Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  She laughed, gently. “You are hard in judging yourself.”

  The square was empty as they turned north on the Avenue.

  “I guess I have to be. Whose judgment dare I trust?”

  “You’re wise there. I would not trust any other than Myral, and he is old and fading.”

  “You worry about him, don’t you?”

  “He’s like an uncle of sorts…the only one I could talk to about the things a healer feels.”

  “You understand trade and your father, and you love him, but he doesn’t really understand you?”

  “He tries, but…no.”

  They turned west a long block below the Market Square, and Cerryl could see the lamps blazing in the windows of Layel’s house.

  “Will you let me know when you return? Do you know how long?”

  “I will. I don’t think it should be more than two eight-days. That’s if it’s the flux.”

  They both understood. If she could not help the boy heal, another two weeks of flux might well kill the child.

  Leyladin turned at the door, taking Cerryl’s hands, leaning forward, and brushing his cheek with her lips. “I enjoyed tonight.”

  “So did I.”

  He waited until the heavy door closed before he turned and began to walk back to the Halls of the Mages.

  IX

  CERRYL STOOD BESIDE one of the pillars at the rear and to the left side of the Council Chamber. He looked across the expanse of white tunics and robes, though the robes were generally preferred by older mages, such as Esaak and Myral. Each of the circular pillars that flanked the sides of the Council Chamber was of white granite, fluted, and flawless, except for flecks of gold. From the top of each pillar were draped red hangings, swagged from one pillar to the next. The base of each pillar was a cube of a shimmering gold stone. Polished white marble tiles, filled with golden swirls, comprised the chamber floor. Gold oak desks and their accompanying gold oak chairs flanked the center aisle. Despite the summer heat that baked Fairhaven outside the Halls of the Mages, the chamber remained comfortable.

  The High Wizard Sterol stood on the golden-shot marble dais at the eastern end of the chamber, and flanking him were the two overmages—Jeslek and Kinowin—the High Council, except that the three were always called the Council from what Cerryl could determine.

  Sterol was speaking. “…Since last we assembled, many of our concerns have proved to be justified…particularly about the predatory nature of those plying trade from the Black Isle…

  “Therefore, we are recommending to the Dukes of Lydiar and Hydlen, to the Council of Sligo, the Viscount of Certis, and the prefect of Gallos that they impose an additional surtax of 20 percent on goods arriving in ships bearing the flag of Hamor or the dark isle.”

  “Your pardon, High Wizard,” puffed Esaak, rising from a desk in the second row. “How will that improve the revenues for the Guild?”

  Sterol gestured toward his left. “Overmage Kinowin can better explain that.”

  “This surtax is not the best answer,” admitted Kinowin, standing at the end of the first row. “At the moment, it is the only means we have to address the problem. As all of you know, highways are costlier to build and repair than the oceans and a few ports. What has been happening more and more is that importers in Candar, especially the Sligan and Spidlarian Councils, have been taking advantage of our roads and traders. The Black Isle and occasionally Hamorian merchants have been shipping goods to ports in Candar close to our roads. They sell these goods more cheaply because they do not bear the delivery costs in full. The Guild has almost eliminated brigands in eastern Candar, at least those who prey on the highways. At times, it costs less to ship wool from Land’s End on Recluce to Lydiar than to carry it by wagon from Montgren. So…any good that must be grown, produced, or collected away from the highways…”

  “Wait…you were just saying that our highways were being used against us, and now—”

  “Patience, Broka…patience,” said Kinowin tiredly. “Trade is complex. Let me explain. Those who buy goods are those who have coins. Those who have coins live in the cities. The cities are either ports or connected to ports by the White highways. Recluce is a much smaller place than Candar, and the Blacks use their arts to increase production of many goods, especially wool, oilseeds, and some fruits they dry. They also produce luxury goods that would otherwise come from across the Eastern Ocean. Their weather mages see the storms upon the seas, and they lose fewer ships. For all these reasons, many of their goods are much cheaper.”

