Colors of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Taxes are not what they always seem,” Myral lectured. “The merchant who pays them charges them to those who buy his wares. Yet he feels that they come from his pocket, even though his buyers supply the coin.” The balding mage sipped his cider. “You need to think about that. Confusion wars with confusion upon your face.”

  Cerryl offered a twisted smile, then asked, “Why do the gate guards report to the overmage, rather than the Patrol chief?”

  “Did Isork raise that with you?” asked Myral dryly.

  “No. Not even indirectly. I hadn’t even thought about it. It just Popped into my thoughts.”

  ‘Be most careful where you express any such unguarded thoughts. In any event, the Patrol chief does report to Overmage Kinowin, as do the gate guards.“ Myral coughed once. ”Now… this old mage needs a respite. Off with you.“

  Cerryl rose. “Thank you for once again enlightening and confusing me.” He grinned.

  It’s not enlightenment if it is not confusing,“ Myral answered.

  After closing the door, Cerryl stood on the stone landing for a moment, trying to gather together his scattered thoughts. The factors, merchants, and artisans paid 10 percent of their earnings to the Guild. He pursed his lips. How much had Tellis made? Fifty… a hundred golds a year? Five to ten golds to the Guild, and Cerryl had known another ten scriveners… That would only be a hundred golds. But if each group of artisans paid a hundred golds… there were weavers, potters, coopers, basket makers, woodworkers, fullers, apothecaries, jewelers, coppersmiths, and tinsmiths and all sorts of other smiths…

  “Still…” Most of the taxes had to fall on the larger traders and factors. But what did that have to do with the purple cart, silksheen, and the fact that Fydel had warned him away from more than simple peacekeeping?

  He walked slowly down the tower steps.

  “Few would dare to carry silksheen…” For some reason, those words remained in his thoughts.

  Why? Who had the coins to buy silksheen? Cerryl shook his head. It was obvious, so obvious he should have seen it earlier, far earlier, but mages who had been scriveners and sawmill boys did not think in such terms, not naturally. He knew in general terms where the silksheen had gone and possibly even to whom in particular, but why was an unanswered question. He had trouble believing that even the wealthiest of factors would accept silksheen gotten from peacebreakers merely for coins.

  He frowned. Why not? There was nothing in the manual or the codes against purchasing stolen goods-or goods of dubious origin. Was that because it was impossible to prove that goods were stolen? Or for some other reason?

  Every question raised another.

  As he walked toward his room he massaged his forehead slowly. At least, he’d get to have dinner with Leyladin the next evening. Perhaps that would help… one way or another, if he could get his thoughts together.

  XXXVI

  It is always a treat to dine here.“ Cerryl looked across the blond wooden table to his left, at Layel.

  “You are kind, Cerryl.” Leyladin passed the white china bread platter to Cerryl, then served herself one of the half fowl breasts wrapped in wafer-thin ham and covered with melted white cheese, topped with an off-white mustard dill sauce. After that, she served some buttered nut beans to Cerryl and then to herself.

  “I meant it.” Cerryl took a chunk of bread and set the bread platter to the right of the balding and clean-shaven factor, who had begun to sample his own fowl breast.

  “Thank you,” answered Leyladin.

  “Good dish Meridis turned out,” mumbled Layel.

  Cerryl served himself one of the fowl breasts and cut a slice, following the example of the other two at the table. He took a bite, agreeing silently with Layel’s assessment.

  “It is good.” Leyladin smiled. “That’s because she knew Cerryl was coming.”

  “More likely that she knew you wanted it to be good,” suggested Cerryl.

  “Doesn’t matter,” responded Layel, “why it’s good.”

  Cerryl took another slice of the fowl dish and ate it, nodding, then followed that with the beans and some bread.

  “Except that I should tell Meridis,” pointed out Leyladin.

  “You will anyway,” said her father. “You always let her know when you especially like things.”

  “She makes her likes known?” asked Cerryl, giving the blonde healer a quick grin.

  “She hasn’t shown you that yet, young mage?” Layel laughed. “If she hasn’t, she will.”

