Beltur frowned. “Why doesn’t Paalsyra do something like that?”
“They can’t afford it. Buoranyt makes enough in coin from all the olive groves to afford brick and mortar. There’s not only sand around here, but lots of wood and limestone.”
Beltur was having problems with what Kaerylt had said. He could certainly see that the growers could afford brick and tile, but even the small houses had been built of brick and tile.
“Beltur? You’re looking puzzled.” Kaerylt appeared amused.
“How do the poorer families afford brick and tile?”
“The growers pay for them.”
“But why?” asked Sydon.
“I asked the councilor the same question. He’s a grower, by the way. He said it was cheaper that way.”
This time, Sydon was the one who looked puzzled.
“I don’t claim to understand,” said Kaerylt, “but he insisted that solid housing for everyone who worked made sense. They don’t build houses like that for people who don’t work for them, or for those who can afford them without help. He said that over ten years, everything worked out. Who am I to question their success?”
Beltur was still pondering that when the server returned with their food.
The shepherd’s pie was tasty enough, with a heavy brown crust, tough, if edible, but Beltur had the feeling that the spiced mutton stew he’d had the night before had been slightly better. On the other hand, from the way Kaerylt and Sydon ate, it was clear the shepherd’s pie was a great improvement from what they had eaten.
Just about the time the three finished eating, a pleasant-faced woman with a guitar took a seat on a high stool set between two stools on the east side of the public room and began to play and sing. Beltur turned slightly to look as well as listen.
“Oh, black was the color of the night,
as deep and dark as blinded sight
and false was he, as gray as sky,
Whose lightning bared his lie…”
While the singer strummed the guitar for a moment, Kaerylt said abruptly, “We need to leave early tomorrow. I’ll see you then. Stay away from the women, any of them, Sydon.” With that, he slipped away, visibly uncomfortable, it seemed to Beltur.
Was it the song … or the singer? Beltur concentrated on the singer and the words as she continued, and especially on the concluding stanza.
“Ask not the song to be sung,
or the bell to be rung,
or if my tale is done.
The answer is all—and none.”
From what Beltur could tell, there was nothing especially unnatural about the words, except that he felt that there was the faintest hint, almost of order, a silvery black order, carried with each sung word, not that it bothered him in the slightest. The fact that the singer could carry it off rather intrigued him.
Moments after the singer finished, several men called out, “Another one.”
Sydon looked to Beltur and said in a low voice, “One a bit more cheerful.”
“You don’t like reminders, do you?”
“You know … that was a bit harsh, Beltur. I’ve never done anything that a girl or woman didn’t want.”
At the moment you were seducing them, anyway. “I’m sure you didn’t.”
“Aren’t you the high-minded one.”
“Hardly. I’m just not quite as low-minded as some others.”
“You can’t have it both ways. That means everyone will dislike and distrust you.”
“You’re saying that looking at both sides is dangerous and makes people distrust you?”
“Not looking,” replied Sydon. “Talking about it and letting people know you don’t like either side.”
“That’s a good thing to think about.” While Beltur had his doubts, Sydon might be right, and there wasn’t much point in continuing that discussion. Besides, he’d already missed the opening of the next song.
“When rich men find their golds a curse,
And Westwind’s marshal fills your purse,
When traders try to spend each gold
To buy the songs that I’ve been told,
Then sea-hags will dance upon their hands
And dolphins swim through silver sands.
Hollicum-hoarem, billicum-borem…”
At the end of the song, Sydon nodded. “Much better.” He pushed back his stool. “We’d better go if we’re to be up as early as your uncle wants.”
Although there was a definite truth in what Sydon said, Beltur had the feeling that avoiding his uncle’s displeasure was not the only reason for Sydon’s desire to leave. He said nothing until the two were back in their room. “What didn’t you like about the singer? That she wasn’t young and beautiful? She had a good voice.”
“There was … just … just something that bothered me. I couldn’t tell you what.”
