The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  After Athaal’s explanation’s and while he was putting away his gear, Beltur washed up and then went down to the kitchen to wait. Almost a glass later, the three sat around the kitchen table, finishing off one of Meldryn’s large meat pies, accompanied by a moderately dark ale that thankfully wasn’t bitter.

  “This is the best meat pie I’ve ever eaten.” Beltur wasn’t shading the truth in the slightest.

  “That’s one reason why we could afford this place,” said Athaal. “People come from all over Elparta to buy what Meldryn bakes.”

  “It’s not just that,” the older mage added. “Being able to sense how good the ingredients are and what to buy means we waste less.”

  That was something Beltur hadn’t even thought about. “You still have to be a very good baker.”

  “Well put,” said Athaal with a laugh. “Meldryn doesn’t like to admit that he’s the best.”

  “I’m good. So are others.”

  “See what I mean?” Athaal grinned.

  “Enough,” replied Meldryn genially. “Do you have any particular skills, Beltur?”

  “Such as crafting, or the like? I fear not, ser. I’m good with shields and concealments. I can cook some, and I can clean fairly well.”

  “Hmmmm.” The older mage frowned for a moment. “How far can you sense order and chaos?”

  “In open spaces, perhaps two kays. In a town or city, it’s much less.”

  “A block?”

  “Three or four, depending on how many people are around.”

  “It sounds like your uncle really didn’t know what to do with you. What exactly did he do?”

  “Whatever brought in coins. Sometimes he worked for the Prefect. That paid the best. The last thing he did was go to Analeria to find out why so many women were leaving the herders and going to Westwind or elsewhere.”

  “Did he find out?”

  “Not exactly. He found out that several towns had made agreements with the grassland herders. That meant the herders could trade with them and not raid them, but then the herders raided other towns farther inside Analeria. He didn’t find any sign that women were leaving. The Prefect wasn’t pleased. That may have been one reason why Wyath and the other mages attacked us.”

  “Sounds like an honest man, if not terribly wise in reporting what a ruler doesn’t want to hear.”

  “He didn’t have much choice. The Prefect wanted to see him before he paid him.”

  “He could have left Fenard.”

  “I don’t think he had any idea that our lives were in danger. Not until we were in the palace and on the way to the audience chamber.”

  “There’s more to that, isn’t there?”

  “There is, ser. Uncle, his assistant Sydon, and I were all summoned, but while we were waiting, the Arms-Mage summoned Sydon…” Beltur went on to explain what happened after that.

  When Beltur finished, Meldryn nodded. “It sounds like treachery to me. Was Sydon surprised? Was there any deception on his part?”

  “No, ser. He was honestly afraid he’d done something wrong. I could sense that.”

  “What do you sense with me? Right now?

  The question took Beltur totally off-guard. For a moment, he could say nothing. Then he just tried to sort out what he sensed. Finally, he said, “Outside of the inside, you’re almost all black, but there’s a fuzzy patch, and that usually means someone’s confused or puzzled. Maybe skeptical. You’ve also got tiny chaos flecks in your hands and fingers, not quite like wound flux and not like the red flux—”

  “That’s enough.” Meldryn laughed, not quite humorously. “That’s more than many healers can sense, yet…” He shook his head. “How did your uncle take to your trending toward the black?”

  Beltur could sense a greater concern. “He kept trying to insist that I could be the perfect white. I never had that talent. It was only when I really started to use order that I developed strong shields.”

  “You still have strong traces of white.”

  “That’s not surprising,” said Athaal. “He was his uncle’s ward from the time he was nine or so, as I understand.”

  “You had no other family?”

  “My mother died when I was six. All her family except Uncle Kaerylt died from the red flux years before. My father was an only child.” Beltur didn’t really want to get into the fact that his father and his uncle had barely been on speaking terms … or that his father had been an orphan fostered by a childless scrivener and his wife. Beltur could barely remember them, except that they had both been white-haired and old.

  “Was your father a mage?”

