As he walked back home at Derhin’s side, Anrel wondered whether he should resign his position on the council. He did not feel he was doing any good as a delegate; on the contrary, the list aside, he seemed to have inadvertently given Lorsa and the Hots encouragement that might lead to fresh disasters. He glanced at Derhin, almost ready to speak of his concerns, then decided to hold his peace a little longer. At the very least, he wanted to know what Lorsa and Gluth had been doing that had prevented their attendance—he had never before seen either of them miss a day. The abbreviated Lume delegation was another mystery. Some of them were members of the Committee for the Restoration of Order, and he expected someone representing that committee to arrest him, sooner or later; could their absence mean they were preparing a strike?
They would probably not dare to arrest the notorious Alvos right there in the Aldian Baths, but he half expected to see watchmen waiting for him on Lourn Street.
There were no watchmen, and he and Derhin entered without hindrance.
They had been home for scarcely a quarter hour, though, when Anrel heard a knock at the door. Hoping to see Tazia, he hastened to answer it, and instead found a messenger holding a letter.
“Delegate Anrel Murau?” he asked.
“Yes,” Anrel replied, startled.
“This is for you.” He handed Anrel the letter, then turned away. By the time Anrel had gathered his wits sufficiently to ask any questions, the man was twenty feet away and there seemed little point in calling him back.
Puzzled, Anrel stepped back inside, unfolded the letter, and began reading.
He recognized his uncle’s handwriting immediately, but was surprised by the lack of any of the customary greetings. The letter read,
Anrel:
I am given to understand that you came to my door the other day hoping to speak with me. I am writing to ask you not to make any further attempt to intrude; you are not welcome here.
It pains me to do this, but I have no choice. Your actions have made it clear that you have no respect for me, or for the rule of law and the good order of the empire.
When my sister died I took you in, and raised you as if you were my own son. When you failed the trials I was bitterly disappointed, but I allowed you to remain in my home, and I like to think I continued to treat you honorably, with respect and affection. When it became clear that you would never be a sorcerer I sent you, at my own considerable expense, to study in the court schools of Lume so that you could find a position suitable to a commoner born of a noble family.
Perhaps it was the foolish ideas that circulate at such schools that poisoned your mind against me; I cannot know. Whatever the cause, from the time of your return you behaved abominably, encouraging the late Lord Valin in his mad follies, attempting to dissuade my daughter from a most suitable marriage, and conspiring with that Quandish scoundrel. When Lord Allutar protested your actions, you goaded Valin into challenging him, forcing Lord Allutar to kill the poor lad.
Unsatisfied with encompassing the death of a man you had claimed was your friend, you then preached treason and sedition in the provincial capital. You assaulted and robbed a watchman, commandeered a canal boat, stole a farmer’s fishing boat, and in general pursued a career of reckless, unbridled criminality, of which the only benefit was that I needed no longer concern myself with you, since you had vanished from civilized society.
At first your actions pained me, as much for the heartache they must surely have inflicted on my daughter, your cousin Saria, as for their effect on my own emotions. In time, though, I realized that I was well rid of you. I cannot guess why you have acted as you have; your parents were fine people, but either you have willfully denied your own blood, or you are not truly their son at all, but some changeling. I have, in my darker moments, wondered whether you might be responsible for their deaths—perhaps my true nephew died as well, all those years ago, and the monster that killed them assumed his form.
But no, it is probably merely human evil, such as we have seen all too much of in the past year, that drives you.
Do you know what befell us after you left? The mobs you inspired to rebellion in Naith spread the poison to Alzur, where our own people, who should have loved us, burned our home and drove us out, forcing us to flee. Alzur is now in the hands of mutinous commoners calling themselves “wardens,” while we are exiled here, awaiting an audience with His Imperial Majesty, in hopes that he can spare a company of soldiers to root the traitors from their holes and hang them all.
