Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  CVIII

  CERRYL WALKED FROM the covered porch of his dwelling out into the light and cold rain and along the brick walkway to the masonry house beyond the courtyard wall of his dwelling. There a handful of lancers milled around a wagon drawn by a single bony horse.

  The rain—small drops that felt partly frozen—carried a slightly sour odor, or perhaps the moisture drew the scent of recent pillaging and death out of the ground. Cerryl frowned as he heard the mutters.

  “Tools…supposed to use these?”

  “Worse ’n road duty…”

  “It’s the mage!” called a voice.

  The lancers stepped back, and Hiser rode forward and reined up beside the wagon horse. “We got some tools in the wagon there, ser. And some shutters, at the back. Shutters—need to replace the ones on this side of the dwellings here, all of them. Some fool ripped ’em off the brackets so hard that the wood splintered.”

  “It was rotten,” Ferek added as he rode up and joined Hiser. “Half the town is rotten. Too much rain. Rains every day here.”

  “I sent men to get shutters from buildings that were too damaged for anyone to use,” Hiser explained.

  Cerryl glanced at the two men standing nearest the side of the wagon.

  “The ones we got, they need to be cut down,” said a burly lancer. “Got a saw here that might do.”

  Cerryl studied the saw, then shook his head. “That won’t do, not if we can find a better one. It’s a ripping saw. We need one with finer teeth, about half that big.”

  “Ripping saw?” Ferek’s mouth opened.

  Hiser grinned, then wiped the expression away.

  “A ripping saw rough-cuts planks, going with the grain rather than across it. Use those teeth on those shutters,” Cerryl winced, “and you’ll rip the wood up almost as bad as the ones you can’t use.” He stepped toward the wagon, rummaging through the indiscriminate piles of hammers, adzes, pry bars, mallets, and, in the corner, several other saws. He pulled out one, a smaller saw. “See? The teeth are smaller, finer, and closer together. Use this to shorten those shutter frames.”

  It would have been faster to do it himself, but he was one person. If they would just use the crosscut finish saw or knew what tools to use, without his looking over someone’s shoulder all the time, more would get done. He couldn’t do the work they were supposed to do. It wouldn’t leave him time for what he had to do.

  “You heard the commander,” snapped Ferek.

  “Lancers be not crafters,” mumbled a lancer near the rear of the wagon. “Didn’t ride to Spidlar to do no sawing.”

  “You didn’t?” asked Cerryl, flicking the smallest flash of chaos fire past the complainer.

  “Sorry, ser!” The lancer stiffened.

  Cerryl wanted to shake his head. How many are like that? Unwilling to do things if they think it would make others think less of them?

  “Make sure the roof gets patched, too,” Cerryl reminded Ferek before turning to Hiser. “You bring a squad and come with me to the river piers. I’ll be riding out in a bit. Those need work, if we want supplies from Gallos.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Cerryl walked back to his quarters, then to the stable, where he saddled the gelding. He needed to inspect the river piers more closely, to see what needed to be done to get them ready to handle the barges once spring came. Or now? From what he could tell, they didn’t have enough provisions for more than a few eight-days. He didn’t want to have to raid the countryside if there were any other way.

  He patted the gelding’s neck, led him out into the courtyard and mounted, then rode out through the carriage gate. The sound of hammers, and a saw, echoed from the lancers’ dwelling. Cerryl permitted himself a tight smile.

  “Ready, ser,” offered Hiser as he rode up with a squad of lancers.

  Cerryl nodded and turned his mount.

  “Men are not happy about fixing up Elpartan houses.”

  “Right now, who else can?” Cerryl snorted, letting his voice carry. “It rains most of every day, it seems, and we’ve driven off most of the able-bodied locals. Those who might be hiding nearby we won’t find, and winter’s coming. We’re in this war because Spidlar and the traders don’t pay their tariffs. So where are we going to get the coins to bring in laborers—or crafters?”

  “Couldn’t the High Wizard order some here?”