“About a singer? I’ve never seen you avoid a woman.”
“Not her. The songs. Maybe the way she sang them. I don’t know.” Sydon shook his head, clearly unable to explain his discomfort.
As he undressed, Beltur couldn’t help but wonder if that hint of silvery order behind the words had been what had discomfited both Sydon and his uncle. Such a small amount of order? He frowned, thinking it over. Then again, the structure of music had to be ordered, and if somehow the singer added more order…?
He didn’t have an answer, but it was something to think about, among many other things that had come up over the past eightdays.
XV
By second glass on twoday afternoon, Beltur could see the great walls of Fenard, at least immediately after he used his kerchief to blot away the dust and sweat from his eyes. Although they were now more than two eightdays into harvest, if anything, the day felt hotter than those of summer, and Beltur was too hot even to work on his shields. Tellingly, Kaerylt hadn’t mentioned the need to practice, either, and he wasn’t doing the intricate chaos exercises he often ran through. Thinking about their journey, Beltur shook his head. He really couldn’t see that they’d accomplished much except killing more than a score of raiders.
“Why are you looking so glum?” asked Sydon. “We’re almost home.”
“I’m still trying to figure out what it was all about.” Beltur kept his voice low. “We’ve traveled for nearly four eightdays—”
“Just barely three,” countered Sydon.
“… none of the elders or the locals seem to think that any more women are leaving. Even Kasiera and Paalsyra didn’t have a problem until we showed up and got the herders mad enough to attack us,” finished Beltur quietly. “I don’t see why Uncle agreed to undertake this task.”
“You still haven’t figured that out?” Sydon’s voice was low but sarcastic. “You’re the bright one, and you haven’t the faintest idea? Just who has the silvers? Who is the only one who really needs white mages for anything important? Haven’t you noticed how little lamb or fowl we were eating in Fenard?”
“I did notice. But Uncle never said anything, and he won’t let anyone see his ledgers.”
“Do you think he wants to admit that he’s short of silvers? Or that he was practically forced to do the Prefect’s bidding?”
“But that doesn’t make any sense, either. Why would the Prefect spend coins to send a mage to the grasslands to find out what the undercaptain and other troopers already knew?”
“Do you honestly think that the Prefect trusts anyone?”
“So he paid Uncle to confirm what he already knew?”
“What he thought he already knew.”
Was that why Uncle didn’t bother with spending another day in Analeria? Because he realized that spending more time would reveal nothing new? “I’m just glad we aren’t the ones who have to deal with the Prefect.”
“Sooner or later, every mage in Fenard has to deal with the Prefect, or with Arms-Mage Wyath.” After the slightest hesitation, Sydon added, “That’s what they say anyway.”
“I’m in no hurry,” replied Beltur dr
yly. He blotted his face again, particularly around his eyes.
The air was even hotter, as well as damp and sticky as the fourteen riders made their way along the road through the fields south of the outer gates. Beltur eased his mount forward, closer to his uncle, and finally asked, “What happens when we reach Fenard?”
“I’m to report immediately to the palace with the undercaptain. It’s likely I’ll have to tell the Prefect what we discovered. If we’re fortunate, he won’t be dissatisfied, and I’ll get the rest of what he promised. If he’s pleased, there might be more. If he’s displeased, I’ll be dismissed and likely won’t get another commission … or not one I could afford to take.”
“Such as?”
“Being a battle mage against the Certans. Or being sent to Sarronnyn to assist the Prefect’s envoy there.” Kaerylt shook his head. “That wouldn’t be so bad if the land weren’t ruled by women.”
Beltur understood very well that his uncle didn’t think women should rule or have any authority in anything, but he’d never been able to get a satisfactory answer as to why, other than a few words about how the most a woman should ever be in charge of was a household, and perhaps not even that, and so far as Beltur could determine, Kaerylt had never considered consorting. At the same time, he had no close male friends, either. After a long moment, he ventured, “You’ve certainly done what the Prefect asked, haven’t you?”