  Cerryl wanted to rub his forehead. Never had he thought he would hear discussions on costs of trade in a meeting of the White mages. He turned toward the middle section of desks and caught a glimpse of Anya’s red hair. Seated to her left was Faltar, his white-blonde hair standing out even more than the red of Anya’s. On Anya’s right was the dark-bearded Fydel.

  Mutterings began to rise around the chamber.

  “…can’t he make it simple…”

  “…just send a fleet…if it’s that much trouble…”

  “…send the lancers to Spidlaria and clean out their demon-damned Council…”

  “Why do we even have to do anything about Recluce? All the Blacks do is sit on their island and cultivate order. Anyone who causes trouble gets thrown out—usually to our benefit.” That came from a thin gray-haired woman in the middle of the chamber, one of the many that Cerryl did not recognize.

  “We’re not talking about an arms action now,” Jeslek said mildly from where he stood beside Kinowin. “Aren’t you tired of our gold going to Recluce so that the Blacks can use it to buy Bristan and Hamorian goods?”

  “Their spices and wines are better and cheaper,” a heavy voice rumbled from the back.

  “So is some of their cabinetry,” added another voice.

  “And their wool—”

  “If you can wear it, Myral!”

  Abruptly the white-haired and sun-eyed Jeslek strode to the front of the dais beside Sterol. “Silence!” His eyes roved the room, chaos rising around him.

  A faint smile played across Sterol’s face as he slipped off the side of the dais and down the far side of the chamber behind the pillars.

  “What Kinowin is saying is,” Jeslek announced loudly, “that if we let people buy cheaper goods from Recluce traders, too many peasants and artisans in Candar will go hungry, and they won’t pay their taxes, and we’ll have trouble supporting the Guild and maintaining the highways.”

  “So…what are you proposing, Jeslek?”

  “Nothing major. Exactly what the High Wizard proposed. Just a 30 percent surtax on goods from Recluce.”

  “Thirty percent? He said 20. I’d rather drink that red swill from Kyphros,” rumbled the bass voice.

  “Precisely my point.”

  “That will increase the number of smugglers.”

  “We’ll use some of the money to build up the fleet to stop that.”

  “And the rest? Does it go into your pocket, Jeslek?”

  “Hardly. That’s up to the Council, but I’d suggest that it be split between an increased stipend for Guild members, rebuilding the square, and funding the road construction. Would anyone else like a word?”

  “Won’t that just funnel more golds into Spidlar?”

  “What about Sarronnyn…”

  “Southwind will love that…”

  Cerryl’s eyes caught the flash of red as Anya slipped from her desk and through the pillars to follow Sterol. He frowned as the two mages vanished through the archway and out toward the foyer of the main Hall. Anya and the High Wizard—he definitely didn’t like that. Leyladin had said something about Anya being there when Sterol had told her she was being sent to Lydiar. Was Anya everywhere?

  “A moment,” said Kinowin. “A moment. I know that the honorable Jeslek means well, but I would suggest that an increased stipend for any mages would be unwise right now. Most of the merchants would see the surtax as going entirely to our pockets, and that would
cause more unrest.”

  The heavyset Myral stood and glanced around the chamber, waiting for the murmuring to subside.

  Lyasa slipped up beside Cerryl. “You don’t want to sit down?”

  “I can sense what’s going on better here.”

  “What is going on? Besides more taxes on things from Recluce?” The dark-haired and olive-eyed mage raised her jet-black eyebrows.

  “Much more,” he said in a low voice. “I just don’t know what.”

  “That’s always true,” Lyasa agreed.

  Both waited for Myral to speak.

  Finally, the older mage coughed once, twice, and cleared his throat. “I am a few years older than most of you.” Myral waited for the subdued chuckles to subside. “And, being older, have had more time to peruse the archives and the old records.

