“I had thought you meant that he was harming his soul, and would pay for it in the afterlife,” Anrel exclaimed. “I had no idea you meant worldly consequences like this!”
“Oh, I have no doubt that when Allutar Hezir faces his ancestors he will have much to answer for, and I did indeed intend that interpretation. I fear that experience has taught me and my companions that vague warnings of unforeseen results will elicit only contempt, while a threat to one’s prospects in the afterlife may at least cause some hesitation. Every sorcerer who would attempt black magic thinks himself far too clever to be caught in such a trap as this disaster in the Raish Valley.”
“But can you not provide examples?”
“Of course we can! Some sorcerers even listen, and choose not to pursue their darker spells. Most, though, simply say they are not such fools as the people we describe, and will not be caught in such mishaps.” He sighed. “Very few of those mishaps have consequences on such a scale as this. Lord Allutar’s little escapade might well bring down your emperor.”
Anrel tried to grasp that idea, and found it hard to encompass. “But … how did it go wrong? Allutar said that he used Urunar’s death to summon an earth elemental that bestowed greater fertility on the soil of the Raish Valley.”
“Precisely. That soil yielded forth a crop of unnatural size—but Lord Allutar had failed to concern himself with anything but the quantity. A natural crop draws its life from the Mother, from her essence in the earth; this crop drew its life from this artificial elemental that your landgrave bound to that soil. The elemental is not the Mother; it is not even born of the Mother. It is, rather, a creature made from blood and death, and that blood and death poisoned everything that drew life from it.”
“Then the bread is poisoned?”
Lord Blackfield hesitated. “Perhaps that was not the best word to use,” he said. “I do not think that eating the bread will harm you—but I doubt it will nourish you, either. It is not so much a toxin as a deception, empty of life.” He shook his head. “I confess, I do not know its nature with any certainty. This was not a spell that has been often used, nor has it been properly studied. I can only guess at its ramifications.”
Anrel considered this, his mind still hazy with wine and weariness. There was a certain bitter satisfaction in knowing that Lord Allutar, the man who had caused so much misery in Anrel’s own life, was responsible for this disaster. “And all the bread baked with the Raish wheat is bad?”
“Yes. At least half the bakeries in Lume produced the same foul stuff that No-Nose Graun brought to the Pensioners’ Quarter.”
“What happened?”
Lord Blackfield sighed. “I do not pretend to know all the details of every incident, but there were disturbances throughout the city. Like your friends, most of those who tasted the bread thought the bakers were trying to cheat them somehow. Bakers were beaten, their shops destroyed. Every man of the Emperor’s Watch was called out to restore order, and order was restored, but only by clearing the streets. The cannon on the emperor’s palace were loaded and aimed, though thank the Mother and the Father they were not fired into the crowds. Only in the Pensioners’ Quarter, though, was the watch defeated, and only in the quarter were arches torn down; I assume that was why it was only in the quarter that the emperor’s mercenaries from the Cousins unleashed demons.”
“I see,” Anrel said unsteadily.
The emperor’s mercenaries. Anrel did not doubt that Lord Blackfield knew what he was saying, and that it had been the Walasian emperor himself, and not the Ermetian-born empress, who had ordered the demons to be summoned. His Imperial Majesty, Lurias XII, had set demons upon his own people.
That made Lord Allutar’s crimes seem petty by comparison.
“You look unwell, Master Murau, and it strikes me that I have been an absolutely abominable host!” the Quandishman exclaimed. “I have given you wine, but not a thing to eat!” He reached up and tugged at a cord; a bell jingled somewhere. “I’ll have Harban fetch us some supper, shall I? I assure you, there will be no Raish wheat in it. My cook, Mistress Uillea, uses only the finest ingredients in her creations.”
“Thank you,” Anrel said. A bite to eat would be very welcome; he had had nothing since breakfast.
He sat quietly, trying to gather his thoughts, as Lord Blackfield went to the door of the sitting room and exchanged a few words with his white-braided servant. When the Quandishman had done that he returned to the little table and resumed his seat, but said nothing, allowing Anrel the time to consider everything he had been told.