And what should we hear, upon our arrival in Lume, but that you, too, are within the city walls, and what’s more, you have somehow arranged to take a seat on this supposed “Grand Council,” where you can once again spew your venom upon susceptible ears.
All that is of a piece with your prior behavior, of course, and should by now come as no surprise, but I confess I am surprised that even you would have the effrontery to stand on my doorstep and ask to see me, as if you were a decent person paying a social call.
Perhaps you thought I had not comprehended the depths of your depravity, that I might allow our alleged shared blood to influence me to overlook your actions; rest assured that while my eyes are not as sharp as they once were, I can still see the truth when it is thrust under my nose. You are not welcome in Wizard’s Hill Court, nor within the pale of Alzur. That you have received a pardon does not make your crimes go away. The law may forgive you, but I will not.
Do not reply to this letter, nor attempt any further contact with me; it will be refused. Do not dishonor us further by pretending to an apology you cannot mean and I cannot accept. I must, to my shame, acknowledge you as my kin, but neither law nor custom requires me to tolerate your presence.
Dorias Adirane, Burgrave of Alzur
As Anrel read this unpleasant missive his chest seemed to tighten and his heart to sink heavily; he felt physically ill.
He knew, though, that there was no point in arguing, either in person or by letter; Uncle Dorias had never been willing to listen to anyone once his mind was made up.
“A letter?”
Derhin’s voice startled Anrel; he turned to see the other man standing in the passage.
“Anrel, what is it?” Derhin asked when he saw Anrel’s face. “Your face is white, and your hand is trembling!”
Anrel started to speak, but could not. He stopped, swallowed, and forced himself to calm.
“My uncle,” he said. “He takes issue with my actions.”
“From the look of you, he does more than that!”
“He takes issue strongly,” Anrel said.
Derhin hesitated, then said, “Come have a drink. It will calm your nerves.”
“Thank you,” Anrel said. “I think you’re right.” He followed Derhin to the dining room, where the wine cabinet yielded up a dark, sweet Lithrayn red.
An hour later the letter had been safely tucked into Anrel’s blouse, and the better part of three bottles of various wines from Lithrayn had been emptied into Anrel’s belly. Derhin had not abstained, by any means, but Anrel had clearly needed the larger share of each bottle.
They had spoken on a variety of subjects, but Anrel had not told Derhin the contents of the letter, so it was something of a surprise when he finally said, without preamble, “He puts the worst possible light on everything.”
“Who does?” Derhin asked a bit muzzily.
“Uncle Dorias. I always knew he was prone to seeing things in his own way, but in this letter he blames me for everything, no matter who was actually at fault.”
Derhin shrugged. “It’s convenient, having a single target for all blame. Zarein Lorsa blames sorcerers for everything, Lord Koulis blames the emperor for everything, the mob blames Lord Allutar for everything—it’s convenient.”
“It is not just.”
“No,” Derhin agreed sadly. “Merely convenient.”
“And who do you blame for everything?”
“Oh, I think there is quite enough for all of us to have
a share.”
“That’s generous of you.”
Derhin looked at Anrel. “Who do you blame?”
“I will claim my share, no question about it,” Anrel replied. “I have done a great deal of harm, though that was never my intention. And Lord Allutar, too, has earned a good portion of despite. The emperor cannot be entirely excused. Indeed, I can think of no one who is wholly innocent. Perhaps you’re right, in saying we all deserve it.”
“Well, there you are, then—we are all at fault. But what’s to be done about it?”
“Stop laying blame,” Anrel answered immediately. “Try to atone for our errors, if we can.”
“A noble ambition, certainly, but not one easily achieved.” Derhin straightened in his chair. “Would you stop laying blame entirely, then, and hold no one responsible for his actions? Would you forgive Lord Allutar for Valin’s death, or the poisoned grain? Is there any way in which he could atone for such wrongs?”
Anrel put his hand to his breast, over the letter. “He could at least have the grace to try,” he said. “If he were to acknowledge that he had done wrong, that would be a start.”