  “No, ser. He was a scrivener. That’s how Uncle got some of his books, like The Book of Ayrlyn.”

  “Your uncle has a copy of The Book of Ayrlyn?” Meldryn’s voice bore a tone of astonishment.

  “He did. I imagine Arms-Mage Wyath or one of his mages has it now.”

  Meldryn sighed. “Such a loss. They’ll likely destroy it.” He paused. “Did you read it?”

  “Yes, ser. Several times.”

  The two black mages exchanged glances, but Beltur couldn’t sense what that meant.

  “Can you handle chaos without it hurting?” asked the older black mage.

  “In small amounts, more if I use order.” That was certainly true, because Beltur had never been able to handle the quantities of chaos either his uncle or Sydon had.

  “Maybe with some of the smiths,” ventured Meldryn.

  “It’s possible. He’d likely be helpful to any metalworker. We’ll have to see,” said Athaal, looking to Beltur and adding, “We’re trying to see what magely skills you have that can be used here in Elparta.”

  “I appreciate everything you’ve done already … and how you’re trying to help me become useful and not a burden.” Beltur definitely meant those words. He looked to Athaal and added, “I’ve told Athaal already, but I’m more than willing to do anything around here, from cleaning to helping with cooking, or cooking if you don’t feel up to it.”

  “You did that for your uncle?”

  “I did. I’m obviously not the cook you are, but…”

  “There are times when that would help.” Meldryn smiled. “I did make a small berry pie that isn’t quite what I’d like to sell. It’s somehow got lopsided, but I’m certain it will taste good.”

  Beltur had no doubts that it would, and for the next little while he would enjoy himself.

  XXIV

  “I thought that the best way for you to get used to Elparta would be to accompany me for a while, perhaps an eightday or so.” Those had almost been Athaal’s first words to Beltur on twoday morning at breakfast, another solid meal of egg toast, sliced pearapples, bread, and mixed berry conserve, prepared by Athaal, since Meldryn had been up for glasses and the pleasant scents of baked goods already suffused the entire dwelling.

  Less than a glass later, well before seventh glass, Athaal and Beltur were walking north on Bakers Lane, which already had more people and carts on it than Beltur had ever seen on Nothing Lane. But then, again, there had been a reason everyone called it Nothing Lane.

  “We’ll be going to a number of growers today.”

  “How many is a number?” asked Beltur lightly.

  “As many as we can before we’re too tired to do what has to be done.” Athaal gestured to yet another bakery. “That belongs to Ghramont. He bakes in the style of Axalt, and the one on the far side, that’s Chezryk. He does Suthyan breads and cakes mostly. Up ahead, the place with the maroon shutters, that’s Moonal, and he does Sligan cream cakes and all kinds of sweets, too rich for me most of the time, but folks love them…”

  As they walked Athaal gave a little background on each of the bakers or bakeries, as well as for the few shops that sold other goods, but paused two blocks later, saying, “Here’s where the bakers end. After this, it’s mostly just dwellings. I know some of them, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Beltur lost count of the blocks they traveled, becau
se he was trying to take in everything that Athaal was telling him, but they had walked close to a score when they turned west for two blocks before reaching the River Boulevard where, two blocks to the north, Beltur could see another gate in the tall city wall. Less than a hundred yards beyond the northern wall and the city gates, where a single blue-clad trooper stood guard, looking slightly bored, Athaal immediately turned east on a well-packed clay road.

  “Just another kay or so.”

  “Do you walk this much every day?” asked Beltur.

  “We’ve scarcely started,” replied Athaal with a smile.

  “You haven’t thought about having a horse?”

  “Horses are costly. We’d also have to pay to stable a horse and feed it, and buy the tack, and pay for a farrier. Those are coins we really don’t have, and it wouldn’t save that much time.”

  Beltur was sorry he’d asked.

  By the time they walked up to a modest one-story stone dwelling set before fields with rows of dark green-leaved low plants, Beltur was beginning to see why the stocky but muscular Athaal didn’t have any weight on his frame except muscle and bone.

