The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Are you from Fenard, ser mage?” asked the shorter guard, approaching Athaal.

  “I’m from Elparta on business for the Council of Spidlar.”

  “Bring me his pass,” called out the mage.

  Athaal handed over the pass.

  As Beltur waited for the mage to look at the documents, he forced himself not to raise a shield or do anything resembling magery.

  “What is your business?” asked the white mage, his tone somewhere between scornful and dismissive.

  “To obtain goods that are not readily available in Spidlar, such as the green glazes and the wool for the official tunics of the council.”

  Again, Athaal’s statement was totally truthful, according to what Beltur could sense.

  The mage handed the documents back to the guard, who walked them back to Athaal.

  “Thank you,” Athaal said politely.

  The guard nodded and gestured for Carmanos to move on and clear the gate.

  Even before the wagon began to move, the white mage called out, “When your council must send a black mage and an apprentice for supplies, that shows how little they trust their traders.”

  “I cannot speak for the Council,” returned Athaal. “Each of us does what he must.”

  The white mage did not respond, and Beltur was careful not to look back, although he remained ready to lift his shield at the slightest hint of weapons or chaos.

  The guards at the outer gates waved them through, but Beltur did not breathe easily until the wagon was several kays beyond them, just before Carmanos brought the team to a halt and Athaal vaulted off the wagon seat.

  “Time for us to walk. We’ll let Carmanos set the pace.” Athaal smiled, as he gestured for the teamster to continue, then waited slightly for the wagon to pull ahead before beginning to walk. “That will also let you ask all those questions that must be swirling through your head. After that, it wouldn’t hurt for you to practice multiple shields some more.”

  “I’m not the first you’ve gotten out of Fenard, am I?”

  “No, and yes. You’re not the first, but you are the first white-tinged mage. I wouldn’t have done it, even with all the order potential you have, if Margrena hadn’t told me it was a good idea.”

  “I scarcely know her, really, and I only met Jessyla once.” Beltur hesitated, but kept walking. “I know I don’t know very much, but I don’t think it’s going to be all that safe for either of them in Fenard before long.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “If Wyath doesn’t want whites like Uncle…” Beltur shook his head. “Uncle was white. There was only what order there that had to be.”

  “I suspect that once he was very much like you. What one does with order and chaos in the present shapes the man he will become in the future. Still … your point is well-taken. Kaerylt would have most likely supported any reasonable measures suggested by the Arms-Mage. That does suggest that what Wyath has in mind is less than reasonable.”

  “But the Prefect is the ruler, not the Arms-Mage.”

  “That can often make such control easier. If Denardre does what Wyath wishes, does it matter who rules?”

  Beltur could see that. “Might I ask why Margrena persuaded you to help me?”

  “She didn’t persuade me. She just asked me to see you and then decide.”

  “Why did you decide to help me?”

  “I believe I answered that before,” said Athaal with a slight laugh, “if not in detail. I’ll just add that I have the feeling you’ll do well in Elparta, and that your doing well will be anything but beneficial to Wyath and what he has in mind.” Athaal held up a hand. “I can’t explain the feeling, but even if that part is wrong, you certainly don’t deserve what Wyath had in mind for you.”

  Beltur wasn’t sure he knew much more, or that he’d find it out through questions. “Outside of the time in Analeria, I’ve never been far from Fenard. Would you tell me more about the trip and what I can expect along the way and in Analeria?”

  “Well … if it doesn’t rain, we’ll walk and ride for four days, possibly five, depending on the horses, until we reach Portalya. We may be there for a day or an eightday before we load what’s in the wagon on a flatboat…”

  Beltur kept walking and listening.

