A Young Man Without Magic (3 page)

Valin shook his head. “No farther than Naith, but I have spoken with travelers. There is a Quandishman called Lord Blackfield who came to visit with your uncle not long ago, and who I believe is now Lord Allutar's guest; he has told me a great deal about the world beyond the empire's borders.”

Lord Blackfield's name was vaguely familiar, but Anrel could not place it at first, though he didn't suppose it mattered. He should have realized that Valin would put his trust in such a source. “You believed every word he said, of course. We all know how utterly reliable and impartial foreign barbarians are.”

“Now, that was uncalled for,” Valin protested. “I am no child, to accept nonsense without question.”

“Ah, that's right,” Anrel replied. “You did say you had changed.”

“Anrel!” Valin appeared genuinely annoyed.

Anrel held up a hand. “Yes, I know, I have overstepped the bounds of decency. I apologize, dear Valin; I have no business questioning my superiors.”

“Even your apology contains more sarcasm than contrition!”

“It does, doesn't it? I
am
sorry, Valin. I fear it's just my nature.” He smiled. “Does it not strike you as odd, though, that you, a Walasian sorcerer lord, should be arguing for the abolition of the system that has
elevated you to a rank your ancestors could never achieve, while I, the outcast spawn of two sorcerers who somehow remained a mere commoner myself, should be arguing to retain the privileges of the magically gifted?”

“I do not think you
want
to be a lord, Anrel. I think you were relieved when you failed that trial.”

That came uncomfortably close to matters Anrel did not want to discuss. “Can you wonder at that, given my parents' fate?” he said. He shook his head. “No, I am content to be a clerk or a scholar, well outside the corridors of power and privilege, answerable to no one but myself and perhaps a burgrave, or some lesser lord.”

“But a man of your intelligence—what a shame that you have no magic! Perhaps I should put
your
name forward as a delegate to the Grand Council.”

That notion horrified Anrel. “Oh, you will do no such thing! I would be of no use there; I would merely poke holes in everyone else's ideas, while putting forth none of my own.” Before Valin could reply, Anrel changed the subject. “This Quandishman, Lord Blackfield—what is he doing here? Is he a sorcerer?”

“He is, yes. He is on a campaign to stamp out black magic, it seems—he and a few of his foreign friends. They call themselves the Lantern Society, shining a light in darkness.”

“Darkness? They consider the Walasian Empire benighted?”

“Only in our use of black magic, I think.”

Anrel cocked his head. “
Black
magic?”

“Magic that draws power from blood, pain, or death, or that requires unwilling participants, or that exists only to cause harm. In Quand, it seems they divide magic into various colors—black, white, and gray, for the most part. Black magic has been outlawed entirely, Lord Blackfield says, much as we have outlawed witchcraft.”

“Ah, I've heard something of that.” In fact, Anrel had read the statute itself during his studies, but in the original tongue. He had not immediately recognized the Walasian term, though, as he had mentally translated the Quandish as “malevolent magic,” rather than the literal “black magic,” and he had not taken any particular note of the regulation.

“The Ermetians impose similar limitations on themselves,” he added. “So do some of the Cousins—in Skarl, I believe, and perhaps Andegor.”

“There are said to be some Ermetians among Lord Blackfield's group,” Valin acknowledged. “I have heard nothing of anyone from the Cousins, though, and I have met only Blackfield himself.”

Anrel considered for a moment, then asked, “Who decides which magic is black? It's simple enough to determine whether a Walasian magician is a sorcerer or a witch simply by consulting the Great List, but how does one judge whether a particular spell is malign?”

“I told you—if it draws upon blood or pain, or causes harm.”

“
All
magic that draws blood is forbidden? Wouldn't that outlaw most fertility spells?”

“I suppose it would, yes.”

Anrel shook his head. “They're foolish idealists,” he said. “When social rank is determined by magical power, one can hardly expect sorcerers to set arbitrary limits upon themselves.”

