The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Beltur had barely seated himself when a woman almost as tall as Kassmyn appeared, wearing an apron over a tunic and trousers the same shade of gray as worn by Kassmyn and his children.

  She smiled as she slipped into the chair at the far end of the table from Kassmyn. “The food will be here in a moment or two.”

  “My consort, Ekatrina. My dear, you might remember Mage Athaal, and this is Mage Beltur.”

  “I’m pleased to see you both.” She looked back to Kassmyn.

  The grower cleared his throat, then spoke. “For order in life, in all things, and with gratitude for its bounties.”

  “For order,” repeated everyone but Beltur.

  “There!” declared Kassmyn. “Now for some ale.”

  Immediately, the serving woman appeared. All the adults received a full mug’s worth, while the children got perhaps a third of a mug. Then came the platters.

  Beltur looked down at what was on his plate, the same as on each plate—a heap of thick noodles, almost dumpling-like, covered with a dark brown sauce in which were mushrooms, carrots, and plenty of thin slices of meat. He waited until Kassmyn began to eat before he took a mouthful. While the meat was lamb or mutton, it was tender, and had a rich flavor that he couldn’t place.

  “Ekatrina makes the best pearapple mutton,” declared Kassmyn with a broad smile toward his consort.

  “And you brew the best ale,” she replied.

  Beltur realized that, preoccupied as he’d been with the meal proper and observing the family, he’d never even tasted the ale. He did so, noting as he raised his mug that the brew looked almost black. He was ready to wince at the taste, recalling just how bitter the dark ale his uncle preferred had been, only to find that the brew was smooth and rich without being either bitter or sweet. If only Uncle could have tasted this … Beltur just held the mug for a moment without speaking.

  “What do you think of the Prefect?” Kassmyn asked, looking at Beltur.

  “I wouldn’t trust him. He can hide what he feels even from accomplished mages, and Arms-Mage Wyath has been removing any white mages who won’t offer Wyath unconditional support. I heard that he was considering raising tariffs on any goods that enter or leave Gallos.”

  Kassmyn turned to Athaal. “And you?”

  “I’ve heard similar stories. We know of at least one white mage who was killed by Wyath, and I know of another who left Gallos in fear for his life.”

  The herder nodded. “That’s the problem when one man rules. There’s nothing to stop him when he starts making trouble.” He offered a mischievous smile and added, “Might say the same about one woman ruling.”

  “Except neither the Marshal nor the Tyrant ever start anything,” replied Ekatrina. “They just put an end to men’s foolishness.” She smiled back at her consort.

  Mynya smiled as well.

  “You can see that my ladies have minds of their own.”

  “As well we should,” replied Ekatrina. “How are the sheep?”

  “Looks like a few more might be chaos-tinged this year. We’ll have to see. It might also be because last winter was so hard.”

  The rest of the mealtime conversation centered on the weather.

  When everyone had finished eating and stood to leave the table, Beltur looked to Kassmyn, and then to Ekatrina. “Thank you. That was one of the best meals I’ve ever tasted.”

  “You see,” said Athaal with a grin, “Elparta has many advantages over Fenard.”

  “Every day I’m discovering that.”

  The afternoon was much like the morning, except longer, with another two full pens of sheep that required studying.

  Then, after that, Athaal and Beltur went back over each of the ewes that had been separated out, explaining to Kassmyn what they had found and where.

  In some cases, the herder just nodded, saying, “I’ve been watching this one. Knew she was getting along,” or words to that effect. In other cases, where there did not seem to be any immediate physical symptom, the grower notched an ear.

  As the three left the last small pen that had held separated ewes, Kassmyn mused, “There were close to thirty ewes that shouldn’t be bred. Last year it was more like twenty. That’s worrisome.”

  “Some were just getting old,” Athaal pointed out. “That just happens.”

  “Happens to all of us, Mage.”

  “Some of them might get better.”

