Beltur looked back to the towers. “Does Elparta have a net or something to stop those who don’t wish to pay tariffs?”
“Cables. They’re seldom used. Anyone who is stopped by the cables forfeits his craft and all his cargo.”
“What about at night or in bad weather?”
“The towers are manned at all glasses, except for the few times in winter that the river freezes over. What is gained from one or two seizures will cover a year or more of pay for the trade guards.”
Boraad and his men guided the flatboat toward the second pier, because two other flatboats were already tied at the first pier, and Beltur watched closely as they eased the unwieldy craft alongside the pier. One of the crewmen threw a cable to a dockhand, who quickly secured it to a bollard.
Almost as soon as the flatboat was secured to the pier, Beltur could see several figures walking toward them.
“Here comes the tariff inspector,” said Athaal.
A man in a solid blue tunic stepped onto the flatboat. He was shorter than Beltur with a small paunch that did not quite ooze over his wide black belt, and he carried a flat leather case. Two troopers in uniforms of a slightly lighter blue remained on the pier. The inspector nodded to Boraad, but walked first straight to the black mage. “Mage Athaal, I presume your goods are for the Council?”
“Not all of them.” Athaal handed two sheets of paper to the man. “The longer one lists the Council goods, the shorter one my personal purchases.”
The inspector took the two sheets, but barely glanced at them. “Are the Council goods staying with the flatboat and going on to Spidlaria?”
“They are.”
“Will you be accompanying them?” After a moment, the inspector offered an embarrassed smile. “I know, Athaal. You never do, but I still must ask. Procedures, you understand.”
“I know, Paartyl. I will not accompany them. The second list is the one with the goods for the Council.”
Paartyl shuffled the sheets and looked back at the first and shorter list. “This looks like two coppers for your personal goods.” He took out a grease stick and wrote the number on the sheet before folding it in half and placing it in the leather case.
Athaal extracted two coins from his belt wallet and handed them to the inspector. “Here you are.”
The inspector scrawled something Beltur couldn’t read on the other sheet, folding it as well and also slipping it into the case. Then he jotted a few letters on a pasteboard square and handed it to Athaal, before turning to Beltur. “Mage, do you have anything to declare?”
Beltur might have laughed at the words, since he had nothing at all but what he wore, but that clearly wasn’t appropriate. “No, inspector, I don’t.”
“Beltur will be my apprentice for a while,” added Athaal. “Fenard is not the best place for any mage who does not worship the Prefect’s current arms-mage.”
“That explains it.” Paartyl nodded. “There have been several mages arriving recently. More than I’ve seen in years.” He offered another apologetic smile to Athaal. “Except, until the last few eightdays, you’re the only mage I’ve ever seen on the river. A healer or two, but no mages.”
That surprised Beltur, although he couldn’t have said why. But then, he realized, he never would have left Fenard if his life hadn’t been forfeit if he had stayed.
“You may see more,” said Athaal. “Either healers or mages, if not both.”
“Does the Prefect plan to attack Elparta?”
“I know of no plans. Nor is he gathering an army. But he is gathering white mages, and that is worrisome.”
“Thank you. I will pass that on.” With a nod, Paartyl turned and walked toward Boraad.
“We can gather our things and get ready to disembark,” said Athaal quietly.
“How will we get your goods to where they must go?” Beltur phrased the question that way because Athaal had never indicated anything about his dwelling or how far it might be.
“We’ll carry them. It’s a good walk, but what’s mine isn’t that much. If you would carry a satchel, I’d be most appreciative.”
“Of course.” How could Beltur not agree with all that Athaal had done for him? Besides, a satchel couldn’t be that heavy.
Gathering Athaal’s gear and goods didn’t take long at all. In addition to his bulging pack, into which Athaal had placed a number of smaller items, the black mage carried two bolts of black cloth, cloth woven from the black sheep of Montgren. The large satchel that Beltur carried held several books, one of which bore the title Historie of Spices and another entitled Halmaar’s Geography of Candar, a large bag of peppercorns, another of cloves, and a third of nutmeg. There were also ten beeswax tapers, which Athaal had noted were far less expensive in Gallos than anywhere else.
Once he stood on the pier, Beltur had a slightly better view, not of the city, because of the towering walls, but of where Elparta was situated—near one end of a narrow river valley into which the River Gallos flowed. Although he couldn’t tell for certain, it appeared that there were no rocky hills or mountains farther to the north, as if the valley widened considerably once north of Elparta, although the high hills or low mountains through which they had passed looked to extend eastward as far as he could see.
“The trade gate is over there, just beyond the end of the third pier.” Athaal nodded his head in that direction and began to walk.
Beltur matched steps with the slightly shorter black mage, noticing almost immediately that a miasma of fish, mustiness, rotten wood, tar, and, strangely, roasting fowl enveloped the shore end of the pier. “The fowl smells good.”
“I think any hot food would smell good right now,” replied Athaal humorously.
“Ah … where are we headed?”
