Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The young mage held his breath, momentarily, but there was no sound from without the chamber. He padded toward the duke and, standing back but slightly, concentrated chaos on the body until nothing remained but drifting white ash and a belt knife. He left the belt knife where it lay and turned back to the unfortunate Girtol. Another burst of chaos, and another set of drifting ash resulted.

  Then, Cerryl took a moment to drink the remainder of the lukewarm cider from the pitcher and slip two apples from the bowl into his tunic before easing toward the door beside the hearth. He opened it gingerly, assuming that the next room was a bedchamber, nodding as his senses revealed the same.

  The bedchamber had no other doors, but there was a window. Cerryl eased to the window, then stood on the window seat. The window overlooked a roof, and the drop was less than three cubits. Cerryl eased the window open with a sigh and wiggled out into the darkness, dangling his feet, then letting go.

  His boots skidded as he hit, and he clutched at the still-warm roof tiles, somehow slowing his descent on the sloping roof.

  Now what?

  He listened, but everything around him sounded the same—no yells or screams or lamps or lanterns.

  He crawled slowly along the roof away from the duke’s window. After another forty cubits, the roof ended. He peered over the edge, seeing a drop of far too many cubits, then looked back up the slope of the roof toward the broad chimney.

  Even in the darkness, he could see the stepped design, and the intervals were not that great. He crept upward on the warm and dusty tiles until he reached the chimney, then lowered himself, dangling until his boot toes touched the bricks below. Then he unclamped his fingers and let his feet take his weight. After resting a moment, he repeated the process with the next part of the chimney.

  The last drop, to a small unlit courtyard, was a good five cubits. He bit with a thud, and the shock ran from his boots to his thighs, which threatened to crumple. Wobbling for a moment, he staggered several steps, then looked around. He was on the back side of the palace and could sense the river beyond the wall ahead of him.

  He turned toward the west end of the courtyard, walking in the darker shadows, those areas untouched by the infrequent wall lamps. The courtyard seemed to go on and on.

  A yawn took him and he had to yawn again. As he leaned against the wall, breathing hard, from both fear and exhaustion, he could feel his eyes wanting to close. He took another breath and continued westward.

  How long he wound through courtyards with closed doors he wasn’t certain, but a different scent drifted through his nostrils, one of horses and hay. Stable?

  Stables usually had haylofts…

  He eased toward the stable and was gratified to see that the door was ajar.

  Easing the light-blurring shield around him—he could not have held a full light shield—he stepped through the door, glancing around. Finally, he eased past the stable boy, dozing on a round bale of hay by the door, and past two rows of stalls until he came to a ladder. Hay around the ladder suggested a loft above. Slowly, he eased his way up to the top of the loft ladder and across the rough planks.

  In a dusty corner that felt as though it had been neglected for days, he sat down, rubbing his nose, trying to keep from sneezing. Slowly he ate one apple and then the other. The growling in his stomach lessened.

  He thought about taking off his boots but, too tired to make the effort to hold off sleep, lay back on the small bit of straw left in the loft.

  LXIV

  CERRYL BOLTED AWAKE, his head aching, his nose stuffed up, and almost unable to breathe. Outside, the light was barely gray, so he hadn’t slept that long, or it felt like he hadn’t. He shivered inside his jacket.

  Below, he could hear voices, young voices.

  “…why leave so friggin’ early?”

  “…don’t say anything…”

  The young mage rubbed his eyes, then eased toward the ladder. His stomach growled and he could feel a tightness, almost a cramping, in his guts below his stomach. His headache wasn’t the one that came with overuse of chaos, or rainstorms, but a leaden aching.

  Not going to get better while you’re in Hydolar…that’s for sure. He peered below into the gloom of the stable.

  The stable boys were saddling several mounts and, after each was saddled, leading it out into the courtyard. Cerryl didn’t hear voices in the courtyard.

  With a deep sigh, he summoned the light shield and then felt his way down the ladder onto the main level. His feet slipped on the greasy-feeling clay of the stable floor, and he had to grab the ladder to steady himself.