After several minutes, Anrel said, “The famine—not the tainted grain, but the shortages we have suffered in recent years. Is it all natural?”
“Do you mean, is it the result of black magic?”
“Yes.”
Lord Blackfield shook his head. “I do not believe it is. Your Walasian sorcerers have not been as careless as all that. Callous as they may be, few use black magic with any frequency, and I do not believe any but Lord Allutar has attempted anything of that nature, and on such a scale, heretofore.” He shrugged. “Though I could, of course, be wrong. I am not omniscient.”
“But sorcerers have been using magic to increase their crops for as long as I can recall, even if it was not black sorcery. Might that have had some effect?”
“It might,” the Quandishman acknowledged. “They may have coaxed more from the Mother than she wanted to give, and left that much less for subsequent years. My learned Ermetian comrade in the Lantern Society, Kerren of Algard, has propounded such a theory at tedious length, but we have little evidence for it.” He sighed. “And, I must concede, none against it.”
“Is there any way to undo the damage?”
“We do not even know whether there is damage.”
“I meant to the Raish Valley.”
“Ah! Of course. Well, Lord Allutar can dismiss his elemental at any time, and that will put an end to the artificial fertility. Whether the land’s natural bounty will be immediately restored, or whether it will require years to return, I cannot say, nor, I believe, can any man.”
Anrel shuddered. “And the city—what will happen here in Lume, do you suppose?”
“I would suppose that the Emperor’s Watch will maintain order for the present—reports of the demons’ rampage in the Pensioners’ Quarter will undoubtedly aid them in their efforts. In time, more natural and wholesome crops will reach the mills and bakeries and grocers, and life will return to normal.”
“I hope—”
Anrel’s reply was interrupted by a knock at the door. Lord Blackfield strode over and swung it open, admitting his servant, who bore an immense and heavily laden silver tray. Lord Blackfield snatched this from the older man’s hands and whisked it to a table—not the small side table where he and Anrel had been drinking, but a larger one toward the back of the sitting room.
Then he turned to his guest and said, “Master Murau, if you would do me the honor of joining me for supper?”
Anrel doubted there was any honor in his presence, but he did not let that stop him.
“I would be delighted,” he said.
12
In Which Anrel Dines with Lord Blackfield
For the most part the food, while plentiful and varied, was simple, hearty fare, somewhat unfamiliar in content and preparation. Anrel supposed it was the result of Quandish cookery. Whatever its origins, the meal was entirely satisfactory.
Of course, Anrel knew his standards might well be lower than they once were; it had been half a year since he had regularly eaten well. Nivain Lir and her daughters had been decent cooks but could not afford the best ingredients, and in the Pensioners’ Quarter anything that one could keep down was considered good enough.
When the edge had been taken off his appetite and he was content to nibble a little here and there, rather than devouring everything on his plate, Anrel looked up and said, “It’s most generous of you to make me welcome in this fashion, my lord.”
/> “Ah, it’s nothing, I assure you.”
“On the contrary, it was quite presumptuous of me to arrive here unheralded. We barely know each other, and we have almost nothing in common.”
“Oh, I think you misjudge. I should say we have several similarities. After all, when we first met, were we not both hoping to convince Lord Allutar not to put young Urunar Kazien to death?”
Anrel grimaced. “In truth, my lord, I was there in hopes of keeping Lord Valin out of trouble, not because I thought I could save Master Kazien.” He shook his head. “I regret to say I failed.”
“Oh?” The Quandishman dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Has misfortune befallen Lord Valin?”
Anrel winced. “Lord Valin is dead, my lord.” He had somehow assumed Lord Blackfield had known all about it, but why would he? The unfortunate killing of a very minor sorcerer in a village in Aulix was hardly the stuff of international gossip.
Lord Blackfield dropped the napkin. “How dreadful! I had been told as much before, but could not believe it. How did it happen, pray?”
