The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Thank you.”

  After they left the house, Beltur was well aware that Athaal had slowed his pace, for which Beltur was grateful. He was tired.

  When they were halfway down the lane toward the river road, Athaal looked at Beltur and asked, “What did you do?” His tone was more than merely curious and less than, but not entirely lacking, a hint of the accusatory.

  “What I could. I took a tiny, tiny bit of order and combined it with a tiny bit of the chaos inside his head. That destroyed both. I kept doing it until there wasn’t any chaos left. Then I added two more tiny bits of order, just in case. That was all.” He paused. “Why did you want me to handle that?”

  “You can sense smaller bits of chaos or even order than I can…”

  Beltur had been getting that impression, but hadn’t wanted to make the comparison, especially after all that Meldryn and Athaal had done for him.

  “… I knew a large infusion of order would have been too much for him, and … I’m not too precise in moving small bits of order. I’m glad you are. I’ve been told that’s often a gray trait, but some blacks have it as well. I don’t.” After another pause, he added, “You still might make a good healer.”

  “I’m not sure I know enough about anything right now.” And that was certainly true, Beltur felt. He was also looking forward to dinner and to getting a good night’s sleep.

  XXIX

  On twoday, Athaal and Beltur went to a herder’s spread almost four kays east of Elparta, and Beltur was more than glad he had slept well on oneday night. Threeday was spent visiting various crafters and inspecting tools. All were in good shape except for a bow saw used by a cabinet maker whose blade was beginning to crack, an incipient crack discovered by Beltur. On fourday morning, it rained, not so hard as it had with the northeaster, but hard enough that Beltur scrubbed the kitchen, since Laranya never came or cleaned if it rained, or in the afternoon. Later, Athaal gave Beltur a tour of the important places in Elparta, from the City Patrol headquarters to the building into which river water was diverted from where it was piped to the town fountains.

  By fourth glass, as Athaal stopped at the edge of a square perhaps only a third filled with vendors and carts, Beltur’s feet were more than a little tired, since walking up and down the hills of the city over cobblestone streets and lanes was far harder on them than walking the roads and lanes outside of the city.

  “This is the main market square. The square to the northeast of Bakers Lane is the only other square where peddlers and others may sell. Selling on the streets is forbidden.”

  That didn’t surprise Beltur. He stood and surveyed the square, where the peddlers and sellers looked little different from those in Fenard, although the square itself was equally large, if not slightly more expansive and far cleaner, and the vendors were clearly more separated. “The stalls and carts are spaced apart.”

  “That’s a Council rule. It cuts down on snatch thieves and cutpurses. Cohndar had something to do with that.”

  Cohndar? The black mage whom Cadelya hadn’t been able to find? “Oh?”

  “That was back when he worked with the City Patrol. A long time ago.”

  “Do many blacks work with the Patrol?”

  “There’s always one working full-time. Right now, it’s Osarus. You’ll likely meet him sometime. That doesn’t include those summoned for periodic duty. Ask me about that later.”

  While Beltur would have liked to have asked then, he resumed studying the square, sensing, unsurprisingly, less chaos and no signs of white magery. Finally, he turned and nodded to Athaal.

  “The last building I’m going to show you is the Elparta Council building,” announced Athaal as they walked away from the main market square and up yet another cobblestoned street, if one almost twice as wide as most—and straight, unlike so many in the southern part of Elparta. “I didn’t want to give you a formal tour of Elparta until you’d been here awhile, so that you had a better feel for the city.”

  When the two reached the top of the hill that provided a view of the city walls, the river, and the main market square, Athaal stopped at the edge of the paved area and gestured toward the Council building—a simple rectangular white marble building with a slate roof standing alone atop the hill. A set of wide marble steps, four in all, led up to the west-facing entrance, over which was a simple frieze sculpted into the stone that depicted a sailing vessel resting on a sheaf of grain crossed with a hammer.