  “Silks and jewelry… or herbs and potions?”

  “Silks?” Leyladin raised her eyebrows.

  “She hasn’t had much use for the silks lately,” said Layel.

  Leyladin frowned, and Layel laughed softly. “Daughter, what was… well… it was.”

  After a moment, Cerryl spoke. “One time, when I was an apprentice mage, I saw some silksheen scarves in the Market Square.” He shook his head. “I made the mistake of asking how much they were. It was a mistake for an apprentice, anyway.”

  “It would be a mistake for most,” said Layel. “Though it would seem odd for there to be silksheen in a common market.”

  “I’ve seen it there a handful of times, but not often, and not in the past few seasons,” Cerryl answered carefully. “Does anyone know much about how they make silksheen?” He took a slow sip of the white wine and waited.

  “The druids of Naclos make it, or so I have been told,” answered Layel. “They will only trade with those of Recluce and some few traders out of Sarronnyn. So we can procure it here only through them.”

  “You have silk hangings here…”

  “Silk, not silksheen,” answered Leyladin with a laugh. “All the silk in the house would not pay for a pair of silksheen gowns.”

  “All the silk hung in the house,” corrected Layel. “Not all the silk gowns.” He smiled fondly at his daughter, but his eyes twinkled.

  Leyladin flushed. “I don’t wear them often anymore.”

  Layel raised his eyebrows. “Now. That is true. Perhaps I should have them made into tunics and trousers.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Leyladin.

  “Or give them to your niece when she is grown.”

  “Father, I do believe you are you trying to irritate me.” Leyladin smiled and handed the fowl platter to her father. “Do have some more fowl.”

  “If silksheen is that costly,” Cerryl pursued, “I’m surprised that I ever saw it in the Market Square.” He paused. “Where would one find it, then?”

  Layel shrugged. “It is too dear for my purposes. I would not deal in something that only a handful of men could or would buy. Muneat has bought silksheen in the past. He has a nephew-well, he’s not exactly a nephew; the fellow’s consort is Muneat’s niece, but he’s Jiolt’s youngest son, and he factors all manner of rare and scarce items.”

  Cerryl hid his nod and observed, “Silksheen sounds too dear for most. What do you find the best things for trade?”

  “Me? What the good might be matters little, save that I can purchase it for many fewer coins than I can sell it and that there are many who would buy. Copper when new ships are being built; grain before others know that the crops will fail; tin or zinc whenever it is cheap; silver in the winter, for it is always cheaper then.” Layel spread his hands. “You see, I will reveal all.”

  Cerryl smiled. “Not quite, for you have not revealed how you know when a good is cheaper and will become more dear.”

  “Father has not ever told me that; he just seems to know.” Leyladin glanced across the table. “Are you both finished with your dinner?”

  “If there be something special for sweets, Daughter.”

  Cerryl reluctantly decided against another fowl breast, knowing he would sleep uneasily with its weight in his gut. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Meridis?”

  “Could you hearty men not eat more?” asked the cook as she appeared in her blue livery.

  “A full breast I had,” answered Layel, “and r
icher than anything I’ve had in days it was. Quite enough, thank you.”

  “Excellent,” added Cerryl.

  Meridis took the platters with a smile. “A yam molasses pie we have, though as getting enough of the sweet molasses was a chore, and dearer than you would have liked, Master Layel. Each eight-day a few more coppers it takes, or silvers.” The door closed behind her.

  “They’ve raised prices at The Golden Ram again,” Cerryl said. “That’s twice this year.”

  “Aye, and it may happen yet again.” The factor shook his head. “But enough of such. Leyladin tells me that you are a bright flame in the Patrol. How came that?”

  Cerryl spread his hands. “Scarcely a bright flame, just a very junior Patrol mage who has much to learn.” He paused as Meridis set what seemed to be a quarter of a golden brown pie before him and then before Layel. A smaller section went before Leyladin.

  “There you be, and I be not expecting more than crumbs returning to the kitchen.” The door closed behind Meridis.

  Leyladin laughed. “She means that.”