“But these limits are hardly arbitrary!” Valin protested. “And if all are bound equally by them, how can they interfere with the determination of status?” He sighed. “For that matter, have I not just been arguing that we should abandon using sorcerous talent to determine rank?”

“Were we to do so, we would hardly be Walasians,” Anrel said. “The system has been in place for centuries, Valin—just as the Quandish have maintained their bizarre arrangements for centuries, and the Ermetians theirs. Ours works best for us. The situation is stable as it is, and change can only bring grief.”

“Ah, but change is surely coming! The emperor has called the Grand Council, for only the second time in our history. It was the Grand Council that created the system, and the Grand Council that has the power to alter it—if only we can send the right delegates to Lume.”

This theme again. Valin's bizarre enthusiasm for the Grand Council and its supposed transformative effect annoyed Anrel. “The emperor seeks only to revise the tax system, to pay his debts,” he said. “He will not welcome any meddling beyond that.”

“But the Grand Council outranks even the emperor himself!” Valin
insisted. “It was the first Grand Council that established the imperial family and set the first emperor upon the throne, and the second Grand Council will have the authority to remove the present incumbent, should he resist whatever changes the council sees fit to make.”

“Father and Mother, Valin, I would hope that you have not suggested anything so treasonous where anyone else might hear it!”

“It has been mentioned in the taverns and tea houses of Naith,” Valin said, a trifle defensively.

Anrel stared at his companion in amazement. “In Lume,” he said, “such talk might well see you dragged off by the Emperor's Watch and cast into one of their dungeons, or simply hanged as a traitor.”

Valin turned his head, rather than meet his friend's intense gaze, and looked out at the square. “The rain is lessening,” he said.

“Good!” Anrel said, straightening. “Then we can go home, and I can see my uncle.”

Before Valin could reply, a woman in a white apron came bustling up to their table and said breathlessly, “Lord Valin! I'm so sorry; I didn't think anyone would be out in this rain. How can I serve you?”

Anrel noticed she was focused entirely on the sorcerer, ignoring the poor student. That was no surprise. The only surprise was that he did not recognize her; when last he had been in Alzur this café had been the property of the widowed Dailur Harrea. Master Harrea had apparently died, remarried, or sold the business in the interim.

Valin, Anrel noticed, did not bother to introduce them. Instead he looked questioningly at his companion. “We are here,” he said. “Shall we have a little something while we wait out these last few drops?”

“I dined at the Kuriel way station,” Anrel said. “Just a little wine to wash the road dust from my throat would be fine.”

“A bottle of Lithrayn red, then,” Valin said to the woman. “And a plate of sausages, and some of those lovely seedcakes from—” He stopped, frowning. He had turned to point to a nearby shop, but now he broke off in midsentence and asked, “Is the bakery closed?”

The woman followed his gaze and said, “Hadn't you heard? Lord Allutar caught the baker's son stealing from his herb garden, and has
sentenced him to death.” Anrel noticed that she pronounced the landgrave's name much as she might speak of some detestable vermin. “The whole family is up at the landgrave's house now, pleading for his life.”

“I was aware of some commotion as I came into town, but I had no idea!” Valin said, horrified. “I was too eager to welcome my old friend home to ask what it was about.”

“Very unfortunate,” Anrel said.

“Unfortunate!” Valin turned to face him, shocked. “
Unfortunate
? A young man's life is at issue here!”

“A thief's life, from the sound of it.”

“Still, a human life! Over a few herbs?”

“A
sorcerer's
herbs, Valin.
Lord Allutar's
herbs. Lord Allutar is still landgrave of Aulix, is he not?”

“Of course he is.”

“Then he has the power of high and low justice over all the commoners in the province, and stealing from the landgrave's own garden is the height of suicidal folly. The baker's son is doomed, and his removal can only improve the species.”