  “Every generation or so, this arises. Why?” Myral shrugged. “I could not say, save perhaps that every generation of rulers of the lands of Candar must learn anew the price for unity in trade and peace. As the overmage Kinowin has said, and as the honorable Jeslek pointed out, a surtax is not the best answer. In fact, it should not be necessary, but necessary it is, because other lands, especially that of Spidlar, feel they should not contribute to the roads and order that hold Candar together. The most permanent answer would be for us to take Spidlar, as we were forced to take Montgren so many centuries before.” Another shrug followed. “Alas, there are two other lands between our domains and those of Spidlar.”

  At Myral’s woebegone look, another round of laughter filled the chamber.

  “So…for the moment, I would say that it behooves us to request the surtax be levied. Then…we shall see those who are prudent and look to the future good of Candar and those who look to lining their wallets with golds, no matter how great the price their children may pay.” Myral took a sweeping bow and seated himself.

  A movement caught Cerryl’s eyes, and he watched as Sterol eased his way back along the pillars on the south side of the Hall, reappearing at the side of the front of the dais, studying Jeslek.

  Anya reappeared at her desk, and even from where Cerryl stood he could see the apologetic smile she flashed to Fydel and then to Faltar.

  “She is good, in a sneaky way,” murmured Lyasa. “You do have a vantage point here.”

  Cerryl nodded, pondering Myral’s words—words that had sounded fine. Somehow what the older mage had said disturbed Cerryl, as if something did not scree true.

  Darkness, he wished he knew more.

  X

  DESPITE THE DARKNESS, Cerryl could feel the heat as he found himself struggling through a forest, but a forest like no other he had seen, one with trees taller than the Wizards’ Tower, trees that he could sense but not see. He took a breath, then another, as he found his lungs laboring, as a cloying and sickly sweet scent permeated the air around him.

  A long vine swung by his shoulder, then brushed the bare skin of his upper arm again. It turned woody like a liana, sending forth rootlets to cling to him as though he were one of the massive trees of the unfamiliar forest. The strange and cloying perfume grew stronger…so strong he could barely breathe, and his heart pounded in his chest.

  Cerryl bolted upright in his bed, sweat streaming down his face, as if he were standing at his guard post in full summer sun. Or in a cook fire…

  Chaos flickered from his locked door—a door he always kept locked when he slept—now that he could lock it, unlike when he’d been a student. He slipped toward the door, extending his senses. Without opening it, he could sense the white glow of chaos shielded, could feel the footsteps behind a light shield, could catch the faintest scent of sandalwood perfume.

  Anya…headed along the corridor toward Faltar’s room.

  Cerryl forced himself to take a long and slow breath as he eased back to his bed, where he sat down slowly—suddenly shivering. After a moment, he wrapped the red woolen blanket around himself, then massaged his throbbing forehead with the fingers of his right hand.

  “…only a dream…” Except it wasn’t, not exactly. The forest and the clinging vines had been a dream, but Anya had definitely been outside his door on her way to visit Faltar. He’d sensed her chaos aura before—on all the times when she’d visited Faltar when he and Cerryl had been only student mages. Now that Faltar was a full mage, albeit junior like Cerryl, there was no reason they couldn’t sleep together, but Anya was still sneaking to see Faltar. That meant she didn’t want it known she was seeing Faltar. Was she fearful of Sterol’s jealousy? Cerryl shook his head slowly.

  Lyasa had mentioned Anya and Jeslek—so how many mages was Anya bedding? Cerryl frowned, recalling the words of Benthann—the mistress of the scrivener Tellis, for whom he’d apprenticed before the Guild had found him. What had Benthann said? Something like…

  “Sex is the only power a woman has in Fairhaven. Remember that. Even if she has a strong room full of coins or, light forbid, she’s a mage, sex is the only real power a woman has…The only thing a man offers a woman, really, is power. Coins are power. Don’t forget that. Sex for power, power for sex, that’s the way the world works.”

  So…Anya, powerful a mage as she was, was trading sex for power? Or a future obligation or…something? Cerryl took a deep breath.

  Darkness, he hoped it didn’t turn out that way between him and Leyladin. It seemed different…but how would he know?

  You know…you have to trust yourself…His lips tightened. That was easy enough to think, but he’d already seen how easy it was for people, even for himself, to deceive themselves.

