Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  THE SUN HAD barely cleared the low hills to the east of Fairhaven when the heavy wagon rumbled through the north gates and onto the highway. Cerryl watched. The entire wagon bed was filled with brass fittings, ship parts of various sorts, headed for Lydiar.

  Fittings for the warships Sterol had mentioned? No…those were being built somewhere in Sligo. But could there be others being built on the Great North Bay?

  He shook his head. Again, he didn’t even know enough to conjecture. How could he find out? Without asking anyone directly?

  Leyladin had offered one suggestion—become friendly with more of the other younger mages. Some of them had to know things he didn’t, and most people would talk, he’d discovered, with a slight bit of encouragement. That hadn’t been his style, but…the more he saw, the more he understood the danger of being alone and aloof.

  He glanced down at the white stones of the highway, arcing out to the north and then east, seeing the fine white dust that was everywhere in Fairhaven slowly settle back onto the stone. Then he walked across into the sunlight to warm up, knowing that before midmorning he’d be seeking the shade to cool off.

  Below, Diborl watched as the prisoners from the city patrol swept the stones clean. Then another guard escorted them back to the holding room where they were kept between cleanup duties.

  Not for the first time, Cerryl wondered exactly what the pair had done. Smuggling, disturbing the peace?

  The creaking of another set of wheels alerted him.

  Coming down the road from the direction of Hrisbarg were two farm carts and, farther behind them, yet another—the beginning of the line of produce vendors that would fill the markets before many folk were fully up and about.

  He stood on the rampart and waited.

  XVII

  LYASA, FALTAR, AND Cerryl stood in the front foyer of the main Hall. Cerryl glanced toward the steps up to the White Tower, his eyes drifting momentarily to the upper ledge and the life-size statues of past great mages—most of whom he still did not recognize.

  “Here he comes.” Cerryl nodded to Faltar. “Let’s ask him.”

  Heralt walked slowly down the steps from the White Tower into the front foyer of the Hall.

  “Heralt?” called Cerryl. “We’re going over to The Golden Ram. Why don’t you join us?”

  The dark-haired young mage lifted his head. “I’m tired. I thought I’d just eat in the Halls.”

  “All you get in the Meal Hall this late is stale bread and old cheese,” Cerryl pointed out. “You don’t have to stay with us long, and it won’t be that late. I have morning duty, remember?”

  Heralt offered a shy smile. “The Ram does sound better than bread and cheese or dried lamb.”

  “Dried lamb.” Beside Cerryl, Faltar shook his head. “Any form of lamb…”

  “Your feelings about mutton are well-known,” said Lyasa. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

  “Well…” Heralt shrugged and turned toward the other three.

  The Golden Ram was half-empty by the time the four young mages settled around a circular table in one corner. Broka and another mage—both on their way out together—nodded.

  “Good evening.” Cerryl returned the nod and smiled.

  Almost as soon as the three were seated, the serving woman was at Faltar’s elbow, looking toward Cerryl and asking, “Drinks?”

  “Ale,” said Cerryl.

  “Ale,” agreed Faltar.

  “Make that three.”

  “Four,” added Lyasa.

  “Fare’s on the board. Ribs, fowl breast, or stew. Ribs and stew are two. Fowl’s three.”

  Cerryl settled on the fowl, as did Faltar. Heralt had ribs and Lyasa stew, and the server with the swirled braid on the back of her head slipped back to the kitchen.

  “You once said that your father was a merchant in Kyphros.” Cerryl glanced at Heralt. “Do you see him much?”

  Heralt laughed. “Kyphrien is rather far to travel…and he’s not one for sending scrolls. My sister and I exchange messages, but not often.”

  “Here you be…four ales. That be eight.”

  Cerryl added three coppers to the pile. The server smiled and swept up a silver’s worth of coppers. Lyasa had added the other extra copper.

  “I wonder how people in Kyphros feel about the new mountains Jeslek is raising,” mused Cerryl. He took the barest sip of the ale.

  “The wool factors are worried.” Heralt took a healthy swallow from his mug. “They say the Analerians have lost some of their flocks and that will make wool scarce.” He shrugged. “Axista says it won’t help prices, though, not so long as the Black Isle sends wool to Spidlar. That worries Father.”

