Above His Proper Station

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He looked out over the crowd and saw a sea of rapt faces—once again, his talent for oratory had won out.

  “We can, and we must,” he said. “I am new to this body, and not yet familiar with its workings, so I do not know precisely what the next step might be, but I call upon you all to take that step without further delay! We have the authority to demand an accounting of the wrongs the sorcerers have committed over the years—can we not do so? Can we not look at what has been done, and say, regardless of the law, that this act was wrong, while that one was right? That this one was harmless, while that one was so dangerous that only a fool would attempt it? Can we not point out where our nobles have been so negligent of the public safety that their actions constitute a crime in fact, if not in law? I understand that the council as a whole would be too unwieldy to investigate every detail, but can we not appoint a committee to study what has been done, so that those who thought themselves above the law might nonetheless face real justice, the justice they have so long evaded?”

  That drew shouts of protest from several directions—from sorcerers, Anrel did not doubt.

  “I do not call for the overthrow of our system of government,” Anrel continued. “I know that there are those among you who want such a revolution, and that some of them are among those who most wanted to see me here, in poor Amanir’s place, but I do not want the council to take any action so extreme. To do so would be the equivalent of burning down a house to rid it of fleas. No, our sorcerers and their magic are vital to the empire, and these sorcerers have experience in governance that the rest of us do not. I ask only that we no longer place them beyond the reach of justice. Heretofore, commoners have had no real recourse when wronged by their superiors, for it was those very superiors who held the power we call, all too inaccurately, high and low justice. Our magistrates, for the most part, serve at the pleasure of our landgraves and burgraves and margraves, and naturally take the side of those sorcerers in every dispute, fairly or not. Can we not create a body that will restrain those few sorcerers who abuse the trust and the power we have given them?” He waved toward the closed doors. “You have all heard the crowds out there calling out for justice—can we not at least try to give them what they demand?”

  At that, Lord Allutar spoke up. “You would give me to the mob? You would allow that rabble to dictate to us?” His voice shook with rage.

  “No, my lord, I would not!” Anrel replied, turning to face the landgrave. “Rather, I would insist that a calm and rational study of the situation be made, and appropriate actions be taken, so that the mob out there does not take justice into its own hands. If we do not act, they will, sooner or later. We must present them with a satisfactory resolution before their patience is exhausted, or we will all suffer for it!”

  “So you would make the nobility of the empire answer to some committee?” Anrel had rarely heard anyone put so much hatred and disdain into a single word.

  “Yes, my lord, I would,” he replied calmly.

  “And what of those who are responsible for the present disorder who are not sorcerers? Will you investigate them as well, and bring them to face what you call justice?”

  Anrel spread his hands. “Why not? Justice must be evenhanded, or it is not justice.”

  That was clearly not the answer Lord Allutar had expected.

  “You would have no objection to bringing to order those who have incited riots in, say, Naith and Beynos?”

  A sudden silence fell as the entire Grand Council watched Lord Allutar and Anrel Murau glare at each other.

  Anrel, like everyone else, knew exactly what Lord Allutar was saying. He knew that he was being presented with a choice—to back down, and let both Lord Allutar and himself escape, or to stand firm and be pulled down with his foe.

  He had never really thought of himself as suicidal, but to stand on principle now could be nothing else.

  He had promised himself that he would stop taking action without considering the consequences, that he would think about what it would mean to do what he thought should be, must be done. And so he thought, as he had promised he would. He imagined his life cut short at the end of a hempen rope, as Reva’s had been. He imagined dying ignominiously—but knowing that Allutar would die, as well.

  That was not so very terrible that he could not face it. He already faced a future in which he would never see Tazia again, and if he backed down he knew that the entire empire faced a future of chaos and disorder, a future in which the sorcerers would do all they could to cling to power, regardless of how much damage it did to their homeland. If he pressed his case the empire might yet be saved, the nobility purged, the mob satisfied, and order restored. If it cost his life, then the price was high, but could be borne.

  And in the end, none of that mattered. He had been caught up in his own words. He knew that at another time he might think very differently, but here and now, at this moment, the passion for justice he had roused in his own breast took precedence over everything else. If justice demanded his death, then he must die—better to die than to forsake justice.

  “I have faith in the good sense of my fellow councillors,” Anrel replied at last. “Yes, I would accept a committee to investigate commoners, if that is what we must have to establish a committee for the regulation of sorcery.”

  “But of course, members of this council would be exempt?”

  There was the offer again, another chance to save himself, but only by saving Lord Allutar—and in the process, ruining the whole thing. Many of the worst criminals in all the empire’s nobility were here, in this great chamber, and they could not be allowed to go free and use their absent brethren as scapegoats.

