The Reign of the Brown Magician. Lawrence Watt-Evans

death.

      And this man who had died of terror didn’t help any; that wasn’t justified, it was just carelessness. He hadn’t meant it to happen, but it was still his fault.

      The peasants muttered among themselves. If he bothered, he could extend his senses through the matrix and hear every word they said, find out if they were blaming him for their companion’s death—but why bother? He let them mutter.

      He hoped someone would step forward and speak up, ask questions, turn this into a proper conversation—but no one did. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised; this world’s culture seemed pretty authoritarian, not much given to discussion.

      So it would have to be a speech.

      “I have all Shadow’s power,” he said, “but not her knowledge, and not her…her ambition. I’m not going to hurt any of you. I have no desire to rule your world; in fact, I want you to be free, and happy.”

      One man managed to work up an almost-hopeful expression at that, but that was countered by looks of dread on other faces; Pel supposed that to most of them, any talk of change sounded threatening.

      He would just have to work past that.

      And he knew where to begin; he remembered his horrific walk to the fortress.

      “When I came here,” he said, “I came down the road from the Low Forest in Sunderland, and I passed through several of your towns and villages, and in most of them there were dead bodies hanging. Who were they all?”

      The peasants looked at one another. No one wanted to be the spokesman, obviously. Pel sighed. “You,” he said, pointing, “on the end, in the green. Step forward.”

      The man hesitated, then stepped forward, placing each foot carefully; it looked as if he was having trouble breathing.

      “Who were all those people who got hanged?”

      “I…I know not, my lord…your Majesty. In…in my own village, the last to be hanged was a man named Norbert…”

      The colors surged up, flickering orange, as Pel momentarily lost control of his emotions, his guilt and grief turning abruptly to anger as frustration got the better of him.

      “Not their names, idiot!” he shouted, and the walls echoed back a dull, angry roar. “I mean, what were they hanged for?”

      The men cowered back against the wall; one moved for the door, but Pel twisted at a strand of his web and the doors slammed shut.

      Someone moaned, and Pel forced himself to calm down; he didn’t want any more deaths. He didn’t even want anyone to faint.

      But he did want answers.

      “Why were they hanged?” Pel demanded. “You, why was this Norbert hanged?”

      The man in green glanced back at his companions, found no help there, and after a false start and a throat-clearing, managed to say, “’Twas said he had failed to show the village elders the respect due their station.”

      Pel glared, though he doubted anyone could see his expression through the magical haze. He had expected something like that, but it was still infuriating. Death for the most trivial wrongs—that had been Shadow’s style. No wonder the men were scared. “He didn’t kill anybody?”

      The man blinked, and made the chopping motion that Pel had learned was the local equivalent of shaking one’s head.

      “He didn’t even steal anything?”

      Another chop.

      All those people, horribly dead for nothing, and it had been deliberate, not accidental like the one the fetches were taking to the kitchen; Pel felt sick. “All right, listen, all of you,” he announced. “From now on, you only hang murderers. Only murderers. You understand? You can…you can beat thieves, or flog them, or throw them in jail, or whatever seems appropriate, but you can’t kill them. Is that clear?”

      Heads bobbed. That gesture was the same here—just another of those annoying situations where things were only partly different, just familiar enough to be confusing.

      “And you don’t disembowel anyone, is that clear? Not unless a murderer chops people up with an axe or something, then maybe you can gut him, but nobody else.”

      “The Elders…” someone began.

      “To hell with the elders!” Pel shouted. “You go tell them to stop hanging people, or they’ll answer to me! If they don’t believe you, you send ’em here! And look, hey, you can take fetches back with you to prove you were here. I don’t want anyone else killed! Shadow’s dead, and you don’t do that stuff any­more!” He was standing in front of the throne now, pointing and yelling; magic swirled and blazed around him, actual flame flaring briefly from the air behind him as his anger sucked energy from the matrix.

      The eight men all pressed flat against the wall, hands over their ears, driven back by sheer volume.

      Seeing them there, Pel’s anger suddenly passed, and he flopped back into his chair.

      “And you can clean up your villages, too,” he said in his normal tones. “Maybe pave the streets. Put in sewers—some of those places stank. There’s no reason you can’t live decently, can’t have indoor plumbing and all the rest of it.”

      No one answered, though a few risked uncovering their ears.

      “You don’t know about all that stuff,” he said, with a gesture of dismissal. “It can wait. We’ll get to it.”

      “Ah…your Majesty,” the man in green said, head down, “if one could be permitted to speak…”

      Pel slumped back in the throne.

      “Oh, go ahead and speak,” he said. “Stand up straight and tell me all about it.”

      “Majesty, we…I am but a poor cobbler,” the man said. “I know naught of governance or law, and would only go about my business. Wherefore, then, am I brought hither? Why speak to me of roads and hangings and the rest? Would it not be better to call upon the councils of the wise, the elders and those who have a say in such matters? Or perchance, to send forth your own ministers, an you are displeased with our lords?”

      “You don’t have a say?” Pel asked.

      “Nay, surely not,” the cobbler said. “I’m neither prince nor councilor.”

      “You’re a person, aren’t you?”

      The cobbler blinked. “Aye, but…”

      “Well, then you have a say,” Pel proclaimed. “Everybody has a say. It’s time you people got rid of your lords and ladies and learned some democracy.” Blue streaked through the matrix for a moment. “Listen, all of you,” Pel said. “From now on, I want things to be run democratically around here. I want you to elect your leaders, not just let them happen. Vote for ’em.”

      “Majesty, I understand this not a whit.”

      “I mean I want you to choose your own leaders by getting everyone to vote—each person says who he wants, and whoever gets the most votes wins.”

      The men stared at him uncomprehendingly.

      “It’s simple,” Pel insisted. “Look, suppose the eight of you were somewhere together and needed a leader. Each of you would say who you wanted to be the leader, and whoever got five or more votes would win.”

      “But…’tis all very well, but how to know who shall vote?” the cobbler asked.

      “Everybody votes!” Pel said, waving his hands to include all the world.

      “Let everyone have a say?” one of the other men protested. “The fools, the children, women? People bearing grudges?”

      The others murmured agreement, and Pel stared at them just as uncomprehendingly as they had stared at him a moment before.