Valin recoiled. “Anrel, how can you be so cold? Is that what they taught you at the court schools? This is a human being, a young man with almost his whole life yet to be lived! He's this woman's neighbor! He's the baker's son! He has friends and family who are about to be arbitrarily deprived of his presence, who will grieve over his loss—”

“Who, it would seem, did nothing to prevent him from stealing from a sorcerer's garden.” As it happened, since the baker had only one son, Anrel knew exactly who the youth was—Urunar Kazien. He had known the boy when they were children, though they had little contact after Valin's arrival. This acquaintance did not incline him to any special sympathy; he had never liked Urunar. “Valin, really! Those herbs might well be magical, for all we know, and what would happen if ordinary folk, those whose true names are unknown, began meddling with magical powers? That would be witchcraft, and witches are hanged; executing the thief before he can do any harm does not change the outcome, but merely avoids any possible damage to others.” He saw Valin start to protest, and hastily concluded, “In any case, what can we do about it? What's done is done.”

“But he isn't dead yet, and while he lives, there is hope.” Valin turned to the woman. “You said his family is pleading for his life?”

“So I've heard, my lord.”

Valin thrust back his chair and got to his feet. “Then let us go add our own voices to theirs, Anrel! Let us make clear to Lord Allutar that it is not merely the family who wants to see the boy's life spared, but every soul whose heart holds a trace of common humanity.”

Anrel grimaced. “I think you may find, Valin, that there are not as many of those as you would like to believe—that common humanity is, in truth, not common at all.” He remained seated.

Valin glowered at him. “I think
you
may find, Anrel, that your pessimism is unfounded. Surely, a spark of decency must flicker even in Lord Allutar's breast, and it is our duty, as citizens of the empire, to fan it into flame.
I
am going, even if you are not!” He turned and hurried out into the rain.

With a sigh, Anrel arose. “Your pardon, mistress,” he said, with a tip of his sodden student's cap. “I'm afraid we won't be having that wine and sausage just yet, nor shall I be going to see my uncle—I must first save Lord Valin from his folly. I can only hope we will be back soon.” He glanced down, and added, “If you could look after my luggage, I would be in your debt.” A coin appeared in his hand—a penny this time, not a sixpence—and was passed to hers. She bobbed in acknowledgment, and Anrel set out on his friend's heels, leaving the two traveling cases behind.

This was
definitely
not how he had envisioned his return to Alzur.

By the time Anrel caught up to Valin they had rounded the corner by the clockmaker's shop. The rain had lessened to a thin drizzle, but still continued.

Valin glanced at his companion, but said nothing.

Anrel remarked, “I confess, this is not quite the homecoming I imagined.”

Valin smiled at that. “I am sure it's not,” he said. “I suppose you expected a leisurely walk in the opposite direction.”

Anrel smiled ruefully in return. “In fact, I flattered myself that Lord Dorias might have met me himself, rather than sending you. Perhaps if he had, you would not be rushing off on this fool's errand.”

“Ah, Anrel! I'm afraid our dear patron said he was not well, and did not feel himself up to the journey.”

“What?” Anrel stopped in his tracks. “Do you mean to tell me that you are marching us off to defend this thieving nobody, when your own guardian, my beloved uncle, is ill? Why did you not rush me to his bedside immediately, rain or no? Valin, I—”

Valin held up a hand, interrupting him. “No, no; the illness, such as it is, is not so severe as that. In truth, I think it as much a sour mood as any physical ailment. There is no danger whatsoever, I assure you, or indeed I
would
have rushed you to his bedside. As it is, were you at his bedside I fear you would find yourself alone, as when last I saw your uncle he was
amusing himself in his orangery, viciously pruning any blossom that displeased him while complaining at length about the emperor's foolishness and your own perversity in choosing this particular time to return to Alzur. Lady Saria was present to provide an ear for his tirade, so I felt no need to remain there myself, nor to coax him to meet your coach.”

“Ah.” Anrel allowed himself to relax. “That does sound like him, and I can understand not wishing to interrupt him in such a situation.” He began walking again, pulling his cap forward on his brow to better shield his face from the rain. “Let us allow him to cleanse the oranges of unhealthy blooms, then, while we waste our breath in asserting our own moral superiority to Lord Allutar.”

“Father and Mother, Anrel,” Valin said, falling in beside him. “Have you no sympathy for the baker's son?”