Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Thrung!

  An arrow buried itself in the shoulder of Ferek’s mount, and the lancer subofficer struggled to control the horse.

  The closing of the once-cracked shutter told Cerryl from where the arrow had come, and he responded with a second chaos bolt. Eeeee! Whssst! A man-sized hole appeared in the second story of the dwelling, and a charred figure tumbled onto the courtyard stones.

  “Another arrow and you’re all dead!” roared Ferek. Somehow he’d managed to work the shaft from his mount’s shoulder.

  Silence greeted his statement.

  “Open the front door!”

  The carved lower door swung open, but no figure showed.

  “Out! All of you!” boomed Ferek.

  A heavy, red-faced, and bearded figure in green silks waddled out from behind the door and stood on the portico outside the doorway. An equally rotund and white-haired woman followed, and shortly two older serving women cowered behind them. None looked at the ashes or at the charred figure that had once held a bow.

  “Ser wizard…spare us. Please spare us,” begged the man, presumably Reylerk.

  “Why?” Cerryl asked with a snort.

  The trader gulped. “We have done nothing except defend our land.”

  Cerryl urged the gelding forward, then reined up a few cubits short of the short shadow cast by the house. “You took advantage of the roads Fairhaven built, but you refused to help pay for those roads. You traded with our enemy and used the roads we built to sell the goods you bought to others. You sent men out to kill us and to die, and now you wish to be spared.”

  The fat and bearded man looked down.

  “And you remain here because you would not be safe among those who fled because you brought the war to Spidlar out of your own greed.”

  Reylerk did not look up, confirming Cerryl’s suspicions.

  “I’m not here to pass judgment.” Cerryl motioned to the woodworker. Except that you just did. “Go find the chair of which you spoke.” He turned to the trader. “If this man is even scratched, I will reduce your dwelling and all in it to ashes.” The mage smiled coldly. “Including the daughters and sons you have hidden within.”

  “Let Besimn take whatever he wants…Let him do it!” screamed the trader. “Do not harm anyone!”

  Cerryl gestured for the cabinet maker to enter the dwelling. Besimn trembled as he dismounted and walked toward the open door.

  “It’s not for Besimn,” Cerryl said. “It’s for the High Wizard. Might you have some red silk or velvet hangings?”

  “Ah…”

  “I see you do. Please have your consort and the serving women fetch them for us.”

  The three women scurried into the house, as if they feared the lancers would follow, the oldest looking back over her shoulder so fearfully that her shoulder rammed into the door frame.

  “They’ve got much hidden in there.” Ferek laughed. “Young girls, too. Pretty girls.”

  “That might be,” Cerryl grudged, “but Jeslek wants the chair and the hangings, and the girls weren’t the ones who shot the arrow.”

  “Ser?” Ferek’s question implied more.

  “If we have to rule these people, it won’t help if you ruin their daughters. The fathers, they created the problem—not the children. We’ll not harm the children.” Cerryl stared at the trader.

  The trader swallowed silently.

  “You, trader, are to proceed to the square by the wharves. If you are not there shortly, we will find you, and your life will be forfeit. There is no escape from Spidlaria.”

  “And my family?”

  “The High Wizard is not interested in punishing the innocent.” Even as he spoke the words, Cerryl wondered exactly what he meant. In a war, was any adult in a trader’s family totally innocent? Had the luxuries they enjoyed led them to persuade Reylerk to support the Traders’ Council’s defiance of Fairhaven? Had the trader’s consort kept silent? Or had she protested? How could anyone really know?

  Reylerk licked his lips nervously.

  Besimn staggered out with a high-backed chair nearly as big as he was. Cerryl smiled as he saw the red velvet upholstery. “We’ll need a cart.”

  “Ah…in the stable, there is a wagon,” volunteered Reylerk, his voice unsteady.

  Ferek gestured, and two lancers urged their mounts toward the small building to the left of the dwelling.

  Shortly the three women scraped through the doorway with a long roll of red velvet, hurriedly folded and rolled.

  Once the chair and hangings were loaded into the wagon, Cerryl looked at the trader. “You can drive your wagon. You’re coming to the square anyway.”

