Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “That I share your concerns, and hers, and that I look forward to meeting with her about just those concerns.” Cerryl rose, to signify the end of the meeting.

  “Might I trouble you for a personal matter, ser?” asked Kinowin quietly. His eyes went to Redark.

  “By your leave?” said the younger overmage.

  “By my leave. If you have other thoughts on how we might speed the assembly against Recluce, I would be most glad to hear them over the next eight-day or so.” Cerryl fingered his chin as if thinking. “Oh…you might tell Anya that I am working on something, but that I said she should hear it from me, given her interest and expertise.”

  “Ah…that I will.”

  Cerryl maintained the smile until the white oak door shut.

  “You are getting dangerous, Cerryl.” Kinowin shook his head. “But words won’t stop Anya and the older mages who wish to sit in Fairhaven and collect their stipends.”

  “I know.” Cerryl’s voice was bleak. “I know.”

  “You also play a dangerous game in admitting to an attack on Recluce. Even Sterol knew such would be foredoomed.”

  “The attack will fail,” Cerryl admitted, “no matter how many ships are used.” The crooked smile that he found coming more often appeared. “That is why the fleet must carry some of the more experienced and older mages.”

  “That, too, might be fraught with risk.”

  “Life is fraught with risk.” Cerryl shrugged. “I am but a young High Wizard who will do his poor best to restore the luster of the Guild.”

  “You’d better practice the humility more,” Kinowin suggested.

  They both laughed.

  CLXXIII

  CERRYL LOOKED AT the weaver. The man’s lined face was haggard, and two children looked up from the corner beyond the floor loom. Despite the open shutters, little breeze flowed into the hot room.

  “I’ve come to pay a debt,” the mage said.

  “I do not recall, ser.” The man kept his eyes downcast, away from the mage’s whites and away from the golden amulet that hung around Cerryl’s neck.

  “Are you the consort of Pattera?” asked Cerryl gently.

  “She is dead, honored ser.”

  “I had heard.” Cerryl extended the leather purse. “Once, when we were children,” he lied, “she gave me what coin she had, and those coins made all the difference. I’ve been away, and I would that I could have repaid her. These are for her children.”

  The man looked up, warily, not taking the purse.

  “I have not seen her in years,” said Cerryl, setting the purse on the edge of the worktable, “but a White mage must pay his debts, for better or worse. I would that I could have repaid this debt earlier. Much earlier.” And in person…

  “Who might you be, honored ser?” asked the weaver, his voice barely audible.

  “My name is Cerryl. I was once an apprentice to Tellis the scrivener, when Pattera and her sister lived off the Square of the Artisans.”

  “You are among the mighty…”

  “And I bother to repay a debt?” Cerryl shook his head. “This acknowledges the debt. I owed Pattera that debt, and that can never be repaid.” He paused, studying the single hanging on the wall, a small rug of red and green. “Did you do that?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Could you do one in white, purple, and some shades of blue and maroon? With the same type of design?”

  “I could, ser.”

  “How much?”

  “I could not charge a high mage…”

  “You cannot afford not to charge one.” Cerryl gave a short laugh. “What would you get for that one?”

  “Two silvers, ser.”

  Cerryl could sense the truth of the answer. “Fine.” He fumbled in his belt wallet before extracting a gold and extending it. “I would like a hanging like the one on the wall, with the finest wool you can obtain here in Fairhaven, in purple, maroon, white, and blue. The most striking color should be the purple.”

  The weaver swallowed.

  “It is to repay in small part another debt.” The High Wizard nodded. “In three eight-days?”

  “Yes, ser…Your Mightiness. It will be ready. Yes, ser.”

  “Thank you.” You still have to find a way to repay the debt to Brental and Dylert…somehow. After a nod, Cerryl walked out to the waiting lancers, his eyes and senses scanning the area. Will you ever be able to walk or ride the streets of Fairhaven openly without a guard?

  He swallowed, wishing he had been able to find Pattera earlier, wishing…“What use is wishing?”

