Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  No sooner than the three were seated did Meridis appear with a large steep-sided china bowl that she set before Layel.

  “Meridis? What might this be?”

  “Fowl casserole, ser.”

  “Fowl casserole? That be a dinner?” Layel glanced at Meridis.

  “Begging your pardon, Master Layel, but all the beef is tough and stringy, and so are the fowl in the market. Stewed and with wine and spices and cheese, and even the broad mushrooms…”

  Layel lifted his hands. “You did the best you could, and for that I am grateful.”

  Meridis returned to the kitchen and came back with another platter, which she set before Layel. “Quilla, as you wished.”

  “That is better.” A broad smile crossed the factor’s face.

  Standing behind Layel, Meridis rolled her eyes, then set the bread platter before Leyladin, before again retreating to the kitchen.

  “You said it was a long day at the Exchange?” Cerryl said as he poured the white wine from the clear bottle into the factor’s goblet.

  “Yes…ah, thank you.”

  “Why might it have been so long?” Leyladin asked, her eyes twinkling.

  “Grain prices…they go up, and then down a little, and then up…Recluce is buying more grain in Sarronnyn. That means—” Layel eased half the quilla on the platter onto his own plate, then glanced at Leyladin. “You won’t be eating this, I know.”

  “Recluce is buying more grain,” Cerryl prompted.

  “There isn’t enough left to ship to Hydlen at the old price, and that means that grain prices, and the prices of flour and bread, will rise all through the fall and winter, even until next harvest, perchance. Ah…would that I had seen it earlier. Saw it early enough for a modest gain, but, oh, had I seen it far earlier.” The factor shook his head and spooned out a moderate helping of the casserole, his nose wrinkling slightly.

  After Leyladin served herself, Cerryl took a modest helping, as well as bread and but a small serving of quilla, a serving he hoped he could eat without merely choking it down. He started with the casserole and found himself taking another bite. “This is good.”

  “Meridis makes a good casserole…when Father lets her.”

  “A man’s food is meat untainted with all such delicacies, or where such delicacies add to the flavor and do not bury it,” Layel mumbled through a mouthful of quilla.

  “I often prefer the delicacies,” Leyladin said.

  “I like both,” Cerryl confessed—truthfully, since he’d had little enough of either growing up.

  “Spoken like a mage.” Layel laughed.

  “He is a mage, a very good mage.” Leyladin took a sip of wine.

  “I work at it.”

  “Everything takes work. Trading does.”

  “How did you get started being a factor?” Cerryl asked.

  “Long time ago…my father, he was a cloth merchant, one step above a weaver, and I asked myself, ‘If Da is a merchant, why can’t I be a factor?’ I went to the Market Square and watched what people bought and what they paid…and when they bought, and I saved every copper until I could go to the weavers in the late spring, for that is when times were the worst, and buy all that I could, and I saved it until after harvest…”

  Cerryl and Leyladin listened as Layel spun out his tale of rising from the son of a cloth merchant to a powerful factor. Layel barely paused when Meridis cleared the empty dishes and returned with three cups of egg custard.

  “Egg custard?”

  “You told me to take care with the honey and the molasses, that they would be hard to come by in the seasons ahead,” answered the cook.

  “So I did. So I did. Egg custard. There’s worse. There’s no custard, and no eggs,” mused Layel. “And, you know, there were times like that. Bought my first coaster…and lost her on the second voyage…Folk said I was failed. They were wrong…”

  Leyladin smiled at Cerryl.

  He smiled back.

  “…wrong ’cause I had coins saved, not enough for another ship, not then, but I took a share in an Austran spice trader that ran the Black Isle leg—can’t do that now…no, you can’t. Can’t do this, and can’t do that…world’s not the same now, not by a long bolt…”

  Later, when the lamps cast all the light in the house and in the front foyer, Leyladin and Cerryl stood by the door.

  “I’m sorry it’s so late,” Leyladin apologized. “Father, he was so pleased to be able to tell someone how he got to be a factor. You have to get up early.”

