Colors of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  He walked quietly to the rear gateway and stepped through the archway and down along the walled passage to the street below the house. He halted in the deeper shadows of the arch that opened onto the street, one of the four that led to the harbor square.

  A lancer patrol rode by, the hoofs of the four mounts clicking on the stone pavement. Once the patrol passed, with the blur shield still around him, Cerryl slipped along the side street toward the chandlery Lyasa had placed on the list.

  On one side was a cooper’s and on the other was a structure without markings. All three buildings were dark. The chandlery’s door was shut and presumably barred, the shutters fastened, but Cerryl could sense order and chaos within, the order and chaos of people.

  As he watched from the nearby alleyway, a woman walked quickly toward the side of the building, where she rapped on a narrow door-a cellar door-before she darted inside the door quickly opened and quickly shut.

  Cerryl edged toward the low steps that led down to the cellar, remaining shadowed and shielded. He waited, and shortly the door opened and closed quickly once more. The woman scurried past Cerryl, not even sensing him behind his shield, and down the street, staying in whatever deep shadows she could find.

  How long he watched and waited Cerryl was not sure, except that the next prospective purchaser did not come soon. The big man almost waddled up to the cellar door and rapped heavily. Cerryl slid up behind him, then stayed behind the other’s bulk as he lumbered into the cellar.

  Once inside, Cerryl stepped to the side in the momentary darkness.

  “Who you…” The man who uncovered the lamp on the table blinked and frowned. “Thought you had someone with you.”

  Cerryl could smell hot and damp wool, probably from the moist cloth used to mask the lamp. He eased into the corner of the room, trying to blend with the gloom away from the single lamp set on the narrow table.

  “Just me, Tyldar. Got any cheese?”

  “That I do, but don’t be showing or telling it around. Be a silver for a quarter wedge.”

  “Steep, that be.”

  “Know anyone else has cheese?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Would I be telling you that now?” Tyldar laughed softly. He removed an oblong rock from the wall and reached into the opening, apparently releasing a catch or lever, because a section of stones swung open.

  “Clever there.”

  “Old trick-put rocks from the tailings from the worked - out coal mines there and no mage, Black or White, can tell what’s there. Said they hid Black healers there in the Days of Fire.”

  Cerryl frowned. Days of Fire? He’d never run across that before. It wasn’t in any of the histories.

  “Here you be.” The chandler pushed the wall back into place with his hip, then set the quarter wedge on the narrow table.

  “You think those Whites’ll ever leave?” The buyer extended a silver.

  “Thank you. When they run out of mages, they might. Some folk are saying they haven’t got that many. The latest one-he’s pretty young.”

  “He figured out Reylerk quick enough.”

  “Luck… had to be.” The chandler glanced toward the door.

  “Well, best be out of here.”

  “Check the street.”

  The lamp was covered, and the man who had bought the cheese cracked the shutters. “Clear-like.”

  “Be off, then.”

  Cerryl nearly tripped on the boots of the man he followed but stepped back into the shadows.

  The buyer glanced around. “Darkness… swore…” He shook his head, then began to walk quickly away from the harbor.

  Standing in the shadows, Cerryl frowned. He could have the lancers seize the merchandise, but what good would that do? He couldn’t track down everyone who sold goods secretly. Besides, what he needed was for them to be sold in public, so that there would be a clear trail of goods on which the tariffs could be levied and collected.

  Finally, he nodded, then began to walk down the street toward his second observation-the basket maker’s two blocks north.

  CLI

  Lyasa and Hiser stood on the other side of the desk.

  Cerryl stood behind it because there was but a single chair opposite him. “As I told Lyasa earlier, Hiser, the traders are trying to keep us from collecting tariffs by pretending no trading is taking place. Most everything is done at night.”

  Hiser scratched his head. “Can’t say as it makes sense to me. Some folk won’t go out at night. Sooner or later mages like you will find out.”