  “Not many that you’ve found got better, I have to say.”

  “A few got stronger and recovered.”

  “True. I wish it had been more.”

  As the three walked back toward the main dwelling, past the sheep sheds, Beltur saw a large gray dog sitting alertly beside the door to the shed nearest to the pen that held the healthy sheep from the first sorting, in fact, a dog so large that he’d first thought it might have been a sheep. “That’s a large dog. Is it something special?”

  “He’s just a mongrel,” offered Kassmyn. “He showed up one day, barely more than a pup. I tried teaching him to work the sheep. He was hopeless. Good watchdog, though. Nothing gets close to the sheep without him letting me know. He gets along with the sheepdogs. He’s touchy with strangers, and he’s even chased off a mountain cat when I took him to the back highlands. That’s why I feed him and keep him.”

  Beltur felt that wasn’t the only reason, but he just nodded.

  Then the two waited outside the front entry while Kassmyn entered the house, only to return shortly with a small leather pouch that he handed to Athaal. “Thank you both. If I need you before mid-spring, I’ll send a messenger.”

  “We appreciate it,” replied Athaal.

  When the two mages walked away from the holding, the sun was low over the hills to the northwest, and Beltur knew it would be deep twilight by the time they reached the dwelling on Bakers Lane.

  “Is it always like this? When you do sheep, I mean?”

  “It always has been.” Athaal paused. “I think Kassmyn’s right, though. It seems to me that we’re seeing more chaos this year.”

  “Could it be because of the winter?”

  “We’ve had harder winters before.”

  “What else could be causing it?”

  “Nylan claimed that when chaos increased, order also increased. It seems to me that the other way might hold as well.”

  Beltur recalled something along those lines from The Book of Ayrlyn. Still … “But where is order increasing?”

  “It’s increasing here. We have more black mages than we’ve ever had. It might be increasing somewhere else in Candar or maybe in Austra or Nordla or even Hamor. Something has to be causing it.”

  “But wouldn’t Wyath’s killing of mages decrease the chaos?”

  “It’s not just the number of mages, but also how much order or chaos they’ve gathered and continue to hold.”

  “I thought holding too much of either wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Holding too much chaos is never a good idea if you want to live for long, but it will give you greater power over others.”

  “Which is what Wyath wants.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “What about order?”

  Athaal did not reply immediately, but Beltur kept walking without saying a word.

  Finally, Athaal said, “I don’t know. Meldryn and I have talked about it. Too much order without some chaos will kill anyone, even a mage.”

  Beltur thought about that for a time. “Then … would handling a great deal of order require some additional chaos?”

  Athaal again hesitated before replying. “No one seems to know.”

  “Has anyone tried?”

  “Gathering chaos in order to gather more order?” Athaal actually shuddered.

  “That suggests it’s dangerous.” Beltur wasn’t so sure of that, but, given his own limited experience, he wasn’t about to say so.

  “Very dangerous. I wouldn’t want to try it. Neither would Meldryn.”

  “Do you think that any mage who
tried that would show a different pattern of order and chaos? I mean one that we could easily sense?”

  “I’d think they’d have to. Animals have a different pattern, and people do, depending on how attuned they are to order or chaos. We can certainly sense concentrations of order or chaos.”

  Beltur immediately wondered what the differences would be between a truly powerful white mage and a black mage of equal power, besides the fact that one would concentrate chaos and the other order. Would they be mirror images of each other, or would they come to resemble each other?

  “Anyway,” said Athaal, “I don’t think that’s something we’ll need to worry about. What did you learn today?”

  “I’ve got a much better feel for the patterns of order and chaos in animals, larger ones, anyway.” Thanks to both the sheep and the dogs. There were also a few other things he needed to think over as well, such as the fact that he seemed able to discern “unnatural” chaos, at least in small bits, from a greater distance than Athaal. Was that just because he had been trained as a white? Or for some other reason?