  “So do you. I don’t have to ride to Hydolar.” Cerryl wrapped his arms around Leyladin, ignoring her wish for an almost chaste hug for just a moment before releasing her. “Be careful, very careful.” Myral doesn’t have any visions about you, Leyladin. He concealed a wince at the thought that he might be accepting what Myral had said.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Make sure that you are,” he insisted.

  “You take care of yourself, and watch out for Jeslek and Anya.” For the first time, her lips met his, warm—and loving. “And keep doing what Myral told you…I want to be able to kiss you again.”

  So do I. Cerryl held her for a long time, without speaking.

  XLV

  CERRYL PAUSED AT the top landing of the White Tower, wondering again why, after more than a year of ignoring Cerryl, Jeslek had summoned him.

  Hertyl was the guard outside the High Wizard’s chamber, and he nodded at Cerryl, then opened the door. Cerryl nodded back and stepped into the chambers of the High Wizard. Behind him, the door closed with an ominous thud.

  Jeslek’s white hair shimmered, and his sun-gold eyes yet glittered out of the youthful face. He gestured to the chair by the table that held the screeing glass, a glass that had been recently used, Cerryl knew, from the residual chaos that swirled unseen around it.

  “Please have a seat, Cerryl.”

  “Thank you, ser.” Cerryl noted the rain running down the thick glass of the Tower windows, a warm rain, but still unwelcome for the steam that would cloak the city later—and his headache.

  “Mock politeness does not become you or any mage, Cerryl, except upon ceremonial occasions.” Jeslek took the chair across the table. His eyes bored into the younger mage. “There is little point in wasting time with evasions and maneuvers. I do not care for, shall we say, your careful approach to handling chaos. You do not care for my use of chaos on a massive scale. We both, however, wish that Fairhaven prosper.” The High Wizard paused.

  “That is true.”

  “You cannot, or will not, raise chaos in huge measure. You have shields strong enough to withstand that amount of chaos. Thus, I cannot destroy you with chaos, nor you me. You cannot lead Fairhaven, but, young as you are, you could keep it from being led.”

  Cerryl detected a certain amount of untruth in Jeslek’s words but merely nodded that he had heard what the High Wizard said. Cerryl glanced in the direction of the toy on the shelf, a detailed miniature of a windmill with a small black iron crank. His eyes opened—black iron, bursting with order. Yet the toy, or model, or whatever it was, had been finely detailed, so finely that it looked as though it could pump water.

  “Oh, that? A small part of the problem in Spidlar, one you as a Patrol mage need not concern yourself with. Not at present.” Jeslek flashed a smile.

  “Black mages in Spidlar?”

  “As of now, there are three Blacks in Spidlar, Cerryl, a smith and two armsmen. There may be a Black healer as well. It is strange. We have all this difficulty with Spidlar, and there are all these Blacks there. It’s not your concern, but it will be discussed at the next Guild meeting.” Jeslek smiled. “The smith’s name is Dorrin, not that it should concern you, but…I will satisfy your curiosity. This time.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl took his eyes from the model, but the amount of order concentrated in it bothered him, disturbing him almost as much as had there been an equal amount of chaos focused there. A smith named Dorrin? A Black smith? Why had Jeslek me
ntioned the name? To see if Cerryl knew?

  “You do not know this smith’s name?”

  “No, ser.” Cerryl repressed a frown.

  “That, at least, is to your benefit.” Jeslek paused. “Now…do you wish to stand in my way?”

  “No. I still have much to learn.”

  “Ah…you remain the honest mage.” Jeslek laughed. “And you have avoided Anya’s bed.”

  “That seemed best, given my youth.”

  “How do you find the Patrol?”

  “I continue to learn, especially about Fairhaven, and I find that good, for I was not raised here.”

  “That is good for any mage, even those raised here.” Jeslek’s eyes glittered momentarily. “You follow Myral too closely, Cerryl.”

  “Myral? I respect his understanding.”

  “His understanding—with that I have no quibble.” The High Wizard smiled lazily. “Few mages have understood so much as Myral. Yet few have been so frozen into inaction by such understanding. Myral is too cautious. There is a time to strike and a time to wait. Myral would always wait.”

