A Young Man Without Magic (24 page)

Anrel had rowed for as long as he could see, well after most of the other boats on the river had anchored or put ashore, and had then made for the northern bank, where he secured his vessel to a tree, curled himself up in the bottom, and went to sleep. He awoke with the sunrise, retrieved the oars, and continued his journey up the Galdin.

He rowed as much as he could, but sometimes found it necessary to tie up and rest his arms; he deliberately chose to make these stops as far from any town as possible, instead using overhanging trees or farmers' fishing piers as his anchorage. He ignored the growing discomfort in his belly; he had not eaten since the previous midday. He did not want to risk going ashore to find food yet. Instead he rowed on.

This gave him plenty of time to think, as rowing a boat up the Galdin did not require a great deal of his attention; the motion, while vigorous, was simple and repetitive, and the river was wide enough and slow enough that traffic and current were of almost no concern.

He found himself wondering what he had done. He had risked his life to defend a man who was already dead. Nothing he had done would benefit Valin; that worthy's soul had already joined his ancestors in the afterlife, and would be judged entirely on what Valin himself had done in life, not for anything Anrel did in his behalf.

It was possible that his actions would seriously discommode Lord
Allutar, and might therefore punish him for Valin's murder, but even that seemed unlikely. Really, the more he thought about it, the more Anrel saw his speech as an empty gesture, a meaningless act that would do nothing to improve anyone's circumstances, and which had made his own situation desperate indeed. When he was planning it, and when he was speaking, he had thought of it as a tribute to Valin's memory that would create a brief stir and nothing more, but now, looking back, he realized it had been far more than that.

He had started a riot—unintentionally, but nonetheless, he
had
started a riot. He had delivered a speech that Lord Allutar and his minions would almost certainly label seditious or treasonous; the authorities in Naith had been surprisingly tolerant of young men talking rebellious nonsense in taverns, but those same words delivered from the First Emperor's statue could not be so readily ignored.

What's more, he had assaulted a watchman, stolen his uniform and sword, and commandeered a barge. Even if his speech was dismissed as meaningless, he had
assaulted a watchman
.

And he had stolen a boat.

He was a criminal; there could be no real argument. He had committed real crimes in his determination to ensure that Valin's words were heard. He had not
planned
to commit assault or theft or impersonation of a watchman; it had all just happened as he proceeded from one step to the next.

It might well take considerably more than a few days for this to blow over. He might need to pay fines, at the very least. He might need to throw himself on the notoriously skimpy mercy of the magistrates in Naith. He might need to convince his uncle to beg for his life—and even that might not be enough.

He might never be able to go home to Alzur again.

He would take shelter somewhere, he told himself—in Lume, perhaps, or some convenient town. He would use a false name, and write letters, asking friends and family for their assessment of his situation. It might not be as bad as he feared.

Or it might be even worse. Depending on just how much damage the rioting had caused, and how determined the landgrave and his magistrates
were for a scapegoat, he might even now be the subject of a manhunt, with a death warrant sworn out against him by Lord Neriam.

He might well have thrown away his entire life in his attempt to make Lord Allutar regret Valin's death.

Logically, he should not have done it. It had been a foolish, romantic, impulsive thing to do.

And he knew that given a chance, he would almost certainly do it again. Anything less would have been a surrender to the appalling Lord Allutar, and a disgrace to Valin's memory, a betrayal of their long friendship. Allutar had killed Valin to silence him; therefore, justice had required that Valin's voice be heard.

Alas, that it had fallen to Anrel to speak with that voice, saying words he did not believe and sacrificing his own well-being in the process. If there had been some other way to avenge Valin—well, Anrel had been unable to think of one. He was no assassin, to take Allutar's life in revenge, nor a thief to take anything else in compensation—or at least, he told himself, looking down at the boat, until yesterday he had not been a thief.

But he had learned to speak persuasively in the court schools, and had done his best with the skills he had.