  The ladder squeaked as the wood slipped on the edge of the loft above.

  “What was that?” One of the stable boys looked from the stall where he saddled another mount.

  “Nothing. There’s no one here. None of ’em get up this early, except for Pierdum.”

  “…dumb bastard.”

  “Careful, he’d beat you as soon as spit.”

  Cerryl walked carefully along the edge of the stalls, toward the open door, feeling his way step-by-step. The stable wasn’t clean, the way those in the Halls were, but almost rancid, and that didn’t help the cramps and churning in his gut.

  He couldn’t help but wonder…why hadn’t there been any outcry from the adjoining palace? Or did the duke habitually sleep late? Or did no one wish to break down the bolted door?

  The thoughts gave an urgency to Cerryl’s desire to escape the city.

  “Don’t forget the ration packs, and don’t eat anything. One biscuit missing and it’s a caning for sure.” The youth led another mount past Cerryl.

  Whuffff…

  “Better stuff in those than the lower table in the kitchen.”

  “Course…They’re officers.”

  “Something’s upsetting them. The horses,” said the boy leading the mount. “Like a wild dog or something.”

  “Haven’t seen none.”

  “Keep a look.” The shorter stable boy tied the mount to the long hitching rail outside the stable.

  Once he passed on returning to the interior, Cerryl stepped outside quickly and hurried to the corner of the building, where he lowered the full light shield into the vision-blurring screen. He studied the courtyard.

  After a moment, he nodded to himself. The gate in the courtyard wall looked unguarded, and beyond the gate was Hydolar. He watched as the other stable boy tied another mount at the end of the rail.

  “’Nother to go.” The youth turned back toward the stable.

  “Better start mucking after that,” came from inside.

  Cerryl eased toward the end mount, a chestnut. Once he was certain both stable boys were completely inside the stable, Cerryl untied the reins and scrambled into the chestnut’s saddle.

  Wuuuffff…The horse seemed to back off.

  Cerryl patted his shoulder firmly. “Easy, fellow…easy…” Then he urged the mount toward the open gate from the stable yard. He couldn’t hold a full light shield, not with the growing sharp pains in his gut and the leaden headache, and even keeping his blurring efforts was hard. He only hoped that, if people saw him, their vision would show nothing out of the ordinary, just a blurred image of a rider on a lancer mount.

  Can’t afford to get sick…not in Hydolar…

  He rode quickly across the courtyard and toward the courtyard gate.

  “Who was that!”

  “Took the chestnut. Not Mierkal…always late…”

  “Shit!…What’ll we tell him?”

  As he passed through the gate, Cerryl felt badly for the stable boys, but not badly enough to remain in Hydolar any longer than he had to, not at all.

  The street leading back to the north gate of the city was far less crowded, and, thankfully, his blurring effort was working enough that not a soul of the handful of people he passed in the orange light of dawn even seemed to look in his direction. The faint mist that lay over the city, perhaps from the river, might have helped as well.

 
; The cramping in his gut was worse, and so was the headache as he rode out through the city gates.

  “…know that lancer?” came from the gatehouse.

  “…can’t see him well…wants to ride out alone…that’s the duke’s problem…”

  “…still.”

  “…what lancer, Jiut? Didn’t see no lancer, did you?”

  A tight smile crossed Cerryl’s face as the chestnut carried him down the gentle slope of the causeway to the road that would carry him back to Fairhaven. He was out of Hydolar. With two long, long days’ ride to go…or three…

  He rubbed his forehead, but it helped the headache not at all. Nor the growling in his stomach and lower gut. Perhaps if he ate something from the ration pack? He turned in the saddle and fumbled out a hard biscuit, hoping some food would Recluce his shivering as well.

  LXV

  CERRYL YAWNED. TWILIGHT had passed into full evening, and every span of his body ached, starting with the crown of his head all the way to toes that threatened to cramp within his boots. The night was still, cool, but not yet cold, and with the stillness he could hear a few scattered insects in the dry fields flanking the road. Insects? In winter? More likely rodents.

