The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “How do you get paid for this work?’

  “I get paid the same amount every season by the Council for regular inspections. It’s extra if I do inspections after floods or severe storms.”

  “Yesterday wasn’t a severe storm?”

  Athaal laughed. “No. Just a hard rain. Those are good because they clean the streets and alleys. The river’s up little more than half a yard.” He turned toward the wall gate. “Now we’ll look at the commercial piers on the riverfront inside the wall.”

  Once they were back through the gate, Athaal walked back toward the river along the lane at the base of the wall until they reached a wide street, paved in smooth stone, that stretched from one city wall to the other. At the river side of the street was an expanse of stone some three yards wide which ended in a shorter wall about a yard and a half high. The stone bordering the river wall also extended from one city wall to the other. Athaal moved close to the river wall, looking out and down as he proceeded northward.

  Beltur looked down, but all he saw was the brownish-blue water of the river. “Is the river wall high enough when the river floods?”

  “Look across the river.”

  Beltur looked. All he saw were grasslands and marshes.

  “The other side is lower. The river goes there when it climbs its banks. The Council doesn’t allow any buildings there—except for the guard tower, of course. You can see that there’s a floodgate at every opening in the river wall. The only openings are those permitted for piers. They can’t be more than three yards wide, and the floodgates have to be kept in openings in the walls so that they can be moved into place immediately.”

  The first pier they came to was comparatively small, extending no more than ten yards into the river, with a small building on the shore side. The door was closed, as were the shutters on the two windows. Beltur wrinkled his nose at the definite odor of fish.

  “This is the pier for the fish market. They have to be inspected if they fish south of Elparta, but the Council doesn’t want them to unload at the main piers. You can smell why.”

  “I can.”

  The two walked out onto the pier, but neither sensed any untoward chaos, although Beltur was definitely becoming more aware of smaller bits of either chaos or order.

  Three glasses and five piers later, the two stepped away from the river wall just south of the northern city wall and began to walk toward the nearest city gate.

  “We’re almost done,” announced Athaal. “There’s one more Council pier downstream at Tuurval. It’s one used by most of the herders to ship wool to Kleth or Spidlaria. That’s about a two-kay walk, but it’s fairly level, and it’s cool today.”

  Beltur would have called the midday air pleasant, rather than cool. “You don’t have to report any of the piers inside the walls? The way you did at the south piers?”

  “Oh, I do. Just not the same way. I’ll write up a report tonight and hand it to Veroyt at the Council here in Elparta tomorrow. He’ll notify the owners of the piers needing work and send a copy to the Council in Spidlaria. How soon it’s fixed or if it is, that’s up to the owner. If they don’t repair a pier and it fails, there are additional charges and penalties. They might even lose the pier to someone else. That’s because the Council limits the number of piers along the city river wall.”

  Athaal nodded to the nearest gate guard as he and Beltur passed and then continued north on the river road, whose paving shifted from smooth-fitted stones to cobblestones less than a hundred yards from the gate.

  “There aren’t any piers until Tuurval?”

  “They’re not permitted. Small docks are allowed for crafters, fishermen, and others who own the land next to the river.”

  “What if someone builds one?”

  “The River Patrol tears it down and fines whoever built it. If they can’t pay, they have to work out the fine in service to the Patrol.”

  Less than a half kay north of the city wall, the road swung eastward for a good fifty yards before again paralleling the river. Beltur could see why, given the low and marshy ground between the road and the water, but for the next kay, the road maintained that separation, although in places, there were low hills between the road and the river’s edge and even a few dwellings, if raised and set on pilings. As they walked along the edge of the road, they encountered a continual procession of wagons and carts heading toward Elparta, most heaped with produce of various sorts.

  Then the river began to curve westward, as did the road, and just ahead, Beltur could see small cots, half hidden by bushes and trees, a scene conveying a hamlet rather than a town, at least to Beltur. “That’s Tuurval?”