  “Isn’t their wool more expensive?”

  “Not after all the tariffs on his. Or not much.”

  “Then, the road taxes and tariffs bother him?” Cerryl’s tone was interested but not sharp.

  “They bother everyone. They make prices higher, and people can buy less.” Heralt took another sip of ale. “You didn’t used to be interested in trade, Cerryl.”

  “I figure I’d better learn. That’s what gate duty is all about, isn’t it? Watching trade and trying to see who’s smuggling?” Cerryl glanced to the white-blonde Faltar. “You have any smugglers lately?”

  “Not for an eight-day or so,” Faltar mumbled as he finished a mouthful of ale. “This is better than Hall swill any day.”

  “More costly, as well,” countered the curly-haired mage.

  “You didn’t mention smugglers,” Cerryl prompted. “What were they trying to sneak past you?”

  “Hides. Uncured hides to sell to the tanners,” said Faltar.

  “There can’t be that much profit in hides,” suggested Heralt. “Why smuggle them?”

  “Because,” added Lyasa, brushing a strand of jet-black hair off her forehead, “some gate guards have trouble discovering things that aren’t made of metal or hard materials.”

  “And some don’t look at that hard,” added Faltar dryly. “From what I’ve heard.”

  From Anya? Cerryl wondered. Then he pondered how Faltar, usually so sensible, had fallen for the red-haired mage who apparently bedded half the Hall and cared little for any beyond the moment or what she could gain from using her body. Is that why you still keep Faltar as a friend—because he’s a friend despite Anya? Or because he’s kept supporting you? Still…Faltar’s relationship with Anya meant that Cerryl had to be careful in some of what he said to the blonde mage.

  “How did you sense the hides?” asked Heralt.

  “I didn’t really sense them,” admitted Faltar. “But there were some blades hidden under the wagon seat. Not enough to be contraband, but enough to make me worry. So I asked the guards to check the wagon. They knew where to look.”

  “They still couldn’t have made more than a gold or so,” protested Heralt.

  “A single gold is more than some folk see in a year,” Cerryl said.

  “Spoken like a man who knows,” said Lyasa.

  “I made about three silvers in the whole time I was a scrivener’s apprentice,” Cerryl admitted. “The same when I worked at the mill.” He laughed. “But I was at the mill a whole lot longer.”

  “I think I’d rather be a mage.” Heralt took the last chunk of bread from the basket.

  “Two fowls, ribs, and a stew.” The four platters and two baskets of bread practically tumbled onto the polished but battered tabletop. “That be ten.”

  Cerryl fumbled out four coppers, wondering how often he could afford such luxury—despite Faltar’s mathematicks.

  “Thank you all.” The serving woman scooped up the coins.

  Faltar took a bite of the fowl and chewed noisily.

  Across the table from Cerryl, Lyasa raised her eyebrows. “He only appears neat.”

  “Food’s better than talk,” mumbled Faltar. “Specially after a long duty day.”

  Cerryl used his dagger to slice off a strip of the chicken to pop into his mouth. Somehow it was both
juicy and dry at the same time, but he was hungry enough that it didn’t matter that much. Still, compared to the meals he’d had at Furenk’s and Leyladin’s, The Golden Ram’s fare was definitely inferior. A mere two seasons before, he never would have thought that.

  “This is better than Hall lamb any day,” Faltar added.

  “Better than stale bread, too.” Cerryl grinned at Heralt.

  “More costly, as well,” countered the curly-haired mage.

  “Mages aren’t meant to die with coins,” said Lyasa. “We can’t leave them to anyone. You might as well enjoy what you eat.”

  “And drink,” added Faltar.

  “The other day, there was a big wagon that headed out toward Lydiar,” Cerryl said. “Filled with worked brass. Ship fittings…”

  “Has to be for the warships,” replied Faltar after wiping his mouth and emptying his mug. He held the mug up for the server to see.

  “I thought the Guild’s ships were built in Sligo.”

  “Off that island in the Great North Bay. It’s faster to use the highway to Lydiar and send heavy stuff by boat.”

  “That’ll be two more,” said the server as she took Faltar’s mug.