“Home, of course. My home and Meldryn’s, that is. We live in the southeast quarter about halfway from here to the eastern wall. It’s not quite a kay. The wealthier traders live on the higher hills, either those immediately to the east of the river or those farther to the northeast. We live halfway up a low rise between them. That’s where many successful crafters have their homes and workshops. Not the metalworkers. They’re required to live outside the walls. Some have homes and shops to display their work in the far northeast quarter.”
“What do you do—I mean to bring in coppers—besides what you just did for the Council?” That was a question Beltur had debated asking for well over an eightday because it seemed almost crass after all Athaal had already done—and paid for—for him.
“Whatever I can. I offer my services to the mills and to the herders and the large growers.”
Beltur hadn’t the faintest idea what Athaal meant by services.
“You haven’t ever talked to many blacks, have you?”
“No, ser.”
“I’m not…” Athaal shook his head. “After we get through the gates, I’ll explain what I thought you knew.”
The blue-clad guards at the gates looked at Athaal then Beltur and then turned their attention to a man with a handcart piled high. Once the two were through the gate in the great wall, Beltur found himself in a small square or open space, but one without peddlers or hucksters.
Athaal pointed to the northeast corner of the square. “We take the winding street up some three blocks and then turn north again on Bakers Lane.”
Beltur couldn’t help but sense the mixture of order and chaos from the scattered handfuls of people crossing the square, a few heading for the gates, but most just crossing it, heading toward the river or away from it. The city didn’t really felt that much different from Fenard, except it was cooler, if still slightly more than pleasantly warm, but he found that much more to his liking.
“Now … I assume your uncle was paid for doing other things than what the Prefect requested. It’s no different for blacks, either here or in Gallos.”
“I understood that, ser, but what I don’t know is what kind of services a black provides to mills, herders, and growers.”
�
��Let’s take the millers. Sawmills, for example. If a blade cracks or breaks while it’s cutting a log, it’s moving very fast, and fragments of the blade could break off and do more damage than a volley of arrows.”
“Oh … and you can detect the chaos that forms before it’s bad enough that the blade breaks.”
“Exactly. With growers, I can check their root cellars and find traces of rot long before it becomes apparent to the eye. I can also show them lots of bad seed, or seed that won’t grow. I don’t get that much from any of them, but a few coppers from scores of growers does turn into silvers.”
“You get more from the millers, though, don’t you?”
Athaal nodded. “They have more to lose if something goes wrong.”
“Couldn’t a healer do the same thing?”
“Most healers can’t sense as deeply into plants and solid materials. Those that can are usually the best healers and don’t need to travel from grower to grower to grower.”
“Do blacks do other things as well?”
“Most do. I once knew a cabinet maker. He could sense the wood, and he was good with his hands. I can sense the woods, but I’m not that good with my hands. Meldryn is an excellent baker as well as a black, and his sense of order is part of what makes his breads and pastries good enough that people will pay a bit more for what he bakes. That’s why he runs a small bakery next to our dwelling. Well, it’s really part of it, and it’s not so small anymore.” Athaal stopped to let an older woman leading a donkey cart pass, then turned toward the narrow street to which he had earlier pointed.
The cobblestone pavement of the street was rough and uneven with even occasional small potholes and ran from building wall to building wall with nothing resembling a sidewalk. It was also fairly steep, which had Beltur wondering just what the streets or avenues going up the taller hills were like. The next three blocks felt like six. When Athaal turned left onto Bakers Lane, marked as such by a crude picture of a loaf of bread painted on the wall of a building that had no marking and could have been used for anything, Beltur took a long slow breath, relieved that the incline of the lane was much gentler. As he exhaled, he realized that Elparta wasn’t as “fragrant” as Fenard, with a much greater share of less unpleasant odors.
Almost a kay later, Athaal declared, “There’s our place,” pointing ahead to a corner dwelling, one with two doors. Over the left doorway, the one stained a warm golden brown, was a signboard on which was the painted image of two long loaves of bread, crossed. The right doorway was more somber, a very dark brown. Athaal walked more quickly toward the darker doorway, where he stopped.
Beltur sensed how the black mage used order to manipulate the order block on the inside of the door to release the latch bolt. Then he opened the door and stepped inside. “Meldryn! I’m home!” He wiped his boots carefully on the heavy cloth mat.
Beltur followed gingerly, closing the door behind himself, and also wiping his boots. The odor of baked bread and other goods immediately surrounded him, although the strong scent was different. It took him a moment to realize that there was not even a hint of a burned crust or the like, and that the entire dwelling had a peaceful feeling.
“I’ll be there in a moment. After I get the pies out.” The speaker’s voice was mellow, but powerful.
Beltur took a longer survey of where he stood, a small entry area perhaps two yards wide and not quite that deep. A single heavy black cloak hung from one of the long and sturdy wooden pegs set in a hanging board on the wall that would be behind the door when it opened. The entry hall floor was not wood or stone, but a dark gray tile, mortared in place. Beyond the archway leading from the entry was a narrow oak-floored hallway heading straight back, off which were archways on both left and right. From what Beltur could see and sense, the archway on the right opened onto a larger room, perhaps a parlor, while the one to the left fronted another narrow hall—most likely to the bakery, surmised Beltur.