Now his greatest regret was that he did not have greater skill with a pair of oars.

He shrugged. If he had indeed thrown away his old life, he would need to make himself a new one—but he still had hopes of salvaging something from the old, if he could find refuge in his familiar haunts in Lume and somehow make contact with his uncle.

By midday of that second day on the water, though, Anrel knew he could not possibly row all the way to Lume. He had covered only a few miles, but his arms were losing their strength; he needed food and water and rest. He had nothing to eat, and his only water source was the river itself; every so often he strained a little water through a handkerchief into his hand, removing the worst of the contaminants, and drank the result, but that was not really satisfactory. He had hoped the boat's rightful owner might have left a few supplies hidden somewhere aboard the craft, but a careful search had found nothing; the boat had been
completely empty when he stole it. There was no water, no preserved food, no fishing gear.

What's more, people on docks and other boats seemed to be taking altogether too much interest in him; some appeared to be referring to papers of some sort, so Anrel guessed that his description was being circulated.

Since no one pointed and shouted, and no boats came rowing out after him, he suspected it wasn't a very
good
description. Still, he thought that putting ashore anywhere densely populated would be unwise.

Staying on the river indefinitely was not possible—he did need food and rest. And he did not think sleeping in the boat again would be safe; he had managed it without incident the first night, but he could not rely on doing so again. He might well wake up to find himself looking up at guardsmen holding one of those papers.

Because of the stares and papers, he intended to go ashore somewhere more or less uninhabited. That proved surprisingly difficult; the banks of the Galdin seemed to hold an amazing number of villages. He was scarcely ever out of sight of a town, and when he was, the river's shores were still lined with farmers' fields that would provide no cover, and which had mostly already been harvested, which meant they would do little to feed him.

Finally, though, when the sun was low in the west, a cluster of trees appeared on the bank ahead, and Anrel steered for this promising destination.

Much of that promise faded when he got close enough to see why no farm or village occupied this spot, though; the ground, what there was of it, appeared to be black muck. Still, it was somewhere he could go ashore unseen, even if it meant wading through mud and perhaps ruining his boots.

He ran his boat as far aground as he could, digging the oar blades into the muddy river bottom to gain the last few feet; then he clambered overboard, and after some awkward splashing and floundering managed to find solid footing on half-buried tree roots under knee-deep water. He was able to work his way up out of the water, pulling the boat after him. In fact, he contrived to heave the boat out of the water entirely,
and drag it behind two trees that were growing close together. He stowed the oars carefully, then turned his steps inland, intent on finding food. Perhaps a few nuts, even some low-hanging fruit . . .

Unfortunately, the grove he had landed in was comprised mostly of ash and willow. Exposed willow roots provided decent footing, so the black mud was less trouble than he had anticipated, but these trees produced nothing edible.

The sun was down now, and shadows were gathering; reluctantly, Anrel concluded that he would need to find other people if he was to obtain any supper. He had deliberately chosen his landing to be as far away from any villages or farms as possible, but he knew that was not actually very far. If he could find his way out to a road he could claim to be an ordinary traveler. He had plenty of money for a room and meal at an inn.

Explaining how he came to be wearing a watchman's sword might be a little difficult. He looked down at the weapon, trying to decide whether it was distinctively a
watchman's
sword, and did not reach a firm conclusion. He told himself that he would abandon the sword if necessary, but hoped it would not come to that—a weapon might be useful.

Even when he had moved out of sight of the water he could orient himself easily by the sunset's glow reflecting from the river; that golden light still filtered through the trees, and guided him as he trudged up the bank at an angle, still moving upstream.

He saw a light ahead, barely visible in the fading daylight, that was not the sunset, and headed toward it, guessing it to be a farmhouse—perhaps daylight reflecting from a glass window, or a lantern hung by a door.

