Above His Proper Station (6 page)

“Yes, a sorcerer.”

“Oh, excellent!”

“What are you
talking
about?”

“I am offering you, my friend, a place to stay, here in the Pensioners' Quarter, and gainful, if not lawful, employment.”

“Doz, what are you doing?” the woman who had called Anrel mad demanded.

“Exactly what I say,” the knife wielder replied. “Look at the way this man has handled himself, alone in the cold and dark, surrounded by foes! I can use a man like this.”

“What about his coat?” the boy-thief demanded.

“Ah,” Doz said. “
That
is the next matter to be resolved, should this fellow be interested in my offer. Are you, sir?”

Anrel wished he could see the man's face, but the faint glow of the fire behind him cast the knife wielder's features in shadow.

Could he take this offer seriously? A safe place to live and a job—that was exactly what Anrel had hoped to find in Lume. But a place in the Pensioners' Quarter, working with thieves? That had
not
been in his plans. No place in the quarter was truly safe, and no job there was entirely honest.

Still, what better choice did he have? He was here, surrounded by thieves, and they did not seem willing to let him go. Better to stay as a new recruit to their gang than as a corpse, or as a victim stripped and beaten and left lying in the snow.

And they could not watch him every minute of every day if he agreed to join them. Once he had gained their trust, once they had accepted him as one of their own, he could leave and find himself another, more respectable living.

For now it would do no harm to at least find out more of what his captors had in mind.

Rumor would have it that the inhabitants of the Pensioners' Quarter were little better than beasts, but during his student days Anrel had given the matter some thought, and noticed that the streets of the quarter were not littered with corpses—the inhabitants did not all slaughter each other, nor did they all starve to death. The numbers of thieves and scoundrels said to lurk here did not seem to dwindle over time, which meant that they had some sort of functioning society, so they were not all hopelessly stupid and bloodthirsty. Unfortunate, yes, and unquestionably outlaws, but not so ferocious or bestial they could not be bargained with.

“I might be,” Anrel acknowledged.

“Then if we are to work together, we must demonstrate our trust for one another. I am called Doz, and you are…?”

“Dyssan,” Anrel said.

“And your coat contains…?”

“I have said I will not tell you.”

“But that was when we were foes. Can you not trust me with the secret now?”

“You have, as yet, done nothing to earn my trust.”

“I haven't killed you,” Doz pointed out.

Anrel smiled wryly to himself. “Admirable, but insufficient,” he replied.

Doz sighed. “Then let us leave it for the moment. Let us find you a place to stay, and when you awake in the morning, and find that we have not killed you in your sleep, nor stolen your precious coat, why, then we may have a foundation on which to build.”

Anrel considered that, then shrugged. “I confess I see no convenient alternative.”

Anrel could not see the other man's face, but from the tilt of his head Anrel thought Doz was studying him. Then Doz said, “You seem a very calm fellow, Dyssan.” He looked around. “I don't think we can find you a
bed,
as such, but a quiet corner out of the wind and snow, under a roof that doesn't leak much, should be attainable.”

“That would suit me well enough.”

“Tomorrow we will continue our discussion of your future.”

“That, too, would be acceptable.”

“Come, then.”

He led the way toward the fire, deeper into the dreaded Pensioners' Quarter, and Anrel followed.

5

In Which Anrel Is Offered Employment

Anrel awoke the next morning and took his first look at his new lodging.

He had been led here in the dark—Doz had apparently not considered light necessary, and even in the last flurries of snow the faint glow of the city had not penetrated the depths of the Pensioners' Quarter. Anrel had been escorted through a tangle of foul-smelling alleys where he could barely avoid walking into the wall at every turn, and then through a series of unlit rooms, across creaking floors, to a chamber where Doz directed him to a corner and said, “I trust this will do.”

Anrel had been unable to see any details. The room had a window, he knew that much, as that had been a visible patch of dark gray in the blackness. His assigned corner was, if not warm, at least warmer than the streets, and neither wind nor snow seemed to penetrate, which was good. Even after Doz took his leave Anrel had heard breathing, and smelled unwashed flesh, so he knew he was not alone in this place.