  “How? The prefect of Gallos or the viscount will find some way to avoid doing it or send us people who are worse than our lancers and cost the Guild coins we don’t have. If we bring crafters from Fairhaven, how could we not pay them? If we don’t, they’ll disappear, and they won’t flee back to Fairhaven, and then we won’t have crafters, and neither will the folk at home.”

  Hiser gave Cerryl a strange look but only nodded.

  Cerryl understood the expression. The subofficer wondered why the High Wizard had even started the war.

  “That’s why the High Wizard didn’t want to use chaos on Elparta,” Cerryl offered. And why you’re stuck trying to put it back together. Maybe Anya was right. Maybe it was better to use a lot of force quickly. He forced a long, slow breath. And maybe there’s never any good answer.

  More of the fallen stone, timbers, and bricks had been cleared from the main route westward toward the river, but the streets remained mostly deserted. Cerryl saw but one dog, a brown mutt that slunk down an alleyway as the riders passed, tail nearly between its legs.

  The middle river gates were on their heavy iron supports—or had never left them—and were open to the piers. The stench from the piers was strong, despite the increasing rain—a mixture of rotting foliage, fish, and other decaying matter, mixed with the smell of mud. Mud was piled everywhere, over the splintered and broken planks that had once formed the deck of the piers and been cast against the rabbled river walls, up almost to the top of the tilted and shortened stone pillars that had comprised the base of the piers. Beneath the pillars, and under the mud, Cerryl could sense that most of the pier bases were solid.

  Jeslek’s flood or whatever it had been had piled so much mud against the solid stone bases of the piers that the river was now flowing more than ten cubits from the ruins of the piers.

  Cerryl studied the jumbled mass of planks, stone, and mud. Could he use chaos—or loosen order enough—the way he had in the road battle, so that the river would carry away the mud?

  “Be hard to put them back together,” murmured Hiser.

  Cerryl dismounted and handed the gelding’s reins to the subofficer. The mage walked forward, then back to the pile of huge stones that had been the river wall. There he concentrated, working on loosening the bounds of order, shifting them beneath the pier bases and to the river walls, leaching order out of the mud heaped against the remaining stone pillars.

  Unnnnnhhhh…The mud shifted, ever so slightly, and then seemed to slump. Bubbles frothed up through the gray-brown soupy mess.

  For a time he just sat down on one of the larger stones from the wall, holding his head in his hands, while stars flashed across his vision.

  The rain began to fall more heavily from clouds that had darkened, unnoticed by Cerryl, and mixed with the droplets were ice pellets that bounced off the oiled leather of his jacket.

  At last, Cerryl stood and made his way along the edge of the fallen river wall to where Hiser and the squad waited. Hiser’s eyes were on the mud and on the river water, which seemed darker than before.

  Cerryl remounted and followed the subofficer’s eyes with his own, noting that the fizzing and bubbling continued and that the river was eating away the slumping mess from around the pier pillars and bases. He nodded, then massaged his forehead. Should have eaten before you came out here.

  “The mud’s going…”

  “Don’t believe that…”

  Cerryl blinked, then turned to Hiser. “We still need planks to refinish the top of the piers and some logs for the round posts…”

  “Bollards,” supplied a voice.

  “Bollards,
” agreed Cerryl, turning.

  A wiry man in tattered gray stood on the mud-smeared river wall, a good ten cubits to Cerryl’s right. A sabre leaped into Hiser’s hand.

  “Greetin’, ser mage. You want to put the piers right again?”

  Cerryl nodded.

  “Best you use your tricks to shift that bar upstream some, then, or ’fore long you be having the same mud back around the pier columns.”

  Bar? Cerryl’s eyes flicked upstream, finally catching sight of a mud bar or sandbar slightly to the west of midstream.

  “Water comes off the bend and splits…Slow stuff drifts to the east,” added the spritely old figure, as if everyone should have understood his words.

  “Did you used to run the piers?”

  “Me? Not a lead copper’s wager. Jidro, at your service. Few years back was lead boatman for Virot’s barges.”

  Cerryl let his order-chaos senses range across the man, then nodded. “You want a job? Being in charge of rebuilding and running the piers?”

  “Aye, and you’d turn me into ashes first time I displeased you.”

