The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “How did you get to be a tinker?”

  “I always liked to be on the move. Didn’t like following the herds.”

  “Or the idea of raiding?”

  “Didn’t seem right to me. There was an old fellow, a tinker, too. He needed a stronger back. No one seemed sad to see me go.” Hektyl grinned, showing a gap-toothed expression. “They’re glad to see me when I come back, though. Claim no one else can sharpen their knives and blades like me. True in the towns, and true back there.”

  “Where is back?”

  “Wherever the band is. You have a knife that needs sharpening?” The tinker gestured to the table. “Or another blade?”

  Beltur could tell that the former herder or raider wasn’t about to say more about his antecedents or their location. “I’ll have to pass on that. I’m a young mage of most modest means.” Besides which, Beltur had always felt uneasy carrying more than a belt knife, unlike both Sydon and Kaerylt, both of whom carried not only belt knives, but also rather long dirks.

  “Your time’ll come,” replied the tinker cheerfully.

  After the tinker, Beltur approached an older woman selling linen scarves. Although several of the scarves were quite attractive, and Beltur briefly thought of Jessyla, he doubted that he could or should buy one, since he had no idea when he might see her again, and since his reason for approaching the woman was not the scarves, but the small girl she kept with her.

  “I don’t have any white scarves, ser mage.”

  “I doubt I could afford work of your quality. Isn’t it a bit warm to grow flax here, though?”

  “Not if we plant at the end of winter. The weather’s better for the fibers than for seed.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone else with linen here.”

  “There isn’t anyone else. They think it’s too much work.”

  Beltur looked at a scarf patterned in green and brown. “That’s fetching, though.”

  “It’d be a silver, were you thinking of buying.”

  Only a silver, for something that good? Then he realized most likely why scarves were cheaper in Desanyt—because most of the cost was in labor and women’s labor was cheaper, much cheaper than in Fenard. Even so … who could afford a silver for a mere scarf? “You sell mostly to the troopers, don’t you?”

  “They’ve got the coins, those that don’t drink them.”

  Beltur looked to the small girl seated on a small stool beside the table. “Your daughter or granddaughter?”

  “Granddaughter.”

  “I haven’t seen many younger women in the town.”

  “You won’t. It’s not seemly. Not wise, either.”

  “The raiders?”

  “They’re not a problem. There are always men who think with the wrong parts of their bodies. It’s best not to encourage them. You certain you wouldn’t like to buy that green one?”

  “I’d like to, but I am, alas, a very junior mage of modest means.” As he spoke, he glanced quickly to her belt, and the old, but clearly very usable dirk there.

  The older woman just smiled.

  Beltur could tell she didn’t believe him.

  All in all, Beltur spent more than a glass in the market square, learning far less than he would have liked, but what he didn’t learn was also instructive. No one really wanted to talk about young women or raiders, but every one of them wanted to sell him something, and all of them believed he wasn’t telling the truth when he claimed to be a junior mage of modest means.

  From the market square he headed away from the river, along what had to be the main street of Desanyt, past what passed for a chandlery, which was open, and then a small shop of a crafter who appeared to work in silver and copper, which was not.

  Ahead he saw a larger building, with half of a wooden bowl painted yellow fastened to a signboard above the entrance. Beltur had no doubt that he was approaching the Brass Bowl and that it would be closed on eightday morning. He was right on both counts. He also observed that the one-story building extended quite a ways to the rear, suggesting there were rooms for hire, some likely for more than just sleep, at least as alluded to by the young trooper.

  A block later, he came to a cross street that also appeared to have shops or other structures on it. A block later the shops largely ended, and for several blocks farther to the west there appeared only to be dwellings. Beyond that, there seemed to be a few scattered cots … and a great deal of grassland. He retraced his steps to the cross street with the shops, where he headed south, thinking that the other public house might be there, since a location closer to the post might be advantageous.

  He saw a fuller’s shop, and then a longer building that was a weaver’s place. He also could smell an odor that suggested a renderer might be somewhere near. A bit further along, near where there seemed to be mainly smaller cots, he came upon the Brown Pitcher. The building had a signboard with a simple painting of a brown pitcher. The paint depicting the pitcher had been recently refreshed. That on the letters spelling out the name below had faded almost into obscurity.

  Although the Brown Pitcher was actually open, and there appeared to be a few patrons, it was too early to spend time in the public room for what Kaerylt had in mind. Beltur noted its location and turned westward on the next street, more of a lane, watching and listening to see who might be about.

  When Beltur returned to the Brown Pitcher some two glasses later, he had almost no better an idea about the town or its people than he had before, despite having listened outside walls, often under a concealment, and having walked most of the streets in the town. He’d heard two women complaining about having to rely on a water carrier to bring the water necessary to do their laundry, and another mother instructing a daughter on the proper way to sweep the bricks. There had been several different women singing so softly he’d not been able to make out the words, and a man yelling so loudly inside a house that while the anger had been evident, the meaning of the words had not been. He’d seen men loading and carrying, and another applying a whitewash to the mud surface of a house. He’d attempted conversation, but while those men he had approached had been pleasant, he’d learned nothing, except that no one wanted to reveal much. He’d gone back under a concealment in two cases to hear what the men said afterward, and heard only that mages should mind their own business and let honest men get on with their work.

