The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I’m afraid not, Doraal. Beltur’s a mage in his own right, but he’s never dealt with growing things in a magely way. He’s a city mage from Fenard.”

  “You’ll find things a mite bit different here,” the grower said to Beltur.

  “Much more pleasant so far.” Beltur smiled.

  “It’s good to hear that.” Doraal looked to Athaal. “We might as well start with the pearapples. I’ve noticed some lumps in the bark on a few of the trees, but you ought to look at them all.”

  The three walked west to the far side of the pearapple orchard, where Athaal studied the first tree for a time, as did Beltur, before he moved to the second, then the third. At the fourth, the black mage stopped and circled the tree. Beltur thought he sensed what Athaal did, an off-chaos patch under the bark of a small branch.

  “There’s some rot or something under the bark here.” Athaal used the narrow cupridium knife once more to point.

  “How big is it?” asked Doraal.

  “About thumb-tip size.”

  “Can you do anything so I don’t have to prune the whole branch?”

  “A bit of free chaos surrounded by order might work. Beltur could do that. It also might create a canker in a few weeks.”

  Doraal looked to Beltur. “Try it. I can always prune it.”

  Beltur spent several moments sensing what he sensed as a twisted chaos within the branch, then eased a tiny bit of free chaos down an order-tube into the rot, which he immediately surrounded with order, holding the containment until he could feel no twisted chaos. Then he eased the free chaos out and let it disperse to the air.

  He took a deep breath. “It’s done.”

  Doraal looked to Athaal.

  “The rot is gone. The question is whether the tree heals normally or with a canker. The rot hadn’t touched the underside of the bark.”

  “You don’t much like using chaos, either, do you?” Doraal asked Beltur.

  “I can handle small amounts surrounded with order. I really wouldn’t want to try using large amounts, even using order.”

  The grower nodded.

  After the mages stepped back, Doraal reached up and tied a length of brownish wool yarn loosely around the branch, over the spot that Athaal had marked.

  After inspecting another half-score trees, Athaal stopped again. “Is this one of the ones you worried about?”

  “No. Why?”

  “There’s a pretty large canker on the shielded side of that branch up there, and if it gets much larger it could affect the trunk underneath.”

  “Let me see.” Saw in hand, the wiry grower climbed up and studied the branch. “Right as rain you are. I’ll prune it. You can do what you can after that.”

  In what seemed like moments, the grower had finished sawing through the branch and was lowering it. Athaal took it and eased it onto the ground, then waited for Doraal to descend before concentrating and applying just a small amount of free order to the cut stump of the branch.

  “I’ll coat that with pitch after we finish,” said Doraal.

  Although there were far fewer trees than potato plants, it took much longer to deal with each of the remaining trees, in both orchards, another three of which required some pruning, with the result that close to two glasses had passed by the time the three once more stood on the stone-paved lane in front of the cottage.

  There Doraal handed two coins to Athaal, both silvers, Beltur sensed, and said, “I’ll start picking the pearapples in two eightdays. Sometime a few days after that?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “I’ll see you then.” After a friendly smile, the grower turned and headed for the pearapple orchard, presumably to collect the pruned branches.

  Athaal stretched and took a deep breath, then began to walk toward the road.

  Beltur scrambled to follow, asking as he drew abreast of the black mage, “There won’t be more cankers in just two weeks, will there?”

  “No. There shouldn’t be. He wants me—or us—to make sure there’s no chaos inside the pearapples. He charges more for them, and he doesn’t want complaints that they spoil too soon.”

  “How did that canker, the one you found, get so large without your sensing it earlier?”

  “Sometimes, the cankers grow for a time without chaos. If they’re in a place like that one was, you can’t always see them. Even Doraal didn’t know about it, and I can’t physically climb every tree and inspect every branch. Then, over just a week or two, there’s a lot of chaos.”

  “So that’s why he has you come regularly.”