  “Ser?” asked the lancer subofficer who held the reins to Cerryl’s mount.

  “Nothing. Just the musings of a mage.” One who continues to find that not all dreams are quite what he dreamed they would be.

  CLXXIV

  REDARK SUGGESTED THAT I should see you, Cerryl, dear, and here I am.” Anya brushed back a strand of near-perfect red hair as she settled down across the round table. “Would you pour me some of the wine?”

  “I would be most happy to.” Cerryl filled her goblet half-full but set that pitcher down and refilled his own with water.

  “You know, your wine does not turn so quickly as did Jeslek’s.” With her words drifted the heavy scent of sandalwood.

  “I have less chaos to swirl about me.” Cerryl shrugged. “I suspect it makes a difference.”

  “Almost a season has passed, and you have made no moves against the Blacks or against that smith who cost us so dearly.” Anya’s voice was level, not quite throaty, as she looked across the table at Cerryl. “And you sent a message through Redark, rather than to me.”

  “I am sure you understand, Anya. Redark is one of the overmages. Would you like to be one?”

  “Overmage…that does sound intriguing. I will have to keep that in mind, dear Cerryl. After you keep your promise to deal with the Black Isle.”

  “What would you suggest?” Cerryl’s tone was mild, inquisitive. He looked toward the Tower window that was but ajar, observing the painted wooden rose that did not move with the cool breeze that passed it.

  “You cannot let such acts go unpunished, you know.”

  “We razed Diev, and neither the city nor the harbor remains. The old cities of Kleth and Elparta are no more but rebuilt as we wished. Spidlaria does whatever we wish—willingly. In the last year, we have added another half-dozen ships to the trade blockade of Recluce.” The High Wizard smiled politely.

  “Sterol did much for the blockade.”

  “I have released ships from a station off Spidlaria to assist those in the Eastern Ocean.”

  “So you have, dear Cerryl.” Anya took a languid sip of wine. “So you have.”

  “I take it you believe that more should be done?”

  “You are so unfailingly polite and attentive, Cerryl. It’s one of your charms.”

  “I am so glad you find it so. Are you suggesting that an expedition against the Black Isle or at least Southpoint is in order? A fleet, perhaps a firing of the new city being built by the smith?”

  “It is so refreshing not to have to outline the details. Sterol was so dense about it.”

  “I know.” Cerryl’s voice was dry. “Would you like me to propose this officially in the next Guild meeting and appoint you to develop the plan—under my direction, of course?”

  “Of course.” Anya leaned forward and touched his cheek. “You are so understanding, Cerryl. So understanding.”

  “We do try, Anya. We do try.”

  “You will need a good commander.” Anya smiled again. “I would do it, but you know how sailors feel about women on board their ships. So I will have to do what I can from Fairhaven.”

  “You have done a great deal already.” Cerryl temporized.

  “The only thing…Cerryl…”

  “Yes?”

  “It would have been nice to tell me first.”

  The High Wizard returned her smile with one equally false. “I did, Anya. Neither Redark nor Kinow
in knows the details we have just discussed. After all, I had thought it would be something you would be most interested in, and I would not have wished to discuss details with another first.”

  “You do so understand, Cerryl. My friends will be pleased.” She took another sip of the wine. “All my many friends in the Guild.”

  “I would hope so. I would also hope that they—and your friends among the traders—understand such expeditions do require golds for their support.”

  The flicker of a frown crossed Anya’s face at the mention of traders but vanished nearly instantly. “Golds—golds are gone tomorrow. No one will recall how you gathered the golds, Cerryl. They will remember but what you did with them.” Anya rose. “I will not trouble you longer.”

  Not at the moment. Cerryl stood.

  After the redhead had departed, he turned back to the window, studying the White City. Was it always that way? No one considered the cost laid on the laborer, the crafter, or the factor—or the men and women who died—just the great and glorious deeds, where all who took part were either great heroes or equally great villains. “Of course…people change but little.”

  The heavy Tower door opened, then closed after Leyladin slipped inside.