  Cerryl looked at the huge chunk of pastry and filling. So much for trying to spare his gut. He looked helplessly at Leyladin, then said, “You have to eat all of yours, too.”

  The healer glanced down and swallowed. “Me?”

  “She looked at you, too,” Cerryl pressed, with a grin.

  “If I must…” Leyladin offered a groan.

  “Such sounds from the woman who as a child ate an entire half-pie,” Layel offered.

  “That was then,” the healer said. “Much has changed.”

  Indeed it has, reflected Cerryl as he began to eat the sweet. Indeed it has. He was not looking forward to returning to the Halls, not by himself.

  XXXVII

  Cerryl glanced from his notes to his half-written daily report to Isork, then at the doorway as Isork himself stepped into the small duty room.

  “Ser.” Cerryl stood immediately. “I didn’t know you were coming.” He gestured at the desk. “I was just finishing my report. Gyskas should be here before long.”

  “I didn’t come to see Gyskas.” Isork slipped into the chair across the desk. “Sit down.”

  Cerryl sat.

  “I understand you occasionally still walk with one of the patrols?”

  “Yes, ser. Not too often… but every so often. I don’t tell them before that day when, or why… I just do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Ser… I couldn’t say exactly,” Cerryl fudged, “but… it feels better when I do. People know I’m young, and I felt that they had to know I intended to learn the city and keep the peace.”

  “You also walk the section by yourself when you aren’t on duty.”

  “Yes, ser. I don’t know that I’m helping much… Nothing seems to happen when I go with any patroller…”

  “You’re keeping the peace if nothing happens.” Isork laughed. “When you’re on duty, even when you don’t patrol, almost nothing happens.”

  “Ser… you said that people respected the Patrol here. I just wanted to make sure that they still did.”

  “Oh, they respect you. So do the patrollers. They see you walking the streets by yourself, checking out things-”

  “I’m still trying to learn where everything is,” Cerryl explained. “I don’t want to have my lead patrollers trying to explain where something happened.”

  “We need more mages who’ve been through whatever you’ve been through.” Isork shook his head. “Your patrollers call you their tough little sawmill bastard. First new Patrol mage in three years that I can keep. First one who’s either patrolling or where he’s supposed to be, too.” The pudgy-looking but muscular Patrol chief glanced around the room, then frowned. “Don’t let that go to your head. You’ve still got a lot to learn, but you’re on the right road.”

  “Thank you, ser.” Cerryl waited, suspecting from the Patrol chief’s body position that Isork had more to say.

  After a moment, Isork looked at Cerryl. “I heard you were asking about silksheen.”

  Cerryl didn’t bother to ask how the senior Patrol mage knew. “Someone killed a trader and stole some silksheen. It’s costly, and there couldn’t be many places where it could be sold. No one reported anyone missing or any cart being stolen. So I thought people who handled silksheen might know.”

  Isork nodded slowly. “Asking general questions discreetly is fine. I’d appreciate it if you would tell me if you find out anything. Silksheen, as I am most assured you have discovered, is only traded by two or three merchants in all of Fairhaven. They are quite close to many of the senior mages.”

  Cerryl returned the nod. “I did discover that, and I have no reason to make further inquiries.” Not now, and certainly not in any direct way, not after what I found out so far.

  “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders.” Isork rose. “I enjoy reading your reports.” After another smile, he nodded a last time, turned, and left the duty room.

  Cerryl swallowed. Not a very good head, not at all.

  XXXVIII

  Cerryl strode through the open double doors of the section building’s assembly room and crossed the floor to the speaking stones, ignoring the murmurs from the four patrollers to the right of the entryway. He stepped up on the stones and looked out at the small group. His eyes fixed on lead patroller Sheffl. “What happens to be the problem?”

  The muscular patroller cleared his throat. “Ser mage, these two men cannot agree. They stopped us on patrol.” He raised his eyebrows and half-smiled, gesturing to the two shorter figures who stood on either side of him.