  “It is. It’s also why everyone wants his apples and will pay more for them.”

  “Why did you have me use the chaos? It only took a tiny bit.”

  “Even tiny bits of chaos make me uneasy. That’s why I’ll never be a great mage. Doraal knows I won’t use chaos, but he wouldn’t have let you do it without my suggesting it.”

  That made sense to Beltur. “Where are we going next?”

  “To look at some bean fields. Green beans, not dry beans. Bush beans.”

  Bush beans? Is there any other kind? Once more Beltur followed.

  By the time Beltur had trudged back to Bakers Lane at close to fifth glass of the afternoon, his calves ached, he was once more sweaty, despite the fact that Elparta was considerably cooler than Fenard, and he’d learned more about growing in one afternoon than he’d known in his entire life. He’d also learned to sense three kinds of blight, apple and pearapple canker and rot, and the signs of plants that had received too much water, among other things that he couldn’t immediately remember.

  From five growers, in addition to Doraal, Athaal had received, from what Beltur had glimpsed, slightly more than four silvers, certainly a more than respectable amount for a day’s work. But a very hard day’s work.

  After washing up, Beltur sank onto, as much as sat down on, one of the kitchen stools across the table from the seemingly always cheerful Athaal.

  “What do you think now, Beltur?”

  “Besides the fact that you work hard? I don’t know what else to say. So far, it looks to me that I can learn to do most of what you’re doing.” That was true, but a slight understatement. Beltur suspected he could do everything he’d been shown, but he had to admit that he wouldn’t have been able to do any of it without either being instructed or having watched Athaal first. “But that’s because I got to watch you first. Without that…” Beltur shook his head.

  “Magery has two basic parts. One is the ability to handle the requisite amounts of order and chaos in the proper fashion. The second is knowing what to do, when to do it, and when not to. You have the ability to do anything I do. Right now, you don’t have the knowledge. That will come.” Athaal smiled. “You’re already more black, but whether you’ll change more … only time will tell.”

  “Am I black enough that other blacks won’t consider me a white?”

  “You were that before you got to Elparta. People might question whether you’re a black or a gray mage, but I don’t think anyone would consider you a white.” Athaal added sardonically, “I still wouldn’t recommend going back to Fenard or anywhere in Gallos.”

  Beltur laughed, if ruefully. “I’m afraid you’re right about that. Has Meldryn heard anything about what’s happening there?”

  “He hears more than you or I do, but nothing about that.”

  “Nothing about what?” asked Meldryn as he entered the kitchen carrying some meat pies on a tray.

  “About Arms-Mage Wyath and the troubles in Fenard and Gallos.”

  “Do you think the Prefect would send an army to attack Spidlar?” asked Beltur.

  “Not Spidlar—Elparta. And not just an army. A force backed with the Arms-Mage and the most powerful white mages.”

  Beltur frowned. “I thought he was more worried about the Viscount of Certis.”

  “What better way to deal with him than to propose a joint attack? The Viscount can’t really attack Spidlar unless he can destroy
Axalt or conquer Sligo, and attacking either one would cost him far too many men and gain him little in the way of golds or goods.”

  “So Denardre offers a token force with a lot of mages,” suggested Athaal, “and has the Viscount use his troopers. They come down the Passa River…”

  Meldryn nodded. “That way they don’t come far into Gallos, and there’s not much to plunder where they do.”

  “What about Passera?” asked Beltur.

  “It’s not much of a place, anymore, sad to say,” replied Meldryn. “It never really recovered after Denardre’s ancestor sacked the place because Relyn built his temple there.”

  “Relyn?” Beltur turned to Athaal. “Was he the one who started the worship of the black temples, the one you said never gave his name to many?”

  “That was the name he used … when he used one. No one really knows if that was his name. He ended up in Axalt, and no one wanted to attack a mountain fortress to get just one man.”

  “If he left Gallos so long ago, why did Wyath need to destroy the ruins of the temple?”