  From what Beltur had seen and heard so far, that emblem seemed entirely in keeping with Spidlar, as did the size of the structure, no more than forty yards by twenty. “It’s impressive in a modest way.”

  Athaal laughed. “That would please Veroyt. There’s a similar building in Kleth, and a much larger one in Spidlaria, but he claims the design of ours is the most beautiful.”

  “What do they do here?”

  “It’s where they keep all the tariff and trade records, and there’s a massive strongroom where they keep the tariffs the inspectors collect until they’re sent to the Council in Spidlaria … and the coins to pay the Council armsmen who are posted here. It’s also where city patrollers collect their pay. They also have the plans for all the sewers and water pipes to the fountains, that sort of thing. There’s a large meeting room for when the Council comes to Elparta.”

  “How often is that?”

  “The Council must meet here at least once in every season, except winter. Sometimes, it’s more often, especially if there’s a problem in Elparta or nearby.” Athaal paused. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “Just a little.” Actually, more than a little, but Beltur wasn’t going to say that.

  “Good. We’re going to meet Meldryn at the Traders’ Rest at half past fourth glass. The fare’s not bad, and the ale and wine are excellent. And don’t say anything about your lack of coins. You’ve more than earned a good dinner and ale.”

  Beltur thought so, too. “Thank you.” He paused. “Where is the Traders’ Rest?”

  “Just down the street on the other side. The owners’ father gave the place that name because he said the outland traders needed a rest after dealing with the tariff inspectors. That’s what Comartyl says, anyway. You ready to go?”

  Beltur nodded.

  The Traders’ Rest was indeed only a little over a hundred yards away, mostly downhill. The two-story inn and its stable took up almost half a block. From the heavy square timbers, the slightly sooty reddish brick walls, and the narrow windows with their small leaded panes, Beltur would have thought the inn was older than just two generations. Maybe the father just changed the name.

  The main public room was slightly more than half filled, and Beltur immediately noticed that all the tables had wooden armchairs, rather than straight-backed chairs or stools and benches. Meldryn was seated at a corner table away from the cold hearth and motioned for them to join him. There was a large mug set before him. As they sat down, he said, “There’s even a singer tonight, Comartyl told me.” The older black mage looked at Athaal and added, “He liked the special berry pies I did for him. This time and last.”

  “For another special dinner?”

  “Trader from Jellico who’s buying black wool.”

  “Good fortune, no matter how you count it.” Meldryn then said to Beltur, “They’ve got good amber ale here. I remember you mentioning you liked it.”

  “I also like your dark ale,” replied Beltur. “Uncle’s was bitterer than I really preferred. I thought it was almost chewy.”

  Meldryn grinned. “Someone once told me that was the way I liked ale.”

  Athaal actually flushed momentarily, then quickly asked, “Is Cohndar coming?”

  “He said he might join us, but not to wait on him.”

  “He likes a drink, but not to eat.” Athaal shook his head.

  “He claims that eating late upsets him. I’ve never sensed anything wrong, though.”

  Beltur wondered why Meldryn had asked the other black mage. So that you ca
n meet him … or so that he can meet you? He wouldn’t have thought that much of it … except for Athaal’s earlier mention of Cohndar once working with the City Patrol.

  A dark-haired serving woman appeared. “Something to drink, sers?”

  “Amber ale,” said Athaal.

  “I’d like that as well,” added Beltur.

  “The choice of fare tonight is roasted pork cutlets with apples and dumplings, fowl slices in a cherry conserve with lace potatoes, or ham and noodles with heavy cheese.”

  “The cutlets for me,” said Athaal.

  “The fowl slices,” added Meldryn.

  “The fowl slices as well,” added Beltur.

  With a nod, the server turned and left.

  “Is it all the same?” asked Beltur. “She didn’t say.”

  “For us, it is,” replied Athaal. “Part of Comartyl’s payment to Meldryn is a dinner for three or four each season.”

  “And after what happened the other day at Claudyt’s,” added Meldryn, “it seemed fitting that you should enjoy a good dinner.”