  “At its very best. It’s quiet now. In the spring, there are wagons and wool everywhere. This time of year, there are only a few boats a week. Mostly lumber and heavy timbers.”

  The pier at Tuurval was at least as long as the main south piers of Elparta and several yards wider, with several flatbed wagons being unloaded into a large flatboat. As Athaal had suggested, four men were transferring timbers from the second wagon into the flatboat using a windlass hoist.

  “Walking the piers again, Athaal?” called out a portly figure in the blue uniform that Beltur had come to recognize signified someone who worked for the Council of Spidlar.

  “That’s what you pay me for. After the rain, I thought it might be a good time.” Athaal motioned for Beltur to accompany him toward the man who stood well back of the hoist.

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Beltur, this is Claudyt. He’s the piermaster for Tuurval. Claudyt, this is Beltur. He’s a city mage from Fenard who discovered that being either black or not slavishly beholden to the Prefect’s arms-mage, let alone both, wasn’t terribly promising in terms of his health. He’s been accompanying me to learn more about Elparta and Spidlar.”

  Claudyt nodded. “Two of you. That’d be good.”

  Athaal frowned. “For what?”

  “You know Cadelya, the old healer?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s looking after Bethana’s boy. He’s not doing well.”

  “You know…”

  “I know, but she asked if I saw you or Meldryn or Cohndar—or even old Felsyn—if you’d come take a look. She’s sent word to Cohndar and Felsyn, but Cohndar’s in Kleth, and no one seems to know where Felsyn is.”

  “Is it urgent?”

  “I imagine you could inspect the pier first. A glass or two won’t make any difference. A day might.”

  “She’s at your place, then. The small house?”

  “Cadelya stays there at night when she’s here,” replied Claudyt. “Ethanyt’ll be in the main house. His own room.”

  “We’ll go there right after we take a quick look at the pier.” Athaal nodded to Beltur. “You take that side. Work out from the riverbank.”

  Beltur nodded and walked back toward the shore, where he turned and began to sense what he could. Again, there were minute bits of order and chaos on the surface of all the timbers, but as he moved out along the north side of the wide pier, he didn’t sense anything that could correspond to a structural or support weakness. When he reached the end of the pier, well past what he thought was the stern of the big flatboat, he stopped. Deep in the water, there was something … but there wasn’t, not exactly. The order and chaos particles right above the river bottom, farther down than he could see, were moving faster than the rest of the river … and they were deeper.

  He tried to get a better feel of what he sensed. Finally, he straightened and realized that Athaal stood almost beside him.

  “What is it? I saw you concentrating, but I can’t find any problems with the pier or the supports.”

  Beltur debated whether to say anything, but realized that Athaal would sense it if he dissembled or lied outright. “It’s not the pier. Not exactly. There’s a deep trench that starts a yard out from the base of the last supports at the end of the pier, and there’s a deep current there. I can’t be sure, but I think it
might be eating away at the riverbed there. If it keeps up, it might undercut the supports. It might not. I can’t sense far enough under the riverbed to know how deep the supports go.”

  “We’re not responsible for the river, but…” Athaal frowned.

  “Could you just say that the storm or something might have changed the deeper river currents, and if they continue the way they are right now, they might eat away the riverbed under the supports farthest out into the current?”

  Athaal nodded. “I can do that. We’d better get going.”

  The two walked swiftly back along the pier, past the hoist and the men unloading timber from the wagon.

  “What did you find?” asked Claudyt as they neared.

  Athaal stopped, as did Beltur, and the older mage said, “The pier’s fine. It looks like the current’s shifted. You’d better watch it. It might start eating into the riverbed under the end posts. I’ll write that up, though.”

  “Good. Told Veroyt that might be a problem. He might listen if he hears it from you.”

  “We’ll be on our way to your place, now.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  Even though Claudyt spoke pleasantly enough, Beltur felt that the functionary’s eyes lingered on him unduly, and that worried him. He just hoped it had been because Claudyt was curious about a new mage in Spidlar.