  The woman in silks went to her knees. “Spare him, I beg you.”

  “That is the High Wizard’s decision.” Cerryl turned the gelding and started out of the courtyard, a courtyard that felt strangely confining.

  Ferek rode another lancer’s mount, and the lancer sat on the wagon seat beside the trader while the wounded mount walked behind as the wagon creaked after the lancers. Besimn rode along ahead of the borrowed wagon, swaying uneasily in the hard saddle.

  “They’re leaving…”

  Cerryl could hear the disbelief in the whispered words. He turned in the saddle. “Fairhaven has some small honor—unlike the traders of Spidlar.”

  Faltar…you were worth a dozen of this man…and those like him. Cerryl’s lips tightened as he rode back toward the square.

  The sun hung low above the hills on the western side of the harbor before Jeslek finally appeared and took the ornately carved chair under the red velvet hangings that Cerryl had commandeered. Anya and Eliasar stood on each side of the chair.

  Still mounted, with his lancers as guards, Cerryl watched from a good fifty cubits back, his eyes flicking across the traders.

  “Shall we begin?” Jeslek raised his eyebrows.

  The two heavyset traders knelt on the paving stones. Sweat dripped from their brows, leaving dark splotches upon the stone. Beside one was a small wooden chest.

  “What have you to say?” Jeslek pointed to the trader with the chest.

  “The Council is no more, honored High Wizard. Spidlar is yours. We submit to your will. Here—” The gray-bearded trader gestured to the chest beside him. “This contains my golds. I would offer what you think fair as tribute to Fairhaven.”

  A shuffling of feet from the traders massed behind him indicated their unease with the statement.

  “You offer tribute only because you could not flee,” suggested Jeslek, his voice almost indolent in tone.

  Cerryl glanced toward the harbor to where four ships remained tied at the wharves, sails furled.

  “I will spare you,” said Jeslek. “I will not spare your fortunes. All but a fifth part of what you have belongs to the Guild. All but a fifth part of anything that any man has in excess of fifty golds belongs to the Guild. And any man who lies will lose all that he has—and his life as well.”

  The High Wizard turned to Anya. “Ask the one on the left.”

  “You say that this chest contains all your golds. What else have you hidden?” asked Anya.

  “There is little else, sers, a few coins perhaps, some silver plates…”

  Anya’s eyebrows lifted.

  Cerryl winced, knowing the trader lied, knowing that Anya knew he lied as well.

  The redhead glanced to Jeslek, who nodded fractionally.

  “You lie,” said Anya.

  The trader started to jerk his head up, as if to protest, when Anya’s chaos fire exploded across his body.

  The other trader flung himself sideways, cowering on the paving stones. “I brought no golds, High Wizard, but they are yours…yours…”

  “Do you have the temerity to insist that whatever chest you may offer holds all your wealth?” Jeslek’s words were almost lazy.

  “No…no, ser. I have a ship, but it is somewhere on the Western Ocean, and there are other hidden chests. I have some horses and other possessions. Others in my fami
ly may have secreted small things, but what I do not know.” The man’s voice trembled.

  “You see?” Jeslek smiled and looked at the half-score of traders guarded by the White Lancers. “He found it much easier to tell the truth. It is really not that difficult.” The red-rimmed but glittering sun-gold eyes flashed toward the heavyset trader standing behind the prostrate trader and at the front of the remaining traders. “Is it?”

  The trader bowed and stammered, “No, sire. No…sire.”

  Anya stood behind Jeslek’s shoulder, and a cold smile crossed her lips.

  Cerryl repressed a shiver at the smile, keeping a pleasant expression upon his own face as Jeslek motioned for another trader to approach.

  CXXXII

  JESLEK SAT IN the chair Cerryl had taken from Reylerk. From the head of the long table that dominated the narrow dining hall of the largest stone house in Spidlaria the High Wizard surveyed the mages seated on each side. “People from everywhere in this miserable trading land—saving the traders—they all wish to submit and get on with their lives, except for that miserable place to the west.” Jeslek fixed his eyes upon Cerryl.

