The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The miller walked around the millstone apparatus. “What brings you here, Mage? And your friend?”

  “It’s been a while, Hohdol, but you did tell me to stop by in mid-harvest. Beltur’s a city mage who decided that Fenard wasn’t the safest place for him.”

  “What I hear, it’s not safe for many anymore. I did tell you to come mid-harvest. That I did.” The miller was almost shouting, perhaps out of habit to be heard above the roaring of the mill, or perhaps because years of milling had dulled his hearing. “You looked to be maging or whatever you call it. What did you find? Shouldn’t be finding much. She’s running sweet.”

  “You might check the belt running the flour-collection-bin sifter. It’s running hotter than I recall.”

  “Aye. I wondered about that myself. Didn’t smell quite right.”

  Beltur abruptly forced himself to concentrate on the runner stone, now stationary. There was definitely an odd-shaped section of the stone that felt … all he could think was that it lacked the order that the rest of that millstone had, or that the bed stone had.

  “What is it, Beltur?” asked Athaal.

  “There’s something not quite the way it should be with a part of the runner stone. It doesn’t have the same order that the rest of the stone has, or that the bed stone does. It’s different, not as strong. It might … break?”

  “The runner stone is iron-bound, and that’s inside a wooden collar,” declared Hohdol.

  “I don’t think the stone is going to break apart,” said Beltur. “There’s a chunk that might come loose. Or flake off. Something.”

  “There’s no way that can happen,” declared the miller. “Stones wear out. They can break if they’re dropped, but they don’t break from just milling. These are special stones. They were mined in Hrisbarg and shipped from Lydiar.”

  “Beltur…” offered Athaal. “Can you go over there and point to where this might be?”

  Beltur nodded and walked over to the millstones, going a third of the way around. “Under here. An area bigger than a spread hand. There’s no chaos, but there’s a lot less order there. I don’t know what that means. I just know that it’s not the same.”

  Athaal was clearly concentrating. Then he frowned. “There is something there.” He looked to Hohdol. “It might not be anything, but there’s a section of the runner stone that’s weaker.”

  “Two mages telling me something that can’t be.” Hohdol shook his head. “But you caught the belt. Now, you’ll have me worrying, wondering what might go wrong.” He shook his head again. “Might as well look.”

  Hohdol first pulled out two pegs from the chute, then swung the hopper to the side. Next he pulled on a long rope that ran up to a pulley attached to a lever, and then back down. Each pull ratcheted the lever, which in turn raised the runner stone.

  Seeing how much effort it took to raise the runner stone, Beltur hoped he hadn’t put the miller to so much work for nothing. But there is something there … or rather something isn’t there.

  After much effort, Hohdol peered at the underside of the runner stone. “I don’t see anything.” He used a dressing pick to tap the underside of the stone.

  “Farther to the right,” suggested Beltur.

  The miller handed the pick to Beltur. “Show me.”

  Beltur used his senses to guide the pick to the edge of what appeared to be a break, then tapped it once, then twice, then moved to the other side, and tapped again.

  Abruptly, an irregular section of gray stone dropped onto the bed stone—a piece no larger than a man’s hand and spread fingers and no thicker than the width of his little finger.

  Hohdol just gaped.

  “I didn’t know if that would be a problem,” said Beltur, apologetically as he handed the dressing pick back to the miller, “but Athaal said to let you know if I sensed anything that seemed wrong.”

  “You just tapped it a little…”

  “I knew where to tap. It would have lasted a little longer. I don’t know how much longer.”

  Hohdol looked at the runner stone again. “That bastard Murdyth. That bastard. He must have cracked it when he dressed the stone. But how? That quartz is mortised in there.”

  “Was anyone with him?” asked Athaal.

  “An older-looking fellow. Said he was his cousin. Why?”

  “Someone removed the order from that section, just that section. What would have happened if that piece had dropped while the mill was running?”

  “Wouldn’t have dropped far, less than a grain’s worth, but it might have ruined the bed stone as well, gotten stone and quartz dust into an entire bin of flour. Demon spawn … doesn’t matter. Either way, I’ve got to replace both.”