“Doing what’s asked is usually the easiest part. What leads to success is determining what else needs to be done and doing it without being asked and without it costing any more.”
“You’re worried about that, aren’t you?”
“With the Prefect, a man would be foolish not to worry. That’s all that I can say.”
Beltur let his mount slow until he was again riding with Sydon. “He’s really worried.”
“Wise man.”
Beltur was still thinking over what his uncle had said when they reached the outer south gates. The guards there looked at Pacek and then Kaerylt and waved the returning travelers through. Those at the inner gate barely looked at the fourteen riders after seeing Pacek and the white tunics. From the inner gate, Pacek led the way along the Avenue of Fenardre toward the Great Square. As always, at the sight of mounted troopers, the avenue cleared in front of the riders, if not without some resentful glances from teamsters. Beltur kept blotting his face. Inside the walls, the heat of the sun made the air even hotter than outside in the fields.
“It’ll be good to get home,” said Sydon.
“Didn’t you hear? We’re headed to the palace.”
“We are?”
“That’s what Uncle said.” Beltur sometimes wondered how much Sydon listened to anything that didn’t seem to deal directly with him.
“Then we’re going to the palace. We’ll still be home before sunset.”
When the column reached the Great Square, Pacek guided the way around the square and onto the Boulevard of the Prefect toward the gates of the palace ten long blocks away.
As they neared the palace, Kaerylt turned in the saddle and said, “We’re headed to the stables. Once we’re there, Beltur, Sydon, you two unload our gear while I report to the Prefect’s arms-mage. You can leave the horses for the palace ostlers to groom. Just wait at the front of the stables for me.”
Rather than entering by the main gates, Pacek turned north on the Avenue of the First and continued to a much smaller and far less ornate iron gate a block away, where the riders entered the paved stable yard. Kaerylt immediately dismounted, and Pacek escorted him in the direction of a door on the north side of the massive building that was the Palace of the Prefect.
Dismounting and unloading the gear took the two only a fraction of a glass. Then Beltur and Sydon stood in the shade just inside the stable doors with all three duffels stacked against the wall beside them. The troopers soon vanished, carrying their gear and leaving Beltur and Sydon. Every so often one of the gate guards looked in their direction, as if to see if they were still there.
“It’s taking an awfully long time,” observed Beltur when close to half a glass had passed.
“Everything dealing with the Prefect takes time. That’s what I’ve heard from Kaerylt more than once.”
“But he ordered us to return quickly.”
“That doesn’t mean he’ll see Kaerylt quickly.”
Beltur had to admit that Sydon had a point, but as the glass stretched out, he couldn’t help but worry. More than another half glass passed before Beltur caught sight of his uncle walking toward them through the late afternoon shadows cast by the palace walls. No one was with him.
When Kaerylt reached them, he looked to the stacked duffels and said, “I see you’re ready to go.”
“What happened, ser?” asked Beltur.
“Nothing. I had to wait to see Wyath. We are to attend the Prefect at ninth glass tomorrow morning. At that time, we are to report on what we discovered about the herders and raiders and the towns bordering the grasslands.”
“We? All of us?” asked Sydon, clearly surprised.
“All three of us. Undercaptain Pacek is already reporting to the Prefect’s arms-commander.” Kaerylt’s voice carried tiredness, or resignation, as he lifted his duffel and started toward the iron gate. “We might as well head home. We can eat at the yellow bucket after we stow our gear.”
Not even a wagon to cart us back? Over something like fifteen blocks? “That’s all the Prefect said?”
“I didn’t see the Prefect. Arms-Mage Wyath was quick to point out that we were not expected until threeday or fourday, and ninth glass tomorrow was the first time the Prefect could see us … and that meant another meeting would be delayed.”