  All in all, his feet were getting sore and his throat was dry when he walked into the Brown Pitcher. He also was blotting his forehead from the near midday sun. The public room was half full, but surprisingly, at least to Beltur, only about a third of the men there were troopers, obviously those who did not have duty on eightday. By evening, he suspected most of those around the tables would be from the post. He took a small square table against the side wall. There were no chairs, only stools, and a set of benches at the one long table in the middle of the room.

  Before long, a dark-haired server appeared, the first even halfway young woman he’d seen in Desanyt, although he would have judged her to be a good ten years older than he was. Despite the summer heat, she wore brown trousers and a long-sleeved and high-necked but loose-fitting tunic of roughly the same shade of brown.

  “What will you have?” Her voice was rough but pleasant.

  “What kinds of ale do you have?”

  “Amber, brown, and black. Two coppers.”

  “Amber.”

  She nodded and was gone.

  Beltur studied the public room more carefully. There were no troopers drinking alone, but two local graybeards sat alone, each with an earthenware mug before him. The troopers talked among themselves, but rather more quietly than troopers did in Fenard, where conversations could be heard well out into the street. Then again, reflected Beltur, it was early in the day.

  The dark-haired server returned and set a large brown mug before Beltur. Rather than use the silver, Beltur gave her his own coppers.

  “What’s a mage doing in Desanyt?”

  “A junior mage goes whe
re his senior mage tells him,” Beltur replied with a smile. “He’s trying to talk to the town elder about raiders, something about them raiding more for women.” Beltur doubted he was saying anything that wouldn’t be all over Desanyt in less than a day or two.

  “Frigging raiders are always after women.”

  “But they leave the larger towns alone.” Beltur glanced at the dirk in the scabbard at her waist. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she didn’t have another one hidden somewhere else.

  “They learned that was too costly a long time ago.”

  “Do many of the young men here become troopers for the Prefect?”

  She laughed, a quietly harsh sound. “Only about half the post. The pay’s better than what they can make as a gatherer or grower’s helper. Less dangerous than herding.”

  “Are there a lot of grass cats around here?”

  “Enough.” She nodded and turned, heading toward a table where three locals sat.

  Beltur studied the ale with his senses, but detected no signs of chaos in it. Then he took a careful sip … and frowned. The brew was tasty, but different. It wasn’t bitter, or chewy, the way Kaerylt liked his, but … just different. Abruptly, he realized that it was the same ale, or something very close to it, that he’d had the night before at the post. He took another sip, puzzled.

  The server reappeared. “Saw you looking puzzled over the ale. Is there a problem?”

  Beltur shook his head. “It’s good, but I’ve never tasted a brew like this.”

  “You probably won’t. We use wild tallgrass seeds for the malt.”

  Beltur nodded. Why not? There was certainly plenty of grass around. “It’s different, but good. Is eightday busy for you?”

  “It’s the only day we’re open before fourth glass of the afternoon.”

  “So you’ll be packed by third glass?”

  She shrugged. “Some eightdays. More times in the winter. Glad you like the brew. Let me know when you want another.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  As the server moved away, several more locals entered the public house, followed by a group of three troopers. None of them took the tables nearest to Beltur. He wasn’t surprised. Because no one talked all that loudly, he definitely wasn’t learning that much by eavesdropping. Still … he was in no hurry to leave. The ale was good, and the Brown Pitcher was cooler than outside.

  He sipped slowly. More than half a glass later, he motioned to his server and waited until she came over.

  “You ready for another?”

  Beltur shook his head. “One’s enough for now.” He handed her a copper. “I need to be going.”

  “Come back sometime.” Her smile was slightly warmer than mere courtesy or duty.

  “I just might.” He stood, nodded to her, and walked from the public room.

  Once outside, he stepped away from the door and walked to the adjoining space between the Brown Pitcher and the next building, a cot that had seen better days, but did not look to be abandoned. He glanced around. So far as he could tell no one was looking, and he couldn’t sense anyone close to him, except those in the public room. So he raised a concealment and then moved back to the front of the building. He had to wait almost a quarter of a glass before two men approached from the south, troopers from their shapes and carriage.

  He slipped into the public room, so close that the trailing trooper muttered, “Don’t pull at me. I’m coming.”

  “Didn’t touch you. You need something to drink.”

  “You would, too, if you’d had Harryn chewing you out.”

  “Don’t let him get to you.”

  Beltur eased away from the pair and toward the long table in the middle of the room, recalling that the men around it had been locals. He positioned himself beside a timber post that had to be a roof support and listened.

  “… still say the river’s low as it’s been this close to harvest…”

  “… said that last year…”

  One man laughed, adding, “You always see the worse, Severyn. I don’t see why with that consort you got.”