  XIX

  By midday on sevenday, Beltur was tired of walking, talking, and even riding, and from what Athaal had said, they were only slightly more than halfway to Portalya. Fortunately, the weather had been slightly cooler than seasonal, with a few high clouds now and again, and that had meant that Beltur only had to blot his face occasionally, rather than continually, in order to keep his salty sweat out of his eyes. They encountered far more wagons heading to Fenard, all loaded, than Beltur would have thought, and only occasionally passed a heavy-laden one or one stopped to rest horses or oxen going in the same direction. Once they stopped to help a pair of teamsters replace a broken wheel. The only riders they saw were troopers carrying dispatches, always riding in pairs, and once there were three riders, but never just one.

  Three or four times a day, Athaal drilled Beltur on raising two shields at once and on maintaining them, always cheerfully, but in a way that suggested that Beltur was going to need that ability. That also raised the question as to why his uncle hadn’t really emphasized shields until Beltur had accompanied him to Analeria. Because Uncle had never really wanted to expose you to danger? Or for some other reason? Beltur knew he’d likely never know, and that bothered him, especially since he felt that there was so much he hadn’t known about his uncle … and now … now he never would.

  He swallowed.

  As yet another pair of dispatch riders went by the two mages as they walked beside the wagon, Athaal said, “All the dispatches suggest that there may be trouble with Certis.”

  “Because the road to Portalya goes on to Passera, and that’s the only real way to get to Jellico?”

  “And because so many riders mean that some officer wants to keep the Prefect informed about a changing situation. Also, while it’s also the fastest way to Hydlen or Lydiar, right now there’s no trouble with them, unlike Certis.”

  “All Uncle said was that the Viscount was thinking about increasing tariffs coming into Certis.” Beltur then added, “He also said that the Spidlarian Council was thinking about the same thing.”

  “They both are because Denardre already increased tariffs on goods entering Gallos.”

  “He didn’t mention that. Or maybe I didn’t hear that part.”

  “We often don’t hear what is less pleasant, and sometimes we don’t mention it, either. It has been known to happen.”

  Beltur nodded, and kept walking. “It does seem like this road goes on forever. I know it doesn’t, but it seems that way.”

  “We would make better time if the road were better,” announced Carmanos for at least the fourth time since they had left Fenard. “If they paved the roads the way they pave the streets of the city, everything would be so much faster.”

  “Who would do that?” asked Athaal with a wide grin up at Carmanos.

  “Why not you mages? You can do wondrous things, they say.”

  “To quarry stone with magecraft requires a white mage. Black mages can make the stone last longer.”

  “Like so many things, it takes opposites, like a man and a woman, or a good mule takes a placid donkey and a spirited horse, or maybe a spirited donkey and a placid horse, I forget which…” Carmanos, who apparently never tired of talking, continued in that vein for some time before bringing the team to a halt at the top of a low ridge, below and beyond which stretched land that seemed as flat as the surface of a lake, dotted with patches of trees, tilled fields, pastures, and, not too far from the base of the ridge, a small town.

  “That’s Sluryn. There’s a small inn there. We can stop and eat, and Carmanos can water the horses.”

  Beltur worried about that. All he had was the seven coppers he’d been carrying when he’d gone to the palace. Athaal
had paid for both the meals they had eaten at inns so far, and Beltur hated to have to let the black mage pay for everything, but his coppers would only pay for one meal for two, if that.

  “You look concerned,” offered Athaal.

  “You pay for everything.”

  “I can. You can’t. I offered to help you, and you accepted. There are times when we all have to accept help, and times when we have to offer it.”

  “You didn’t have to…”

  “One of the old blacks said it best. ‘The world would be a pretty sorry place if we only did what we had to.’”

  “Who was that? One of the dark ones? Maybe Nylan?”

  “No one as fearsome as that. He didn’t give his name to many, and no one who knew it ever said it because the Prefect back then offered a hundred golds for his head. Centuries ago he built what he called a temple to order in Passera. The Prefect wrecked it. The ruins were still there when I was a boy. Wyath had them destroyed. It took four white mages three eightdays to get rid of the order that suffused the ground.”