  Cerryl shrugged. “I’m going to try something. In some of the places, I know where they’ve hidden their goods. We’re going to make them buy and sell in the light of day.”

  Hiser raised his eyebrows.

  “The usual way-the one I’m so adept at. Trade and pay tariffs or lose your goods and your life.” Cerryl snorted.

  “Will this do any good, ser?”

  “It can’t do any less than doing nothing,” suggested Cerryl. “It won’t be enough, but we’re working on the next step. We’ll need two companies this morning. We’ll surround each shop so that no one can escape, and then Lyasa and I-and a half-score lancers-will present the alternatives.” He nodded at the lancer captain. “If you would get the companies ready?”

  “Yes, ser.” Hiser smiled. “They’d like to see something happen.”

  “Good.” Let’s hope it happens the way you think it will.

  After the study door closed behind the departing captain, Lyasa looked at Cerryl.

  He gestured to the chair. “We have a few other things to talk about.”

  “You don’t think this morning’s work will solve everything?” Lyasa sat down.

  “No. Would you help me?”

  The black-haired mage smiled warmly. “Just for asking, rather than ordering, I’d be happy to. What do you want?”

  “After we finish today, I want you to use your screeing glass-you can use it, right?” His eyes flicked to the window at the sound of hoofs in the courtyard outside. “I want you to track several merchants and let me know if a group of them is meeting somewhere. Whenever you find that out, find me, and let me know right then.”

  “That doesn’t sound impossible.”

  “Not quite. If you’re like me, you’ll have to spend some time riding or even calling on them to get to know them.”

  “You have to do that?”

  “Unless it’s someone like the smith who radiates so much order that it doesn’t matter.” Or Leyladin, who you found with a glass before you knew who she was. “Or Jeslek, I suppose, though I never tried. That didn’t seem wise.”

  “Or Anya?”

  Cerryl shuddered. “I never wanted to know.”

  “You’re still too honorable about some things.”

  “What I’m planning here isn’t totally honorable.”

  “They didn’t give you much choice. Neither will Sterol, but that wasn’t what I meant.”

  “I know.” Cerryl turned from the window and lifted the top sheet of crude brown paper. “We’d better get ready. Can you track these people?” He extended the list.

  Lyasa took it. “I can try.”

  “Thank you.”

  They left the study and took the side door to the courtyard where Hiser and the lancer companies were forming up.

  “You do one thing that Jeslek and Sterol didn’t understand.” Lyasa stopped by the mount being held for her.

  “Oh?”

  “You don’t rush into things, but once you decide, you act.”

  Then why do you feel like you’re rushing? “Sometimes, there’s little choice and waiting can only make things worse.” Cerryl swung up into the saddle. “It’s still hard to know those times.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  Maybe…

  By the time the column entered the harbor square, Ceryl could sense the eyes on him, Lyasa, and the lancers. He felt as though silent messages had crossed all of Spidlaria, which they
probably had. As they reined up before the chandlery, Cerryl turned in the saddle. “Hiser?”

  “Ser?”

  “Remember, I want the chandlery surrounded. I want no one to escape, but unless someone flees or attacks, I want no one hurt.

  “Yes, ser.” Hiser turned. “Blades and lances ready!”

  The chandler opened the barred door even before Cerryl and the lancers set foot on the narrow front porch.

  “Ser… we have nothing.” The chandler stepped back and gestured to the empty shelves of the store. “The war took most of what we had, and the lack of trade has taken the rest.”

  “Chandler, I don’t like lying. I know you care little for Fairhaven, but you will respect her. Follow me.” Cerryl gestured to the lancers, then to the chandler.

  “Ser… where… ?”

  “To find some goods you can sell.” Cerryl let a grim smile cross his face as the chandler and his consort exchanged glances. “To the back room there.”

  “Ah… yes, ser.”

  The back room had more shelves and was as bare as the front had been.

