Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  V

  CERRYL STRETCHED, STANDING in the sun of the small guardhouse porch, glad that spring had returned. Even the hills in the distance were showing signs of full greening.

  He sat down on the backed stool provided for him, just high enough to be able to see over the granite rampart. He kept his eyes open but concentrated on focusing the chaos energy of the sun into an ever-tighter line of pure chaos—something like a light lance, but no thicker than his index finger.

  Whst! The barely audible hiss followed as the narrow line of golden fire cut into the granite at the bottom of the rampart, drilling into the hard stone. White dust oozed out onto the walkway.

  Cerryl released the light dagger—or whatever it might be—and sat there quietly, sweating, although the day was not that warm, trying to cool off from his silent effort. The area under the rampart ledge wasn’t that visible, and if anyone did look, he’d only assume that the stonecutters had made an error and perhaps filled in with powdered stone that had leached away over time.

  Kinowin had suggested he use his time to improve his skills…but how? And where? He couldn’t very well have said that he’d mostly mastered the light cloak that left him invisible, certainly not in the Tower, where the walls had both eyes and ears. Nor did he wish to make known his light lances, and if he used those on guard duty, everyone in the Halls of the Mages—including Jeslek—would know in days.

  Cerryl had wondered what other skills might be useful…that he could work on quietly. Somehow, focusing chaos into a tighter focus might help. At some time he wanted to try the light dagger against cold iron, but he dared not experiment with that where anyone could see or scree him. Chaos against iron would alert any mage nearby.

  The sound of wagon wheels on the stones of the highway broke into his reverie, and he sat up straight, looking at the afternoon coach from Lydiar. The four passengers all filed out and stood by the guardhouse while Cerryl studied with his senses the boxes and bags roped to the top. Outside of one black case that held a set of iron knives, the bags were all filled with what seemed to be fabric or leather—things with a “soft” feel.

  “Ser?” called the duty officer.

  “The black bag has knives, but there’s no rule against personal weapons.”

  The swarthy black-bearded trader in purple looked up at the thin mage, standing at the guardhouse upper rampart, back to the duty guard, then shook his head.

  “…see why you’d best not be smuggling?” asked the rotund Sligan in his embroidered jacket.

  “…demon-damned mages know what you eat for breakfast…”

  “It makes your efforts more profitable,” suggested the third man, a blonde man in a gray tunic and trousers with high black boots, an outfit Cerryl didn’t recognize.

  “Smugglers don’t take the White highways.”

  “If they don’t, they’ll not be carrying much.”

  “Let’s go!” called the coach’s driver.

  As the coach pulled through the gates, the duty guard gave a broad smile to Cerryl. “That be keeping them thinking, ser.”

  “Let us hope so.” Cerryl still wondered about the blonde man in gray and black. The fellow could have been almost any age and showed neither order nor chaos. But something about him bothered Cerryl. Or was it that he just couldn’t determine from where the fellow might hail?

  Cerryl sat back down on the stool, fingering his smooth chin.

  So many things were unsettled. Leyladin was off in Hydlen, and while he was pleased with his progress in using the light dagger, he felt he needed to come up with something more.

  He’d have to think about it, not only about what other chaos skills he could hone or develop, but where so that others, Anya and Jeslek, especially, did not discover, not quickly, in any case.

  VI

  CERRYL TOOK A deep breath as he left Kinowin’s quarters, not really knowing why, except that he was relieved that Kinowin hadn’t pressed him again on improving his chaos-handling skills.

  “It can’t be that bad.” Standing outside the overmage’s door, Faltar grinned at Cerryl. “Wait for me. I won’t be long.”

  “All right.” Cerryl sat down on the small wooden bench as the blonde mage stepped into Kinowin’s quarters and shut the door behind him. Faltar was always so cheerful. Was that why he appealed to so many people? He certainly didn’t have as much ability to handle chaos stuff as did either Lyasa or Cerryl, but all had been made full mages at the same time. Then, reflected Cerryl, it had taken Faltar four years. The slender mage leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  Thud!

