The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I will drive the wagon home and get a good dinner and a good night’s sleep.”

  “You live here in Portalya?”

  “We are all growers in my family. We live two kays south of here. We are teamsters, too. When the crops are bad, or in the winter, some of us work more as teamsters.”

  “Besides trusting black mages, how do you know when to work and for whom?”

  Carmanos smiled. “Whaaryl is my consort’s cousin.”

  “Whaaryl? Is he the portmaster?”

  “He is the portmaster’s assistant. He is the one who does all the work. The portmaster is chosen by the Prefect. Surely, you do not expect a man of his stature to work.” There was only a gentle hint of the sardonic in the teamster’s last words, soft enough that no one besides Beltur could have seen or heard it.

  “There are many of stature in Gallos these days,” replied Beltur mildly, keeping a smile from his face and a certain bitterness from his words.

  “I think I would rather be a grower and a teamster…” Carmanos broke off as he saw Athaal striding toward them.

  “You’ve had no trouble, I see.”

  “One cutpurse looked at the wagon,” said Carmanos. “Mage Beltur looked at him, and he decided to go elsewhere.”

  “Good for us, but perhaps not so good for someone else. We’ll need you to move the wagon down to the second warehouse to the south. We have a flatboat for tomorrow, with space for our cargo, but there’s other cargo that has to be loaded first. So we’ll have to unload into a storage room and then reload in the morning.”

  Because the wagon was facing north, Beltur hopped out and joined Athaal while Carmanos turned the wagon. Then they walked beside it as he drove down the lane to the second warehouse, where Athaal guided Carmanos to the second doorway.

  After pulling out a large iron key, Athaal opened the heavy lock and then the door, before returning to the wagon and taking a cloth-wrapped bundle handed to him by Carmanos.

  Beltur took the next bundle, fabric of some sort, and followed Athaal into the warehouse chamber, setting the bundle down beside the one Athaal had unloaded. “Will everything be safe here?”

  “The warehouse is bonded, and there are guards.” Athaal smiled. “There are a few small protections I can add.”

  “Wards?”

  “I’m not the best at that, but you’ll see.” He pointed to a stack of heavy-looking bales of wool. “We’ll need to move those forward after we finish.”

  “How far away is the flatboat?” asked Beltur, thinking that they wouldn’t have a wagon on twoday.

  “It’s at the pier just across the access lane from the warehouse. It’s not that far, but Boraad has a handcart we can use.” Athaal turned and headed back to the wagon.

  Half a glass later, everything that had been in the wagon was in the warehouse, and the two mages started to move the bales of wool.

  By the time Beltur and Athaal had carried and pushed the bales of wool into a wall that was a little taller than Beltur himself, Beltur was definitely feeling hungry and tired. Still, he couldn’t complain. Unlike his uncle, Athaal worked even harder than Beltur, a comparison Beltur was reluctant to make. After all, his uncle was—had been—older than Athaal.

  Athaal stood at the open door.

  Beltur could sense a positioning of order, and a curtain-like shield just inside the heavy door. “What did you do?”

  “It’s a variation on a concealment. If someone enters the storage room, it’s like they’re inside the concealment.”

  “They can’t see anything?”

  Athaal nodded. “It’s hard to take much when you can’t see what you’re looking for or where to find it, especially when all you can feel is a wall of wool.” He closed the door, replaced the lock through the heavy iron hoops, and forced it closed. “That should do it.” He turned and walked out to the wagon. There he pulled out a cloth bag from his tunic and extended it to Carmanos. “As agreed and promised.”

  The teamster inclined his head. “I thank you. You’ll let Whaaryl know when you need me again?”

  “I will.”

  “I can take you back to the square,” offered Carmanos.

  “It’s in the wrong direction for you, and it’s a short walk. Give my best to your family.”

  “I can do that.”

  Athaal lifted a small duffel from the wagon bed and stepped back as the teamster flicked the leads and the wagon moved away. Then he turned and said, “We need to get a room and some food.”