Anrel proceeded to tell his host the sorry history of how Lord Allutar had deliberately misinterpreted Valin’s insults as a challenge to trial by combat, a trial to ascertain whether Allutar would remain landgrave of Aulix or be replaced by Valin. He described the grotesquely mismatched contest that had ended in Valin’s death.
“I see,” Lord Blackfield said. “And—forgive me if I am rude, and do not feel you are under any obligation to answer so impertinent a question—does this have something to do with how you came to be here in Lume, and a resident of the Pensioners’ Quarter?”
“Yes,” Anrel replied. He hesitated, unsure what more to say; it wasn’t really any of Lord Blackfield’s business, and admitting that he, Anrel Murau, was the infamous Alvos of Naith, might be unwise. After all, the Quandishman had no reason to protect him, and might well take the opportunity to curry favor with the emperor by turning him over to the authorities.
Seeing his hesitation, Lord Blackfield said, “You need not say anything incriminating, Master Murau, but I assure you, anything you do say will be held in the strictest confidence. You have my word as a Gatherman and as a sorcerer.”
That was reassuring, but Anrel still did not feel any need to be specific. “Let us just say, then, that after Lord Valin’s death I said certain things in public that the magistrates considered highly inappropriate.”
Lord Blackfield sipped wine, then said, “Might it be that you said these things in, perhaps, Aulix Square, in Naith?”
That guess surprised Anrel; he had not thought he was being so obvious. “It might,” he admitted. Having come this far, he saw little point in lying. He was at the Quandishman’s mercy.
“And did you perhaps, while speaking, give another name?”
“I did.”
“Did you speak again with that name in Sharam?”
Startled, Anrel said, “I have never been to Sharam.”
“Ah, that wasn’t you? But were you perhaps present at a hanging in Beynos this past winter?”
“Indeed, I was.”
Lord Blackfield set his wineglass down. “You know, when I heard that this mysterious Alvos had denounced Lord Allutar for an unjust death, I had guessed that he might be Lord Valin, speaking of Urunar Kazien’s death. When you first told me your friend was dead I did you the courtesy of believing you spoke the truth, but assumed that he had died subsequently—perhaps apprehended by the authorities and quietly slain, the killing kept quiet to avoid stirring up public sentiment, or perhaps in some more commonplace manner. But when you told me how he had actually died, I suspected the truth. Thank you for trusting me with it.”
“You said you had heard he was dead?”
“Yes. Certain acquaintances of mine had said so, but I had guessed they were misleading me in an attempt to protect him. There are those who would take great pleasure in hanging Alvos of Naith, but there’s nothing to gain in hanging a man who is already dead, so I thought the story of his death might have been put about to forestall further efforts at his capture. I thought he might yet live, and if so, I would be interested in speaking with him. One reason I told Harban to admit you was that I thought you might be here as Lord Valin’s representative.”
“In a way, I am exactly that,” Anrel said. “As Alvos I gave voice to his beliefs, which were never my own.”
“Really? How droll!” Lord Blackfield picked up a sweet from the tray and popped it into his mouth. “Then you did not believe those impassioned words you spoke that have inspired such unrest?”
“I did not,” Anrel said. “Valin believed that a new order could be created in which every man would be master of his own destiny, and sorcerers would be the servants of the nation, rather than its masters, but I considered this idealistic nonsense. Without magic, how would the government enforce its edicts? And if they are not rewarded with power and status, why would sorcerers use their magic for the public welfare?” He shook his head. “I know that you Quandish have no such arrangement, and that you seem to have managed, but I do not pretend to understand how you have managed, nor do I think your systems, if such chaos can be called systems, would work for us here in Walasia.”
Only after the words had left his mouth did Anrel realize how insulting they might sound, and he tensed as he awaited his host’s response.
“Quand is not the only place to reject the rule of magicians,” Lord Blackfield pointed out calmly with no sign of having taken offense.
“You mean Ermetia? Where they have two separate governments, one for sorcerers, and one for commoners? I have never understood how that system survives, either—why has the Council Arcane not destroyed the Council Terrestrial, overthrown the king, and assumed control?”
