Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Cerryl nodded ever so slightly. What Heralt said made sense, but how many people saw what he’d seen? He rubbed his forehead. He was still more tired than he would have liked.

  “Cerryl needs to go,” Leyladin announced, standing and half-tugging Cerryl to his feet.

  “Still the healer,” said Heralt.

  “Someone has to take care of him,” the healer answered.

  “And you’re that someone,” Lyasa replied.

  “Who better?” Leyladin raised her eyebrows.

  “Better you than us,” said Faltar. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” Cerryl gave a smile and a nod.

  The air outside was cooler, cold enough to hint at snow—but far fresher than inside The Golden Ram. Cerryl fastened his jacket.

  They walked up the Avenue past the Halls of the Mages, a light and cooler breeze slipping around them.

  “I can walk home by myself,” Leyladin protested.

  “I know you can, but I’d feel better if I walked with you, and you don’t want me to worry, do you?”

  The blonde laughed. “You are impossible.”

  “I’m very possible.”

  “You have to be careful. Jeslek will want you to do something else even more dangerous next time.” After a pause, she added, “You shouldn’t have made that comment about the order of chaos. Jeslek and Anya would use that against you.”

  Cerryl sighed. “I know, I’m still tired, and I’m not on guard as I should be.”

  “What did you mean by that? About the order of chaos?”

  “Oh…it’s obvious if you think about it. Any city, any land, has to have order within it. You can’t make a city work without it. There have to be rules, and rules are a form of order. Things like aqueducts and sewers are a form of order. So is peacekeeping. But no one in Fairhaven wants to admit that we need order as much as the Blacks on Recluce do. And,” he added with a laugh, “they need chaos, at least some, as much as we do.”

  Leyladin shivered. “Don’t say that around Jeslek. He really will find something horribly dangerous for you to do. And if you do that, the next task he gives you will be even worse.”

  “He might.”

  “He will.”

  “I can take my time getting better.”

  “I already told him and Kinowin that it would take more than an eight-day. I said that you’d been poisoned and that if they pushed you too soon you wouldn’t be able to do as much. And I told Jeslek that I’d told Kinowin and some others that.” Leyladin offered a satisfied chuckle. “He wasn’t that happy about it, but right now I’m the only healer he has.”

  “That was wicked.” Cerryl squeezed her hand. “I’m grateful that you did.”

  They turned onto the street leading to Leyladin’s dwelling. Modest dwelling?

  “You meant it about the big houses of the factors in Lydiar?”

  “Oh, yes. Kiriol’s house is easily three times the size of ours, and his is far from the largest.”

  Cerryl’s lips quirked into a crooked smile lost in the darkness as they walked up the stones to the door.

  After Leyladin hugged him and gave him a single warm kiss, Cerryl walked slowly back toward the Halls of the Mages, noting that the warmth of the past few days had faded and that the wind was getting chill again.

  Jeslek—what, if anything, could Cerryl do about the High Wizard? Jeslek faced a hard situation as High Wizard, and with that Cerryl sympathized. But you don’t want to get killed to solve his problems.

  He shook his head. All he could do was watch and be patient and try to survive. And hope and be ready if you get the chance.

  LXIX

  CERRYL SAT DOWN at the table across from the High Wizard and waited for Jeslek to speak. His fingers brushed the wood of the seat, feeling the slightly gritty white dust that never left the Tower, no matter how often it was swept and mopped. Outside the White Tower, as he watched, the light sleet that had been falling, pattering against the glass, stopped, and the indirect sunlight bathing the city brightened.

  The white-haired and sun-eyed High Wizard studied Cerryl silently before speaking. “Cerryl, the healer Leyladin has told me that you should have a few more days’ respite from heavy physical effort, but that you are capable of doing less taxing things.”

  “I feel better,” Cerryl said firmly, not wanting to admit too much weakness but knowing that he wasn’t yet up to another of Jeslek’s special tasks.