That, however, was the extent of his knowledge. Weary as he was, he had simply accepted it, curling up in the corner and going to sleep. He had, of course, kept his coat on and made do without a pillow; he had no intention of giving anyone another chance to steal it there in the dark.

Now the gray light of morning was filtering in the room's lone window, and Anrel was able to take in his surroundings.

There was a single door, through which he had entered, opposite the window. The window was hung with crumbling lace, and most of its dust-caked panes were cracked—Anrel was surprised they all still had glass. The furnishings consisted of a single simple bed and a small stove that stood on a slate hearth opposite the bed. The stove gave little warmth—the dampers were closed, and there was no sign of additional fuel. Still, the room was only slightly chilly.

He shared the room with four others, he discovered, three young boys and an old man, all of whom were awake.

The one bed was occupied by the old man, who appeared incapable of intelligible speech but mumbled constantly, while each of the boys had claimed a corner and collected a heap of rags for bedding. Anrel had been assigned the fourth and final corner, behind the door.

The three boys were all watching him with interest, but none of them spoke.

“Good morning,” Anrel said.

No one replied. Three pairs of eyes remained fixed on him, but none of the boys spoke. The old man was staring at the ceiling and muttering something to himself.

“I'm called Dyssan,” Anrel said.

“I'm Shoun,” said the lad Anrel judged to be second in age, perhaps nine or ten. “That's Apolien.” He jerked a thumb toward the old man on the bed.

“I'll get Doz,” said the youngest. He jumped up and ran out the door.

“His name is Po,” Shoun said, nodding in the direction his comrade had taken.

Anrel nodded. He judged Po to be seven or eight. That left one boy unnamed, the oldest, who Anrel thought he recognized as the thief who had stolen his coat at the Emperor's Elbow. “And you are…?” he asked.

“Mieshel,” the boy said softly.

“I believe we met last night,” Anrel said.

“Yes,” Mieshel agreed.

Anrel was debating what to say next when Shoun volunteered, “There's no chamber pot. There's a privy out back.”

“Thank you,” Anrel said, though he was not yet urgently in need of such a facility. The miserable swill the Elbow served as wine had not tempted him to drink deeply.

“There's a water pump in the courtyard,” Shoun added.

“Thank you,” Anrel repeated. “What do you lads do for food?”

“Whatever we can,” Mieshel replied. “Begging, sometimes.”

“We run errands sometimes,” said Shoun.

“Or we steal,” Mieshel said. “As you know.” He flashed a brief, crooked smile.

“Well, yes,” Anrel said. “But I was thinking more of who feeds you. Who cooks for you?”

“No one,” Shoun said, startled. “We feed ourselves.”

“When we have money, we buy food,” Mieshel said. “I ate supper at the Emperor's Elbow last night—that's why old Guirion let me sleep there.”

“I see,” said Anrel. “And when you have no money?”

“We get a lot of food from sorcerers' servants,” Mieshel said. “We do them favors, and they give us their masters' leftovers, or food that's not fresh enough for the masters.”

“Not just sorcerers,” Shoun added. “Rich commoners, too. And inns, and shops.”

“Ah,” Anrel said.

“And if that doesn't work, we don't eat,” Mieshel said.

“There isn't much sometimes,” Shoun agreed.

“Especially this time of year,” Mieshel said.

“What about him?” Anrel asked, jerking a thumb at Apolien.

“He's not as dumb as he looks,” Mieshel answered.

The other boy had nothing to add to that, it seemed. They were content to leave their elderly companion a mystery.

“Where did you live before you came here?” Anrel asked. “Or have you always lived here?”

The boys exchanged glances.

“We don't talk about that,” Mieshel told him.

“That's the rule,” Shoun explained. “Here in the quarter we never ask each other about where we came from, who we were, who our families were.”

“For most of us it's too painful,” Mieshel concluded.

“Oh,” Anrel said.