  “At one of the inns?”

  “The Ferry House. That’s the smallest. The rooms are small, but they’re cleaner.” Athaal began to walk.

  Beltur matched steps with him. His feet hurt, not so much as they had on some days of the journey from Fenard, but he was glad that the square was only a few hundred yards away.

  When Athaal stepped onto the inn porch, there was the slightest pause in the conversation of the three men standing on one side of the door, and all three inclined their heads to the mage. Athaal nodded in return, as did Beltur. As the two stepped inside, Beltur caught a few words passing between the three.

  “… comes here, regular-like…”

  “… works for … Spidlarian Council…”

  “… might not be seeing him for a while then…”

  The black mage walked several steps to the far side of the entry foyer.

  “Mage Athaal. How long will you be staying this time?” asked the round-faced woman behind the counter barely a yard wide. Wisps of gray hair escaped from an otherwise tidy bun.

  “Just tonight. For my apprentice as well.”

  The woman’s eyes flicked to Beltur, then back to Athaal. “There’s a double on the second floor. I can give it to you for four, the same as your usual.”

  “That will be fine.” Athaal handed over the coppers. “What’s the best fare tonight?”

  “The river trout with pearapples and new potatoes.”

  “Thank you.” Athaal’s smile was warm, and the woman smiled in return.

  Beltur just followed him up the narrow steps to the second level.

  Once they were in the room—less than four yards by a little more than three—with two narrow beds, Athaal set the duffel on the foot of one and said, “Once we get to Elparta, we’ll need to find you a razor. Bronze or cupridium, if we can find it.”

  Beltur couldn’t help looking surprised.

  “Some people look good with beards. You’re already looking scruffy and sinister, not at all like a mage, and you don’t need that.”

  Not at all like a mage? Had he ever really looked like a mage? Beltur wondered. His uncle, tall and blond, had looked like a white mage. Athaal certainly looked like a black mage. Beltur wasn’t sure that he looked like any kind of mage, or even a mage’s apprentice. “That’s fine with me. I get a rash if I don’t shave. Too much salty sweat. I just didn’t dare to go back to the house.”

  “Not going there was a very good idea. If you’d taken anything, Wyath and his mages would know for certain you’re still alive.”

  “Carmanos is probably the only one I’ve met who knows my name—except you, Margrena, and Jessyla.”

  “It’s unlikely that Wyath or any of his mages will be asking a grower teamster in Portalya about a white mage in Fenard.”

  “I worry more about Margrena and Jessyla.”

  “If they leave when they plan they should be safe. Right now, white mages who don’t agree with Wyath are in more danger.”

  “If there are any left by now,” replied Beltur.

  “There is that.” Athaal paused. “We need to wash up and eat. The river trout sounds good.”

  Beltur hoped it was. He’d almost never eaten fish.

  XXI

  Although Athaal snored, he snored lightly enough—or Beltur was tired enough—that Beltur slept soundly and woke comparatively refreshed on twoday, despite the grayness of the morning, a gray created by the low-hanging clouds and the fine misty rain that fell from them. When
he saw the rain, Beltur wondered if that would delay their departure and asked just that after they had what passed for breakfast—cider, hard cheese, and a half a loaf of day-old bread—and walked toward the warehouse.

  “The rain’s coming in from the south,” replied Athaal. “That’s why it’s so warm. The river will carry us ahead of it, and the cargo has to be covered with oilcloth anyway.”

  Athaal and Beltur did not go to the warehouse, but to the flatboat, since he had returned the key to Boraad before breakfast at the inn … and also removed the concealment protection, Beltur had to assume. When they reached the pier, the wiry and black-haired Boraad was supervising the placement of the heavy bales of wool, and the two mages waited.

  Beltur studied the boat, an oblong about twenty-five yards long and six wide, with a flat deck over the rear twenty yards. The upper deck was not quite two yards above the lower deck, which was in fact the bottom of the hull. There was a small pilothouse at the front of the upper deck, with two long sweeps laid out on each side of the upper deck and a fifth one at the stern.