  Athaal didn’t say more until they were well away from the pier and walking up a dirt lane off the river road toward a dwelling on a low rise. “Bethana was his only child. She died in childbirth. Cadelya was up in the hills tending to another woman. From what she told me later, I don’t know that anyone could have helped, except one of the great healers—”

  “Like Margrena?”

  “She might have been able to save Bethana. She’s good, but not one of the great ones.”

  Beltur wondered if Jessyla had that potential, but kept that thought to himself. His eyes went to the stone dwelling with the split-slate roof on the rise, a small flower garden on the north side, and a larger garden on the south that seemed to have a variety of what were likely vegetables. Behind the flower garden was a small cottage, and behind the vegetable garden was a stable large enough to hold a carriage or coach, Beltur thought. The house faced the river, and a drive led from the main lane directly to the stable. The front terrace was not covered, except for the overhang of the roof that shielded the front entry, and a stone walk went from the stone steps at the front of the terrace around the vegetable garden and to the stable. The grounds around the house looked like pasture, and Beltur wondered if Claudyt had sheep as well, since the grass was not that long.

  Athaal cut across the grass toward the stone walk. Beltur hurried to keep pace with him, and the two reached the front door at the same time. Athaal rapped on the door firmly. The two waited several moments.

  Finally, the door opened, and a young woman, barely more than a girl, stood there. “The master’s not here, sers.”

  “We know,” replied Athaal. “He sent us to see if we might be of assistance to Healer Cadelya. If you wish, you can tell her that Athaal and another mage are here.”

  “Just one moment, sers.” The door closed.

  “Years ago, Claudyt was first mate on a merchanter,” said Athaal. “He still runs a tight ship.”

  “I can see.”

  When the door opened again, a tall white-haired woman in healer greens stood there.

  “It is you. I’m so glad to see you. Come in. He’s sleeping now.” Shaking her head, she stepped back and opened the heavy oak door wide. “I don’t know you.” She looked at Beltur levelly.

  “I’m Beltur. I left Fenard in rather a hurry, and Healer Margrena introduced me to Athaal, who has been kind enough to help me get adjusted to Elparta.”

  “Any black with any sense would have left a long time ago.” She closed the door and turned to Athaal. “The boy’s not well. You can see for yourself.” She led the way from the small entry foyer straight back along a modest hall, past an archway on the left into a parlor and one on the right into a dining room, then turned left down another hallway, stopping outside the open door to a chamber on the right. “He’s still sleeping.”

  Athaal and Beltur followed her into the bedroom where Ethanyt lay on his back in a narrow bed. Beltur judged the boy to be perhaps six or seven. His dark hair was damp, and his breathing seemed uneven. He was definitely pale. Beltur could see that immediately.

  “How did he get this way?” asked Athaal in a low voice.

  The white-haired healer moistened her lips. “I don’t know when it started. Claudyt summoned me on sevenday evening. He said that Ethanyt began to wobble when he walked an eightday ago. By sevenday morning, he said his head hurt a lot. He told me it had been hurting a lot, but he didn’t want to upset his grandfather. By yesterday, he was having trouble keeping broth down…” Cadelya moistened her lips again. “There’s chaos somewhere. I know there is … but … I’m not as good as I used to be. Felsyn and Cohndar aren’t around, and there’s no one else. Lhadoraak … he’s not that good with living things.”

  “You know I’m not close to being a healer…”

  “Anything you can do … anything…”

  “We’ll see.” Athaal looked to Beltur, but said nothing.

  Beltur nodded and extended his senses, trying to see if he could find any chaos in the child’s frame. The boy was neither fat nor excessively thin, but Beltur immediately sensed a knot of dirty orangish-red chaos within his head at the back not too far above his neck. He could also sense that the chaos-knot, somehow, was pressing outward. There was no other mass of unhealthy chaos, but the amount of order in his body seemed lower than it should be. He watched as Athaal also studied the restlessly sleeping child.

