A Young Man Without Magic (45 page)

“I had heard it was a love spell,” he said. He hoped this might displace the story of Quandish duplicity. It would be far easier to defend a woman hoping to capture a man's heart than a witch attempting to subvert a government official, and this story had the advantage of being the truth. “I had heard she made up some foolish tale about Quandish spies to protect the identity of the girl who had hired her, some poor young thing with more money than sense who had fallen madly in love with the landgrave.”

“Well, if she didn't admit it, how do you know?” the man who had brought up the espionage theory demanded.

“From Lord Allutar's servants, of course. The witch revealed the truth later, when Lord Allutar questioned her. I suppose he ensorceled her. Anyway, that man Hollem heard the whole thing, and told my cousin Nilue, and she told me.”

“My brother's mistress was at the reception, and
she
said it was Quandish spies.”

“That's what the witch claimed, yes, but Nilue swears that the truth came out under later questioning. Just a girl smitten with the landgrave, no Quandish agents. After all, friend, have you seen any Quandishmen in town? I haven't.”

“Well, they wouldn't
admit
they were Quandish!”

“Could any foreigner pass for Walasian? You don't think his speech and appearance would give him away?”

“Speaking of appearance,” another man remarked, “
you
look Quandish.”

Anrel suddenly found himself the focus of attention for everyone else in the room.

“I won't deny some Quandish blood,” he said, in the most casual tone he could manage, “but I was born and raised in Aulix.”

“How do we know that? Maybe
you
hired the witch!”

“Friends, I can barely afford this beer—how would I pay a witch enough to enchant Lord Allutar? It would take far more money than
I
have to pay for such folly! I'd say overcoming a witch's common sense that way must have cost at least a dozen guilders, and if I had a dozen guilders, do you think I'd be wearing this hand-me-down ruin instead of a good warm coat?”

That seemed to mollify most of the drinkers' suspicions, but one man was not so easily deterred. “It could be a disguise,” he said. “How do we know you don't have half the Quandish treasury to draw on?”

Anrel shook his head. “You poor, poor man. Do you think the Quandish government would be stupid enough to send a spy dressed like
this
?” He tugged at his coat. “Do you think they can't afford walnut juice to dye their man's hair? That's the
easy
part of disguising a man! It's getting the language, the accent, and the manner right that's difficult, but here I am, blond as any Ondiner, dressed in castoffs and speaking Walasian as well as any of you.”

“You could be a Quandish sorcerer, casting a glamour on your speech!”

Anrel laughed outright. “Oh, certainly, they would send a sorcerer who can cast a glamour to hire a Walasian witch, rather than having him ensorcel Lord Allutar himself. And of course, such a master magician would enchant his speech, but not his appearance! Tell me, friend, do you see a great many Quandish spies around here? Perhaps hiding in your woodpile, or sweeping the streets?”

That got a laugh from the crowd. Anrel's questioner looked angry for a moment, but then glanced around at the smiles on his neighbors' faces, and his expression turned sheepish. “You're right,” he admitted. “A sorcerer wouldn't need to hire a witch, and a Quandish spy wouldn't dress like you.” His features hardened. “But there
could
be a Quandish spy involved, all the same!”

“That girl who wanted the love spell,” someone suggested. “Perhaps
she's
the Quandish spy, and
both
stories are true! She planned to control Lord Allutar with her charms.”

“That could be,” Anrel said. He shrugged. “Who knows?” He drank, then asked, “What does your burgrave think of all this? It sounds to me as if Lord Allutar seized this witch and plans to hang her without so much as asking the burgrave's blessing.”

“Lord Diosin?” Someone laughed. “Lord Diosin isn't going to argue with the landgrave of Aulix. If Lord Allutar wants to hang someone, Lord Diosin will gladly hand him the rope.”

“Not jealous of his prerogatives, then?”

“Not if it would get in the way of toadying to his betters.”

“Ah,” Anrel said. He beckoned to the innkeeper. “Another beer, if you please?”