  “You’ll have it,” the blonde mage promised, reaching for his belt purse.

  “Ten ships seem like a lot,” mused Cerryl.

  “I know of at least seven solid ports in eastern Candar,” Lyasa pointed out. “With time for supplies and transit, that’s only one more ship to watch each port.”

  Put that way, reflected Cerryl, ten ships seemed almost too few.

  “The only two ports that matter right now are Diev and Spidlaria…maybe Quend,” suggested Faltar.

  “That’s still only three ships for each port. The Northern Ocean is pretty big.” Lyasa sipped her ale.

  Thump! Another mug of ale appeared at Faltar’s elbow. “Here you be.”

  The blonde mage extended three coppers.

  “How would you use the ships, Heralt?” Cerryl asked. “You know more about trade than most of us, I suspect.”

  The curly-haired and dark-eyed mage shrugged. “Lyasa’s right. No one’s going to smuggle through Lydiar or Renklaar. Ruzor or Worrak, maybe. That’s only four or five places, but we’d have to mount a blockade, and the Blacks would try to use the weather. I don’t know. I wonder if we could afford as many ships as we need. They say we’ve only got a score or so now. Ten more—that might do it.” Heralt yawned. “Unless the Blacks build more ships, or better ones, or something like that.”

  “How could you build a better ship?” demanded Faltar. “A ship’s a ship. If you make it faster, then it carries less cargo—or less armsmen—and there’s not that much difference in speed under sail anyway. They all need the wind.”

  “Hamor uses slave galleys in the calmer parts of the Western Ocean,” Lyasa said.

  “Water’s too rough here,” insisted Faltar.

  “Probably.” Heralt yawned again. “I need some sleep.”

  “I’ll walk back with you,” said Cerryl. “Morning duty.” He rose, then looked at Lyasa. “Are you coming?”

  “I’ll keep Faltar out of trouble.”

  “Me? Trouble?”

  “Yes, you,” she answered amiably.

  Cerryl and Heralt slipped out into the fresher air, air still warm, with the faint fragrance of something.

  “You think there’s trouble coming?” Heralt asked as they headed toward the rear Hall, stifling yet another yawn.

  “There’s always trouble coming.” Cerryl offered a laugh. “It’s just taken me a while to understand that.”

  His eyes went to the northern sky and the pinpoints of light, distant lights supposedly, if Colors of White were correct, with suns similar to the one that brought chaos and light upon them.

  Did they have their troubles? Did it matter?

  He tried not to yawn as he started up the steps beside Heralt.

  XVIII

  CERRYL BLOTTED HIS forehead with the back of his forearm. Even in midmorning, the shadiest space behind the rampart of the guardhouse was almost unbearably hot. He felt sorry for Heralt, who would have to endure it all afternoon, with even less shade, although the dark-haired young mage was from Kyphros—to the south and far warmer than Fairhaven. Perhaps Heralt was better able to withstand the heat than Cerryl. Cerryl hoped so.

  The green-blue sky was clear, with a haze toward the horizon that bespoke the promise of greater heat as the day went on. The air was still, hot, thick, weighing on Cerryl like a heavy blanket.

  He glanced back toward Fairhaven, but the Avenue down toward the Wizards’ Square was empty of all but a few riders and some folk on foot, none headed toward the gates themselves. He turned. The highway to Hrisbarg and Lydiar was equally deserted, a long, gently curving arc of deserted white stone in the midmorning glare.

  Was that because it was summer? Or the result of the higher taxes and tariffs? Or had the High Wizard already started using warships somehow to enforce the taxes? He frowned. The taxes were levied in ports, such as Lydiar and Tyrhavven. How could the Guild levy a tariff or a tax on a ship’s cargo if the goods were shipped elsewhere—to Spidlar or Sarronnyn?

  Creeakkk…

  Cerryl turned.

  A thin figure led a donkey and cart off the side road a halfkay to the northwest and onto the highway toward the guardhouse. The young mage watched as the farmer led the cart around to the side of the guardhouse. The cart contained several baskets of greenery—beans?

  “Ser? Another farmer for a medallion.”

  Cerryl nodded, turned, and started down the steps. Another farmer? As he reached the back medallion room, he asked, “Vykay? Have we had a lot of farmers lately?”