  “I don’t do that unless people lie to me or attack me.”

  Jidro grinned. “Won’t live forever, and I’d like to see ’em run right. But need one of your lancer subs to give orders. No one listens to an old fart like me.”

  Cerryl grinned, then glanced toward Hiser. Ferek was too stiff. “Hiser…let’s see what Jidro can do for us.”

  “Ah…yes, ser.” An expression between horror and relief flitted across the eyes of the blonde subofficer.

  Again Cerryl hoped he’d read things right. More hope…never quite knowing.

  CIX

  CERRYL STOOD AT one end of the table, then stepped back, his eyes raking over Teras, Ferek, and Hiser. Senglat was absent. Probably sneaking off to find Fydel. “I want that man tied to a post right in front of the gate outside and all the lancers mustered out, right on the street here, on foot.”

  “Now?” asked Teras.

  “Now. I’ll be out shortly, as soon as he’s tied to the post. You can all leave and prepare.” Sounding like Jeslek, you are. Cerryl concealed a wince, not moving until the small study was empty and he stood alone, alone with his thoughts and the faint odor of decay that would doubtless take years to dissipate totally.

  The murmurs from the officer and subofficers were loud enough that he could hear they were talking, but not loud enough for him to pick up the words. It didn’t matter. The lancer had been caught right after he had murdered a local woman because she wouldn’t comply with his wishes. Then the fellow had bold-facedly lied to Cerryl, and denied the murder.

  The slightly built mage shook his head. If he let the man off, his authority over the lancers would begin to erode until he’d have to do something drastic to regain it. Anya was right…in this situation.

  When he saw the prisoner being marched from the makeshift cells in the cellar of the barracks house and the lancers forming up, Cerryl pulled on his jacket and stepped out into the cold and windy day, walking just outside the wrought-iron gate.

  From where he was roped to a post wedged between two large cobble stones and braced with several other stones the lancer prisoner, a gag across his mouth, glared at Cerryl. The man probably could have loosened the post if he had struggled enough, but he still would have been fastened to what amounted to a heavy log.

  “The men are here—all we could find quickly, ser,” announced Teras, his voice carrying over the slight whistle of the wind.

  “Thank you.” Cerryl cleared his throat, then waited as he heard hoofs. A trace of a smile played across his lips as he sensed the chaos that accompanied the two riders.

  Fydel galloped up, Senglat beside him. The square-bearded mage’s face was red, almost livid, as he dismounted and marched up to Cerryl. His voice was low, pitched at Cerryl and not to carry. “I’m the one in charge of the lancers and what they do.”

  “I’m in charge of the city,” Cerryl answered quietly. “Your lancer broke the peace, and lancers answer to the Patrol, even in Fairhaven. It’s no different here.”

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Fydel. “I won’t let you.”

  Cerryl raised shields and chaos before answering, his voice also low. “You won’t stop me, Fydel.” He smiled as the older man stepped back.

  “Jeslek will hear of this.”

  “I’m sure he will. He doesn’t care. All he wants are results. He wants Elparta rebuilt and the tariffs from its trade. If my way gets things done, your complaint doesn’t matter. If it doesn’t,” Cerryl smiled ironically, “then it’s minor compared to my failure.”

  “You’re worse than Anya.”

  “Perhaps. Now…will you stand back and let me finish? It would be better if you did not make a scene.”

  “Jeslek will know of my displeasure.”

  “I am certain he will…if you choose to let him know. If you think, upon reflection, that is wise.” Cerryl stepped forward, ignoring Fydel, his eyes beyond the lancer tied to the post. He raised his voice. “I ordered that no man, woman, or child in this town be hurt unless they attacked one of you. This man not only beat and killed a woman, but he lied to me about it. She did not threaten him; she did not wish to be used by him. He disobeyed, and he lied. He will pay the price.” Cerryl nodded brusquely, then raised chaos.

  For the first time the lancer began to struggle, lunging against the ropes and the post—realizing that the slender mage meant his death.

  Whhsttt! The firebolt engulfed the prisoner, flaring into a brief column of flame and greasy black smoke. Within instants, only white ashes drifted in the cold air.