  “I thought you said order couldn’t be moved in large chunks.”

  “I did. It wasn’t. People came to the ruins for peace and comfort. They found it, and in finding it, each added to the order already there.”

  “Could Wyath do something like that with chaos?”

  “I have my doubts. Order likes order and tends to stay together. The more chaos there is in one place, the harder it is to keep it there. That’s one reason why it seems like there’s more free chaos in the world, because it tends to move around—unless it’s gathered somehow.”

  “You mean by mages.”

  “That’s just one way. The world itself must have a way of gathering or containing it, too, because sometimes mountains fountain lava and chaos, and geysers release boiling water, steam, and chaos.”

  “Geysers?” Beltur had never heard of them.

  “They’re places where boiling water and steam shoot up from the ground intermittently. The chaos causes it.”

  “That must take a great amount of chaos.”

  “I think I suggested that,” replied Athaal humorously.

  Beltur offered a rueful grin in return.

  XX

  By the middle of oneday, Beltur was more than glad that they were nearing Portalya. Although Athaal insisted that they were within ten kays, the combination of the flat land, the hedgerows that lined the road, and the intermittent stands of tall oaks all blocked sight of anything more than a few kays away. Even when they passed the keystone simply inscribed PORTALYA—5K, and Athaal and Beltur climbed back onto the wagon, Beltur had his doubts.

  A half glass later, the scattered cots and fields gave way to small dwellings, all of them wooden and roofed with something like thatch. Beltur also didn’t see any walls around the rear of dwellings, or even rear terraces, just what looked like extensive gardens, some of which were neat and well-tended, and others of which looked as though whoever lived there had thrown seed or planted almost haphazardly.

  “Welcome to Portalya, Mages,” announced Carmanos cheerfully, “the garden town of the River Gallos. The soil is so fertile that anything grows, and seldom do even the poor go too hungry for too long.” The teamster waited for a moment, then added sardonically, “They die quickly because all of Gallos and Spidlar buy the most excellent fruits and vegetables and leave little for the poor.”

  Beltur looked to Athaal.

  “He’s correct, unhappily.”

  After they had traveled perhaps half a kay into the town, the main road, although Beltur supposed it was a main street now, abruptly began to descend, very gradually, but definitely, and at the end of the street, possibly a kay away, Beltur caught sight of block-like structures.

  “You can see the warehouses beside the inns on the riverfront square,” said Athaal. “That’s where merchanters or teamsters store goods when the river runs wild or when there are no flatboats available.”

  “Or when the prices are too low and the greedy ones wait for them to rise,” added Carmanos.

  “You’re always so cheerful,” said Athaal with a laugh.

  “Calling a cactus a pearapple will only leave you with spines in your mouth.”

  “And calling a pearapple a cactus will leave you hungry,” replied Athaal, still smiling.

  As the wagon neared the warehouses, Beltur asked, “Do you have any idea whether there will be a flatboat leaving soon for Elparta?”

  “At this time of year, there are always boats leaving. The question is whether they have space and how much it will cost.”

  “I thought you were on Council business.”

  “The Council is not like the Prefect. They pay for what they require. That means we have to pay. Since the Council doesn’t like unnecessary spending, I’ll be bargaining, and we may have to wait.” Athaal turned on the wagon seat to Carmanos. “Just stop at the portmaster’s post.”

  At the end of the street was a small brick-paved square, its east side parallel to the river, with two inns situated on the north side, and a larger and more imposing one on the south side. Stretching out along the river behind the inns were the warehouses, rough-timbered two-story buildings with a simple grace but devoid of any ornamentation. A wide brick walkway extended from the square to the foot of a large pier, but some ten yards short of the pier was a rectangular timber building.

  As Carmanos turned the wagon to bring it to a halt opposite the building, Athaal pointed to the south. “Over there past the warehouses is the slip for the ferry that carries wagons and goods.”