Beltur took a deep breath and slung his duffel over his shoulder, as did Sydon, and the two followed Kaerylt along the Avenue of the First north toward Middle Street. That way was slightly longer than going through the Great Square, but Beltur could see why his uncle didn’t wish to go that way. A white mage, even more so three white mages, walking and carrying duffels through the Great Square suggested a certain lack of dignity, possibly even disgrace. Fewer people would notice on the avenue.
XVI
The three mages left the dwelling on Nothing Lane at eighth glass, not wanting to hurry, especially since threeday morning was every bit as hot as twoday morning had been. Beltur had been up earlier than the others, not only shaving and washing himself thoroughly, but managing to make a simple porridge breakfast from what was left in the comparative cool of the storage cellar. Even so, both Kaerylt and Sydon had grumbled.
Walking the fifteen blocks was easier without carrying gear, but Beltur was soon blotting his face, and that became almost continuous by the time they neared the palace, slightly after half before the glass. The guards merely nodded to the three white mages as Kaerylt led the way through the same iron gate through which they had entered the day before. Beltur and Sydon followed him to the side door where two guards in their black uniforms and leathers were posted.
“The Prefect requested our appearance at ninth glass.”
The outside guards allowed them inside, into a stone-walled hallway that was far cooler than the courtyard, and Kaerylt walked to the grizzled squad leader sitting behind a table desk some four yards down the corridor.
“Ser mage, you’re early.”
“The last thing I’d wish to do is to displease the Prefect by being late,” replied Kaerylt.
“Something to be said for that.” The older trooper nodded. “You’ll have to wait here until a page comes to escort you to the audience chamber.”
“We can do that.” Kaerylt stepped back and turned to the other two. “At least it’s cooler here. The good thing about having a meeting early is that there’s less chance that the Prefect will be delayed.”
Almost a quarter of a glass passed in the gloomy hallway before an angular and graying white mage walked toward the squad leader and then past the table desk.
“Arms-Mage Wyath would
like to see Mage Sydon.” The older mage inclined his head, if slightly, to Kaerylt.
“I thought the three of us were to have an audience with the Prefect,” said Kaerylt.
“The Prefect has determined that is not necessary. One of your assistants should provide enough details for his purposes. The Arms-Mage has certain … concerns … about Mage Sydon. He would like to discuss them with him.”
Sydon swallowed.
Beltur covertly sensed the mage, trying to see if there was any hint of deception behind the words. He had the feeling that the mage was not telling the entire truth.
Kaerylt looked to Sydon. “Go on. We’ll meet here afterward.” After speaking, he returned his attention to the older mage. “Unless Arms-Mage Wyath plans a lengthy conversation with Sydon.”
“He did not inform me about what he has in mind.”
“It would have been helpful,” said Kaerylt almost mildly.
“I’m sorry I can’t oblige you, Kaerylt.”
“You never have, as I recall, Naeron.”
Naeron gestured to Sydon, who shrugged as if to indicate there was nothing else he could do, and then left with the angular mage.
“That’s not good for Sydon, is it?” murmured Beltur.
“It’s either not good for him, or worse for us,” replied Kaerylt in an even lower voice. “We’ll just have to see.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Now’s not the time or place to discuss it.”
Beltur considered that Naeron had not offered anything that seemed to be an outright lie, and was about to say that when a thin page appeared, a youth almost as tall as Beltur and clad in a gray tunic and trousers with black piping.
“Honored mages, the Prefect will see you.”
The two followed the page past the table desk for another twenty yards or so to a circular chamber, then took a stone staircase up two flights and through a heavy oak door out into a wide corridor, lit by high clerestory windows. Hung on each side of the corridor were paintings, life-sized images of men that Beltur supposed were portraits of past prefects. Polished gold marble tiles comprised the floor of the empty corridor, in which every bootstep echoed as they walked toward the shining brass-bound doors of the audience chamber. Two tall and muscular guards in the same gray and black as the page flanked the doors. Neither seemed to look at the page and the two mages when the page stopped two yards back from the doors.
The Mongrel Mage Page 14