  Anrel met Lord Allutar’s gaze. “Why, no, my lord. I think that would render the entire exercise pointless. While we would retain our general immunity, I think any crimes or improprieties that contributed to the present crisis must be dealt with, no matter who committed them. Yes, this would mean that you and I must both face justice. I am prepared to accept the consequences of my actions, Lord Allutar. Are you?”

  Allutar stared at him as if he could not believe what he was hearing. “Your pardon is scarcely an hour old, yet you would already renounce it?”

  “For the good of the empire, my lord, yes, I would.”

  “You’re mad, Murau!”

  “I do not think I am, my lord.”

  “Delegates!” the speaker said, stepping between them. “Delegates, you have made your positions clear. Let us now consider your proposals.”

  “They aren’t clear to me,” someone shouted from below.

  “Nor me!”

  “My fellow Walasians,” Derhin called, “let us hear specific proposals that we might debate!”

  The speaker grimaced, then turned to Anrel. “Master Murau, do you have a proposal to make?”

  “I do, sir. I propose the creation of a Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery, backed by the full authority of the Grand Council and charged with the responsibility for investigating the misuse of magic, past and present, regardless of whether it was technically allowed under the law of the time, and establishing guidelines that all sorcerers must follow in the future. I say this committee must be given the power to impose appropriate penalties for such misuse, regardless of the rank or station of the guilty party.”

  “And I,” Lord Allutar shouted in response, “propose the creation of a Committee for the Restoration of Order, backed by whatever authority this council may truly possess and charged with investigating the causes of the recent unrest, and punishing those responsible, whosoever they might be—assuming, of course, that they are not sorcerers, for Master Murau’s committee will be dealing with those.” He looked out over the crowd. “You will not lay all the blame upon us. It was not sorcery that burned bakeries and rioted in the streets of Lume. It was no sorcerer who fired cannon into the streets and enraged the crowds.”

  “Good!” Anrel said.

  Lord Allutar stared at him, dumbfounded.

/>   “I am aware that my predecessor opposed a proposal somewhat similar to Lord Allutar’s,” Anrel said. “I believe he was wrong to do so. He said it would be used to delay justice and obfuscate the truth. I have more faith in this council than that—I believe that both committees must be established, and quickly! We must be seen to be impartial in our actions—and we must be seen to act. These dual committees will show the empire that we are not favoring one side over another, and that we are taking action, regardless of the cost to ourselves.”

  “We have two proposals,” the speaker said unhappily.

  “We have one proposal,” Anrel interrupted. “That both committees be created.”

  “No, sir,” Allutar snapped. “We have two proposals—yours, whatever it may be, and mine, which is only that we create a Committee for the Restoration of Order to find and punish those responsible for the recent unrest.”

  “We have two proposals,” the speaker repeated. “Let us consider Delegate Murau’s first …”

  With that, the debate began, and although it lasted for almost three hours, Anrel never doubted the outcome. The Hots and other rabid commoner factions supported the two committees because they wanted a Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery, and would accept the other to get it; likewise, the sorcerers were eager to see a Committee for the Restoration of Order, especially once it was made clear that it would indeed have the authority to question the emperor himself, and they would tolerate the Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery to get it. Both groups saw that this would go a good way toward appeasing the mobs, and bringing a semblance of peace and order to the capital.

  In both cases, most of the delegates did not see that they themselves would be at risk; after all, they had not incited any riots or poisoned any farmland.

  And among the nobles they asked themselves what power a Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery could really have. All magic was in the hands of sorcerers. The sorcerers told themselves that they had nothing to fear.

  Lord Allutar made that explicit at one point during the debate when he leaned over and murmured to Anrel, “You realize that you may yet hang, while they cannot harm me?”

  “We will see,” Anrel murmured back.

  “You are putting your own neck in the noose for nothing.”

  “I am acting for the good of the empire,” Anrel retorted.

  “I will tell your cousin you said that.”

  Lord Allutar’s proposal for a single committee was brought up, but was rejected in fairly short order—the Hots wanted an investigation of all the evils sorcerers had committed, not just those that had contributed to the present crisis, and there was a general feeling that a single committee would be overwhelmed by the scope of their task.

  So in the end, as Anrel had expected, both committees were voted into existence, though it was by no means unanimous. Lord Allutar argued vehemently but uselessly against them, and managed to sway a portion of the Cloakroom, while scattered others voted against the idea for their own reasons, but in the end a solid majority approved the proposal.

  And in the end, to no one’s surprise, Anrel was appointed to the Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery, though Zarein Lorsa was named chairman. Anrel did not recognize most of the other names. No sorcerers were nominated for that committee, since they could hardly be impartial in establishing rules for their fellow nobles. All in all, a score and a half of delegates were appointed, all of them commoners, with at least one representative for each of the sixteen provinces.

  Anrel had reservations about appointing an extremist like Lorsa to chair the committee, but he said nothing. The other members of the committee would surely restrain the Hots.