  Abruptly, Meldryn raised a hand and gestured. Beltur turned and saw a white-haired man in black standing just inside the archway, who, as he glimpsed Meldryn, smiled and began to make his way toward the corner. When Cohndar neared the table, Beltur could definitely sense the order embodied in the older man.

  “Have a seat,” said Meldryn warmly, “I wasn’t sure you’d join us.”

  “I’ll always join you. I’ll always drink with you, but not eat this late.” Cohndar eased into the empty chair, offering an inquiring look at Beltur.

  “Cohndar,” offered Athaal, “this is Beltur. He’s the one who helped Cadelya with Ethanyt.”

  The white-haired mage continued to study Beltur as he said, “I heard what you did with Claudyt’s grandson. Cadelya told me more than once it was a good thing for me that you were there.” He smiled wryly.

  “How is he now?” asked Beltur. “I did what I could. I’m not a healer.”

  “I looked at him yesterday. He limps, likely always will, but he’s not unsteady, and he’s back to eating. So, for someone who’s not a healer, you did just fine.” Cohndar frowned. “Cadelya said you’re from Fenard. I don’t recall hearing your name.”

  “You probably wouldn’t,” said Athaal. “There aren’t many blacks raised by a white mage. His uncle was Kaerylt. He was one of the whites who defied Wyath.”

  “He died because he insisted on holding them off so that I could escape,” added Beltur.

  “Rather noble of him.”

  “He swore to my mother when she was dying that he’d protect me,” explained Beltur, knowing that was true, if not precisely factually accurate.

  “He was your mother’s brother then?”

  Beltur nodded.

  “Goes to show that there are some honorable whites. Wish I’d known him.” Cohndar gestured to the serving woman, then waited for her. “Some of the black ale.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Cohndar smiled briefly. “I do like Comartyl’s black ale, and I thank you for inviting me to join you, Meldryn.” He looked back to Beltur. “What do you make of Prefect Denardre?”

  “He’s not trustworthy, and he wants all the mages in Gallos to be under his control, or Arms-Mage Wyath’s.”

  “That’s what everyone says. Do you think he’ll actually attack Spidlar?”

  “I don’t know, ser. I don’t know him personally, and I never met Arms-Mage Wyath. All I know is that Uncle Kaerylt didn’t trust Wyath and had as little to do with him as possible.”

  “Why did Wyath try to kill you and your uncle?”

  “I don’t know. Uncle worried about Wyath, but he never said anything about Wyath being an enemy or trying to kill him or me.”

  All of that was absolutely true, as it had to be, facing a fairly strong black mage.

  “Here comes your ale,” said Athaal cheerfully. “And in the large mug!”

  “So is yours,” pointed out the white-haired mage.

  “But I could tell yours because of the mug size.”

  “Here you are, sers.” The server quickly set the mugs before each, then looked to Cohndar. “Would you like supper as well, ser?”

  “No, thank you. Now … where was I?”

  “You were speculating on whether Denardre would attack us,” said Meldryn. “What do you think?”

  “If he attacks anywhere, it will be Spidlar. We all know that. The question is whether he’s that mad.” Cohndar again turned to Beltur.

  “I have no idea, ser. My uncle said that the Prefect was worried about both the Viscount and the Council of Spidlar, and that they were likely to raise tariffs.”

  “Did he mention the blacks of Spidlar? Or traders?”

  Beltur had to think for a moment. “No, ser. He said that the Viscount was short of golds, and that the Council wouldn’t raise their tariffs as much as the Viscount likely would.”

  “That sounds as though he knew more than he told you.”

  “He was closemouthed about most everything, ser. Especially with me.”

  “Didn’t he like you?”

  “I think he cared for me as much as he could. I had my own room, and we all ate the same fare. He didn’t dress better than he provided for me. I don’t think he knew what to make of me.” That was really another guess on Beltur’s part.

  “Hmmm…” Cohndar tilted his head. “You never said exactly how he was killed.”