  “Good.” Jeslek smiled. “I have a duty that will not tax your body much, but it will help the Guild. You should be interested in it, since you were one of those who brought the matter to my ear. I would like you to use the screeing glass as best you can to see what you can discover about the handling of road taxes and tariffs in Certis. The matters of which you spoke earlier.”

  Cerryl concealed a swallow. “Yes, ser.”

  “Even if you discover little, you should become more proficient with the glass. It is a most useful tool, as you will find.” Jeslek rubbed his chin. “I would expect you would learn something. You have learned so much in other ways.” Jeslek flashed a smile, then stood. “I will not tire you more.”

  Cerryl stood as well and glanced out the window, noting that the sun had come out again.

  “When you find something, let me know.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl gave a small bow before he turned and departed.

  Going down the steps was far easier than climbing them had been.

  He found Leyladin and Lyasa standing in a sunlit corner in the rear courtyard, in a spot where the cold breeze did not penetrate, although the floor tiles were moist and the courtyard smelled damp, not quite musty.

  Lyasa glanced from Cerryl to Leyladin and back to Cerryl. “I need to be going.”

  “You don’t have to go,” Cerryl said.

  “I really do.” Lyasa smiled at Leyladin. “I’ll talk to you later, or tomorrow.”

  Cerryl had the feeling he was missing things, but he was still tired and not ready to puzzle them out. After the black-haired mage left, he sat down on the bench beside Leyladin.

  “What’s the trouble?” she asked.

  “Jeslek wants me to do something. It’s not hard, but I can’t do it.”

  “You? The one who’s figured out all sorts of new things?”

  “I’ve never had much luck with this. He wants me to use the glass to scree out how Rystryr is taking road tariff coins for his own use. Or how his people are.”

  “You could do that,” Leyladin affirmed.

  “I don’t even know how to use the glass to find matters that don’t have chaos and order—”

  “Cerryl,” Leyladin corrected, “everything is order and chaos. It’s only different combinations. You have to think of it like that.”

  Cerryl rubbed his forehead, then pushed back the fine brown hair that was getting too long. “I understand that, but how do I do it?”

  “You practice until you figure out how.” She smiled. “Like everything else. If others can do it, so can you. The opposite isn’t true, for which you should be grateful.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “You’re tired, but you can do it. Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No. I suspect Lyasa will be back, and I don’t have much to say, right now.”

  “And you worried that you can’t do this perfectly, the way you want to do everything.”

  Cerryl gave a wry nod.

  “You can.” Her smile was warm. “You will.”

  He walked slowly back to his quarters, holding onto her words of support. He was tired, but…he had to learn something else. Is life just always learning something else? He paused as the answer came unbidden: It is if you want to survive and prosper. He took a deep breath and started up the steps, his thoughts scattered. How could he discover whom to follow in the glass? If he began with those who concentrated chaos…

  Shyren—the Guild mage in Jellico. Surely the man had enough chaos around him for Cerryl to use the glass to find him. Shyr
en had to meet with other people, and, with effort, perhaps Cerryl could call up their images once he had seen them with Shyren. Perhaps…

  LXX

  THE FIGURE CERRYL watched in the screeing glass strode down a narrow stone-walled corridor, lit dimly by scattered lamps, then quickly crossed a courtyard through a rain that blurred the image in the glass, before entering yet another building and climbing a wide staircase into the ornate dining hall that Cerryl recognized. He took a deep breath and let go of the image, not looking as the image of the mage in white faded, as did the silver mists surrounding Shyren. Fascinating as the searching was getting, Cerryl’s head ached, and he needed to eat.

  Half-amazed at the growing darkness in his room, Cerryl rubbed his forehead. Was it already after sunset? That meant he was too late for the evening repast in the Meal Hall. He pushed back the chair from the table, whose polished wood felt gritty to his touch. Then he stood and walked to the window. His stomach growled, reminding him more emphatically that he needed to find something to eat.

  He wished he’d been able to see Leyladin, but, again, she was off to Lydiar because Duke Estalin was worried about his son once more—another bout of something. Cerryl understood why Jeslek wanted her there, especially with the continuing mess in Hydolar and all Jeslek’s concerns about Spidlar, but the younger mage wasn’t totally pleased with her absence.