  “I can smell your friend. I would have come earlier, but I wanted to retain what I’d eaten.”

  “I’ve had only water,” Cerryl said.

  “I can stand her less and less.” Leyladin’s lips were tight.

  “I know.” Cerryl sighed. “I know. I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Are you putting her on the flagship?”

  “She’s made it clear that she won’t go and that her many friends support her in that. I’ll put Fydel there and a few supporters on the other ships. If I could put Disarj there as well, or…”

  “It would have been better if she went,” Leyladin said, “but, as you always say, you can do what you can do and no more.”

  “That doesn’t mean I do not hope for more.”

  “Myral did, and much good it did him.” Her tight expression softened. “Though you have already done more than he had wished.”

  “Less, I think.”

  “You will…once you can deal with Anya.” The healer took Cerryl’s hands, squeezing them gently with cool fingers.

  If I can deal with Anya and her many supporters…

  CLXXV

  IN THE LATE-SUMMER twilight, Cerryl walked quietly along the Avenue, his form half-shielded by the blur screen, a slight headache remaining from the afternoon thundershower. At the steps to The Golden Ram, he turned and entered the inn, slipping along the wall and up the steps to the second level and through the half-ajar door into a private room.

  Five mages sat around the table, two on each side of Anya, the space across from her empty.

  Anya frowned. “I thought I heard someone.”

  The four men glanced around, their eyes sliding across Cerryl as though he were not there.

  “Close the door.”

  A thin-faced and brown-goateed mage rose quickly to comply.

  Cerryl smiled to himself. Always someone else is there to do her bidding. Cloaked and blurred in the shadows, he listened.

  “We have to act soon. The High Wizard—the younger mages claim he is everywhere and that he must be older and wiser than he is, that he hides his true appearance.”

  “Zurchak…Zurchak…” Anya shook her head disapprovingly. “Do not believe every word you hear on the wind. The High Wizard has but two strengths, and both are formidable. He can raise shields strong enough to stop any order or chaos forces known to any but perhaps the great Jeslek. He also can sense where the golds and silvers flow. Other than those traits, he is a normal mage. He does not drift through walls. He does not hear his name murmured on the wind. For darkness’ sake, he sleeps with a Black healer, and he could scarce do that if he bore mighty chaos within him.”

  In his cloaked and shadowed corner, Cerryl nodded to himself.

  “Cerryl the cautious. He does nothing unless he has calculated and planned.”

  “Caution is not always without merit, Muerchal,” observed Anya, the tip of her tongue touching her lips after she spoke. “He is High Wizard, and the Guild has more golds than when he took the amulet.”

  “Golds…golds are not glory. They don’t bring the Guild or us power or respect.” Muerchal snorted.

  “They do pay our stipends,” added the goateed mage. “There is much to be said for that.”

  “If Cerryl the cautious were bolder, the Guild would be more greatly respected, and the golds would flow in,” retorted Muerchal.

  “Perhaps…perhaps when you are High Wizard, you can make that happen,” suggested Anya, smiling broadly.

  “I will. Even as overmage, I could do more than doddering old Kinowin or Redark the repeater.”

  “Muerchal—you talk so much now, but when you get in the chamber we won’t hear so much as a whisper.”

  “You will. You will, Aalkiron.”

  “We’ll see.” The goateed Aalkiron snickered.

  “What about you, Aalkiron?”

  “I’ll leave the words to you, Muerchal.”

  “Enough…enough,” Anya said. “The High Wizard has promised that there will be an attack upon Recluce. Should he fail to address that, we must question his resolve.”

  “He will address it, at great length, and with many words,” suggested Zurchak. “If the words mean anything new, that is another question.”

  Cerryl’s unseen smile was crooked. Your time is getting short, shorter than you would like.

  “Others—older mages—will listen with care as well,” Anya replied. “They have been more patient, but they will take it amiss if nothing definite is promised.”

  “They will take it amiss?” Muerchal laughed. “And then what? Will they ask for more and more words?”

  Cerryl decided that Muerchal needed to serve somewhere outside of Fairhaven, preferably aboard a ship—a small ship that was barely seaworthy.