  Abruptly, Boraad turned from where he stood on the pier. “Be another half glass before we’re ready for your small lot. Go wait in the warehouse. It’ll keep you dry for a while.”

  “Just let us know,” said Athaal.

  “You’ll know when my crew shows up and asks about what to cart and stow.” The boatman turned back and shouted, “Keep that bale even with the forward edge. Make sure the oilcloth’s under the bottom pallet. On the starboard side, make sure those barrels are lashed tight.”

  Beltur noticed that the barrels being stowed were lowered with a sling, and then slid along a plank into place, rather than being rolled the way flour barrels were. “What’s in those barrels?”

  “Wine, I imagine. It’s a favorite of the rich traders in Lydiar and much cheaper than vintages from Hamor.”

  Beltur hadn’t thought of wine going down the river and then being shipped all the way from Spidlaria to Lydiar. As he walked with Athaal toward the warehouse, Beltur supposed that the pallets were under the bales and barrels to keep them above whatever water seeped or splashed into the boat.

  About half a glass later, Beltur, Athaal, and two crewmen started moving Athaal’s goods. Less than a quarter glass passed before it was all stowed under the upper deck. Even so, when they finished loading and boarded the flatboat, Beltur felt he couldn’t have been wetter than if they’d stood in the fine rain the entire time.

  Then Athaal motioned for Beltur to join him on the upper deck next to the pilothouse. “You should see how they maneuver the boat. We might be called on to man one of the sweeps. Boraad has always had small crews.”

  As the crew prepared to cast off, Beltur noted a long pier downstream and to the north with what looked to be a river galley with furled sails tied there. “Is that an actual galley there?”

  “It is. There are two there, and one farther downstream. They’re to catch anyone who fails to pay their tariffs. The one downstream can drag cables across the river. The Prefect doesn’t care for merchants who don’t pay their tariffs.”

  “Tariffs on goods leaving Gallos?”

  “Entering, passing through, or leaving. The Prefect doesn’t make fine distinctions.” Athaal’s tone was sardonic.

  “Did you have to pay tariffs?”

  “Just a silver, because I bought the goods in Gallos and what I have is considered a small and mixed cargo. You can pay to the portmaster or to the Prefect’s man at the ferry. I much prefer dealing with Whaaryl.”

  Beltur nodded, although a silver didn’t seem small to him. After a moment, he studied the flatboat more carefully. Not including Boraad, who stood beside the pilothouse, Beltur counted six men, five at the sweeps, and one with a long pole that he used to push the flatboat away from the pier and toward the center of the river.

  Between the man poling and the sweepmen, in little more than a few moments the flatboat was clear of the pier and shore and beginning to move downstream, in the grip of the current. Despite the rain, there were no waves to speak of, and the flatboat seemed almost to glide through the dark water.

  By midmorning Beltur was feeling happier … and beginning to dry out. As Athaal had predicted, the river had carried the flatboat away from the low-hanging clouds and the fine drizzle, and the sun shone down brightly. That meant Beltur was again mopping away sweat from his face and eyes.

  As much to keep his thoughts from dwelling on how itchy the combination of sweat and nearly an eightday’s worth of beard made his face feel as from curiosity, although he was interested, he asked Athaal, “Can you tell what the weather is going to do?”

  “That depends on what you mean,” replied the black mage, turning from looking at the west bank of the river, no more than ten yards away. “When it’s raining and the clouds are almost black, anyone can tell that it’s going to keep raining for at least a while. And when the wind’s blowing toward you and you can see rain in the distance…” Athaal grinned. “That’s not what you meant to ask, though.”

  “No. Uncle always claimed that good black mages could tell what the weather would be before it was obvious.”

  “If you know what to look for, any mage can figure out some things about the weather. I’ve heard there are mages who can actually change the weather. I’m certainly not one of those.”

  “What should I look for, then?”

  “The patterns of order and chaos in the sky. Just try to sense patterns directly above you.”