  “Diev?” Cerryl ignored the sweat dribbling down his neck and concentrated on Jeslek.

  “That’s where your precious smith is holed up. He won’t escape this time.”

  My precious smith? How did he become mine? Because I couldn’t detect what no one else could, either? Cerryl glanced from Jeslek to Anya to Eliasar, then down the table past Fydel, Syandar, and Buar toward Leyladin.

  “What do you plan?” asked the scarred arms mage.

  “We will march on Diev—all of us except you and a few of the remaining mages. I’ve sent for some more junior ones to help you—Lyasa and Kalesin. You will keep a third of the White Lancers and half the levies and hold Spidlaria…make it into a proper place. The blockade ships will make sure this Dorrin doesn’t flee by sea.” Jeslek turned to Leyladin, seated at the last place at the table. “You, healer, should plan your trip to Lydiar on the vessel leaving on the morrow. Duke Estalin’s son ails once more.”

  “It will be days…” began Cerryl.

  “It may well be,” snapped Jeslek, “but Estalin is among the few rulers who truly acknowledge Fairhaven, and, unlike some, he asks but little.”

  A frown crossed Anya’s face. “What if you need—”

  “I am the High Wizard, dear Anya, and I know what I need.” After the briefest of pauses, he added, “And when I will not.”

  “Spidlaria may yet harbor those who wish you harm,” Anya pointed out.

  Cerryl held a frown at the words, words that seemed false and calculated to irritate the High Wizard. Beside Fydel, Syandar looked from one mage to the other, his eyes darting back and forth with the conversation, his mouth firmly closed.

  “There are many who wish me harm. Wishing does not make it so, Anya, as you above all should know.” The sun-gold eyes were flat as Jeslek spoke. “The four of us—you, my dear Anya, Fydel, and our most dutiful Cerryl—will depart tomorrow to reduce Diev to the rubble it should already have been. You, Eliasar, will begin the work of turning Spidlaria into a city of which the Guild will be proud. Syandar and Buar will assist you.”

  The arms mage nodded. Beside him, the black-haired Syandar nodded quickly.

  Jeslek rose. “There is little else to be said, and the day waxes hot, far too hot for a place that is so chill in the winter. Anya, attend me.”

  Cerryl and Leyladin exchanged glances, and Cerryl knew that the healer felt as he did as they rose from the table.

  The side door in the wainscoted and paneled wall closed behind Anya and Jeslek, leaving the other mages standing around the table.

  “That’s clear enough.” Fydel rolled his eyes, then fingered his beard momentarily. “We’re all here to do the bidding of Anya and the High Wizard.”

  “Just the High Wizard, I think,” corrected Eliasar. The arms mage turned to Cerryl. “Too bad you won’t be staying. Your experience in Elparta and with the Patrol would be most helpful.”

  Cerryl shrugged. “Jeslek needs someone to…” He never finished the sentence because he really wasn’t sure exactly what Jeslek wanted of him.

  “To do the dangerous mage work,” Leyladin filled in.

  “All magery is dangerous, Lady Leyladin,” said Eliasar dryly. “Even healing, as you have discovered.”

  “Around Jeslek, of course it is.” Fydel shook his head. “I need to talk to the captains.”

  “We need to talk first, Fydel.” Eliasar’s voice was cold. “Now.” He glanced at Syandar. “You stay.”

  Fydel’s lips tightened, but he merely answered, “We do need to agree on which forces should go and which should stay.”

  Cerryl and Leyladin nodded to the other three and slipped from the dining hall. Once into the main foyer, they headed for the door to the courtyard and then walked through the small rear gate from the grand mansion overlooking the harbor and down the paved lane. Cerryl glanced back, and the dark slate roof tiles glittered above the wall almost like shining water in the rays of the summer sun. “It’s more than twice as big as your father’s house.”

  “Most traders’ houses elsewhere are. Those of the powerful factors, anyway.”

  A faint and cooler breeze, bearing the scent of sea and harbor refuse, greeted them as they reached the back side of the harbor seawall.

  Cerryl blotted his forehead on his sleeve. “Cooler here.”