  He’d hoped to make the Great White Highway before long, but the stretch of road he traveled had no kay markers and no towns, just dark humps in the fields that were the cots and houses of peasants and herders. He wished he’d been able to ask for a detachment of lancers to wait for him, but that would have alerted the Hydlenese, and the lancers wouldn’t have kept quiet about it, either—and it was clear that Jeslek wanted mystery.

  Cerryl patted the stolen horse on the shoulder. He needed to find another place somewhere to deal with his bodily necessities—again! He preferred a spot not exactly on the open road, although he had yet to see all that many travelers.

  He hoped his vision-blurring skills had been good enough to ensure that those few who had seen a rider would not remember any details, except that the mount was that of a lancer of Hydlen. A disappearing duke wasn’t much good to the Guild—or Jeslek—if people noticed a White mage traveling back from Hydlen. Once he was close to the Great White Highway, it wouldn’t matter, but…until then…few should see him.

  His guts twisted again—violently—and he shivered.

  He glanced around. Was that a clump of bushes ahead, where he could tie the mount? Already the big beast had tried to leave him twice, and once he’d had to lunge for the reins. Clearly, the animal belonged to someone and Cerryl wasn’t that someone.

  Cerryl dismounted and led the beast toward the bushes. His guts contracted, sending a wave of pain through his torso, and his fingers fumbled with the leather reins. He reached for them, and his boot caught on a root, and he sprawled on the ground, dust welling up around him, his fingers losing the leathers.

  He stumbled to his feet, but the horse was trotting down the road.

  “Here, fellow…” Cerryl rasped. “Here, fellow.”

  The horse did not turn but kept moving back southward.

  Cerryl walked more quickly. So did the horse.

  Cerryl tried to trot, but the chestnut picked up his feet even more quickly.

  After a time, Cerryl stood, panting, in the darkness of an empty road, watching the dark blur that was a horse moving southward, in the direction of Hydolar.

  Cerryl shook his head. He faced a long and hungry walk back to Fairhaven, with little more than a handful of silvers and coppers in his wallet.

  Not only that, but he could hear the rumbling in his lower gut and sense the continuing pain. The bread he had stolen? Or the strain of the whole effort on little sleep and less food? Or the apples from the duke’s fruit bowl? Had they been poisoned? He laughed harshly. Indeed, that would be an irony.

  His guts twisted again, and he looked for a more promising and private place, stumbling off the road and toward another clump of bushes beyond the shoulder of the road by perhaps a dozen cubits or more.

  When he had recovered, Cerryl stumbled back to the road, clenched his teeth, and kept walking, trying to hold himself together for a bit longer, looking for a place to rest before he resumed what was going to be a long walk, one far too long.

  The night was looking far less than restful or promising, and it was getting colder. He shivered again, despite the heavy riding jacket.

  LXVI

  IN THE WELCOME, if slight, warmth of the midmorning sun Cerryl walked along the side of the Great White Highway. He’d been walking since dawn, and his boots were cut and dusty, and his feet ached. His whole body ached, but not so badly as two days before, when he doubted he had walked more than five or six kays, or the day before, when he might have covered more than ten to finally reach the Great White Highway.

  Along the way, he had found some water and a few fruits that he snitched from crofters’ trees, but he was weaker than he would have liked, and his vision had a tendency to blur, still. The cramps in his lower gut had continued, as had his shivering, but had lessened in the last day. Not enough by far. He wasn’t sure what had happened. Even when he’d eaten bad food as a child, the gut flux hadn’t been as painful as the initial cramps had been this time. Perhaps you’ve gotten too used to good food?

  He gave himself a weary headshake and kept walking, looking back to see if he could make out any trace of travelers.

  On the highway he hoped he could pick up a ride with some carter or teamster. You hope…

  He’d been walking, on and off, with rests that tended to get longer each time, since dawn, but he hadn’t seen a single wagon or team, not one, not even a lancer group. He wasn’t the most experienced traveler, but the lack of other travelers bothered him.