Derhin’s reply was somewhere between a grunt and a snort, his chin sinking to his chest. Upon hearing himself, he jerked upright again, and announced, “I am going to bed. I will see you in the morning, Anrel.”
“Good night, Derhin,” Anrel said as he sat and stared at the empty bottles on the table.
A moment later, alone in the room, he repeated, “If he were to acknowledge that he had done wrong, that would be a start.”
He was not thinking about Lord Allutar, though; he was thinking about his uncle and himself.
Lord Dorias had said not to make any attempt at an apology, and Anrel intended to honor that request, in part because as he thought back over his actions, he could think of nothing he should apologize to his uncle for. He had done no wrong to Lord Dorias. He had not, as the letter accused, urged Valin to his death; he had tried to prevent it. He had not encouraged Valin in his folly. He had not conspired with Lord Blackfield—not in Alzur or Naith, at any rate. He had not made any serious effort to dissuade Lady Saria from marrying Lord Allutar. His hand had certainly not held the torch that set the Adirane home ablaze.
Yes, he had given voice to Valin’s seditious notions, but was that an offense against Lord Dorias? Yes, he had done whatever was necessary to escape from Naith, but again, why should that require an apology?
Perhaps he might contrive a nonspecific apology, saying that he regretted any dishonor or opprobrium he might have brought upon the Adirane name—but his uncle had told him not to apologize, so he would not.
No, any reconciliation must come about through his uncle’s actions, rather than his own.
But perhaps he could somehow contrive to get word to the Adiranes that their true names were now in the hands of Zarein Lorsa, the hottest of the Hots. A warning was not an apology, and however hostile Lord Dorias might be, he deserved a warning.
Anrel decided immediately that he could not send a letter; if he knew his uncle, any such letter would be burned unread the moment his handwriting was recognized. Nor did he want to entrust such a message to an ordinary messenger—who could say where the political loyalties of such a person might lie? His warning might wind up in entirely the wrong hands.
Perhaps one of the boys from the Pensioners’ Quarter who were now in Lord Blackfield’s employ? No, Lord Dorias would not admit them. He would recognize them as the guttersnipes they were, and refuse them entry lest they steal the silver.
Lord Blackfield himself was out of the question; even had he been willing to trust his former host with the information, not only would it be unspeakably presumptuous to ask him, but Lord Dorias was not likely to trust anything a Quandishman might say, particularly not a Quandishman with whom his nephew had conspired.
Conspired to do what? Anrel wondered. The letter didn’t say.
Then he shook his head and returned to more important matters. Who could he send to speak to Lord Dorias?
One of Anrel’s fellow delegates to the Grand Council? No, that was preposterous—the other members of the Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery seemed to be very solidly in favor of Lorsa’s plan to use the Great List to bring the empire’s nobility to heel, and who could he trust who was not on the committee? Derhin, perhaps, but no one else.
Derhin—but no, that would not do. Derhin, too, might think Lorsa’s scheme a good one, and probably had no great love for Lord Dorias, who had done so little to defend his fosterling, Derhin’s friend, from death at Lord Allutar’s hands.
Perhaps Tazia?
That thought gave Anrel pause. Unlike all the previous notions, no objection sprang immediately to mind. Lord Dorias had a weakness, common in men of all ages, for pretty girls; he would not turn Tazia away without giving her a chance to speak.
Anrel frowned. He was, he knew, somewhat drunk, and perhaps there was some obvious flaw in the idea that the wine was hiding.
He would not act on it immediately, then—for one thing, calling on Tazia and Perynis at this hour would be inappropriate. If he could still see no argument against it by the light of morning, though, he would give it a try.
With that decided, he got unsteadily to his feet and after a moment’s uncertainty as to exactly which direction he needed to go, he headed for bed.