  An angular man with rust-red hair and beard, looking to be ten years older than Beltur, walked from a shed beside the house toward the two, smiling warmly and carrying a large empty sack. “I see you’re back, Mage. I’m glad to see you. We had a heavy rain the other day.”

  “Have you seen any sign of blight?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve got a feeling it might be lurking in places.”

  “We’ll have to see. Haestyl, this is Beltur. He’ll be working with me for a while. He’s a mage, but he hasn’t worked much with plants and would like to learn more.”

  Haestyl looked from Beltur to Athaal and grinned broadly. “That’s fine with me just so long as you don’t charge double.”

  “While he’s learning you get two for one. When he’s learned enough, he’ll be on his own. Just the potato fields?”

  The grower nodded, then turned and walked toward the edge of the field east of the house. Athaal and Beltur followed Haestyl to the southeast corner, less than five yards from the low stone wall that lay an equal distance from the road.

  There Athaal turned to Beltur. “We’re looking for the early signs of potato blight. The blight creates a kind of plant wound chaos. If I find any, I’ll point it out. Once you’re familiar with what to look for, it’s not that hard to sense.”

  Beltur certainly hoped so, but he still wondered if he’d be able to do what Athaal seemed to think that he could.

  Athaal began to walk along the easternmost row of plants, taking a step and pausing, then another one and pausing. Although Beltur had no idea exactly what he was trying to sense, he followed Athaal’s example, while trying to sense any unusual patterns of chaos in or near the plants. He could easily sense specks of free chaos and order, as well as the faint pattern of order and chaos in each plant. The three had gone almost fifty yards down the first row when, ahead, Beltur thought there was the slightest difference in one plant, almost the tiniest shading of the “cool” red of living chaos toward the orange, but he wasn’t sure.

  Except that Athaal stopped and bent down to examine that very plant. The black mage nodded. “The first hints of blight.” He pointed. “You see those tiny brown spots on the leaf. There’s even a hint of yellow around that one.” Athaal turned over the leaf, squinting at the underside. “Good. There’s none of that white fuzz there.” He looked to Beltur.

  “There’s a hint of orange to the regular cool red of living chaos,” Beltur said. “At least, that’s the way it feels to me.”

  “Do you sense it anywhere else?”

  “There’s a tiny point of it on the next leaf.” Beltur started to touch the leaf.

  “Don’t touch the spots. You can spread it.” Athaal stepped back, as did Beltur.

  “Which two?” asked Haestyl.

  Athaal pointed with his belt knife, which was almost a silvery copper in color, actually touching each leaf.

  Beltur frowned. If he couldn’t touch them …

  “The blight doesn’t like copper or cupridium,” explained the black mage, who then looked to the grower.

  Cupridium? Athaal actually had a cupridium knife?

  “… That’s the only plant that shows signs here,” continued Athaal. “The ones nearest in the next row don’t either. We got this one early.”

  “What about the tubers in the ground?”

  “There’s no trace of the potato chaos there.”

  The grower nodded, then bent and cut off all the foliage, which he carefully placed in the large cloth bag he carried.

  “He’ll burn all the chaos-tinged plants,” explained Athaal. “Otherwise, little flakes of that chaos will get on the other plants and spread. There might be some too small to sense.”

  “It’s like a flux with people?”

  Athaal nodded. “Very much like it, except it spreads even faster. We can talk about it on the walk to the next grower. Right now, we just need to concentrate on finding any blight chaos.”

  Beltur could also sense that Athaal wasn’t exactly comfortable with what he’d said, although the other mage also wasn’t lying, which meant there were things he didn’t want to reveal in front of the grower.

  Almost a glass later, the two mages stood with Haestyl in front of his dwelling. In the entire field they’d only found three plants with signs of the blight, one plant in the first row, and two, side by side in the last row.

  “I thank you, Mages.” Haestyl extended several coins.