  After what felt like another kay but was probably far less than that, he stopped and turned to survey the road. A faint dark spot had appeared on the shimmering pink-white stone of the highway, a spot seemingly too big to be a single rider.

  Hoping it was a wagon whose driver he could persuade to carry him back to Fairhaven, Cerryl turned and walked another few hundred cubits, then looked back. The spot had turned into a wagon, accompanied by two riders.

  Cerryl took a deep breath and walked some more.

  Then, he turned and stood, waiting under a sun that was too cool for his chilled body, a body that was sweating beneath the white leather jacket, even as he fought off shivers.

  As the wagon neared, it slowed and stopped…well back of Cerryl. The wagon bed was of a light wood, recently oiled, and a canvas was roped over the contents. Cerryl could sense, but not see, the Guild medallion on the far side of the wagon bed. Two guards reined up their mounts beside the driver, both with their blades out.

  “Those White garments mean something?” asked the driver, raising his voice.

  Cerryl mustered a bit of chaos, ignoring the increasing headache and the stars that seemed to flash in front of his face, then flared it into a fireball that he flung in the direction of Fairhaven. “Just that I’m a footsore mage, trying to get back to Fairhaven.”

  “What might you be doing here, ser mage, if a humble trader might ask?” The wagon driver peered at Cerryl.

  “I was in rough country, and my mount went down,” Cerryl lied. “So I hiked here to the highway and hoped I could find a ride back to Fairhaven.” He offered a grin. “I could provide some additional protection.”

  “Wouldn’t dare do less than offer you a seat. Not much, but better than by shank’s mare.” The teamster shook his head. “Almost worth it to see a mage walking.”

  The two mounted guards concealed smiles.

  “Might as well hop up here. Name’s Narst.”

  “Cerryl.” Cerryl forced himself up onto the hard wagon seat. It felt wonderful.

  The teamster flicked the leads, and the wagon rumbled from a creep into a solid pace. “Thought you folks always went in large groups, seeing as you be so well liked.”

  “Those who are more senior and better liked do indeed travel in large groups. Some of us are sent out by ou
rselves.” Cerryl shrugged. “I’ve been a full mage but two-odd years, and we do the smaller tasks, deliver special messages, guard the city gates…”

  “And you?” asked Narst.

  “Coming back from delivering something. Thought I could go a different way. Didn’t work out that way.”

  The teamster smiled. “You young fellows…even mages. No shortcuts in life, none that work well, no ways.”

  “I’ve been finding that out lately.” Cerryl took a deep breath.

  “There be water in the jug behind the seat. Look as you could use some.”

  “Thank you.”

  After Cerryl took several swallows, gratefully, he asked, “If I wouldn’t be intruding, might I ask what you are trading in?”

  “No surprises there, ser mage. Bolts of brocade from Sarronnyn, gold and silver threaded through the rich green and blue. What doesn’t go to Muneat I can always sell in Lydiar.”

  “You started in Fenard?”

  “Aye.” Narst shook his head. “Always they want brocade for the coins one would spend on coarse wool. Save for Willum, but he’s out of Spidlar and cold as the stone, done in by brigands. So needs I must travel farther to the east with more than I’d wish.”

  “They say there have been more brigands in Spidlar lately.”

  Narst frowned, then said flatly, “Some go so far as to say those brigands wear green under their gray.”

  Cerryl returned the frown. “I’d not heard that. Has the viscount some quarrel with Spidlar?”

  “Who might know that, ser mage, save the viscount himself? Would you be knowing him?”

  “No. I saw him once, years ago, when I was an apprentice. I was at the bottom of the table.” Cerryl forced a laugh. “A long table. I could not see him clearly, nor hear his words.”

  Narst paused, then spoke slowly, deliberately. “I know not if this be true. Yet some say it be so. They tell me that upon each tariff collected by him upon those who use the White roads in Certis, upon each, he adds another part, claiming this be required by the White Brothers, save they never see it.”