  His stomach growled again, and he turned and pulled his white cold-weather jacket out of his wardrobe. He looked down and wiggled his toes in the new boots that had almost depleted his purse. He still had enough for a bite at The Ram, and tomorrow he could draw his stipend.

  At the door, his eyes went back to the glass.

  He could keep following Shyren, although he was certain the mage knew he was being tracked by the glass, but Cerryl had to wonder if there weren’t a better way to see if he could discover what was happening with the golds of the Certan road duties. He shook his head. He wanted to find out who handled the golds, but he couldn’t exactly call up images of coins. Coins weren’t really composed of active order or chaos, the way people were. Of course, they often created chaos.

  He frowned. They created chaos. Could he use the glass or his senses to find lines or concentrations of chaos, the kind that might be created by those who had coins?

  Chaos…the glass was still easier to use when chaos was involved, unless the concentration of order was strong—as with the redheaded smith in Diev. Something about the smith bothered Cerryl, but he couldn’t say what. His looks at the smith had shown that Dorrin had built his own smithy and a barn. Clearly, the smith planned to stay in Spidlar, yet the house and smithy weren’t built like they were outposts for more Blacks to follow. Were they built for the lady trader? But he had yet to scree the woman. Where was she?

  Cerryl massaged the back of his neck. Woolgathering about the smith wasn’t going to get him fed. He closed the door and walked along the corridor toward the steps down to the main level and the rear courtyard. The ongoing chill of winter had seeped into the building, and he fastened his jacket as he walked.

  LXXI

  THE DWELLING IN the screeing glass before Cerryl was three stories tall, built of timber and stone, with diamond-shaped leaded glass panes in the long and narrow windows. At the mounting block before the dwelling was a carriage drawn by two matched grays. A man in a dark gray cloak trimmed in silver brocade stepped from the carriage and under the archway.

  Cerryl glanced up at the rap on his door.

  “Ser?” The high voice had to be that of a messenger.

  With a sigh, one of those he was issuing all too often lately, Cerryl rose from his table-desk, letting the image lapse, and walked to the door, opening it.

  “Ser, the High Wizard requests your presence as soon as you can be there.” The lad in red bowed twice, his eyes avoiding Cerryl’s.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Thank you, ser.” The messenger scurried back down the corridor.

  Cerryl straightened his shirt, tunic, and belt, then left his quarters and walked quickly through the Halls of the Mages. He could hear the mumble of apprentices in the commons and in the library, but he did not peer in as he passed. The corridors and courtyards were empty, except for one mage—Elsinot. The two nodded to each other as they passed in the front foyer. Then Cerryl started up to the White Tower.

  The duty guard was one Cerryl did not know. “Ser?”

  “The mage Cerryl. The High Wizard requested my presence.”

  “One moment, ser.” The guard rapped on the door and announced, “The mage Cerryl, at your request, High Wizard.”

  “Bid him enter.”

  “You may enter.” The guard held the door.

  Cerryl closed the door firmly, careful not to slam it. Jeslek, seated at the table, did not rise but pointed to the chair across the polished wood from him.

  “You summoned me?” said Cerryl as he seated himself.

  “I did. What have you discovered? About the road coins? Have you found anything?”

  How could Cerryl explain?

  “Ah…yes…and no, ser.” He pursed his lips, then frowned. Finally, he plunged in. “I have seen things in the glass that would suggest road taxes in Certis are not going where they should, but I could not say for certain that such is so. I could not tell you how many coins are not reaching either the viscount or the Guild.”

  “Go on.” Jeslek sounded almost bored or as if he had expected something of the sort.

  “The man who seems to be the finance minister, he lives in a house that could be a palace. Two of those who seem to work for him, they also live in houses larger than those of the grandest of factors here in Fairhaven…”

  “Good.” Jeslek nodded. “You are making progress. I would like you to see what more you can discover in the next eight-day.” After a hesitation, the High Wizard asked, “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better. I still get tired more easily than I used to, but in a few more days I hope…”

  “You have at least an eight-day. If you can discern more before that, I would like to be informed.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Jeslek stood. “Until later, Cerryl.”

