Above His Proper Station (2 page)

Right now, though, despite all these intriguing features, what interested Anrel the most about the gate was that it sheltered him from the bitter wind, and was leading him into the city.

Lume was the capital of the Walasian Empire, but it was also the only place left in all the Bound Lands where Anrel thought he might still have connections he could draw upon in establishing a new home, and a new life, for himself. Everywhere else he had ever lived was now closed to him.

He had been born in a village called Verien, in the province of Aulix, but his life there had been swept away when his sorcerer parents died horribly, apparently from a spell gone wrong. He had been a child, only four years old, and remembered almost nothing of Verien. He had no family there, no friends, no debts owed or owing.

After he was orphaned he had gone to live with his uncle, Lord Dorias Adirane, the burgrave of Alzur, and had sometimes visited the provincial capital at Naith, but in Alzur and Naith he was now a fugitive, condemned to death for sedition and inciting a riot. Some faint hope lingered that perhaps someday he could once again make contact with his uncle, and with his cousin, Lady Saria, but for now he dared not attempt it. To return to Alzur or Naith would be to put his head in a noose as surely as Reva Lir had.

When he had escaped from Naith he had fallen in with the Lir family—Garras Lir, his wife Nivain, and their three daughters. They were travelers, with no permanent home, because the four women were all witches—practitioners of magic who did not have the blessing of the empire, who had not passed the trials to become recognized sorcerers, who had not placed their true names on the Great List that the imperial court maintained. Witchcraft carried the death penalty, but it was rarely enforced; it was too useful to have magicians who would take the time to dowse for wells, treat fevers, tell fortunes, and perform a hundred other little magics for the common people, magics that the acknowledged sorcerer-lords could not be troubled to provide.

The death penalty had been enforced for poor Reva because she had dared to try to perform a binding on Lord Allutar himself. The landgrave's sorcery had proved far more effective than Reva's witchcraft, and she had been sent to the gallows not so much for the crime of witchcraft, but for her effrontery in using it on Allutar.

Technically, Anrel himself was a witch, but he had never used his abilities to earn a living. The Lir women had given him some rudimentary training in witchcraft, but he had as yet done nothing of any significance with it. If he were to be hanged it would be for his speeches, not for witchcraft.

Anrel had traveled with the Lirs for a season, but now that he had allowed Reva to die he believed himself to be as outcast from their company as he was from Alzur or Naith or Verien. That life, as the Lir family's friend and Tazia's would-be husband, was behind him.

But before he had made his treasonous speech in Naith, before he had antagonized anyone, Anrel had spent four years at the court schools in Lume. He had made friends there—not as many as some of his classmates, but he had not by any means been a hermit. He knew a few students who still remained in the capital, and was on friendly terms with some of his old professors, and had acquaintances among the clerks and shopkeepers and taverners. He had come to Lume in hopes of using these contacts to start fresh.

He had no idea what he would do once he had established himself, but there would be time to work that out later. For now he wanted a warm fire and a warm meal and walls that kept out the wind.

And then he emerged from the tunnel, past the two immense doors into the sunlit plaza beyond, and he was once again in Lume, the greatest city in all the known world, capital of the Walasian Empire, home to the Emperor Lurias XII. The plaza before him was paved with fine stone laid in elegant patterns, and the buildings surrounding it rose to as many as six stories in height, their hundreds of glass windows gleaming in the midday sun. Every street leading out of the plaza passed under a grand stone arch, and raised walkways, twenty feet up, connected these arches into a network, almost a second level of streets, though this upper level was reserved for watchmen, soldiers, and couriers.

People of all ages, of all shapes and sizes, wearing every sort of attire, were going about their business. A nobleman's carriage rattled across the pavement, the coachman holding his whip ready should anyone be slow to clear the way.

Anrel had never before entered this gate on foot; in the past he had arrived by coach. Still, he had done that often enough that he had no trouble in finding his route; he crossed the plaza, dodging the other pedestrians, and hurried under the arch that led into Cutler Street. That eventually took him through another arch into Blacksmith Square, where he followed Saddler Street down to the Promenade along the bank of the Galdin.