  “I’m sorry,” Beltur offered. “I didn’t…”

  Hohdol shook his head. “Better that you found out. If that had happened when we were milling, no telling what else might have busted.” He looked to Athaal. “You think Murdyth had a renegade white?”

  “That’s possible, but why would he do something like that? You told me you’ve kept a spare set of stones.”

  “Most folks don’t know that. Blacks don’t tell. Didn’t worry about telling you.” The miller took a deep breath. “No sense jawing more. Nadol and I got a long day ahead of us. Wait here for a bit.”

  “He’s not happy,” said Beltur quietly after Hohdol walked toward the loading dock.

  “Would you be? A pair of stones like that costs ten golds, maybe more. And another gold to ship them here.”

  Beltur winced. “I really didn’t think it was that weak.” He paused. “Someone had to have removed that order. That wasn’t natural.”

  “No, it wasn’t. I’m going to have to have Meldryn ask around, to see if anything else like this has happened. It’s likely worse than Hohdol thinks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A millwright or dresser wouldn’t do that. Not unless he was forced to. Or compelled.”

  “That would take a very strong white,” Beltur pointed out. “I don’t think Uncle even ever tried anything like that.”

  Shortly, Hohdol returned with a cloth bag that he handed to Athaal. “There’s what’s usual for going over things, and a few coppers extra for finding that weakness. And if Murdyth ever comes back…”

  “After that, he may not,” said Athaal. “Thank you. We wish it hadn’t turned out this way.”

  “You and me both. Well … we need to replace some stones.”

  Athaal and Beltur both inclined their heads before departing.

  Once they were well away from the mill, Athaal stopped. “You get two coppers for what you did. You found what was important. I could barely sense that even when the millstone wasn’t moving.”

  Beltur thought for a moment. “Just one. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you and Meldryn taking me in and helping me. I owe you more than I can repay at the moment, but once I start earning coins, I’ll start repaying you … if that’s acceptable.”

  Athaal grinned. “That’s more black than many blacks.”

  Beltur wasn’t certain about that, but he was pleased that Athaal thought so.

  XXVI

  “Where to today?” asked Beltur as he finished the last morsels of his breakfast on sixday morning, then stood to begin cleaning up the kitchen, a task he’d taken over within days of arriving in Elparta. Cleaning up after breakfast and the evening meal was about all he could do, because Athaal and Meldryn insisted that Laranya do the rest of the house cleaning.

  “We’re doing sheep-checking,” replied Athaal. “Ewes. Kassmyn has me do this every harvest, usually just before fall, and again in the spring. He likes to know which ewes are strong enough to breed, and if any are diseased or carry some form of chaos.”

  “Do sheep show illness and weakness with order and chaos in the same way as people and horses?” Beltur carried the plates to the tin washtub.

  “All larger animals do. So do even the smallest ones, I understand. I’m going to check with Me
ldryn to see if he needs anything from Kassmyn.”

  As Beltur began to wash the plates and mugs, his mind went back over what Athaal had just said.… even the smallest ones, I understand. That suggested that it was harder to sense order-chaos patterns in smaller animals. Beltur didn’t know. He’d just assumed that was the case, but he’d never tried, except with people and horses, perhaps because he’d grown up in the city and never been near many animals, even dogs or cats. He’d simply never thought about sensing them for order and chaos.

  By the time Beltur had finished in the kitchen and washed himself up again, Athaal was ready to leave the house,

  They hadn’t walked two blocks when Beltur saw a sooty and scrawny gray cat at the edge of an alley. The moment he looked at the feline, it dashed back into the shadows, gone too quickly for Beltur to get more than a quick sense of the animal’s order-chaos balance, although it seemed to him that the order and chaos were more spread through the body, while in people order and chaos were more concentrated in the upper body and head.

  While he was trying to be more aware of small animals, it seemed that his very interest in them resulted in his seeing none, and it appeared that he had difficulty sensing animals he had not seen first. Could it be lack of experience?