  Beltur studied the river. At most it was perhaps a hundred yards wide. “There’s no bridge?”

  “People say the river is too wide and too deep,” offered Carmanos.

  “Too wide and too deep to build a bridge easily,” added Athaal. “There are bridges in Spidlar, where the river is wider and deeper. Good stone bridges. No Prefect has wanted to build one, but there are signs that there once was one a kay south of here in the oldest part of Portalya.”

  “Why don’t they want to build another one?”

  “It might be that the ferry is owned by a cousin of the Prefect. Or that the Prefect’s tariff enumerators have their inspection post next to the ferry slip. You can’t see the red brick building from here. Or it might be that the Prefect would prefer to use his golds for something else.”

  Once the wagon stopped, Athaal vaulted down from the seat. “I shouldn’t be that long.”

  “I have heard that before, ser mage,” declared Carmanos, the seriousness of his tone belied by the grin that followed.

  “But I pay you if Whaaryl keeps me and you have to wait.” Athaal returned the grin with one of his own before turning and striding toward the timber building.

  Beltur slowly looked around the square. It certainly wasn’t a market square, because there were no vendors or peddlers in sight, but he did see men standing and talking on the covered front porches of the two smaller inns, if not before the more impressive one, with its white-painted siding and green shutters. From the square his eyes went to the long pier behind the portmaster’s building, where two long flatboats were tied up, as well as some sort of sailing craft. Two men armed with blades stood on the pier above the flatboats.

  Before long, Athaal returned and announced, “There’s no one leaving in the next few glasses. That means no one will leave until tomorrow. There are three flatboats that might have space. Carmanos, if you would wait here while I see about that? Beltur, you stay here to protect the goods. If anyone tries to snatch anything, put a shield around them.” Athaal paused. “You can do that, I hope.”

  Beltur understood what the black mage wasn’t saying—that he wasn’t to use chaos. “I can do a complete shield, but I’ve never done a small one around just one person.”

  “Just make it smaller.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Do what you can. You probably won’t need to here in midafternoon, but as soon as I say that you will.”

/>   “By saying that,” said Carmanos, “you undo what you have done.”

  “I hope so.” Athaal surveyed the empty square and the three inns quickly before heading south on the brick-paved lane along the riverbank that joined the warehouses and the piers.

  “Ser mage,” said the teamster, “you are just one person. Have you not shielded yourself?”

  “It’s easier when you’re inside the shield,” Beltur replied. “I’ve never had the occasion to use a shield to imprison someone.” He glanced around the square, but no one was within twenty yards of the wagon, and he couldn’t sense any concentrations of order or chaos nearby, and only one pattern of order anywhere near, which was to the south and had to be Athaal.

  “You have never used this shield?” Carmanos looked unbelieving. “A black mage?”

  “Just for self-protection and protection of others.” As Beltur spoke, he could see the mischievous smile appearing on the teamster’s face, and he realized that Carmanos had played on his gullibility. He just shook his head and smiled ruefully, immediately asking, “What should I know about Portalya?”

  “What is there to know? It is a town like many other towns. It has good people, and it has those who are not so good. You are a mage. You can tell.”

  Beltur shook his head. “I can tell if someone lies, or isn’t telling the whole truth. But telling the truth doesn’t mean that a man is good.” He could recall Naeron, the white mage who had summoned Sydon. The man had not uttered anything untrue. For that matter, neither had the Prefect, although, in hindsight, Beltur realized that some of the Prefect’s words could have been meant in a different way than in which he had taken them. He glanced around again, and his eyes lighted on a youth in patched clothes moving along the side of the larger of the two small inns … seemingly in the general direction of the wagon.

  The youth looked up, saw Beltur studying him, and immediately retreated. Portalya might not be quite as safe as Athaal suggested.

  “You looked at him, and he fled,” Carmanos said. “It is much better that way.”

  Not wanting to follow up on those words, Beltur asked, “What will you do after we unload?”