  “Open that.” Cerryl pointed to the inside cellar door in the small back room of the chandlery.

  “That is but for the cellar, and bare it is, as you will see.”

  “I’d like to see that.” Cerryl turned to the lancers. “Half with me. The others make sure no one leaves.” He followed the chandler and his consort down the creaky wooden stairs.

  “You see, ser?” The man gestured to the bare clay-floored room, where only the small table remained from Cerryl’s night visit.

  Cerryl walked straight to the wall, removed the oblong stone, and fumbled for a moment before pulling the lever. The narrow door swung open.

  The chandler paled.

  “So… you had no goods to sell, chandler?”

  “None so as I’d tell you… White thieves…”

  Cerryl let chaos appear on his fingertip, then grow into a sword of flame. He let the slightest touch of chaos flash toward the outside door, leaving a blackened slash in the wood. “I could do that to you. I won’t. Believe it or not, I’m not going to take your goods. I’m not even going to take a single coin out of that strongbox you have here.” Cerryl smiled. “I’m not going to kill anyone. I will say one thing. If you do not put those goods back on the shelves upstairs within two days-all of them-then… then you will answer to me. And I will have to find someone else who will sell goods during the daytime and not under the cover of darkness.”

  “… kill me…” The murmur was nearly inaudible.

  “You are not the first who has been discovered, and you will not be the last. Spidlar was a land of traders, and it will be again. You can be one of those, or you can choose not to be.”

  Cerryl walked up the steps and out the front door to where Lyasa and Hiser and the bulk of the lancers waited, mounted and stationed in groups around the building. With a smile, he mounted. “Leave a half-score here. I don’t want anyone coming with a wagon and carting off all the goods. If people come and buy, that’s fine.”

  While Hiser talked to the subofficer of the detachment that was to remain, Cerryl glanced at Lyasa. “They won’t do anything for a time- to see what happens.”

  “Would you?” Her eyebrows arched.

  “I wouldn’t. But I know White mages hate being crossed.”

  She laughed softly, and Cerryl had to grin-until he thought of how many more shops lay ahead of them.

  When Riser eased his mount back toward the mages, Cerryl said quietly, “Now… the wool factor’s place-Joseffal’s.” Behind him, he could hear a few murmured comments from the lancers.

  “Tough little bastard…”

  “Blues’ll find out… knows everything.”

  Not nearly a tenth part of what you need to know… if that. He forced himself to keep the smile in place as he urged the gelding forward.

  CLII

  In the late-afternoon light, Cerryl stood just inside the study door and studied the pile of scrolls and lists. He knew it hadn’t grown, but he hadn’t decreased it much, either. Finally, he settled behind the desk. After four days, he’d barely finished his initial round of publicly “discovering” goods, and his legs ached. So did his head, and from what he could tell, no goods had appeared on any shelves.

  So… do you start executing people? He took a deep breath.

  Before long, he needed to meet with Lyasa and talk over what he could do next without destroying whole cities the way Jeslek had. You’re beginning to understand why he did, though. Destroying things is a lot easier than getting cooperation. But destruction didn’t raise tariff coins, at least not after what you grubbed from the ruins. He took another deep breath and let it out as someone knocked on the door. “Yes?”

  The door opened, and the sandy-haired Kalesin peered in. “This arrived from the High Wizard, ser.” Kalesin bowed slightly as he extended the scroll.

  “Thank you.” Cerryl paused. “How are you coming on that compendium of shops and traders?”

  “Ah… another day or so, ser, I would say. It’s hard to find out about some of the shops that are closed.”

  “Keep working.”

  The door closed, and Cerryl studied the scroll, opened and resealed, from what he could tell, probably by his good and faithful assistant Kalesin. With a twist of his lips, he broke the chaos-mended seal and began to read:

  While you have been in Spidlar but a few eight-days, we must reemphasize the need for coins with which to repay the costs of the campaign so unwisely undertaken by our predecessor. We direct you to consider some form of local tariff or surtax, as you see necessary…

  In short, send coins-lots of coins-and Sterol isn’t that particular how you obtain them.