  Beltur concentrated for a time, but all he could sense were what he might have called a diffuse mist of order and isolated small clumps of free chaos.

  “What are you sensing?”

  Beltur told him.

  “That’s what you should be sensing,” replied Athaal. “When clouds form you should be able to sense clumps of chaos being confined by a shroud of fine order. The greater the chaos, and the more violent the flows or swirls in the cloud, the more likely there will be lightning. Now … if both order and chaos remain scattered, you’re more likely to get the kind of rain we saw this morning in Portalya.”

  “That explains it when it’s close,” said Beltur, “but how can you tell what’s going to happen a lot longer before it does?”

  “I can’t tell you. I’m not a weather mage. That’s what I know.”

  “Part of it must be that they can sense those patterns from farther away.” Beltur paused. “Or they’ve studied them long enough to know what patterns happen before a cloud forms.”

  “That might be. I couldn’t say.” Athaal looked back to the shore. “There’s always a chance we’ll see river brigands. That’s why it doesn’t hurt to keep an eye on the shore. They like to hide where we can’t see them until we’re almost past them. More flatboats get plundered because they didn’t look back.”

  “What’s the best way of dealing with them?”

  “Anything that keeps them from getting close. White wizards have problems with using chaos on the river. Water has a lot of order in it, despite the chaos that turns up in some of the currents and eddies.” Athaal looked back at Beltur. “Don’t white mages have trouble using chaos in the rain?”

  “The stronger ones say that using chaos in the rain gives them a bad headache. Those who aren’t that strong have trouble using it at all in a downpour. Do the river brigands attack in the rain?”

  “It might have happened, but I’ve never heard of it. In their boots I wouldn’t want to. Too easy to get swamped. Or get struck by lightning.”

  “That’s something else I’ve wondered about. Rain hampers white mages, but I’ve never heard of a black mage using lightning. Could a weather mage do that?”

  “I don’t know. That doesn’t say much,” added Athaal with a grin, “but I’ve never known a weather mage. There is an old song about Nylan, the smith of the angels, that mentions a hammer of lightning and an anvil of night. Everyone thinks he was a black of some sort. I’m inclined to believe he was the first of the grays, either h
im or Saryn.”

  “The first Tyrant was a mage?”

  “Very much so, if there’s even a grain of truth in the stories and legends. She threw black blades through armor and even through solid doors. She conquered Lornth with little more than a company of troopers, and they were all women.”

  “That’s just a story.”

  “Is it?” asked Athaal gently. “To this day, the Sarronnese women hold their own, and Westwind certainly does.”

  “I didn’t mean about the women, but about throwing blades through armor and doors.”

  The black mage shrugged. “Every land that endures has a great story behind it. Some are even true. Nylan, Ryba, Saryn, Ayrlyn … they all were real. There’s too much written about them that it couldn’t be otherwise. That means there’s at least a grain of truth in the stories. There must have been great stories about Cyad, too, but they perished with its destruction.” He laughed. “I suppose the point is that, to be remembered, you need to do something remarkable and have a great story.”

  Doing something great was the last thing on Beltur’s mind. Getting out of Gallos and away from Denardre and Wyath was a far more immediate concern … and perhaps getting ahold of a razor before too long, given how his beard and the skin under it itched.

  XXII

  By fourday afternoon Beltur was getting more than a little tired of looking at the river and its banks, which, after a time, tended to look much the same—woods and fields and small hamlets perched on the bank, with an occasional isle somewhere in the river, and faster stretches of water alternating with wide and lazy patches, not to mention marshes and reeds, and cattle and sheep drinking. While there were quite a number of hamlets along the river, the only real town was Maeryl, which the flatboat passed early on threeday, and which boasted only two piers, one of which was for the Prefect’s tariff-enforcing galleys. The river water was clean enough, if touched with a bit of order, which he had to work out at first, but found it more effective than using chaos had been, and that the order-tinged water was not only useful in washing his face and beard, but drinkable.