  Caught by surprise, Cerryl sat for a moment, then stood. “Yes, ser.”

  His head seemed almost to spin as he walked out of Jeslek’s chambers. While the High Wizard had not been caustic or cruel, as he had seemed at times in the past, he had definitely been preoccupied. Were matters in Spidlar getting worse? Or was it Hydlen?

  Cerryl walked slowly down the stone steps of the White Tower, still trying to figure out what had bothered him about the quick meeting. Jeslek almost hadn’t seemed to care, yet he had summoned Cerryl.

  The first dinner bell rang, echoing through the front foyer. In a way, that amused the brown-haired mage, because few, if any, in the front Hall or the White Tower ever ate in the Meal Hall.

  At the moment, the Meal Hall didn’t sound too bad, because his coins were limited and Leyladin had yet to return from Lydiar. His infrequent and quick looks with the glass had shown a healthier-looking boy with her, presumably Duke Estalin’s son. So Cerryl hoped it wouldn’t be too long before she returned. In the meantime, he would eat in the Halls and save his coins.

  Heralt was already at the serving table when Cerryl reached the Meal Hall. Seeing the creamed mutton, Cerryl smiled, imagining Faltar’s choice words about the meat. After filling his plate and taking a healthy chunk of the rye-and-grain bread and a mug of the weak ale, Cerryl joined Heralt at one of the side tables.

  Cerryl nodded as he sat, then took a mouthful of bread. He couldn’t face starting with the mutton, hungry as he was. Next he sipped the ale, followed at last by some of the creamed mutton, which gave off an orangish smell. Orange? He didn’t want to think about it. After several mouthfuls, he turned to Heralt. “How is guard duty going?”

  Heralt looked blankly at Cerryl for a moment, then glanced around the as yet sparsely filled Meal Hall before speaking
, his voice lowered. “Things are getting bad. They brought in a trader. Traders dress pretty much the same. Her hair was short, almost like a man’s, and she wore…you know. But she’s a woman, and the lancers brought her in through my gate. They had her bound. It…just didn’t feel right.”

  “How did you know she was a trader?”

  “I was guessing, but it bothered me.” Heralt shrugged. “So I asked Fydel why they were bringing in a trader.”

  “And?” The fact that Fydel was bringing back a woman dressed as a trader bothered Cerryl…something he should be remembering.

  “He told me to ask Jeslek.”

  “That’s odd,” mused the gray-eyed mage. “If she owed road taxes, they didn’t need to bring her here. If she attacked a mage, she’d be ash already.” Female trader? He swallowed—was it the one tied up with the smith that Jeslek, Anya, and Fydel all worried about?

  “You look like you know something—like you were hit in the face with a staff,” Heralt observed.

  “I’m not sure, but…if…well…There’s a female trader that Anya was worried about.”

  Heralt glanced around the Hall again, then at the line of five apprentices who had suddenly appeared at the serving table. “I wouldn’t want to be a woman Anya didn’t like, not one who wasn’t a mage.”

  “Nor I. But I don’t know why she doesn’t like this one,” Cerryl admitted, “except that this woman trader, if she’s the same one, knows a Black smith.”

  “I don’t like it.” Heralt grimaced. “The prefect of Gallos not quite defying the Guild, the old prefect killing Sverlik, the Duke of Hydlen killing the old duke—he was just a child—and trying to kill Gorsuch and then disappearing. Things are getting bad.”

  Worse, Cerryl corrected mentally, much worse, even if you can’t prove it. “It looks that way.”

  “Why?” asked Heralt. “There have been bad years for crops before. That’s not new. There have been viscounts and prefects and dukes who have disputed the road tariffs before. That’s not new. There have been traders here in Fairhaven that didn’t like the Guild, and that’s not new. Recluce has been there for something like twenty-five-score years, always an enemy. Yet we have more mages and more White highways than ever before, and most people in Candar are better off.” The dark-eyed mage spread his hands.