  “He is cautious,” Cerryl temporized. “You feel it is time to strike.”

  Jeslek nodded abruptly. “If we do not show that Fairhaven is to be feared, and not just respected, the rulers of eastern Candar will ignore every White mage in their courts.”

  “Is that really why you raised the Little Easthorns?”

  “Is that what they’re calling them? Diminishing me by calling them little?”

  “To divide Gallos,” Cerryl continued, as if he had not heard Jeslek’s comment. “It’s too big to hold together with a mountain range down the middle.”

  “Have you seen the Market Square, Cerryl? Each eight-day there are fewer traders there. Do you know why? Because goods are short, and they can obtain more in Hydlen or Kyphros, and they do not have to pay the road taxes. After years of benefiting from our roads and efforts, they turn away, and the rulers in some other lands encourage them. Some would change the rulers in other lands.”

  “As in Hydlen?”

  “Or Gallos. Even after my visit with Eliasar and the creation of the chaos mountains, the Gallosian merchants bridle. They would forget the years they benefited from the White highways and reject their just debts.”

  “That will happen, ser,” Cerryl suggested, “unless they are compelled otherwise.”

  “What do you suggest, then, O wise young mage?”

  “You have far greater experience. I cannot suggest. I only know that most men respond to swords or silvers or chaos, not to words. We cannot raise enough golds, not now.”

  Jeslek’s sun-gold eyes met the pale gray ones of the younger mage, surveying him deliberately. “Did you know that matters in Spidlar are getting worse? I understand that brigands ride every back road.”

  “I had not heard that. I cannot say I am surprised. It would be to our interest that brigands be found there.”

  “Do you know that, since Spidlar refuses to act, the viscount of Certis sent forces to control them?”

  “I take it that his efforts have been less than totally successful.”

  Jeslek’s eyes glittered more intently, and Cerryl wondered if he had presumed too much.

  Probably…but you can’t back down.

  “You could be dangerous, Cerryl, if you weren’t a disciple of Myral’s.”

  “You know I don’t have the kind of chaos power you do.”

  “I know that you have never raised such power. I know that you do not wish to do so.” Jeslek raised his eyebrows. “You avoid using chaos more than you have to. That is wise, assuming you retain the ability to wield it when you have no choice. Ah, yes, young Cerryl, there will be a time when you have no alternative but to raise chaos in force.” A twisted smile crossed the High Wizard’s face, and his fingers touched the amulet that hung around his neck. “That is where Myral and even Kinowin are mistaken. But you need not listen to me. Just watch.”

  “I will,” Cerryl said quietly.

  “I know you will.” With another smile, Jeslek rose. “I trust you will continue your hard work with the Patrol.”

  “I plan to, ser.”

  “No mock politeness, Cerryl.”

  “You are the High Wizard.” And the office deserves respect.

  “You are wise to remember that.” Jeslek gestured toward the door. “I will see you again when the time is ready. It may not be that long. You do have certain…skills…the Guild may need.”

  “I stand ready to assist the Guild.”

  “Good.”

  Cerryl inclined his head, then turned and left, his senses and shields ready. Outside, when Hertyl closed the door, Cerryl took a silent but slow, deep breath. What did he want? To tell me he knew I could withstand his chaos? To warn me? To test me? And why did he ask about the smith?

  Cerryl wanted to shake his head as he went down the steps. Jeslek was very different from Sterol, very different, but then he’d known that since he had been an apprentice mage. Cerryl only wished he understood more of what he knew existed but could not see.

  Outside, the rain splattered on the Tower, and on the steps Cerryl rubbed his aching head. His eyes flicked southward, in the general direction of Hydolar, and he took a deep breath and continued down the stone steps toward the entry Hall.

  XLVI

  CERRYL WAS TRUDGING the last few cubits toward his room when a blonde figure appeared in the corridor.

  “I’m going to eat in. Do you want to join me?” asked Faltar.

  “Eating in?” Cerryl raised his eyebrows. “Have I heard your words?”