“From what they tell me, they have no desire to control the mundane government,” Lord Blackfield replied. “Consider, Master Murau—does your uncle, Lord Dorias, want to administer Alzur? Not every sorcerer seeks earthly power.”
“For the most part, Walasian sorcerers do,” Anrel retorted. “Indeed, my uncle very much enjoys the authority he holds; it is merely the accompanying responsibility he would prefer to avoid.”
“Do you think he would choose to serve as burgrave, if he did not already hold the post?”
“He could resign, my lord, yet he has not done so. The taste of power is sweet.”
Blackfield leaned back in his chair. “You have dismissed Quand and Ermetia as inexplicable; what of the rest of the Bound Lands?”
“The Cousins?” Anrel snorted derisively. “Surely, you cannot be putting forth that madhouse as a model of anything but disaster! For that matter, half of them are ruled by magicians!”
“But half are not, and they are not noticeably less successful, on average.”
“But they are not the empire. For almost six hundred years, we have been ruled by sorcerers—and before that, the Old Empire was ruled by wizards. It’s all we have ever known here.”
Lord Blackfield sighed. “Does that mean nothing else is possible?”
“It means that this system suits us.”
“And has nothing shaken your certainty on that count?”
Anrel hesitated. He remembered the tainted bread, the flaming demons, the mob in Beynos, the mob in Aulix Square.
Lord Blackfield leaned forward across the table. “Would you like to know an interesting thing, Master Murau?”
“My lord?”
“Did you know there are fewer sorcerers in the empire than there are in Quand?”
Anrel frowned. “But the empire is—” He stopped in midsentence, suddenly unsure of his facts. “Isn’t the empire far larger?”
“Less so than it once was, thanks to our brave Quandish pioneers in our overseas colonies, but yes, I believe the empire is still significantly larger, in both land and population, than Quand. Yet we have more sorcerers than you do. Do you know why?”
“I have no idea—assuming you are correct.”
“Becau
se in the Walasian Empire, sorcerers invariably marry sorceresses—if they marry at all. After all, for a noble to marry a commoner would be … inconvenient, in certain regards. In mixed marriages not all the children will inherit the ability to use magic, and it can be embarrassing for, say, a burgrave to find his sons unable to inherit, for lack of magic. So your sorcerers grow ever more inbred, and because many are too busy with other matters to want to raise children, they have small families—after all, a sorceress cannot be got with child against her will; even the feeblest magician can manage that much. Thus, even while the empire’s population grows, the number of sorcerers stays constant, or even shrinks.”
“I have never heard this before,” Anrel answered warily.
“Why would you? I am not sure whether anyone in the empire is really aware of it. I assume the keepers of the Great List know the present tally of names to be no more now than it was a century ago, but do they draw any conclusions from this, or even bother to mention it to anyone?”
“I don’t know,” Anrel said.
“In Quand, on the other hand, there are no restrictions on who a sorcerer might wed, and while sorceresses can and sometimes do limit the size of their families, sorcerers married to non-magicians often raise large broods. A sorcerer is considered quite a catch for most girls, and his magic can help ensure a healthy family.”
“But the children won’t all be sorcerers! Even here, occasionally a sorcerer’s child will fail the trials …”
“As you did?”
Anrel fell silent, unsure whether Lord Blackfield’s question might imply the Quandishman knew that Anrel had failed the trial deliberately.
“Yes,” Lord Blackfield continued. “About half the children fail to inherit any gift for magic—but even so, the other half has been sufficient to keep our population of sorcerers growing, both in absolute numbers and as a percentage of our population. We have plenty of sorcerers for our purposes. Meanwhile, the empire is trying to administer a growing population with fewer and fewer sorcerers—and when a magician does turn up outside of the established noble families, he is either labeled a witch and hanged, or if allowed to be acknowledged and trained as a sorcerer, he is often still treated as a nuisance, a minor embarrassment, as Lord Valin was.”
Above His Proper Station Page 11