  “That’s good. That might be useful in the next few days.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’ll see. I’d rather have you encounter what I have in mind without your getting the wrong impression from me. On the way back, you can practice throwing a few shield confinements around me. You’ll get stronger if you practice when you’re tired.”

  Although Beltur couldn’t sense any deception or untruth behind Athaal’s words, the other mage’s statements worried him, as if Athaal had plans for him, or was preparing him for some trial. A trial to be accepted as a black mage? Since there wasn’t much he could do about it, and since it appeared that such a possibility might just be necessary, he kept walking.

  XXVII

  When Beltur woke on sevenday in the dark, his head ached, and he could hear rain pelting down outside the single small window of his room. He found he was chill under the single blanket, and there was little point in remaining in bed and shivering. He got up and made his way to the washroom, thinking that he was likely the first one up, only to hear voices from downstairs. He washed, shaved, and dressed, heading downstairs as quickly as he could.

  “Yesterday must have worn you out,” said Athaal from where he sat at the table.

  “I’ll see you both later,” added Meldryn as he headed toward the bakery.

  “What time is it?” asked a confused Beltur.

  “Not quite sixth glass.”

  “That late? It’s almost pitch dark outside.”

  Athaal laughed. “I forgot. You’ve never seen a real northeaster. We usually don’t get them until fall. The clouds are always so thick it’s like twilight in midday. Those days, like this morning, we have hot cider.”

  “And the rain must be like ice,” said Beltur as he filled his mug and then sat down, hoping the cider was indeed hot. He sipped. It was only warm, but he could hope it would ease his headache.

  “The rain outside is mixed ice and rain. When a northeaster comes in late fall, it’s either all ice or snow. In winter, a yard of snow can fall in a day.”

  “We’re not going out in this, I hope?”

  Athaal shook his head. “There’s no point in it. That’s why I didn’t wake you. We’ll help Meldryn in the bakery. If we finish early, then I’ll go over some order exercises that might help you.” He smiled. “I’m not sure you need that much help, but we’ll see. Finish your breakfast, and clean up here. Then meet me in the bakery. By then, I’ll know what Meldryn needs us to do.”

  Beltur didn’t exactly hurry to eat the egg toast, also barely warm, or the small piece of leftover shepherd’s pie, but he also didn’t dawdle. He did clean up the kitchen before leaving.

  The first thing Beltur noticed when he entered the bakery was that he no longer felt chilled. In fact, in moments he was uncomfortable. Then he saw that Meldryn wore a shirt that looked to be linen, very thin, worn, and patched linen, and there were damp patches of sweat on it. Athaal had hung his tunic on a wall peg and stood there in a sleeveless smallshirt. Beltur immediate doffed his own tunic and hung it on the peg next to Athaal’s.

  Athaal turned from inspecting what looked to be an iron scraper with a long wooden handle. “Good. You’re here. We need to clean out some of the pie ovens.”

  Clean the pie ovens? In Fenard, the only ovens Beltur had ever seen in houses were small iron containers with iron legs to be used in a hearth. He glanced around to see if he had missed something. In the far corner of the bakery—the corner formed by the outside walls—was a large stove that stood over two yards high. The entire outside was composed of ceramic tiles, but Beltur couldn’t tell if they were set in mortar or mortared together like bricks to form the oven. In addition to the wood-loading door, the stove had seven other iron doors, three large ones about a yard above the stone floor, and four smaller ones whose base was about half a yard above the top of the lower doors—except the four smaller doors were spaced so that they were actually placed between and above the lower doors. All of the doors were open, and that well might have been where the heat came from.

  “The scrapers are here on the worktable in the back. We need to scrape all the char off the inside and outside. Meldryn’s finished with baking the bread. He didn’t load the stove full once he saw the northeaster because he won’t be selling nearly as many pies, not early in the day, anyway. So now is a good time to clean them.”

  Beltur walked over to where Athaal stood beside the worktable. There were several of the long-handled devices. Two had blades, and two had awl-like points.