  “The Golden Ram—everywhere—the prices are higher, and my stipend is but a gold an eight-day. I had to get new boots, and I couldn’t believe how much more they cost this time…” Faltar shook his head.

  Cerryl glanced down. “They look good. Where did you get them?”

  “From Beykr, down on the Way of the Tanners.”

  The smaller mage laughed. “I get mine from Miern. He’s a block farther east. The boot soles and heels are thicker and a good two silvers cheaper, maybe more. I’ve been told they fit better, too.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  “You didn’t ask.” Cerryl grinned. “I’ll go with you. Leyladin’s still in Hydolar, and my stipend doesn’t go so far, either. I wear out boots faster on Patrol duty.”

  “You still walking the streets?”

  “I don’t know the city well enough, not by far. I wasn’t born here, remember. Wait a moment, and let me wash up.”

  Faltar leaned against the stone wall of the corridor. “Try to hurry. I’m hungry and I might lose the courage to face the Meal Hall.”

  “Courage doesn’t matter if you have no coins to eat elsewhere. I’ll hurry.” Since his own gut was growling, Cerryl washed quickly.

  Faltar was still leaning against the wall when Cerryl emerged from his room. “Good.”

  The two walked down the steps to the main level and across the rear courtyard.

  “How’s gate duty going?”

  “Boring,” admitted Faltar. “Always the same. Most of the owners of the wagons and carts are honest, but there’s always someone who thinks we can’t find oils or spices or silver. I don’t understand. The cost of a full-trade medallion isn’t that high.”

  “The problem’s not here, I think,” mused Cerryl. “Fairhaven isn’t the only land—or city—that levies taxes, and you can’t remove a medallion and then replace it. Not without the gate mages sensing it.”

  “Oh…that means two wagons and a place to keep them?”

  “More than that. The big factors do that all the time. Why do you think the wagons we see here are always so clean? The carpet merchants, on the other hand, they apply for a new medallion every time they come.”

  Faltar nodded. “I knew that, but I hadn’t thought about why.”

  “They only come once or twice a year, and an extra two golds is cheaper than two wagons.” Cerryl frowned. Do they wait when they remove the
medallions, or does someone get hurt?

  Faltar sniffed as they entered the Meal Hall. “It’s not lamb. I can smell that.”

  “Stew—with dried beef.” Cerryl stepped toward the serving table.

  “Sorry, ser.” An apprentice scuttled out of the way.

  “Go ahead.” Cerryl laughed, gesturing to the table. “We’ve time.”

  “Thank you, ser.” The apprentice scurried to ladle stew across the bread on his platter, then grabbed another chunk, before pouring a mug of ale from the battered gray pitcher.

  “Not much better than sauced mutton.”

  “I’d prefer the mutton,” Cerryl said, ladling the lumpy brownish mixture across a chunk of bread.

  “Never,” said Faltar.

  Cerryl half-smiled and poured a mug of the ale, then made his way to one of the smaller side tables. In the corner he saw Kochar and Kiella, both redheads eating slowly and talking. Before long, Kochar would be a full mage, Cerryl thought, if he didn’t do something at the last moment to upset Jeslek. He couldn’t say that he knew the handful of other student mages—there seemed to be fewer than when he and Faltar had been students.

  “…say he’s a Patrol mage…”

  “…don’t know the other one…”

  The words drifted from one of the circular center tables. Cerryl smiled to himself. As a student, he’d never known by name the younger full mages. He wouldn’t be responsible for an apprentice for years, if ever, and he ate at the Meal Hall infrequently and quickly. It might be more often if the costs of food in Fairhaven kept increasing, though.

  Faltar slid into the chair across from Cerryl and took a mouthful of stew. He frowned. “You might be right. I never thought lamb could be better than anything.”

  “You see fewer traders through the gates now?” Cerryl took a mouthful of the tough rye bread, then finally tried the stew. His mouth puckered with the saltiness, and he reached for the ale.

  “I don’t see as many as last year, even in the winter. There aren’t as many people on the roads, except for lancers. More are headed west.”

  “Gallos?”