  “Uncle said we were summoned to the palace…” From there Beltur went through the entire sequence of events … including his uncle’s insistence that Beltur escape.

  “Had you ever been to the palace before?”

  “No, ser.”

  “And yet you escaped?”

  “I have very strong shields, ser, but not much else. There was chaos everywhere.”

  “What happened then?”

  Beltur dutifully recounted exactly what had happened from that point until he reached Margrena’s house.

  “Interesting.” Cohndar nodded to Meldryn. “He’s telling the truth, at least as he saw it, and that means we have a very large problem. Obviously, Kaerylt—that was his name?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Kaerylt was almost as powerful, possibly more powerful, than Wyath. That suggests that there are no whites left in Gallos capable of standing against those Wyath has gathered. The fact that they didn’t pursue immediately a known black—”

  “They might have,” interjected Beltur, “but I stayed in crowds as much as I could, and I never went back home. Also, the chamber was totally filled with chaos. I think that was how they couldn’t find me immediately. I couldn’t sense anyone after the first few moments.”

  “You didn’t mention that.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it in that way.”

  “That doesn’t change matters much. It might make them worse, especially if they believe they destroyed Beltur with his uncle.”

  “Because it would give them the idea that they could destroy shielded blacks?” asked Meldryn.

  Cohndar nodded. “I’d still like—” He stopped as the server appeared with three platters.

  In moments, the three having dinner had been served, and another server added a basket with three modest loaves of bread.

  “It all looks good,” said Cohndar, pausing for a moment before adding, “for a midday meal. Or for you young fellows.”

  Beltur managed to refrain from immediately eating until he saw that Meldryn and Athaal had started. The first bite of the fowl in the cherry conserve convinced him that it had been a good choice, although, when he looked at Athaal’s platter, he had the feeling he would have liked the pork as well. The lace potatoes were light and crispy, but the bread wasn’t nearly as good as Meldryn’s.

  “… still like to have a better idea of what Denardre thinks he can gain by attacking us,” Cohndar went on as if he had not even paused. “Even if he took Elparta, he can’t conquer all of Spidlar.”

  “He
doesn’t have to,” pointed out Meldryn. “If he and his white mages level Elparta, Kleth, and Spidlaria, what would be left capable of standing against him?”

  “I hate to think that much destruction is just about golds.”

  “Are wars ever about anything else, even when proud slogans are shouted?” replied Meldryn dryly.

  “Seldom,” admitted the eldest mage. “Much as I’d like to hope otherwise.”

  As Beltur took a swallow of the amber ale, he saw a woman step up onto the cold hearth. She was older, almost the age his mother might have been, and she was tuning a guitar, just in the way he remembered her doing it. He swallowed, thinking of the few lullabies he recalled.

  “Comartyl’s got a singer tonight,” said Cohndar.

  “He has one on fourday nights and sevenday nights. You should remember that,” chided Meldryn humorously.

  “I’ve got enough to remember, thank you.”

  From the first note plucked on the guitar, Beltur found himself listening intently.

  “The wind has its wings,

  The night has its light…”

  After just the first words, Beltur forgot the singer’s age, caught by the beauty of her voice and the accuracy of her fingers on the strings.

  “Wherever she falls,

  The blind find their sight…”

  As she sang, he wondered why he’d never heard anyone sing besides his mother, so long ago, except, of course, for the fragments of song he’d overheard in scouting in Analeria … and at the inn in Buoranyt. When Uncle left the moment the singer began. Had singing reminded him of too much, or did the hint of order in it bother whites? Might it have been both?

  “… White is black and black is white,

  Neither matters in the heat of night.

  Sing me false or sing me true,

  Either way, your love I’ll rue.

  For love is not to have or hold

  Love is not for fair or bold,

  Nor is my love just for you.”

  The ironic tone of her voice matched the ending, and more than a few in the public room, especially several women two tables over, laughed. The singer smiled, strummed a few chords, and then began another song.

  “A fire blazes on the ice of time