  Abruptly, Athaal straightened and said to Beltur, “We need to talk.” Then he looked to Cadelya. “We’ll be in the hall for a moment.”

  The way Athaal spoke wasn’t quite a command, but Beltur could sense something like desperation hidden behind the calm voice of the older mage.

  Once the two stood in the hallway, Athaal said quietly, “I don’t sense anything wrong with him except that spot that feels like chaos inside his skull in the back. Do you?”

  Beltur couldn’t help frowning. “That chaos is strange, orangish-red, and his order levels are down. They’re like an old person or like some of those old sick ewes. That’s not right for a boy.”

  “But there’s no other unnatural chaos in his body.”

  “He’s very sick. Sicker than his grandfather thinks. Cadelya knows that, too.”

  “There’s not anything I can do,” murmured Athaal, again looking at the younger mage.

  Beltur thought. He’d been able to put tiny bits of chaos into the ovens. Could he do it with order? He thought of the boy lying there. He swallowed. “I can try something. If it doesn’t work, I don’t think it will hurt him.”

  “With order?”

  “With order,” replied Beltur.

  The two reentered the bedroom, and the healer rose from the stool beside the bed.

  “He’s very sick,” Beltur said softly.

  “I know. I just…” The healer shook her head.

  “I’m going to try something,” Beltur said. “I don’t know if it will help, but it shouldn’t hurt.” He didn’t say that the boy would likely die, sooner or later, if something didn’t change for the better.

  “Anything you can do…”

  Beltur eased onto the stool, and once again let himself sense everything. Nothing had changed. Then he extended his arm and positioned his fingertips just above Ethanyt’s head, right over the chaos-spot, and eased the tiniest bit of order into the chaos, sensing what happened. After a moment, he could tell that both the order and correspondingly small bit of chaos had vanished. He did the same thing again, if with a slightly larger bit of order. Bit by bit, he kept using order on the chaos, until there was only a tiny bit left.

  By then, Beltur’s arm was aching, and his vision was blurring
, but he had the feeling that if it didn’t eliminate all of the strange chaos, it would rebuild itself. When the last bit of the orangish red was gone, he added two more tiny bits of order, hoping they would help with the healing.

  By then the entire world was beginning to spin around Beltur. He started to turn on the stool so that he wouldn’t fall on the boy, but his body didn’t respond. As he began to topple over, he could feel Athaal’s arms steadying him.

  Then everything went black.

  When he woke, he was lying on the floor on his back. His head definitely hurt.

  “Can you sit up?” The voice was Athaal’s.

  “I think so.” Beltur could hear the shakiness in his own voice, and he still felt dizzy. Even so, he managed to slowly ease himself into a sitting position. Finding he was out in the hallway, he leaned against the wall.

  Cadelya immediately handed him a mug.

  “It’s ale,” said Athaal.

  Beltur took the mug in both hands and tried a slow small swallow, then, after a moment, another. He suspected at least half a glass passed before he began to feel close to steady.

  “I think I’m better now.”

  “You didn’t say you were a healer,” said Cadelya.

  “I’m not. I wouldn’t have tried what I did, if he weren’t so sick.” Beltur stiffened. He didn’t even know …

  “He’s improving,” said Athaal. “His breathing is better, and there’s still no sign of that chaos.”

  Beltur found he was also breathing more easily. He handed the mug to Cadelya, who was sitting beside him on the stool she must have brought from the bedroom. “Thank you.” Then he slowly stood. He didn’t feel dizzy, and his surroundings remained firmly in place.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Athaal.

  “So long as we don’t have to run back to Elparta.”

  “I think we can walk.” Athaal turned to the healer. “We only promised Claudyt that we’d do what we could.”

  “It looks like you did that,” she replied dryly. “I’ll send word to you on how Ethanyt’s doing. Claudyt won’t.”