Some of the people he passed paused to stare at his shabby attire; his velvet coat was almost in ruins now. An ugly brownish stain tarnished the lace at his throat, and although it was not visible under the coat, he could feel that a shoulder seam on his shirt had ripped open.

There had been people of all classes in the streets he had followed, and he had not particularly stood out, but on the Promenade the dandies and their ladies were on display, with furs and fine woolens to keep out the cold. Not just one carriage, but half a dozen, rolled along the red brick pavement, brass fittings and gilt trim glittering. Here, his battered clothing drew sniffs, snubs, or disapproving stares from almost everyone.

Anrel ignored them. Ahead he could now see the ramparts of the emperor's palace looming above the streets and the river, the red painted mouths of cannon protruding from the battlements. Behind those defenses several towers rose, their bronze-wrapped spires gleaming in the sun.

He was not going that far along the Promenade, though; half a mile short of the palace he turned right under the Magistrates' Arcade, and began making his way through the maze of squares and alleys that surrounded the court schools and the Lesser Courts. He passed the ruined entrance of the Court of the White Dove, where a sorcerer's hurried defense against an attempted assassination two centuries ago had rendered several buildings uninhabitable—no one could sleep there and remain sane—and turned down Chalkcutter's Alley.

Dozens of students and clerks were going about their business, despite the cold; most were wrapped in good woolen cloaks, though, not dressed in near rags. Anrel thought he glimpsed a few familiar faces hurrying by, head down, but no one gave any sign of recognizing him. The only people who paid him any attention at all were those who stared at his inappropriate clothing.

Then he spotted faded red curves on a pillar ahead, a sinuous figure that was now little more than a blur, but which had once presumably been a painting of a red serpent.

He knew his own familiar little room was undoubtedly occupied by some eager newcomer by now, but he hoped to take shelter, at least initially, with one of his former neighbors. He turned in at the pillar, under the arch carved with a fanged, inhuman face, and hurried through the passage to the octagonal courtyard, where seven tenements faced each other across the cobbles.

The door to number four was closed, locked and barred, and his knock went unanswered. When at last he was convinced there would be no response, he turned away, shivering, to look at the other doors.

Little Orusir tel-Panien had had the ground-floor front at number three; Anrel decided to try there next. The door was closed, but opened when he tried the latch; he ducked into the hallway, glad to be inside.

No one had ever accused the landlords here of overheating the tenements in winter, but the corridor was still warmer than the outside air, with the familiar smell of cheap wine and boiled cabbage that seemed to permeate most of the student tenements in the city. Anrel stretched a little, unhunching his shoulders for the first time in hours, then turned his attention to Master tel-Panien's door. He knocked.

“Just a moment,” came the reply.

Anrel waited, and a few seconds later the latch rattled, and the door swung open a few inches. Orusir tel-Panien's timid, beardless face peered through the crack. “Yes?”

“Ori? It's me. Listen, I need a place to stay.”

“Do I know … oh, by the Father, is that you? Anrel Murau?” Tel-Panien stared.

“Yes, it's me,” Anrel said.

“What did you do to your hair?”

Anrel sighed. “Bleached it, for the sake of a woman.”

“And where's your cloak? You must be freezing!”

“Yes, I am,” Anrel agreed.

“What are you
doing
here? I thought you went home to your uncle in Aulix!”

“I did,” Anrel said. “It didn't go well. Could I come in?”

Tel-Panien glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to Anrel. “I … I'm sorry, Anrel, but I don't think that would be wise.”

Startled, Anrel said, “Why not?”

“Things have changed since you left, especially since the solstice. The court was not pleased with how the Grand Council turned out.”

Anrel blinked, trying to guess what the Grand Council had to do with anything. “I don't understand,” he said.