“Just put the satchel against the wall there for now. Under the cloak.” Athaal walked into the parlor and set the bolts of cloth across an armchair, then eased off his heavy pack and set it on the floor beside the chair.
After putting down the satchel, Beltur remained in the hall, uncertain of where to go. He was still considering what he should do when he heard footsteps coming down the hall from the direction of the bakery. He also sensed a presence filled with order—definitely a black mage.
The gray-haired man in black who emerged from the narrow side hall wrapped Athaal in a full-body embrace that was clearly warm and more than just casually affectionate, if but for a moment, before stepping back and saying, “And your friend here?”
“Meldryn, this is Beltur. You might recall my mentioning the white mage Kaerylt? Beltur is his nephew. They both ran afoul of Wyath and his crew. Beltur managed to escape to Margrena’s, but his life would be forfeit if he remained in Gallos. Oh … we might be seeing Margrena and her daughter in a few eightdays. She’s planning to go to Kleth, I think.”
Meldryn offered a puzzled expression. “Not here? Is her sister going to Kleth, too?”
“Margrena’s sister Grenara? I doubt it.”
“Then why…” Meldryn shook his head. “Sisters. They’re either inseparable or can only tolerate each other for a short time.”
“Some brothers are like that as well.”
The older mage nodded knowingly, then said, “I hadn’t expected you for another few days at the most.”
“With Beltur’s need to leave Fenard and the unpredictability of Wyath, I thought remaining would be less than perfectly wise.”
“Then it’s good you’re both here now. I do happen to have some meat pies I didn’t sell and a few other things. It might take a little bit before I’m finished in the bakery.”
“I did get the cloth, two full bolts … and some of the spices, and some good beeswax tapers, at a very good price.”
“Excellent! Excellent.”
“While you’re finishing up,” said Athaal, “we’ll put things away. The small bedroom?”
“It’s ready. I had a feeling you might bring someone, but I thought it might be Waensyn.”
Athaal shook his head. “He thinks I worry too much. He says Wyath doesn’t want problems with the blacks. I couldn’t persuade him.” There was a pause. “I can’t say I tried very hard after talking to him a while.”
“And you could Margrena?”
“Beltur and his uncle were friends of hers, and Kaerylt was one of the more powerful whites who wasn’t a favorite of Wyath. I think seeing how Wyath turned on even whites who weren’t slavish in their devotion … I told Margrena to make sure Waensyn understood that. Maybe he’ll listen to her. He just dismissed my concerns.” Athaal smiled ruefully. “You’d better get back to your pies. We’ll be fine. Laranya’s left for the day, I take it.”
“There wasn’t any reason for her to stay. I didn’t think you’d be back today, and everything’s clean. Her son…” Meldryn shook his head. “I keep doing what I can.” After a warm smile at Athaal, he turned and headed back toward the bakery.
“He’s not open this late, is he?” asked Beltur, when he really wanted to ask something about Laranya, although he hoped her position with the two would become clear if he just listened.
“No, but the space in the bakery is limited, and his fruit pies will keep for days. So he makes them the afternoon before so that he can work on the bread in the morning. Bring the satchel into the kitchen, if you would.” Athaal picked up his pack.
Beltur recovered the satchel and followed Athaal past the narrow staircase leading to the upper level. Past the staircase and just before the archway into the kitchen was a half-open door to the left. The long narrow room held very little except two sideboards and a long trestle table of oiled dark oak and two backed benches on each side.
Athaal gestured. “That’s the dining room. We don’t use it much, except when some of the blacks come over here for a dinner gathering … or when we host some of
the healers. We usually eat in the kitchen. It’s easier.”
“Do you do healing?”
“Not if we can help it. Laranya’s son … he just doesn’t have enough natural order in his system. The healers can’t do anything about that, except add a little order. We can do that … for now, but he’ll need more as he grows, and…” This time Athaal shook his head and set his pack on the kitchen worktable. “If you’d hand me the spices from the satchel…”
In only a few moments, Beltur had handed Athaal all the items he wanted, and he was again following the black mage, this time up the narrow staircase that climbed halfway to the upper level before reaching a landing and then going to the right.
Just to the left at the top of the staircase was a short and very narrow hallway that Athaal took, opening the door to a small chamber with a narrow bed, a writing table, and a chest, and a wall board with pegs for garments. The single narrow window looked out on Bakers Lane.
“This is where you’ll stay for now. It might take you a while to learn what else you need in the way of order and to get settled into Elparta, but you can stay here as long as you need to.”
Beltur understood. So long as he was learning, progressing, and working, he was welcome. “I can cook. I’ve been doing that for years for Uncle and Sydon.” And other domestic chores as well.
“There are times when that would be most helpful. In the next day or so we’ll need to get you another set of dark grays. Otherwise you’ll wear those out in eightdays. The washroom’s at the other end of the hall. There’s a chamber pot under the table. I’ll show you where you’ll need to dump it into the sewer. The nearest clean fountain is only a block away, farther north on the lane…”
The Mongrel Mage Page 21