  Cerryl nodded to Teras. “You may dismiss them.” His eyes went to the still-mounted Senglat. “You are dismissed as well, Captain.”

  Senglat’s eyes flickered from Cerryl to Fydel and then dropped. “Yes, ser.”

  Cerryl remained almost rigid until the lancers had begun to move and until Senglat turned his mount down the street toward the makeshift stables.

  “…means what he said.”

  “…other mage looked like the little one kicked him silly.”

  “…Hiser said he was tough.”

  “…one they kicked out of the Patrol ’cause he was too mean…that’s what Yurit heard.”

  Cerryl looked at Fydel, whose color had gone from livid to near-white.

  “I see why Isork wanted you off the Patrol.”

  “Do you?” Cerryl turned. His head ached again, and he felt exhausted, more emotionally than physically.

  Fydel opened his mouth, then closed it. After a long pause, he spoke. “You cannot accept things as they are. You want them to be as they should be. Men are not as they should be but as they are.”

  “They won’t be any better by doing their worst,” Cerryl answered. “Neither will we.” But what is “better”? He wished he knew.

  Leaving Fydel and his mount in the street, Cerryl walked slowly back into the quarters building, back past the immobile guards and into the silent structure.

  Force…maybe Anya was right, but Cerryl didn’t have to like it. Not at all.

  CX

  WINDSWEPT PILES OF snow had drifted against the stone fence-wall on the eastern side of the road, flakes swirling and shifting across the surface of the drifts in the light winter wind. Behind the stones were trees, mostly saplings, and the stumps where larger trees had once stood. The sound of a score of mounts’ hoofs echoed off the frozen clay of the road as Cerryl and the lancers rode north.

  Downhill from the western side of the narrow road, a stream burbled, ice-fringed, but its dark water clear in the center. Splotches of snow dotted the narrow field beyond the stream-bed, and trees with winter-grayed leaves rose behind the field.

  “The place is around the next bend,” Hiser announced.

  As he passed the midpoint of the gentle curve in the road, Cerryl leaned forward in the saddle. A narrower road curved eastward rising beside the stream. Both road and stream cut through the mi
ddle of the field. The wide berm of stone-faced earth and the rough-planked building beside it were the first signs of the mill. A single large timber barn stood to the left of the mill and an unpainted house uphill of both, with a thin line of smoke rising from the chimney.

  The arrangement of the mill and the outbuildings looked little like Dylert’s, where Cerryl had spent his years after leaving the mines and Uncle Syodor and Aunt Nall, yet the feel was similar.

  While there were recent tracks on the road to the mill and house, all the plank-sided buildings were shuttered, all the doors fastened tight. A dog’s tracks crossed a patch of windblown snow before the low one-story house, but no dog was in sight. The plank walls of the house were water-stained, and the roof sagged.

  Cerryl wanted to shake his head as he mentally compared Dylert’s mill and the house before him. “Let’s see if anyone’s here.”

  At Hiser’s nod, one of the lancers dismounted and, hand on sabre, used his free hand to pound on the door. Cerryl waited, but there was no answer.

  “Try again. Say who ser Cerryl is,” ordered Hiser.

  The lancer pounded on the door. “Ser Cerryl, the city commander of Elparta.”

  Again the door remained closed.

  Cerryl could sense no chaos, but he felt exposed. Then, he was always feeling exposed anymore. “I’m Cerryl, and I’m a White mage, and I don’t mean any harm—unless you won’t meet with me.”

  The door opened but a span. Cerryl could see the heavy chains.

  “Yes, ser?”

  “Come on out. If I wanted to, I could burn down the door, but it wouldn’t do either of us much good.”

  Hiser smothered a grin.

  Slowly, the bearded man eased out into the chill wind, and the door shut firmly behind him. “Mill’s closed. No way to get logs down till spring.”

  Cerryl glanced at the bearded millmaster, then nodded at Hiser, before dismounting and stepping up to the taller man. Disliking it, but knowing the necessity, he raised equal order and chaos from the area around, letting it smolder around him. His gray eyes fixed the millmaster’s pale green ones.