  As seemed normal, the city gate guards scarcely looked at the pair of mages, and the two were well beyond the northeast city gate and headed east along the road that Beltur recalled taking the first day he had accompanied Athaal when the bells rang out seventh glass.

  “How far is this herder?”

  “A good three kays. Uphill.”

  Beltur just nodded. After almost two solid eightdays of brisk walks that totaled well over ten kays a day, three kays no longer seemed unnatural … even uphill.

  “We’re going to that part of his lands that’s closest to Elparta,” added Athaal.

  “He owns the lands he grazes?”

  “Most of them. Some he pays to graze.”

  “He must be well-off.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “The only herders I’ve encountered were in the grasslands of Analeria, and they definitely were anything but well-off.”

  “They probably lose too many animals to the grass cats.” Athaal’s words were almost dismissive.

  Somehow that bothered Beltur, even though he certainly didn’t have any reasons to defend the grassland herders, not when they had attacked him and the others. “They also hunted antelope.”

  “Most likely to eat and also to keep them from eating too much of the grass, except that would make the grass cats more likely to prey on their herds.”

  Although Athaal’s words made sense, Beltur had his doubts, but he wondered whether he should be doubting when he knew so little about herds, sheep, and the nomad herders.

  Somewhat less than a glass after leaving Elparta, Beltur turned and looked back. Although the slope had seemed gentle, they were at least several hundred yards higher than the River Gallos. He continued walking.

  Before long, Athaal pointed ahead toward an ancient hedgerow paralleling the road and also running north. “That’s the southwest corner of Kassmyn’s lands.”

  “Are they all surrounded by hedgerows?”

  “The lands here are. I don’t know about the others. The main gate’s another half kay ahead.”

  The main gate could have graced the country grounds of a wealthy trader. Two square stone gateposts, half a yard on a side, anchored the double iron-bound gates, each of heavy well-oiled oak planks, standing two yards wide and two and a half high. A stone wall ran a yard or so from each gatepost into the hedgerow, which was so thick that Beltur couldn’t tell how much farther the wall actually extended, although he doubted it was much more than a few yards. The east gate was partly open, with the end resting on a circular gate rest sawed from a tree trunk. Beyond the gate was a narrow stone-paved lane.

  “He’s expecting us.” Athaal stepped through the opening in the gate.

  Beltur followed. Once past the gate, he could see that the lane ran north for a good two hundred yards to a circular paved area in front of a two-story stone dwelling, some twenty-odd yards across the front, with a split slate roof. The house was not small by any means, but certainly not anything like homes of the larger merchants and traders in Fenard. On both sides of the lane was just pasture, or meadow.

  As they walked closer, Beltur made out several pens behind and to the north of the house, in which were sheep. The lane circled around the house to the north, toward a large barn. On the south side of the house was a garden, enclosed by a stone wall no more than a yard and a half high. For a moment, Beltur wondered at the odd height of the wall, then smiled. The last thing Kassmyn wanted was his sheep grazing in the garden, but the low wall allowed a better view. A red-haired girl stood waiting on the small stone terrace before the brass-bound main door.

  “It’s good to see you again, Mistress Mynya. You’ve grown since the spring.”

  “You always say that, Mage Athaal. Is he your apprentice?”

  “No. He’s a city mage who’s learning what I do.” Athaal half turned. “Beltur, this is Mynya, Herder Kassmyn’s youngest daughter. Mynya, this is Beltur.”

  Mynya inclined her head. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

  “And I you,” returned Beltur warmly.

  “Father is out in the back. He’s expecting you.”

  “Will you be joining us?”

  “No. I have to do my lessons.”

  After Mynya entered the house and closed the door, Beltur studied the dwelling more closely. All the windows were glazed. Those on the lower level were narrow, and all of them had heavy shutters. Those on the upper level were much wider, but were also shuttered. Beltur counted the chimneys—eight.

  “I take it that it’s cold here in winter, and the snow can be deep.”