  Cerryl opened his eyes in time to see a red-haired apprentice mage, thin-faced and female, hurrying away from Kinowin’s door. He sat up for a moment, but Faltar didn’t appear, and he leaned back. Darkness, he was tired.

  “Cerryl?”

  Cerryl struggled awake. Gate-guard duty didn’t help his sleep, and he hated to think what it might be like in summer when the days were longer. “I’m here. I think.” He sat up on the bench and rubbed his eyes.

  “Kinowin’s already left. You were sleeping. I’ve been to the Meal Hall and back. They’re having creamed lamb. Again.” Falter’s lips curled. “I thought you might like to go out for dinner with me.”

  “I know how you like the lamb.” Cerryl grinned, but his grin faded. “Do you ever eat in the Halls?”

  “Not often.”

  “I don’t see how you can eat in the city every night,” Cerryl pointed out. “I can’t.”

  “But you can,” Faltar countered. “We get a gold every eight-day. That’s ten silvers—or a hundred coppers. Most meals—except at Furenk’s—cost five coppers or less. So you still have more than six silvers left over every eight-day, even if you ate away from the Halls every night.” The blonde mage smiled. “I’m not saying every night. Just tonight. Besides, what’s coin for?”

  Books, clothing, silk smallclothes to keep him warm on guard duty—Cerryl could think of quite a few things. Even a warm woolen blanket for the cold nights. Or a present for Leyladin. Still, he’d been careful, and he had nearly ten golds in his private strongbox. Faltar was right. Paying for a dinner out of the Halls now and again couldn’t hurt. Leyladin was off on a trip to Hydolar—Duke Berofar was ailing and had requested a healer from Fairhaven. “Tonight—that sounds good.”

  “Let’s try The Golden Ram. It’s not far, and I’m starving.”

  “So am I.” Cerryl stood and stretched, then followed Faltar out of the Tower and past the guards and the messenger in red. Outside, the wind was gusting, almost warm, as they turned right leaving the front Hall and walked south along the Avenue past the White Tower.

  “Spring is here,” Faltar said pleasantly.

  “Let us hope it remains this time.”

  The Golden Ram was less than a half-kay from the Wizards’ Square. How many times had Cerryl walked past the inn on his way to and from his sewer cleaning duties? He probably couldn’t have counted them. They stepped past the green signboard with the image of the golden ram and in through the left side of the double doors.

  “Two of you?” asked the man in the faded blue vest standing by a small counter.

  “Two, Veron,” Faltar confirmed.

  “The corner table.” Veron gestured.

  “I take it you come here often.” Cerryl glanced around the long room as Faltar wended his way through the crowded room. In the other corner Cerryl caught sight of Eliasar and Kinowin, but neither acknowledged the younger mages, as they were apparently caught up in their own conversation. The public room contained all sorts of people, from young traders to lancer officers and even several couples.

  “Ah…feels good to sit down.” Faltar stretched circumspectly.

  The serving girl, also wearing a blue vest, appeared at Faltar’s elbow. “What’ll you gents be having?”

  “What’s good?” asked the blonde mage, looking at her, then at Cerryl.

  “It all is, ser. I’d try the cutlets. They run t
hree. A touch chewy, but tasty. Either the good ale or a red wine. Fresh barrel.”

  “I’ll have the cutlets, with the good ale,” Faltar said.

  “The cutlets, but I’ll try the red wine.” Cerryl felt too hungry and tired to ask about other possibilities, but he’d drunk so much ale lately, or so it seemed, that he thought he’d try the wine.

  “Two cutlets—they come with the roasted potatoes and bread—and an ale and a red. That be it?”

  Both mages nodded, and the server bustled off.

  “I didn’t know you drank wine. Or is that the healer’s influence?”

  Cerryl found himself flushing.

  “Oh…she’ll change you yet.”

  “She probably already has,” conceded Cerryl. “I don’t see her much, what with her healing stuff and my gate duty.”