  A squat, fair-skinned, and red-haired man dressed in brown glared at the other man. The second had short gray hair, was tanned as if he worked in the open often, and wore faded blue trousers and a sleeveless blue vest. The tanned man in the vest ignored the glares from the squat man, and his eyes rested on Cerryl.

  “They were arguing?” Cerryl asked the patroller. “Close to breaking the peace?”

  “You might say that, ser.” Sheffl’s limp black hair flopped across his forehead with the nod he gave. “Karfl-he’s the mason there, in the blue vest-he was waving a stone hammer a lot. Queas was reaching for a staff. He was really yelling, could hear him from the back alley. Thought maybe…” The lead patroller shrugged.

  Beside the double doors, just inside the room, the other four patrollers waited, watching, their faces indicating various degrees of boredom and interest.

  Cerryl looked at the tanned mason. “Why were you arguing?”

  “Demon-damned artisans… be all the same. Queas… he said he be a-tradin‘ a set of china pieces, ten platters and ten mugs and two pitchers, if I would repair and rebuild the stone wall at the back of his courtyard.” Karfl shrugged. “Should have known better. Got the wall one, and a bit of work it was, too. Some fool had backed a wagon through it, mud-brick and not fired brick or stone. Then Queas offers me ten platters and two pitchers and says I should be lucky. Only did it because I wanted the set as a consort gift for my daughter Viaya.

  Can’t have a consort gift without mugs.“ Another shrug followed.

  “I see.” Cerryl could sense the man’s belief that the situation was as he had told the Patrol mage. After a moment, Cerryl glanced at Queas. “What do you have to say?”

  “I offered him ten platters, yes, and two pitchers, but not the mugs,” Queas replied. “I am a poor potter, and I had the platters already. So the pitchers I had to throw and fire and glaze. Pitchers, they are not easy, not if you want their handles to be strong. But the pitchers, they are good, good enough to sell anywhere. So are the platters.”

  Cerryl held up a hand. “Did you offer him the platters and the pitchers when you first talked about how you would repay him for repairing the wall?”

  “That is what I said, ser mage.”

  Cerryl frowned, catching something about the words. “Did you tell him that you were offering ten platters and two pitchers, or did you say you were offering him a
set of ten and two pitchers?”

  “A set of ten, it is ten platters.”

  Cerryl turned to Karfl. “What did you think he said to you?”

  “A set of ten, and that means platters and mugs. Some places, it be even ten small plates as well, but I weren’t expecting that.”

  Cerryl pursed his lips. Demons! People arguing over the meaning of what a set was. He directed his next words to Queas: “If a merchant, like Likket or Nivor, or Tellis the scrivener, asked you for a full set of ten pieces of china… what would he expect to get?” Cerryl’s eyes focused on the potter, as did his senses.

  Queas shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Ah… but… ser mage… Karfl is not… ah… he is a mason.”

  “You have a different meaning for masons?”

  Queas bowed his head. “I will make ten mugs. It will take an eight-day, though. I cannot fire and glaze properly, not with the work I have accepted coins for… not sooner.”

  Cerryl looked toward Karfl.

  “An eight-day don’t matter, ser mage. Just so as I can get a proper consort gift for Viaya.” The mason squared his shoulders.

  Cerryl addressed the two. “I trust this will not come before the Patrol again.”

  “No, ser mage,” murmured Queas.

  “Not ‘less he don’t deliver the mugs,” stated Karfl.

  Cerryl nodded to Sheffl. The lead patroller gestured to the door, and Karfl marched out, followed by a subdued Queas.

  “… mages got some uses.”

  Cerryl smiled faintly as he heard Karri’s muttered comment. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what Queas might be saying or thinking.

  Back in the duty room, Cerryl sank into the high-backed chair. Sometimes, even when people heard the same words, they still didn’t agree. Sometimes people, like Queas, were too quick to interpret words in the way that they wished. He took a deep breath. At least, he hadn’t had to put them on road duty or refuse duty or flame them.

  At the scritching sound, he looked up.

  Weilt paused in the doorway. “Ser?”

  “Yes, Weilt… come on in.” Cerryl gestured to the chair. “Sit down. Your feet have to be sore.”