  “Deeper some years than others, but there’s usually never less than a yard on the ground after the beginning of winter. That’s because it’s higher here. It’s warmer near the river.”

  Once they were on the north side of the house, Beltur could see a small forest or a large woodlot farther to the northeast, another hundred yards beyond the farthest sheep pen.

  Standing in front of the nearest pen, which was empty, stood a sandy-haired man wearing light gray trousers and shirt. He raised an arm and called, “You’re just about when I expected you, Athaal.”

  As they walked toward the herder and the two dogs who flanked him, both sitting alertly on their haunches, Beltur looked at the mass of black-faced sheep in the large fenced pen to the north of the empty pen. There had to be hundreds there. He paused, seeing a temporary double fence between the two pens. His eyes went to a much smaller and empty pen, and then to the dogs. The two looked almost identical, with the same glossy black coats and patches of white between their eyes and on their chests. They studied Beltur, and he reached out with his senses to them, nodding to himself as he saw the patterns of order and chaos, much the same as in people, if not quite so much of either order or chaos around their heads.

  “You brought help this time, I see,” offered the herder.

  Beltur jerked his attention back to Kassmyn.

  “Beltur, this is Herder Kassmyn. Kassmyn, Beltur is a city mage from Fenard who decided to come to Elparta for his health.”

  “Wise man, from what I’ve heard about the present prefect. Welcome to Mynholm.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kassmyn turned to Athaal. “They’re all ready.”

  “The same as always? You and the dogs will herd the weaker ones to the small pen?”

  The herder nodded.

  “Make the first few farther apart so that Beltur can see what I do.”

  “We can do that.”

  In moments Athaal and Beltur were standing on one side of the chute formed by the temporary pole fences. Beltur took a closer look at the sheep. Each one was black-faced, with grayish white wool everywhere else. A faint but definitely oily odor dr
ifted toward him on the light breeze.

  Then the first sheep headed down the fenced chute.

  “Just try to sense any off-chaos.”

  “Like wound chaos?”

  “It’s pretty much the same for sheep as people.”

  The first sheep seemed healthy enough to Beltur, and obviously, to Athaal as well, as did the next six or seven. Then another ewe appeared, and Beltur could sense something wrong with her even from several yards away. “There’s something wrong with the next one—orangish chaos in the chest and in the middle between the hindquarters.”

  Athaal frowned, but then nodded as the ewe reached him. “This one!”

  Behind them Kassmyn moved a section of the fence so that the ewe left the temporary chute, where the two dogs, following gestures from Kassmyn, herded her into the small pen where another youth, older than Mynya, but looking similar to the herder, opened the gate, and then closed it behind the ewe. Beltur didn’t have time to see exactly what gestures the herder made, but the two dogs clearly understood and acted on those gestures.

  The sheep kept coming, faster and faster, or so it seemed to Beltur, and his nose began to run, and he found himself sneezing more and more often. He didn’t keep track of the unhealthy ones, either with internal wounds or disease or with such a low level of order and chaos that he wondered how they could even trot along the chute.

  Then, after what felt like glasses, the pen at the head of the chute was empty, as was the chute.

  Beltur glanced toward the smaller pen, where there were almost ten ewes, and then up at the green-blue sky, not quite looking at the blazing white sun, but noting that it was definitely past noon, and close to first glass. They had been working as long as it had felt.

  “Time for a break,” Kassmyn called out. “You two look worn out.”

  “That’s hard work,” murmured Beltur as he stepped back from the fence.

  “Most of what people pay mages to do is,” replied Athaal quietly, turning and heading toward Kassmyn.

  Accompanied by the two children, the herder led the way back to the house and through a rear door to the kitchen, where two women were serving from a large pot set on a woodstove, and then to a room off it. “The breakfast room. It’s where we eat most of the time.” He gestured to the youth. “By the way, this is Dormyn. Dormyn, you should remember Mage Athaal. The other mage is Beltur. Just sit down. Ekatrina will be joining us in a moment.”