  Thump! Thump! Two mugs appeared on the table. “That’ll be four, gents.”

  Cerryl fished out two coppers, as did Faltar. Both vanished, and so did the server.

  “Gate duty is boring,” said Faltar. “Sometimes you see odd things, though. This afternoon, I saw some Blacks—three of them. I think they were the ones that get exiled from Recluce.”

  “You let them in and didn’t tell anyone?”

  “Even I’m not that stupid.” Faltar took a healthy swallow of the ale. “They were leaving, but I still told Kinowin when I got off duty. They didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He thanked me and sent an apprentice to tell Jeslek. What’s her name, the new redhead?”

  “Kiella? Oh…that’s what she was doing.”

  “And I thought you slept through it all.”

  “I wasn’t that sleepy.”

  “I could have roasted you with chaos, and you wouldn’t have known it.” Faltar grinned. “Anyway, two of them were blades, and one was a healer, it looked like.”

  “I imagine you looked very closely.”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. One of the blades was a woman. Redheaded and good-looking from what I could tell, but she was big, taller than you, and had that look, like Eliasar does when he’s slapping you around in weapons training. One was like Kinowin, big and blonde, except he was even bigger. The healer was smaller, a young fellow, redheaded, almost shy.”

  “Here’s the cutlets. That’s another six.” The serving woman in the blue vest set two heavy brown platters on the table, then glanced from Faltar to Cerryl.

  Cerryl dug out another four coppers. Faltar did the same.

  “And I’d be thanking you both.” She slipped the coppers into her wallet and gave a broad smile, pausing for a moment before nodding and slipping away.

  Cerryl frowned, then took a bite of the cutlet, chewing hard because it was tough, if tasty. He had his own ideas about the travelers from Recluce, but Kinowin had told him not to guess outside the Halls.

  “What do you think?” asked Faltar.

  “I just don’t know. They make some of their Blacks, the ones that don’t fit in, travel through Candar. That’s what Myral told me once.”

  “That’s the Blacks for you. You don’t fit in, and they throw you out. I guess you can do that if you live on an island.”

  “Every place has rules,” Cerryl pointed out, using his own dagger to cut the meat and then spear a chunk of the roasted potato. “That’s why we have the city patrol.”

  “One of the mages who had been helping Eliasar when I became a student went with the Patrol. Klyat. He’d been an arms mage with the lancers.”

  “What does he do?”

  Faltar shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him in a while, and he wouldn’t say when I was a student. Keep the peace, I guess.”

  Cerryl nodded but wondered. He’d seldom seen the patrols, for all the talk about them when he’d been an apprentice.

  “Recluce has always been trouble, from the time of Creslin on.” Faltar chewed for a moment. “Now they’re even shipping stuff from Austra and Nordla, and some of it’s cheaper than what we can grow and make in Candar. Derka and Myral were always insisting we’re going to have trouble with Recluce. Then these Blacks show up. Of course, it could be coincidence. These things happen.” Faltar swallowed the last of his ale and lifted the mug.

  “More?” asked the serving woman, drawn to the raised mug as a moth to light. “That’ll be two.”

  Faltar fumbled out two coppers.

  “Maybe…or it could be an order-chaos conflict.”

  “You just found out about those, and now everything’s an order-chaos conflict.” Faltar laughed. “It could be trade.”

  “What does trade have to do with three wandering Blacks from Recluce?” Cerryl sipped the red wine, not nearly so clear or so good as that he’d had at Leyladin’s house, trying to make it last.

  “They could be spies. They’d been at the Traders’ Square, looking for work as blades, supposedly.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  Faltar raised his eyebrows. “I have my ways.”

  “I don’t see that of young wanderers—they were young, weren’t they?”

  “The healer didn’t look as old as you.”

  “That young?” Cerryl grinned. “Not ancient like you?”

  Thump! The second ale slopped on the table. “Here you be.” The server was leaving before she finished her words.