As he waited for his mug to be filled, Anrel looked over the crowd and listened to their chatter. They were now making crude jokes about the burgrave of Beynos; clearly, Lord Diosin was not greatly beloved by his people.

The jokes were good-humored, though; they did not seem to feel any real rancor against the burgrave.

Mentions of the promised hanging were surprisingly few, really. These people did not seem particularly upset about the coming execution, nor particularly pleased by the prospect.

Anrel thought it would be easier to sway them if there were more obvious resentment of Lord Allutar's high-handed actions, but at least they were not applauding the witch's capture. They were more concerned with Lord Diosin's sexual habits and imaginary Quandish spies than with Reva's impending death.

Bringing these people to acts of open defiance would be difficult, very difficult—but Anrel had no other choice. He would, he decided, spend the rest of the day trying to lay the groundwork.

And tomorrow, he would gamble Reva's life, and quite possibly his own, on the legend and oratorical skills of the infamous Alvos.

Anrel was on the bridge across the Galdin bright and early the next morning, taking a place by the upstream railing and settling in for a wait. He had blackened his coat with char from the inn's fireplace, and stuffed rushes into his shirt to pad it out and make himself appear a much larger man. He kept his hat pulled down to hide his face as much as he could without drawing suspicion, and spent much of his time looking out over the water.

The river had never entirely frozen over, so far as Anrel had seen, and right now it was mostly open water, flowing sluggishly between ice-covered banks. He could see no boats moving—hardly surprising, this time of year. Several were tied up along either side, most of them at least partially icebound.

There were a good many pedestrians around, though, encouraged by the milder weather to get out into the fresh air and go about their business. No one paid any attention to Anrel, so far as he could tell. He had feared that someone might notice him there, recognize him, and call the watchmen, but the townsfolk seemed happy to attend to their own concerns and leave him undisturbed.

After a time, though, a crowd began to gather in the square and on the bridge. Where people had been crossing the bridge briskly before, now they were beginning to linger, leaning on the rails as he was himself, or
sitting on the steepest part of the bridge, or standing about in twos and threes, chatting quietly.

It was not long after he first observed this accumulation of townspeople that three uniformed officials appeared, marching across the square in a line. The man in the center carried a banner in one hand and a scroll in the other, while the individuals flanking him bore raised spears—not the simple everyday weapons that watchmen or guards might carry on patrol, but polished wooden shafts with elaborately barbed heads that gleamed silver in the sun. One of the spearmen had a large pack slung on his shoulder; Anrel found that curious for such a ceremony.

The banner hung from a crosspiece near the top of a pole at least eight feet in height; it was a long rectangle of pale gold cloth bearing a device Anrel did not recognize, but which looked suspiciously like a man juggling fish.

The three men stopped at the foot of the bridge, and most of the people on the bridge and in the square stopped whatever they were doing, fell silent, and turned to watch and listen. A few who had been sitting on the slope moved aside, but then waited expectantly.

As everyone watched, the man in the middle unrolled his scroll, a bit awkwardly—one hand had to keep hold of the pole bearing the banner, and was limited thereby. He held up the document, as if to read from it.

“Hear, citizens of Beynos!” he proclaimed, in a slightly hoarse voice.

“Louder!” someone shouted from the east end of the square.

“
Hear, citizens of Beynos!
” the herald shouted back. Then he cleared his throat and read, “Whereas, by the ancient law of the Walasians, it is forbidden for any subject of the emperor to perform feats of magic, unless that person's true name shall be duly inscribed upon the roll of recognized sorcerers, and patent of nobility granted in recognition thereof; and whereas a woman of unknown origin calling herself Reva Lir did two nights ago attempt to perform magic upon the body of Lord Allutar Hezir, who is landgrave of Aulix in the service of the emperor, against his will and without his consent, and whereas this woman can present no evidence nor witness that she is a recognized sorceress or the holder of any patent of nobility, therefore has Lord Diosin Folivie, burgrave of
Beynos, as representative of the emperor's peace within these walls, when informed of these facts, declared her outlaw and traitor.”