30
In Which Anrel Receives a Warning
Morning was well advanced when Anrel arose; he had not made a late night of it, by any means, but it had been a long and tiring day that ended with a significant quantity of wine. Although he remembered his decision of the night before—a pleasant surprise, under the circumstances—there was no time to act upon it if he was to have any hope at all of being at the baths when the Grand Council’s daily session was called to order. Besides, Tazia and Perynis were probably already begun on the day’s labors.
There was no sign of Derhin; whether this was because he was still asleep, or because he had already left on the day’s business, Anrel did not know and did not investigate. The empty wine bottles still stood on the table where he had left them, but that signified little; Derhin might well have left them there as Anrel’s responsibility.
He did not eat a proper breakfast, any more than he had eaten a proper supper the night before, but he did wolf down enough bread and cheese to quiet his belly before setting out for the Baths.
Since he was alone this time he did not walk openly along the street to the front of the Baths, but instead followed the directions he had been given that took him down an alley to a tunnel that supposedly led under the surrounding ruins and emerged in one of the unused and unidentified back rooms.
He cautiously descended the steep stone stairs at one side of the alley, and found the tunnel just as described. The underground passage was gloomy, but not utterly dark—gratings in the pavements above let in enough daylight for Anrel to see where he was going.
One feature his informants had failed to mention, though, was the prickly sensation of dread and foreboding that washed over him as he passed under the outer wall of the baths. He was unsure whether this was a ward someone had placed to keep thieves and beggars from wandering into the council’s chambers, or some lingering remnant of old magic; it didn’t feel like any ward he had ever encountered, but that proved little.
The Aldian Baths were said to be haunted, and whatever it was he felt at that point would certainly fit with such a belief.
The fear faded quickly, though, as he pressed on, and he found himself with a choice of stairs leading up. He chose one at random; it brought him up into a dim gray room with a single door.
When Anrel opened that door he emerged into the atrium, which was deserted; the council was already assembled in the central bath. He hastened to join them.
The day’s speaker was introducing the chairman of the Committee on Imperial Finance for yet another report, presumably to tell the council once again that nothing had changed; seein
g that, Anrel slowed his pace. There was no need to rush.
He had therefore not yet reached the steps down into the pool when Pariel Gluth spotted him and hurried to his side.
“Delegate Murau,” he said quietly.
“Delegate Gluth,” Anrel acknowledged. “A pleasure to see you here today. You were missed yesterday.”
Gluth smiled a tight little smile. “I’m sure. Could you spare me a moment, though, before we join the council as a whole?”
Puzzled, Anrel said, “Of course.” He followed Gluth to the side, to a small alcove where they could see the edge of the main gathering, but where they had a modest degree of privacy.
“You have been of great service to us,” Gluth said when they had reached the back of the alcove. “I felt it only fair, therefore, to warn you.”
“Warn me of what?” Anrel asked uneasily.
“Some of us on the committee took action yesterday to facilitate matters,” Gluth said. “It has long been clear that the Grand Council as a whole is simply too large and unwieldy, and too varied in its composition, to be effective, while the committees are too specialized and for the most part too timid to do what needs to be done.”
“I had noticed that the council has not been particularly efficient in bringing about an earthly paradise,” Anrel answered dryly.
“Indeed,” Gluth said, his humorless little smile widening very slightly. “Therefore, certain forward-minded individuals have taken it upon themselves—or perhaps I should say, ourselves—to act in the council’s stead in certain matters.”
Anrel was in no mood for subtlety. “Forgive me, Delegate, but what are you talking about? When you say I have been of service to you, of whom are we speaking?”
Gluth’s smile vanished. “Some of us from the Committee for the Regulation of Sorcery spent most of yesterday in conference with members of the Committee for the Restoration of Order, and with the burgrave of Lume, and with the chief wardens of the city,” he explained. “We have developed a plan of action to resolve certain matters, and move the empire forward into a more progressive future. In the course of negotiations each faction made certain concessions to facilitate cooperation.”
Above His Proper Station Page 28