  “The ovens and the doors are still hot. Put these on.” Athaal handed Beltur two oversized mittens that looked to have been made of rags. “They’ll protect your hands. You need to scrape away the char, just enough to get down to the brick.”

  Beltur didn’t think he’d ever heard of scraping out ovens.

  His expression or his feelings must have been obvious, because Athaal then said, “Most people don’t really taste it, but things that are baked in ovens with too much char actually are more bitter. It’s just one of the things we do that makes more people prefer what Meldryn bakes. The long awl points are for the edges and corners, and the small tin pail is where all the char and soot goes. Try not to get it on the floor.”

  Beltur nodded. How hard could cleaning the ovens of a bread and pastry stove be?

  “You start with the top oven on the left. It will be easier if you pull the bench over and stand on it. That way you can see all the corners. And don’t brush against the doors or the iron frame. They’re cooling, but it takes a while before you want to touch them. And why are we doing this while the ovens are warm? Because it’s easier.”

  Doing as he’d been told, Beltur carried one of the two small benches over to the stove and positioned it in the same way Athaal had. Then, long-handled scraper in hand, he stepped up onto the bench and looked into the oven, blinking and jerking his head back as he felt the hot air across his face. He frowned and let his senses study the heat chaos in the oven. From what he could tell, the hot air from the wood burning—or perhaps just coals at the moment—flowed up through openings at the bottom of each side of the oven and then vented or returned through even narrower openings at the back of the oven, which was a heavy iron plate that still radiated heat.

  He ran the scraper blade over the bricks that floored the oven. The black residue remained.

  “You need to scrape at more of an angle,” suggested Athaal.

  Beltur tried that, and some of the residue appeared on the flat surface above the blade. Another scrape, and more came up … but not a lot more. After another series of scrapes, Beltur was sweating heavily, and it didn’t look as though he’d gotten that much of the blackened residue removed from the bricks.

  “Some bakers say that the tiny ash from the fire and the fine soot doesn’t settle on what you’re baking,” added Meldryn as he slid a long-handled wooden peel into middle oven, “but it does. Everyt
hing affects what you bake.” Using the peel, he removed a long cylindrical loaf of bread, carrying it to the counter at the front of the bakery.

  Beltur nodded, blotted his forehead with the back of his forearm, and then made another effort at scraping the thin black layer that seemed glued to the bricks. If it happened to be easier when the ovens were warm, he definitely didn’t want to be scraping when they were stone cold. But why would it be easier when they’re warm?

  He did his best to sense the order-chaos balance of just the residue. From what he could tell, the black residue had tiny little sticky parts that clung to tiny holes in the brick. He then attempted to place the tiniest bits of chaos in the little holes. Then he scraped, and the black came off easily, leaving the small bit of brick almost as clean as new. He did that again, and it worked.

  He kept at it, but after almost a glass of scraping the black stuff and easing it into the small tin pail, he realized that he was just as tired, if not more so, than if he’d just scraped. But he’d finished the first oven, and he doubted that he could have just with sheer physical effort. He sat down on the bench and blotted his forehead.

  “It’s hot work.” Athaal paused and looked at Beltur. “You’re pale. Go back to the kitchen. Have a mug of ale and cool off. Then, when you feel better, come on back.”

  “Thank you.” Beltur stood. His legs felt a little shaky, but he made it to the kitchen, where he followed Athaal’s instructions. The ale made him feel better, but he was still shaky, until he ate some of the stale leftover bread.

  He sat in the kitchen for a bit longer, then returned to the bakery.

  Athaal looked at him closely, then nodded and returned to working on his second oven.

  Beltur continued to use the tiny bits of chaos, if slightly more sparingly, and it took him perhaps a quarter glass longer to finish his second oven than it took Athaal. That was hardly surprising, even with Beltur’s use of chaos-bits, because Athaal had certainly more experience.