He paused for a breath, and Anrel looked out over the crowd. They were watching and listening silently. There was no sign yet of Lord Allutar or Reva, though; had there been a change in plans?

“Accordingly, Lord Diosin has decreed that justice shall be done upon her, and be seen to be done upon her, on this day and in this place,” the herald continued. “For that purpose, I, Illis tel-Parniar, am sent by Lord Diosin to ready this place, and to prepare the mechanisms of justice. Let none obstruct me. If any shall have reason to question what Lord Diosin has decreed, let him marshal his words, and an opportunity to speak shall be provided, but let none interfere with the rightful preparations I am commanded to make.”

Now Anrel was confused; what preparations? He watched as the herald rolled up the scroll, straightened the banner, and marched forward again, up the arch of the bridge—but not up the center; instead he headed to the western rail. At the peak of the bridge he stopped, slid the scroll into his belt, and handed the banner to the spearman on his left. Then he turned to the spearman on his right, who was taking his pack off his shoulder, and reached out to open the pack.

Understanding dawned as the herald reached into the pack and began pulling out heavy tarred rope. This Illis tel-Parniar was not a herald, Anrel realized. This was the hangman, come to ready the gallows.

Anrel swallowed bile as he watched the three men go about their duties no more than twenty feet away from where he leaned against the eastern rail. The hangman climbed up on the railing, rope draped over his shoulder, while the two spearmen stood by, each with one hand raised, ready to grab him should he lose his footing. He clambered up onto a graceful iron arch that Anrel had once thought a mere decorative frippery, and laid himself out onto a diagonal shaft that jutted out over the river. Then he signaled to one of the spearmen and began hauling at the rope.

The noose, already tied, slid out of the pack and up the iron arch. The hangman maneuvered a loop of rope through an iron flower—Anrel could not see, from his vantage point, exactly what went where, but in
only a moment the noose was dangling from the very end of the iron strut, and the rope had been run along a path through the ironwork, the free end flung down to one of the spearmen.

Then the hangman was sliding back down, to be caught by his assistants. He thumped onto the stone arch of the bridge, then took the end of the rope from his helper and secured it to the railing with a complicated knot.

The entire job was done with astonishing speed.

The three men turned and looked it over, tugging at the rope and watching the noose dance. A thin white cord hung from the noose, looping back to the railing; when the hangman was satisfied with the rope he grabbed this cord and used it to pull the noose back to the bridge, He secured it to an iron finial where it could easily be reached when the time came to place it around Reva's throat.

Then he turned and murmured something to one of the spearmen, who nodded, turned, and trotted back down the bridge and across the square in the direction of the burgrave's mansion.

Anrel waited. The hangman had said there would be an opportunity to speak; this was clearly not yet the time.

The hangman and his remaining assistant waited, as well, as did the crowd that had gathered on the bridge and in the square. Anrel noticed that people were now lining the waterfront downstream from the bridge—not upstream, though, as the hanged woman would be invisible from that side, hidden by the bridge's arch.

Anrel wondered angrily why these people were so eager to see a woman die. What satisfaction would they get from the sight? There was no pleasure to be had in a needless death, was there?

His own place on the railing had a fairly good view; he was able to see over most of the heads, and the ironwork was not in a direct line with the noose. He hoped, though, that there would be nothing to see—or rather, that there would be no hanging.

A riot, on the other hand, would suit him very nicely.

Other people were climbing up on the railing beside him now, on both sides. He frowned. That would make him less visible when he spoke, but he could not see any way to prevent it.

A murmur in the crowd made him turn his head in time to see a procession approaching. He craned his neck for a better view.

A dozen people were moving across the square toward the bridge. Reva was at the center of the group, head down, surrounded by watchmen; she wore no coat, despite the cold, but only the dress she had been wearing when she was captured. Her woolen cloak was presumably still in the coatroom at the Hezir family's town house on Bridge Street Hill, and Anrel guessed it might well stay there unclaimed for some time.