  “Because they were so ordered that blacks came from all over Candar to see them and learn from them,” replied Meldryn. “I suspect that was an excuse. I’d wager that Wyath used the destruction to learn how to use chaos to fragment order. That would enable his white mages to break through any shields black mages might raise against them.”

  “Do you think they did?”

  “I’d be doubtful,” said Meldryn, “but you never know.”

  “Do you think the blacks in Gallos will come here or go somewhere else?” asked Beltur.

  “As in all things, that depends on the individual,” replied Meldryn. “Some wouldn’t come here because it gets too cold in winter. On the other hand, neither the Viscount of Certis nor the Duke of Hydlen is particularly trustworthy. Montgren and Lydiar are hard to reach from Fenard, as is Suthya, and it takes a particular … temperament … to feel comfortable in Sarronnyn.”

  “How gently you put that,” commented Athaal, grinning.

  “It’s true enough. How about some dinner?”

  “That’s an excellent idea.” Athaal rose and moved toward the cupboard that held the platters, plates, and mugs.

  “How did the day go?” asked Meldryn, following him.

  “Well. We brought in four silvers and two coppers, but two of the silvers were from Doraal, and he won’t need us for another two eightdays, and there are only four other orchards that we’ll need to visit over the next eightday or so.”

  “Was it useful for you, Beltur?” asked Meldryn.

  “Very useful. It’s also clear that I have a great deal to learn.” Beltur followed the two and got three mugs.

  “That’s true of all of us, all the time. The only question is whether we realize it.” Meldryn set a small meat pie on each of the plates that Athaal had set on the worktable. “If you’d pour the ale, Beltur, since you have the mugs.”

  Beltur did, carefully, then set the mugs on the table, thinking how good the meat pies looked. He seated himself with the others, and just hoped that the crust wasn’t as tough as most, but even if it happened to be, he was still eating well, and far better than he had in Fenard.

  XXV

  Over the next eightday, Beltur followed largely the same pattern each day—rise, wash, dress, eat, and then accompany Athaal as he made his rounds through the fields and orchards and small hamlets to the north of Elparta. Amid all the various chores along the way, he did find a copper razor in a small hamlet to the northwest of Elparta and, with his remaining coins and a silver that he borrowed from Athaal, he purchased it. Getting rid of the scraggly reddish-brown beard made him feel much better. Athaal also presented him with some garments, slightly worn, but not obviously, which were also dark gray and were only a trace roomier than what might have been ideal.

  On fourday morning, as Beltur and Athaal once more set out, this time to inspect some gristmills set along a stream that flowed into the River Gallos a kay or so north of Elparta, Beltur realized, if belatedly, that already more than half of harvest season had passed. He didn’t recall time passing that quickly in Fenard.

  You weren’t working that hard in Fenard … or at least not until the journey to Analeria.

  This time, they left the city by the north river gate and walked along the river road, first past the piers on the north side of the wall, and then past shorter piers with warehouses at their shore ends.

  “Have you ever been inside a mill?” asked Athaal.

  “No,” admitted Beltur.

  “Then just observe, and don’t touch anything or get close to the wheels and gears. Men have been killed when their clothing or hair got caught in the gears.”

  The first mill was set in a small square timbered building that had seen far too many winters without proper oiling of its plank walls. The waterwheel at the side of the building was not all that large, looking to be some three yards across, and was fed by a narrow millrace.

  “That’s Fhawal’s. It used to be a gristmill, but it wasn’t that good, not with a small undershot wheel and a narrow millrace. So Fhawal turned it into a fulling mill. He’s not the best fuller, but he’s the cheapest.”

  “We’re not going there, then?”

  “No. If he can’t do it himself, it doesn’t get done.”

  The two crossed the bridge over the millrace and then turned east and began to walk up a slight rise toward a much larger stone building, one that looked to have been partly dug into the hillside. Beltur didn’t see a waterwheel, although a millrace entered the east side of the building, and what looked to be a tailrace flowed from the bottom of the west side that angled into the stream ahead.