  “Good ale.” Faltar took another swallow. “I’m glad you recognize the wisdom of your elders.”

  “Maybe there’s something there…but I don’t think young travelers are the problem.”

  “Perhaps they’re having troubles and throwing out more people. Did you think of that?”

  “Then why would they be a problem for us?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s something. There are shipwrights headed for Sligo…”

  Cerryl looked hard at Faltar.

  “Everyone in Fairhaven knows that,” protested Faltar. “I heard it in the square.”

  “That may be…but if Kinowin—and he’s still in the corner there—heard you…”

  “You’re probably right.” Faltar sighed and took another swallow. “Still doesn’t make much sense.”

  Many things didn’t make sense to Cerryl. Fairhaven didn’t have a port that was really its own but maintained warships and relied on trade, but Hydolar had three ports and didn’t trade as much as the White City…and so it went.

  He yawned. He felt like he happened to be yawning all the time. Was it just that the days were so long? Or was his practice with light daggers that tiring? “I suppose I’d better get back and get to bed.”

  “Summer will be easier. They split the day into two duties…but if you get first duty you have to be there before dawn, and if you get the afternoon one you guard well into evening. I’m going to stay here a bit.”

  “That’s fine.” Cerryl stood. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  He walked slowly out, noting that Eliasar and Kinowin had been joined by another mage, one Cerryl didn’t know, but that the three were eating and apparently joking.

  Although it was full dark outside on the Avenue, the evening was warmer than it had been earlier in the day. Maybe Faltar was right, that spring had come to stay.

  Back in the rear hall, as he reached for the latch to his door, his eyes went to the white-bronze plate mounted on the wall, where the Old Tongue script spelled out: “Cerryl.”

  Inside, he looked around—so much larger than any quarters he had ever had…and so bare compared to Leyladin’s house. Two real shuttered windows, a wide desk, a wooden armchair with cushions, a full-size bed with cotton sheets and a red woolen blanket—even a rug by the bed, a washstand, a white oak wardrobe for his garments, and a bookcase against the wall beside the desk.

  He closed the door, but Kinowin’s advice continued to rattle around in his head—more skills. But what skills? He walked over to the bookcase and picked up his well-thumbed Colors of White, turning to the second half. He read slowly, skipping over the passages
he’d read so well he knew them by heart, trying to find those he’d really not studied and those that had bored him. Finally, he settled into the chair, his jacket still on.

  …in all of the substance of the world are chaos and order found, and oft are they twisted together, so tightly that none, not even the greatest of mages, can separate them. Yet were they separated, such chaos would be without end. For the world is of chaos, and all the substance of this world is nothing more and nothing less than chaos bound into fixed form by order…

  Cerryl frowned. If he understood what the words said, the writer meant that anything, even the book itself in which the words were scrived, was nothing more than chaos bound into its form by order.

  He scratched his head. Yet light was nearly pure chaos—or as pure as could be stood by living things. An involuntary yawn broke his concentration. Tomorrow would come early, far too early. He set aside the book and disrobed, carefully hanging out his clothes.

  For a time, he lay there in the luxury of the wide bed, the words of Colors of White twisting in his thoughts…“were they separated, such chaos would be without end…were they separated…”

  While tomorrow would come early, he could look forward to the day after. That was his, as was every fourth day, and then he wouldn’t have to struggle to rise before the sun with the predawn bells.

  VII

  CERRYL STOOD AT the edge of the Meal Hall, almost empty and nearly too late to get anything to eat. Finally, he went to the serving table and took a large chunk of bread, some cherry conserve so thick it was like molasses, and a pearapple, slightly soft.

  As he turned, Esaak beckoned from a side table. Cerryl’s heart fell. Was the older mage about to reproach him again for his mathematical deficiencies? He carried his platter and a mug of water toward the heavy and mostly bald mage.

  “Young Cerryl…” Esaak shook his head. “You may be the worst mage in mathematicks in the history of the Guild.”

  “I’m still reading the book, ser.”

  “And doing the problems?”