With that, he found he had nothing more to say. He slouched in his corner, waiting for Doz.

The wait was not long; Po reappeared a few minutes later and scurried to his own corner, and a man who must surely be Doz stood just inside the door, looking at Anrel.

“Good morning, sir,” he said.

Doz was a young man himself, perhaps no older than Anrel's own twenty-three years. Anrel had not gotten a good look at him in the darkness, and took a moment to study his host.

Like everyone Anrel had seen since arriving at the Emperor's Elbow but the innkeeper and the prostitute's patron, Doz appeared underfed. He seemed otherwise healthy enough. His long black hair was oily, as if he had not bathed recently, but was neatly combed. He wore a white linen shirt that had seen a great many better days, nondescript trousers that might have been either brown or gray originally but were now somewhere in between, and no coat, but a thick, slightly frayed blanket of brown wool was wrapped around his shoulders and pinned at his throat. A crumpled ruin of a hat sat atop his head, and his boots were bound with rags to hold the soles to the crumbling uppers.

“Good enough,” Anrel acknowledged.

“Have you considered my offer of employment?”

“I fear that I have insufficient information on which to make a decision. You have not as yet told me the nature of this employment.”

“And you have not yet told me why your coat is so heavy.”

“I found out,” Shoun said. “While he was asleep.”

Anrel blinked in surprise, and turned to stare at the boy. He brushed both hands on the velvet coat; it
felt
unchanged. He thought he would have noticed if the hidden coins had been disturbed.

Doz turned to look at Shoun as well. “Did you? Good lad! And what, then, is in our guest's mysterious coat?” Before Shoun could reply, Doz added with a smile, “The boy is quite a talented pickpocket.”

“Magic,” Shoun said proudly.

Anrel's eyes widened.

Doz frowned. “What sort of magic?”

“
I
don't know,” Shoun said. “I'm no sorcerer. But it's magic. My hands slid off every time I touched it. It looks like velvet, but it felt like cold steel.”

For an instant Anrel thought the child was lying, making up some absurd tale to amuse himself, but then he remembered the ward he had tried to place, there in the hospital court in the snow. Apparently it had worked, and had lasted longer than he expected. In fact, now that his attention had been brought to it, he could sense that the ward was still in place, though weakened. He tried to reach out for magic to reinforce it, but apparently the floor here was too thick, or something else was intervening; he could not find more than a faint trickle of power.

“It didn't feel wrong last night, when I had it,” Mieshel protested.

“He wasn't wearing it last night,” Doz said thoughtfully.

“He was when I checked the pockets.”

“You had my permission,” Anrel said, startling the others.

Doz turned to him. “Then the coat
is
magical?”

“I told you I lived in a sorcerer's home for a time.” That was true, but in no way did it actually answer the question.

“So you did. And that is where you acquired this coat?”

Anrel nodded. “Indeed, it is.”

Doz studied him for a moment, then asked, “You stole it?”

“I did not. The burgrave of Alzur gave it to me.” That was not, perhaps, the exact truth, but it was close; Uncle Dorias had paid the tailor's bill.

“You swear to this?”

Anrel frowned. “What does it matter?”

“I am trying, sir, to determine to what extent I can trust you, and whether or not you will be interested in the offer I hope to make.”

“I fail to see how my coat relates to your concerns.”

“Your truthfulness is obviously relevant. Also, the employment I thought to offer you is not, perhaps, entirely lawful, so an understanding of your attitude toward the property of others may also be relevant.”

Anrel looked at him, then glanced around at the three boys, who had cheerfully admitted to being thieves.

“I have stolen when I thought it necessary,” Anrel said, remembering his desperate flight from Naith. He had stolen a sword, a jacket, and a boat, at the very least. “However, I am not base or foolish enough to rob the sorcerer who took me into his home and treated me with respect and consideration. The coat is mine by right, and whatever magic it may have is mine, as well. My thefts were all committed
after
I left the burgrave's roof.”

“Ah,
now
we're getting somewhere! Then you have played the thief on occasion?”