to do with me?” he asked.
“You are a brave and levelheaded fellow,” the thief said. “You have not blustered and threatened, you did not run pell-mell, you did not protest when my compatriot emptied your pocket. I think I might find a use for you, should you choose to stay here with us.”
“What?”
The thief ignored Anrel’s bafflement. “Tell me, was my guess right?” he asked. “Have you lived in the homes of the wealthy? Do you know their ways?”
“I lived for several years in a burgrave’s home,” Anrel replied cautiously.
“A burgrave? A sorcerer?”
“Yes, a sorcerer.”
“Oh, excellent!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I am offering you, my friend, a place to stay, here in the Pensioners’ Quarter, and gainful, if not lawful, employment.”
“Doz, what are you doing?” the woman who had called Anrel mad demanded.
“Exactly what I say,” the knife wielder replied. “Look at the way this man has handled himself, alone in the cold and dark, surrounded by foes! I can use a man like this.”
“What about his coat?” the boy-thief demanded.
“Ah,” Doz said. “That is the next matter to be resolved, should this fellow be interested in my offer. Are you, sir?”
Anrel wished he could see the man’s face, but the faint glow of the fire behind him cast the knife wielder’s features in shadow.
Could he take this offer seriously? A safe place to live and a job—that was exactly what Anrel had hoped to find in Lume. But a place in the Pensioners’ Quarter, working with thieves? That had not been in his plans. No place in the quarter was truly safe, and no job there was entirely honest.
Still, what better choice did he have? He was here, surrounded by thieves, and they did not seem willing to let him go. Better to stay as a new recruit to their gang than as a corpse, or as a victim stripped and beaten and left lying in the snow.
And they could not watch him every minute of every day if he agreed to join them. Once he had gained their trust, once they had accepted him as one of their own, he could leave and find himself another, more respectable living.
For now it would do no harm to at least find out more of what his captors had in mind.
Rumor would have it that the inhabitants of the Pensioners’ Quarter were little better than beasts, but during his student days Anrel had given the matter some thought, and noticed that the streets of the quarter were not littered with corpses—the inhabitants did not all slaughter each other, nor did they all starve to death. The numbers of thieves and scoundrels said to lurk here did not seem to dwindle over time, which meant that they had some sort of functioning society, so they were not all hopelessly stupid and bloodthirsty. Unfortunate, yes, and unquestionably outlaws, but not so ferocious or bestial they could not be bargained with.
“I might be,” Anrel acknowledged.
“Then if we are to work together, we must demonstrate our trust for one another. I am called Doz, and you are…?”
“Dyssan,” Anrel said.
“And your coat contains…?”
“I have said I will not tell you.”
“But that was when we were foes. Can you not trust me with the secret now?”
“You have, as yet, done nothing to earn my trust.”
“I haven’t killed you,” Doz pointed out.
Anrel smiled wryly to himself. “Admirable, but insufficient,” he replied.
Doz sighed. “Then let us leave it for the moment. Let us find you a place to stay, and when you awake in the morning, and find that we have not killed you in your sleep, nor stolen your precious coat, why, then we may have a foundation on which to build.”
Anrel considered that, then shrugged. “I confess I see no convenient alternative.”
Anrel could not see the other man’s face, but from the tilt of his head Anrel thought Doz was studying him. Then Doz said, “You seem a very calm fellow, Dyssan.” He looked around. “I don’t think we can find you a bed, as such, but a quiet corner out of the wind and snow, under a roof that doesn’t leak much, should be attainable.”
“That would suit me well enough.”
“Tomorrow we will continue our discussion of your future.”
“That, too, would be acceptable.”
“Come, then.”
He led the way toward the fire, deeper into the dreaded Pensioners’ Quarter, and Anrel followed.
5
In Which Anrel Is Offered Employment
Anrel awoke the next morning and took his first look at his new lodging.
He had been led here in the dark—Doz had apparently not considered light necessary, and even in the last
flurries of snow the faint glow of the city had not penetrated the depths of the Pensioners’ Quarter. Anrel had been escorted through a tangle of foul-smelling alleys where he could barely avoid walking into the wall at every turn, and then through a series of unlit rooms, across creaking floors, to a chamber where Doz directed him to a corner and said, “I trust this will do.”
Anrel had been unable to see any details. The room had a window, he knew that much, as that had been a visible patch of dark gray in the blackness. His assigned corner was, if not warm, at least warmer than the streets, and neither wind nor snow seemed to penetrate, which was good. Even after Doz took his leave Anrel had heard breathing, and smelled unwashed flesh, so he knew he was not alone in this place.
That, however, was the extent of his knowledge. Weary as he was, he had simply accepted it, curling up in the corner and going to sleep. He had, of course, kept his coat on and made do without a pillow; he had no intention of giving anyone another chance to steal it there in the dark.
Now the gray light of morning was filtering in the room’s lone window, and Anrel was able to take in his surroundings.
There was a single door, through which he had entered, opposite the window. The window was hung with crumbling lace, and most of its dust-caked panes were cracked—Anrel was surprised they all still had glass. The furnishings consisted of a single simple bed and a small stove that stood on a slate hearth opposite the bed. The stove gave little warmth—the dampers were closed, and there was no sign of additional fuel. Still, the room was only slightly chilly.
He shared the room with four others, he discovered, three young boys and an old man, all of whom were awake.
The one bed was occupied by the old man, who appeared incapable of intelligible speech but mumbled constantly, while each of the boys had claimed a corner and collected a heap of rags for bedding. Anrel had been assigned the fourth and final corner, behind the door.
The three boys were all watching him with interest, but none of them spoke.
Above His Proper Station Page 4