  “… not your business…”

  “… just like bringing in tallgrass seeds to Bortaak … telling him when he’d had too much to drink wasn’t his brother’s business…”

  For at least a quarter of a glass, the talk was about the river, harvests, and other matters of interest to the five, but not particularly to Beltur.

  “… young mage left pretty quick like…”

  “… and Saera was a lot nicer to him than you…”

  “That makes three of ’em here. Two were headed to the elder’s place, Naarn said. Don’t care for that at all.”

  “Why here?”

  “… young mage said … Saera said he said … the Prefect worried about the raiders losing too many women to the mountain bitches…”

  “… if they’d lose ’em all, then afore long we’d not have to worry about ’em…”

  “… like you’d want to be a herder … where’d you get the wool for your weaving?”

  “Someone would do it.”

  “Like your cousin Berdyn?” Low laughter filled the table.

  The conversation turned to people, and Beltur stopped around the room, hearing little of interest. Finally, he slipped into the back room, following the other server, a woman he hadn’t seen or sensed before he’d raised the concealment. One side of the room held racked kegs and barrels, the other a large square device set in the middle of the hearth. Belatedly, Beltur realized from the fire chaos he sensed within it that it was a stove of sorts, on which were set an assortment of pots. Set back from the stove were two tables, but Beltur couldn’t sense exactly what was on them from where he had positioned himself between two racks.

  “You never said anything about that young mage,” offered the shorter server to the taller one, Saera.

  “What’s to say? He was pleasant enough. He asked about the amber brew. He said the older mage he works for was seeing Elder Jhankyr … something about the raiders being short of women.”

  “The way they treat ’em, you wonder how they have any.”

  “Stop jawing,” called the squat man standing in front of the stove. “More troopers just came in.”

  “They’ll wait,” replied the taller woman, the one who had served Beltur. “Where else will they go? Don’t tell me the Bowl, either. They can’t pay that much. Not if they’re here.” For all her words, she turned and moved into the public room, followed by the other server.

  Beltur carefully made his way from the Brown Pitcher and toward the Brass Bowl, dropping the concealment in the afternoon shadows after several blocks.

  He used the same approach at the Brass Bowl, which had apparently opened just slightly before he had arrived, since there were only seven others in the entire public room. He ordered the amber ale, this time from a hard-faced blond woman, whose voice was far softer than her appearance. Although the cloth of her pale blue garments was better than that of Saera, the cut was the same, and she also wore a scabbarded dirk. When she returned with the ale and gave him seven coppers in return for the silver, he asked, “Is it always this slow in the afternoon?”

  “Until after fifth glass. Then you’d be sitting with someone.”

  “There aren’t any troopers here.”

  “Ale’s cheaper at the other place.”

  “And that’s fine with you.”

  “Most armsmen are tight with their coins.” She smiled, a clearly calculated expression. “Are mages?”

  “Junior mages are careful, but not tight.”

  “What brings you to Desanyt? It’s been years since we’ve seen a mage here.”

  Beltur repeated what he’d said at the Brown Pitcher.

  “If the Prefect’s paying you for this, he’s wasting his coins. Most raiders are bastards. Nothing a mage does is going to change that. Smart woman comes to town or goes to Westwind.”

  Beltur guessed. “It sounds like you came to town.”

&nbs
p; “You’re a bright one. Yes, I did. Best choice I ever made. You follow the rules here, and you’re respected. It’s that simple.”

  “Even here?”

  “What I do is my choice. I could have consorted. Enough have asked.”

  Beltur could see that was quite possible.

  “Try the ale. It’s the best you’ll find.”

  Beltur smiled and lifted the mug, larger and better formed than the one he’d had at the Brown Pitcher. He took a sip. While similar to the brew he’d had before, it was smoother, and likely more potent. “It’s quite good.”

  “It is. I just wanted you to say it. Let me know when you’re ready for another.” After another practiced smile, she was headed to another table.

  Although he stayed for almost a glass, and then left, after giving the server a copper, before returning under a concealment, he never heard anything more of interest, from anyone, than what the server had told him. Some of that conflicted with what his uncle had said, because the server had been more than clear that no woman would prefer the herding/raiding life if given a choice. Yet Kaerylt had said some women did. In other towns than Desanyt, perhaps? He’d just have to see.

  Beltur was back at the post just after fifth glass, where Sydon cornered him almost as soon as he walked through the gates.

  “Where have you been? Your uncle wants to see you—except we need to eat. I almost missed supper waiting out here for you.”

  “I’ve been doing what he told me. I’ve walked every demon-dross cubit of Desanyt and listened to more useless words than you can imagine.”

  “Just come on.”

  Beltur repressed a smile at Sydon’s discomfort and hurried to keep up with the older mage as he hurried toward the mess.

  Kaerylt was waiting. He glared at Beltur. “You took your time.”

  “I did everything you asked. It took time.”

  “You can tell me after dinner.”

  The eightday evening meal was all too similar to the one the evening before, except the meat was mutton, not even lamb, and dry and chewy, despite the gravy. Beltur wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t have preferred the spicy chilied lamb of Arrat.