  “That’s Hohdol’s gristmill, and we will stop there.”

  “Is the waterwheel inside?” Beltur had always assumed waterwheels were on the outside of buildings, but if water entered the building and then left it, where else could the wheel be?

  “It is. That way he can use the mill except in the very depths of winter. That’s when the snows are yards deep and the river freezes over. He claims the wheel will last longer between repairs.” Athaal laughed quietly. “Waterwheels are solid. Only his sons may know if he’s right.”

  After they walked over the road bridge that crossed the tailrace, Athaal and Beltur took the uphill lane to an entrance on the mill’s upper level. Just beyond the entrance was a loading dock, although no wagon was there. The mill door was closed, but a roaring sound still came through the heavy oak door. Athaal pounded on the door, then opened it and stepped inside.

  A youth looked at Athaal, then Beltur, before saying in a loud voice, “Honored mages, I’ll tell Father you are here.” He turned and hurried around the curved wood enclosure above which was what looked to be an inverted pyramid with a sloped chute leading from it in the direction of the loading dock. On the far side of the enclosure and pyramid stood a bearded man whose faded shirt and trousers were liberally coated with white powder.

  Flour, thought Beltur.

  The youth was telling his father something, but Beltur couldn’t hear a single word. The miller spoke to his son.

  After that, the youth hurried back to Athaal. “You’ll have to wait until he finishes this run, sers.”

  “We’ll wait.” Athaal turned to Beltur. “I might as well tell you how this works before we start trying to sense anything that might be about to go wrong. The millstones are inside the wooden box. The upper stone is the one that moves. It’s the runner stone. Both stones have a pattern of grooves—they’re called furrows. The grain goes from the hopper there into an eye in the middle of the runner stone…”

  Beltur listened intently, watching where Athaal pointed as he described how the mill worked, ending up with, “That’s just a brief description, but you should get the idea.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Any weaknesses in the gears, belts, or the wheel.”

  “What about the millstones?”

  “They�
�re stone. They should last a long time. Now … I’m going to see what I can find. It wouldn’t hurt for you to try as well.”

  Not knowing where might be the best place to begin, Beltur let his senses follow the grain from the chute to the hopper and into the millstones … except there was something there, something with the upper stone. It wasn’t chaos, but more like something that wasn’t as ordered as it should be. Yet how could he tell where it was with the millstone turning as fast as it did?

  For the moment, he couldn’t do anything.

  Next he began to trace things back from the rapidly spinning shaft that turned the runner stone, and the gears beneath that that changed the modest speed of the waterwheel into the rapid turning of the millstones, and the belts that did various other things. He didn’t sense any destructive chaos, although there were certainly places of heat chaos. There was one place where he thought that heat chaos on one of the belts was possibly too high, but only because it was higher than anywhere else, and he’d have to ask Athaal about that.

  He also marveled at the complexity of the mill. Even after Athaal’s explanation he doubted he understood more than the basic idea, if that. Slowly, he drew his senses back to himself, only to find Athaal looking at him.

  “Did you sense anything?”

  “I did, but I don’t know how much of the heat chaos is normal and what might not be…” Beltur offered a shrug that he hoped conveyed ignorance.

  “Where was there the most heat chaos?”

  “The belt—it must be leather—that turns the wheel that shakes the flour in the flour hopper. It seemed too hot to me.”

  Athaal nodded. “I felt that, too. Anything else?”

  “There’s something about the top millstone, the one that spins. It’s not chaos, but it bothers me. It moves so fast that I can’t really tell more.”

  “When he shuts the water gate and the mill stops, we can look at that more closely.”

  Beltur wasn’t certain, but he thought that a good half glass must have passed before the mill began to slow. Then, the only sound was water flowing down the back of the waterwheel to the tail and out to the tailrace.