  Lord Allutar was not named to the Committee for the Restoration of Order, to his annoyance; he placed his name in nomination, but was voted down. As several people pointed out, the mob outside was demanding his blood; placing him in any new position of authority would be a foolish defiance of the popular will. Most of that committee was made up of sorcerers, but a few commoners, some three of the two dozen members, were included for the sake of appearances.

  And when that was settled, the assembly voted itself a recess for luncheon.

  Before Anrel could find Lord Blackfield among the observers, or speak to Derhin about lunch plans, Zarein Lorsa came up beside him and grabbed his arm.

  “Come with us,” he said. “There’s no time to waste. I’ve sent a man to bring us food, so we can speak without interruption.”

  Anrel blinked at him, startled.

  “The committee is meeting immediately,” Lorsa explained. “Before the sorcerers can find a way to interfere.”

  “The committee…?”

  “Yes. The Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery. As its chairman, I am calling a meeting. I will not tolerate delay. This way, sir.” He pulled at Anrel’s arm.

  Anrel had not expected this level of enthusiasm, but he could hardly argue; he followed as Lorsa led him through the crowd, gathering other committee members along the way.

  23

  In Which Anrel Makes a Dangerous Suggestion

  At the insistence of its chairman the Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery, comprised of some thirty delegates, met initially in what had once been the heated baths. One rather naive committee member asked whether this might inconvenience the Hots, and the laughter of the others set him blushing angrily.

  “The other committee is meeting in the cloakroom,” someone told him, not unkindly. “This isn’t a coincidence.”

  “But I’m not a Hot!” the committee member protested.

  “Most of the committee isn’t,” he was told, “but our chairman is one of the leaders of the Hots, half a dozen of his closest companions are here, and the other Hots are very eager to hear what we have to say.”

  “Shouldn’t we be meeting in secret, though?”

  It was Anrel who asked, “Why? The entire point of this committee is to show the people of the empire that we are doing something about their complaints. There may be occasion when certain things should be kept private, but we should at least try to keep our actions open, shouldn’t we?”

  “Exactly!” Lorsa proclaimed. “Enough of secrecy and deception! The people deserve to see how we deal with the tyrants who have oppressed them.” He turned to Anrel and continued, “I want to thank you, Delegate Murau, for accepting poor Amanir’s position and presenting our case so effectively. I do not know that we could have established this committee without you.”

  “Zarein,” Delegate Gluth murmured, “I think you underestimate what Delegate Murau has done.”

  “Oh?” Lorsa turned to his friend. “In what way?”

  “Not only could we not have created this committee without Murau’s help, we could not have created it without allowing the creation of the other committee—we didn’t have the votes, not unless we gave them something in exchange.”

  “Yes?”

  “What we gave them, Zarein, was Master Murau’s life. He agreed to set aside his immunity as a member of the Grand Council if the Committee for the Restoration of Order demands it. As a result, he will most likely be hanged for sedition—and he allowed this, knowing as much.”

  Lorsa’s head snapped around to stare at Anrel. “They would not dare,” he said. “Alvos is a hero of the people!”

  “And soon to be a martyr,” someone Anrel did not recognize said. “That was plain to us all. Did you not see it, Delegate Lorsa?”

  “We can use a martyr,” Gluth said. “I would never have asked it of anyone, but Murau has volunteered for the role.”

  “I saw no alternative,” Anrel said. “There was no other way to bring this committee into existence, and without it Lord Allutar would never be brought to justice. Indeed, this committee may be the salvation of the Walasian Empire.”

  “This committee is useless,” another man said. “It’s a sham. We will investigate, and issue rulings, and what will come of it? Nothing. The sorcerers will ignore us. And what can we do ag
ainst them? We have no magic of our own, no soldiers—what can we do if one of them defies us?”

  “Delegate Murau and I discussed that the other night,” Lorsa replied. “Are you all familiar with the Great List?”

  “Only the emperor can use the Great List,” a committee member replied.

  “No, only the emperor has the Great List,” Lorsa said. “Any magician can use it—is that not so, Delegate Murau?”

  “I believe so,” Anrel replied.

  “What do you know of magic?” someone demanded.

  “My parents were sorcerers,” Anrel said. “I grew up in the household of the burgrave of Alzur.”

  “One of them!”

  “No, no,” Lorsa said. “He is no sorcerer, and has no love for them, despite his parentage. Is that not so, Murau?”

  “It is,” Anrel agreed.

  “Then if we were to somehow gain access to the Great List, Delegate Murau, could you use it?”

  Anrel looked for the speaker, but could not identify him. “No, sir,” he said. “I could not. I failed the trials when I was twelve; I am no sorcerer.” He did not mention that he had failed deliberately, nor did he say anything about his brief training in witchcraft—these did not strike him as people who would look kindly on witches.