Ori peered out into the passage warily; seeing no one else, he continued, “There are rumors everywhere, and I don't know what to believe, whether it's the empress or the Lords Magistrate or the burgrave of Lume or someone else who ordered it, if
anyone
actually ordered it, but the watch has been keeping a very close eye on us all. We don't dare do anything to draw their attention.”

“Why
not?
” Anrel demanded. “What are they going to do?”

“You tried the door at number four?”

“Yes, I did,” Anrel acknowledged. “It's locked.”

“By order of the watch. They hauled everyone out of there. Some of them were released, but ordered to find other lodging. Some never came back, and we don't know what became of them. Deola Arimar never came back; neither did Sabirin li-Karopiel. Old Vardissier—the landlord, you remember?”

“I paid him rent three times a season,” Anrel said dryly. “Of course I remember him.”

“When he came home he was limping and something was wrong with his left hand. He wouldn't talk about it. He packed everything up, locked up the place, and went to stay with his sister in Kerdery.”

“But
why
?”

Ori glanced up and down the hallway again. “You know about the Grand Council?” he asked.

Anrel knew more about the Grand Council than he had ever wanted to, but he did not immediately see what the connection was. “I know something about it,” he replied warily.

“You know they meet in the ruins of the Aldian Baths because the emperor doesn't trust them in the palace?”

“I heard something about that,” Anrel admitted.

Ori sighed. “All the wrong people were elected—at least, the emperor thought so. The empress was furious. And she and the emperor and the others all say it was clerks and students who were responsible. This Alvos, who started a riot in Naith and got Derhin li-Parsil elected—they say he was a student at the local College of Sorcerers, and of course Master li-Parsil was a clerk. Students passed the word to other cities, they say, and many of the troublemakers on the council were clerks and students—after all, we're the ones who have studied rhetoric and oratory, and argued about every mad theory of government ever devised, so when the call went out for candidates for the Grand Council, students and clerks spoke up. The emperor apparently expected a bunch of merchants and farmers, but that wasn't what he got, so now they blame
all
of us, they're watching us …” He shuddered.

“I see,” Anrel said, dismayed. He made no mention of the fact that he, himself, was the infamous Alvos; he had invented the name in a vain hope his true identity would remain unknown when he gave his speech in Aulix Square, and while the magistrates had quickly learned who he was, apparently that news had not reached the general population. Nor were other aspects of the tale accurate; he had not been a student at the Provincial College of Sorcerers. In an attempt to shift the subject away from his own folly, he asked, “I had heard there was a curfew; is that part of the same effort?”

Ori nodded.

“But surely you can let a friend stay for a night?” Anrel pleaded. “Just until I find a place of my own? I don't want to defy the curfew.”

“I don't think so,” Ori said, shaking his head. “They'll want to know who you are, why you're here—you said you had a falling-out with your uncle?”

“Well, with others in Alzur, really.”

“You have no cloak, you have no post, you are no longer a student—I'm sorry, Anrel, but it's too dangerous. You don't belong here anymore.”

“Oh, but Ori—”

“
No,
Anrel. I'm sorry. Others may be more generous, but I cannot risk it. Go away, please. Now.” He pushed the door.

Anrel resisted for a moment, then stepped back and let it close.

He had no choice, really; what was he going to do,
force
Ori to take him in? No, he would need to find somewhere else. Perhaps Dariel vo-Basig, over in the Court of the Blue Dragon? Dariel had always been fond of defying authority.

In small ways, at any rate.

Anrel tugged his ragged coat more tightly about him, then stepped out into the courtyard. He turned toward the passage out of Red Serpent Court.

A watchman was standing atop the arch, watching him. The afternoon sun gleamed from his brass helmet, and he had his gray woolen cloak flung back to reveal the green and gold tunic of the Emperor's Watch.

Anrel grimaced, then waved cheerfully and trudged onward, trying not to remember Tazia's face or the sound of Reva's neck snapping.

2

In Which Anrel Finds Shelter

Dariel vo-Basig had vanished; none of his neighbors admitted to knowing anything about him. Giel Darai refused to speak to Anrel. Beyir Astemin had fled back to his grandmother's farm in Vaun.