  Will you be able to avoid deceiving yourself? Still shivering under the blanket, he massaged his aching forehead, knowing that the morning would come all too early. Far, far, far too early.

  XI

  CERRYL WIPED HIS forehead. Even in the shaded part of the rampart area of the guardhouse he was hot, and summer had yet to come. The afternoons were getting wanner and warmer, and it would be at least another eight-day, from what he’d heard, before Kinowin split gate-guard duty into two rotations. With his luck, he’d probably get the hot late-afternoon duty.

  Creeaaakkkk…He glanced out along the White highway to the north. A single cart rolled toward the gates. The gray donkey pulling it was led by a white-haired woman who plodded down the road almost as methodically as the beast.

  Cerryl couldn’t sense any medallion on the cart, and he leaned over the rampart. “Gyral?”

  “Yes, ser?” The lanky detail leader glanced up.

  “Do us both a favor and yell to that woman. Tell her that if she doesn’t have a medallion and she gets close to the gates, I’ll have to destroy her cart and take her donkey. Just tell her to turn around and take one of the farm roads—or something. Or that she’ll need to get a medallion right now.”

  The White Guard frowned, then grinned. “You know her?”

  “No. I just don’t like taking things from old women. Maybe she doesn’t know the laws.”

  “I don’t know, ser. Some of them are pretty stubborn. I’ll try.” Gyral marched away from the two other guards toward the approaching peasant.

  Creaaakkk…The cart carried several stacks of woven grass baskets and some of reeds. The woman made her way toward the gates, aided by a long wooden staff half again her height.

  Gyral squared his shoulders. “Woman! You can’t use the White roads without a medallion. If you come to the gates and you don’t have the coppers for a medallion, then we’ll have to take your cart and donkey.”

  “The roads be for all. That be what you White ninnies are always saying. I be one of the all, and I need to sell my baskets so that my family can live till harvest. And no spare coppers are you a-getting.”

  “You can’t bring the cart in on the highway,” Gyral answered. “Not without a medallion.”

  “There be no other way. Like as you know that.”

  “We’ll have to take your cart and baskets.” Gyral stepped backward.

  “You and who else, young fellow?” T
he crone raised the walking stick and brandished it, waving it at the detail leader.

  The lancer backed away and glanced toward Cerryl.

  Cerryl gave an overlarge shrug and called down, “If that’s the way she wants it!”

  Donkey, cart, and woman creaked toward the gate with no sign of slowing.

  “You have to stop,” announced Gyral.

  “I belong not to your White City, and, by the light, I’ll sell where I please. The land gives me those rights, not some man who wears white and rides in a gold carriage.” The crone swung the staff at Gyral and the guard beside him. Both backed away, although they had their shortswords out.

  “Stand back!” snapped Cerryl.

  Even the crone looked up.

  Cerryl concentrated, trying to form a fireball that was part firelance, one that would strike the staff and not the woman.

  Whhssst! The end of the staff vanished in flame, and then white ashes drifted across the stones.

  The crone held a piece of wood no longer than a short truncheon, one that flamed. She dropped it on the granite paving stones before the guardhouse.

  “Darkness and the Black angels take you!” The woman clawed at her belt, and a dark iron knife appeared as she launched herself at Gyral.

  Whhhsstt! The firebolt enveloped the old woman, and when it subsided where the crone had stood was a faint greasy spot and a pile of white ashes that drifted in the light breeze.

  “Stupid woman…mage tried to give her a chance.”

  “Don’t buck ’em…not if you want to live…”

  Cerryl leaned against the rampart stones, faintly nauseated. He straightened. “Unhitch the donkey and put it in the stable. Unload the baskets. They might be useful somewhere.”

  When the cart stood alone below the guardhouse, Cerryl loosed a last fireball, and, once more, only ashes remained, ashes and a few iron fittings that prisoner details carried away. The highway was empty again in the hot afternoon, and Cerryl sank onto the stool in the shade.