  Athaal took them and nodded. “We thank you.”

  Once they left Haestyl, Beltur couldn’t resist asking, “That’s actually a cupridium knife? I didn’t know … I mean, I thought no one forged cupridium anymore, not since Cyador fell.”

  “It is. My father gave it to me when he learned I was a mage. He picked it up somewhere on one of his voyages.”

  “Was he a trader or a ship’s officer?”

  “He was a captain.” Beltur paused. “His ship vanished on a voyage back from Hamor eight years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “There was no reason you should.” Athaal smiled. “Meldryn says the knife’s the most valuable thing in the house. It might date back to Cyad, but there’s no way of telling.” He paused. “It’s also useful in dealing with the blight and other chaos-fluxes … as you saw.”

  Beltur nodded.

  Athaal continued eastward, past the woodlot adjoining the potato field. “This year hasn’t been too bad. The rain he got last eightday couldn’t have been that heavy, and it wasn’t too damp or too warm. I wouldn’t have wanted to go to Fenard if it had been truly hot and wet.”

  “But you were worried that the way the Prefect was dealing with mages you might not have been able to go later?” That was a guess on Beltur’s part.

  “That’s right.”

  “You were going to tell me something…”

  “Oh … yes. I was afraid you’d ask about using order on the plants. That’s not a good idea.”

  “Because it’s like using free order for healing?”

  Athaal nodded. “Also, a mage’s order isn’t quite so strange to a plant as free order, but it doesn’t always work, and there’s the problem that if the blight’s bad, there might be ten or fifteen plants in a field that have it, and you may have to do ten fields in a day, sometimes more. It may not seem like much, but after a few days you’d need a healer or a good long rest. Sensing for blight once or twice isn’t that hard, but making sure you sense every cubit of ground for it—that’s hard. It’s also important, because the blight can spread quickly once it’s easy to see. Then it’s hard to keep it from destroying a good portion of the field. Our job is to catch it before it can spread. Once there’s fuzz on the undersides of the leaves, the grower will likely lose a lot of plants and potatoes. Now, the next stop is an orchard. Well … two orchards owned by the same grower. One’s apples, and the other
is pearapples.”

  “What are we looking for there?”

  “At this time of year, cankers, mainly. Doraal takes good care of his trees so we’ll not see fire blight and scabbing usually only happens in the spring or late fall. We’re really just going to sense if there are bark cankers that were so small earlier that they didn’t show chaos then. Most growers won’t bother with having me look this time of year, but Doraal is more careful.”

  Past the woodlot was hedgerow that not only fronted the road for perhaps four hundred yards, but apparently also ran back at least several hundred yards. “You couldn’t tell it, but there’s a fine pasture within that hedgerow. Doraal owns that as well. He has some fine dairy cows, but they’re for the cheeses he and his family make.”

  Past the hedgerow was an orchard, bounded in front by a well-kept stone wall.

  “All the stone walls…?” Beltur offered.

  “Most of the land here grows stones as well as crops. The winters are cold and snowy, and when the snow melts and the mud dries, well, there are always more rocks in the fields and pastures. They do make good fences, though.”

  Beltur had to look several times at the orchard before he realized that the trees were pearapples, but only because he recognized the fruit. He’d actually never seen a pearapple tree, but then he’d never been far from Fenard before the journey to Analeria, and most of Gallos was too hot for growing pearapples. He’d only seen a few in his life. Past where the orchard wall ended was a long lane paved with flat stones of various shapes, leading back to a thatched stone cottage some fifty yards back from the road.

  Athaal stepped onto the lane and walked perhaps ten yards toward the cottage before stopping. “We’ll wait here. It won’t be long.”

  Beltur was about to ask how Athaal knew that when the door to the cottage opened and a short and wiry white-haired man strode toward the mages, his steps light, almost as if he had once been a dancer or the like. The grower carried a short saw, the like of which Beltur had never seen, with fine teeth and a very narrow blade. “Athaal, an apprentice after all these years?”