  “Let’s walk out that way.” Leyladin pointed toward the breakwater that angled out into the harbor perhaps a kay northward.

  Cerryl took her hand as they turned. “Why is it that nothing turns out quite the way you thought it would, even when it does?” He scanned the area, but the seawall was empty, except for the lancers on guard near the piers.

  She laughed, gently, humorously. “Because you know more than when you first hoped for something.”

  “I suppose so. I always thought that being a White mage would solve all my problems.”

  “Now you have more problems?”

  “It’s not that,” mused Cerryl, fingering his chin with his free hand. “Viental and Rinfur and I—back when I was a mill boy—we worried about whether we’d have warm clothes for the winter and enough to eat and, sometimes, whether we might get hurt, but we didn’t want to think much about that. Now, I have more than enough to eat, clothes I couldn’t have dreamed of, and a beautiful woman I wouldn’t have dared to look at—and I still worry. I probably worry more.”

  “That’s because you can do more about your life.”

  “Can I? Or do we just think we can?” Cerryl cleared his throat, then squeezed Leyladin’s hand. “I used to think so, but what can even the High Wizard do? If he didn’t fight this war, or something like it, no one would pay tariffs in a year or so, and the Guild would have a bigger war or problem.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Jeslek created mountains upon mountains—and I still had to kill the old prefect of Gallos. He—we—took down two Towers of Hydolar and killed one, maybe two dukes, and the Hydlenese are still grudging their obligations.”

  “You’re just saying that everyone is bound by the world and the bounds are less obvious but just as real when you have wealth or power?”

  “Something like that.” Cerryl stopped under the shadow of some kind of oak, almost more a tall bush than a tree, that had grown out of the jumble of rocks at the inshore end of the breakwater.

  “There’s one good thing about when we talk,” offered Leyladin, looking toward him.

  “There are several good things.” Cerryl grinned.

  Her green eyes danced for a moment. “No one thinks we’re talking seriously.”

  “Who says we are? Or that we have to keep talking that way?”

  “I do,” she answered firmly.

  Cerryl gave a long and dramatic sigh. “About what?”

  “You have that tone, ser mage. The one that asks if we can get through with your philosophizing and my
trivial questions and get on with lust.” Leyladin’s red-blonde eyebrows arched.

  Cerryl choked, then coughed his throat clear.

  “Jeslek’s not the same,” she offered, pursing her lips for a moment.

  “I know, but I don’t know how, except there’s more chaos around him all the time.”

  “So long as Anya’s there,” suggested the healer.

  “Besides Anya. And he was definitely but politely ordering Anya around, more than he used to do.”

  “He doesn’t trust her. I wouldn’t. She used to sleep with Sterol, and maybe she still does when she can.”

  “Is he still in the White Tower? Sterol, I mean?”

  “He’s biding his time,” Leyladin said. “He hasn’t given up hope of reclaiming the amulet, no matter what he says.”

  “About Jeslek…. I won’t be able to ask you once you go. So what should I do?”

  “Do what he asks, so long as it’s not dangerous to you, and wait. And never be alone with Anya. Not without lancers or someone around.”

  “I already learned that.”

  “See that it stays learned.”

  “I will.” He paused, then took both her hands in his. “Now…can we enjoy a little tiny bit of lust?” he asked plaintively.

  Leyladin laughed. “A tiny bit.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  “That’s all you ask to begin with,” she corrected, but her face turned to him, and their lips met under the shifting shadows of the young oak.

  CXXXIII

  ON THE FLAT beside the river, lancers were striking the silk tent shared by Jeslek and Anya and rolling the silk walls into bundles. On the shady side of the pine tree, on the softer needles where he had laid out his bedroll, Cerryl concentrated on the glass.

  When the silver mists parted, more reluctantly than normal, Cerryl beheld a ship, a strange vessel moored in a channel or quay area beside a shipwright’s works. The sense of black iron infused the ship—the same feeling that Cerryl had gotten from the wagon the smith had driven to Kleth before the last battle. Between the road traps and the battle, Fairhaven had suffered greatly from the smith’s devices, and now the ship was another creation of worry.