  The thin guard looked at the other man, who had the ledger before him. “Sandur?”

  “A moment.” Sandur glanced at the waiting farmer. “That’s five coppers for a cart, a silver for a full four-wheeled wagon.”

  “A cart be all I can pay for.” The thin farmer pushed five coppers across the wooden surface of the counter behind which stood Sandur, the lancer acting as medallion guard. The medallion guard handed the bronze rectangle to Vykay but looked at the farmer. “Vykay and the mage will attach it to your cart, ser.”

  The farmer grunted.

  Sandur turned the pages of the ledger, then glanced at Cerryl. “Says here…been six in the last eight-day. More than I recall.”

  Cerryl nodded to himself. The highway was emptier, and there were more farmers getting medallions. He turned to the farmer. “Your cart outside, ser?”

  “By the door, young ser.”

  Cerryl led the way back out into the heat, followed by the farmer and Vykay with his drill, pouch, tools, and the medallion.

  Cerryl waited beside the cart as Vykay drilled the holes for the medallion—another new medallion, no less.

  More farmers than Sandur recalled? Again, Cerryl didn’t know enough to determine whether that was just coincidence…or more. As if you could really do anything about it.

  XIX

  HERE YOU BE. Ten for the lot.” The serving woman set down the two mugs of wine and then the two of ale.

  Cerryl glanced past her toward the archway that held the door into The Golden Ram, thinking he had seen Anya’s red hair. He decided he’d seen but a glint of something off the bronze reflector of a wall lamp. He extended seven coppers before Leyladin could reach her wallet, eased the two mugs of ale across the table, then slid one of the mugs of wine before Leyladin.

  Bealtur and Myredin each extended two coppers, and the serving woman swept them all up and headed back to the kitchen. Past her, in the far corner, past the cold hearth, sat Broka and Elsinot with a third, ginger-haired mage—Redark, Cerryl thought.

  Cerryl reached under the table and squeezed Leyladin’s hand, even as he looked at the two other mages. “How is guard duty going for you?”

  The goateed Bealtur shrugged. “Mostly, it’s boring.”

  Myredin’s fine black hair drifted acr
oss his forehead. “I had a farmer walk up and ask why he had to pay for a medallion when his potatoes and maize fed the city. I told him everyone pays to trade. He wasn’t happy, but he came back and bought a medallion.”

  “Does everyone pay? I sometimes wonder.” Bealtur fingered his goatee, then took a sip of ale.

  The serving woman set down four bowls. “Three each, twelve in all.”

  Cerryl frowned. “Stew used to be two, didn’t it?”

  “Was till last eight-day. Hioll says he can’t get the fixings for what he used to.” The server shrugged. “Whatever…he says what it is, and I tell you.”

  “And we pay,” said Myredin.

  “Better you than me, ser mage.”

  Cerryl grinned and extended his coins, as did the others.

  After the server took the coppers and slipped away, Leyladin glanced at Cerryl. “Three for stew? There’s not as much as there was last eight-day.”

  “Food must be getting dearer.”

  “It does anyway in the summer before harvest,” added Myredin.

  “What does this have to do with…anything?” mumbled Bealtur. “Guard duty is guard duty. It’s boring.”

  “The farmers,” Cerryl said. “More are selling goods in the city.”

  “They don’t pay if they carry goods on their backs,” said Leyladin.

  “But they can’t sell in the squares,” pointed out Myredin. “Not without a cart, and you can’t bring a cart into the city without a medallion.”

  “Some folk sell to people they know.” Cerryl recalled a woman who had brought spices to Beryal when he had been working as an apprentice to Tellis. “They can do that.”

  “They have to know people. They can’t peddle on the streets.” Myredin’s bulging eyes protruded a shade more as he took a deep swallow of ale. “More medallions mean more farmers selling in the squares.”

  “Have any of the older mages mentioned anything about more farmers getting medallions?”

  His mouth full, Bealtur shook his head. So did Myredin.

  “They wouldn’t know, would they?” Leyladin dipped a chunk of bread into her stew. “Esaak—he reviews the Guild accounts, but it’s only a few coppers for a farm medallion, isn’t it?”