Fairly quickly, though, as the sky dimmed and he drew nearer, he realized that he was seeing the light of a fire, and one that was nearer than he had initially believed. That, he thought, was worth a closer look, at any rate. He approached cautiously, trying not to step on anything that would rustle, or that might cling and make noise when he pulled his foot free. He had just gotten to a point where he could see the fire, at least two or three figures seated around it, and what appeared to be a wagon of some sort, when he felt the ward.

Anrel was not a sorcerer, but he had grown up among sorcerers, and
despite years of denial he had some innate magical talent himself; he knew a warding spell when he sensed one, and he had very definitely encountered a ward—a weak one, badly done, sufficient only to alert its creator to an intruder's presence, not a real defense at all, but nonetheless, a ward.

He stopped dead in his tracks, holding his breath, not daring to move, as he tried to think what it could mean. What would a sorcerer be doing out here, in a marshy riverside grove at sunset?

Or had the wards been set some time ago, perhaps? Was this merely a boundary marker, an indication of the edge of some nobleman's property?

But if so, why were those people camping
inside
it?

And why were they sitting so very still? From the instant he first felt the touch of magic, they had frozen in place, motionless as statues—much as he was himself.

Then one of them rose, and turned to look directly at him—a woman, though he could not make out her features in the shadows, with the firelight behind her. “Who's there?” she called quietly.

There was no point in pretending further; he raised his hands to show himself unarmed, and began walking again, no longer concerned with disturbing fallen leaves. “Just a traveler,” he answered.

“Come where we can see you,” she said, peering in his direction.

Annoyed with himself, Anrel realized that he was still deep in the shadows of the grove, and in all likelihood she could not actually see him at all; he could probably have slipped away safely if he had tried.

It was too late now, though. “I'm coming,” he said.

Now the other figures around the fire were getting to their feet as well, and turning to watch him. There were more of them than he had thought. One was a big man—tall, broad in the shoulders, and obviously not a man who missed many meals, though Anrel judged him to have as much muscle as fat on his generous frame. He wore a battered hat not unlike Anrel's own in design, but showing every sign of long, hard use.

The others all seemed to be women—four in all, counting the one who had first addressed him, all of them wearing simple country dresses.

None of the five appeared to be especially well attired, which was puzzling;
which of them was the sorcerer who had placed the wards? Perhaps the man was some eccentric noble who had decided to try roughing it for a few days, and had brought along a few of his maids to help him.

The wagon, though, was not by any stretch of the imagination a nobleman's coach; it was little more than a rather battered box on wheels, with a canvas cover stretched across an arched frame over the top. A lone horse stood a few yards away, almost invisible in the twilight and apparently asleep. Surely, even the most eccentric sorcerer would not have trusted himself and four others to a single draft horse?

“Who are you?” the big man demanded.

“My name is . . . is Dyssan,” Anrel said, remembering at the last instant to give a name that he could be reasonably sure was not that of a known fugitive. “Dyssan Adirane.” He emerged into the light of the fire, hands still raised.

There was a pot on the fire, he saw, and he could smell something cooking. His mouth watered.

The big man glanced at one of the women, then back at Anrel. “What do you want here?” he asked.

“To dry my boots by your fire, if I may,” Anrel said.

“You're wearing a sword.”

“Indeed I am. Despite the landgrave's best efforts, brigands are not unknown in Aulix,” Anrel replied dryly.

Something brushed against him then, something intangible, something he could not name and could not explain. He started, but kept his hands up.

Two of the women exchanged startled glances.

The big man turned and asked, “Well, ladies? What do you think?”

“Let him come,” one of them said.

“I don't think we could stop him,” another added.

“Oh?” The man gave Anrel a wary glance.

“He's a sorcerer,” she explained.

The big man turned and studied Anrel, taking in the torn fabric on his shoulders and lapels and the mud on his boots, but also the quality of the leather beneath the mud. “A sorcerer? Then by all means, my lord, feel free to join us.”