  After a time, when a serving woman appeared with more wine, Cerryl slipped from the upper room. He walked silent and unseen up the Avenue and past the Halls of the Mages, nearly to the Market Square. Then he turned westward toward Layel’s dwelling.

  Leyladin was waiting in the front room, the one with the portrait of her mother. “What did you discover?” She stood and offered an embrace.

  Cerryl returned it, adding a kiss, before responding. “Anya and her group of younger acolytes will indeed push me to commit to the attack on Recluce. She says she has also talked to some of the older mages, Broka and Fydel, I’d guess, and perhaps Gyskas and a few others. They want action as well.”

  “So long as others’ blood is shed.” The healer led the way to the silk-hung bedchamber and closed the door behind them.

  “That has been the case since I was a student mage, and doubtless before that.” Cerryl sat on the small chair and began to pull off the heavy white boots.

  “Do you want anything to eat?”

  “No. I’m not hungry.”

  “Not hungry?” The dark-green eyes danced in the light of the single lamp lit in the bedchamber. “I don’t know that such is good. What can I do with a mage without hunger?”

  “Woman…”

  “Do not forget that, my highest wizard. I have waited long, and the season you have been back is too short…” Her eyes went to the second boot as it thumped on the green rug that covered the polished floor stones. Then she smiled. “No one notices that the High Wizard still wears the heavy working boots of a patrol mage.”

  “There is much they do not notice,” Cerryl said with a grin, “and probably that is for the best—for us.”

  “Best they do not notice your evenings.” Leyladin stepped forward, her arms encircling him as he rose.

  CLXXVI

  CERRYL SURVEYED THE Council Chamber for a long moment, letting the murmurs die away, faint words muffled by the heavy crimson hangings swagged between the gold-shot pillars that framed the
chamber. “A number of you have exhibited great patience in refraining from demanding that I act at once against Recluce.” The High Wizard offered a broad smile. “That patience is to be rewarded.”

  “Hear! Hear!” The words came in a low whisper from somewhere in the back benches. “Cheers for Cerryl the cautious.”

  “I appreciate the confidence, Muerchal, though your words were not much more than a whisper.” Cerryl’s normally mild voice filled the Hall. He was glad for the time he had spent slinking through the Halls and elsewhere, listening, unheard, noting and keeping track. His eyes fixed on the far left corner. “Do you agree, Zurchak?”

  Cerryl couldn’t help but note the smile—quickly smothered—from Kochar at the end of the second row. “I am announcing that the steps we have taken to secure tariff payments from the north coast of Candar have indeed worked, and that the Guild has received the largest such tariff payments this summer that it has ever gotten.” Cerryl let golden light sparkle—momentarily—from the amulet at his neck. That had been one of Leyladin’s suggestions. “We have also reduced the number of ships in the Northern Ocean and shifted them to patrol the waters of Worrak and Ruzor. Tariff collections in both ports have increased as well. They have increased greatly.” He paused to let the words penetrate.

  Beside Anya, in the center of the fifth row, Fydel shifted his weight, almost as if the square-bearded mage did not wish to be noticed.

  “At my direction,” Cerryl continued, “the noble Anya has been and will be developing the plan for the attack on the new port city on Recluce. As many of you know, Anya has been one of those most concerned about the Black Isle. She has been most insistent that the Guild deal firmly with Recluce, and I felt that, with that insistence, she would work to develop the strongest possible attack on the Southpoint port. She has had much experience in Guild campaigns, from Gallos to Spidlar to Hydlen.” Cerryl gestured toward the redhead. “If you have suggestions, or information that would be helpful, please convey them to her. She has worked long and hard to make all aware of the menace of the Black Isle. She served Sterol and the mighty Jeslek well in their efforts on behalf of Fairhaven and against Recluce. To her, nothing is more important than the Guild vanquishing Recluce.” Cerryl offered a slight bow, pausing before asking, “Is there other business before the Guild? If not…overmages, would you join me?”