  Cerryl wanted to snort. Bleeding the beaten land to death wouldn’t solve the problems Fairhaven faced, as if Sterol or any of those in the Halls really cared. Except Leyladin… or Kinowin. He looked at the words and set the scroll on the desk, closing his eyes for a moment.

  Lyasa burst into the study, breathing hard. “Five of them-Menertal, Zyleral, Tillum, Sirle, and Halak-are meeting in the back room of that public house off the main square.”

  “Now?” Cerryl stood, almost losing his balance before turning and glancing toward the courtyard. “I’d better get there.”

  “You-you’re the arms mage.”

  “Who else can do it? Besides, I have no intention of letting them see me.”

  “At least, let Hiser bring a troop somewhere close.”

  Cerryl had to admit that made sense. “Can you find him? Or some lancer subofficer you trust? Have him waiting in the corner of the square closest to the public house.”

  “I can get Suzdyal’s company there first.”

  “Fine.” Cerryl opened the study door and brushed past his guards and out into the courtyard.

  As Lyasa headed toward her mount, Cerryl walked along the narrow passage from the courtyard to the lower street, lifting the shield that caused people’s eyes to shift away from him. Once on the lower street, he forced himself to move quickly, but deliberately, so that he’d not be winded when he reached the square and the public house. What do you hope from this?

  “An improvement,” he answered in a murmur, suspecting that was unlikely. But you have to try.

  The weathered signboard outside the public house bore the image of a brown boar with oversized yellow tusks and smaller letters beneath in Temple tongue-“The Brown Boar.”

  The White mage took another deep breath and stepped through the open door. A few eyes glanced toward the door but slid away from the eye-blurring shield. Cerryl tried not to swallow as he caught a glimpse of mail beneath a stained shirt and several daggers almost lengthy enough to be shortswords. The near half-score of men in leathers who sat around the tables in the main room were anything but indulgers.

  This isn’t sensible… Then life wasn’t sensible. The blur shield around him, Cerryl edged across the floor toward the two doors in the rear. A few m
en glanced in his direction, and one burly man frowned, then blinked.

  A serving girl walked around Cerryl without realizing she had. “… don’t like this. Whites got lancers everywhere…”

  “They don’t want to fight.” The speaker laughed. “Figure they fought enough already…”

  The front room was filled with the odor of smoke, cooked fat, spilled ale, and unwashed bodies. Cerryl began to muster chaos as he moved slowly but deliberately toward the back-keeping away from the tables that held the disguised armsmen.

  The door to the back room was closed. Cerryl raised a full light shield and settled into the darkness, letting his senses tell him about the room beyond the door. Five men sat at the table in the rear room of the inn, and a single guard stood on the other side of the door.

  With a wry smile, the mage opened the door and stepped inside- unseen even as all eyes turned to the door-and then around the guard. “What… ?”

  “Probably blew open. There’s no one there.”

  “Make sure it’s latched, Dignyr.”

  Clunk! The guard shut the door, and Cerryl slipped into the corner, deciding to remain in darkness and to listen for a bit.

  “This latest thing of his-telling them to sell or lose everything- some folk won’t hold with us, Menertal. You can’t ask them to.”

  “We can ask what’s necessary. If the Whites can’t get coins, they’ll lose.”

  “Not before destroying Spidlar.”

  “Why don’t your… ‘friends’ kill this one like the last? There aren’t that many mages outside of Fairhaven?”

  “This one is harder to get to than the old one. His lancers respect him. And he never tells anyone when he’ll be going somewhere.”

  “Anyone can be killed…”

  Cerryl continued to listen.

  “We have to do some of this ourselves.”

  “The hard part.”

  Cerryl took a deep breath and began to muster as much chaos as he could draw around his shields.