The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Flickered flames unmelt not the old year’s rime.

  Don’t sing of lightning smiths or rational stars

  Or wail about your love’s uncaring bars

  My love is to the man of heart and heat

  Not chaos wild or order’s duller beat…”

  The more Beltur listened and watched, the more he could discern, somehow, that there was much more than words, more than melody, something …

  In the lull after the second song, Athaal looked to Beltur and asked, “What do you think? You’re looking very interested.”

  Caught off-guard, all Beltur could come up with was, “The way she plays, some of it is … like sung silver.”

  Beltur’s words seemed to surprise Cohndar, and especially Meldryn, who looked to Athaal. Athaal just smiled and nodded.

  Beltur turned back to the singer.

  “… down by the river so smooth and so fair …

  I found a turtle whose shell was so square,

  And he said to me, as clear as a bell.

  That he had a fine story to tell…”

  When the singer finished, Athaal looked to Meldryn. “We ought to be heading home.”

  “You’re right.” Meldryn turned. “Cohndar, we’re calling it an evening.”

  “That’s fine with me. You know I’m not much of an acquaintance with night, not like that singer.” Cohndar stood.

  So did Athaal and Meldryn, then Beltur.

  “A pleasure to spend the evening with you all,” said Cohndar, who then looked to Beltur. “I’m glad to have met you.”

  Although Beltur had the feeling that Cohndar was less pleased than his words and tone indicated, he replied, “It was good to meet you, too, ser.”

  None of the three said much on the walk through the late twilight back to Bakers Lane. Beltur did notice that there weren’t many people on the streets, but then, he’d already gotten the impression that most Spidlarians rose early, worked hard, and went to bed early.

  For some reason, perhaps because he kept thinking of the singer, and how she had reminded him of his mother, he did not fall asleep early, but lay there, thinking about the songs and the sense of silver order that they had embodied. He also wondered why he had not seen how his uncle had avoided songs and singers. You can’t see what isn’t there to see.

  The house was so quiet he could even make out that Meldryn and Athaal were talking. He strained to hear, but couldn’t make out the words, not at first, but slowly he could understand some of what passed between the two. There were words about dinner, and the cherry conserve, and whether apples were better than that. Then, after a while …

  “… has some doubts … Beltur…”

  “… doubts … no white could have seen … order … the words and notes in silver…”

  “… may be, but … ever be a true black?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “We may not have any choice. He may not, either…”

  Meldryn’s words sent a shiver through Beltur.

  With almost no coins and no way to support himself except through what work he’d been able to do with Athaal, Beltur was all too aware that he was still dependent on the goodwill of the two black mages. While he was learning about Elparta and the way things worked, he was a long way from being able to support himself.

  Should you talk to Athaal about how to rely less on them?

  He kept listening, but he was getting tired, and their talk shifted to names he had never heard. Although he hadn’t been sleepy, he could feel his eyes closing.

  XXX

  “Today is market day,” Athaal announced when Beltur had finished cleaning up after breakfast.

  “What do we need?”

  “Not much, really, but it’s been over an eightday since I actually went through the market square. You can get a feel for things by browsing and talking, as well as shopping for what you need. I can, anyway. Meldryn doesn’t like to go to the square. So I do it. He needs some spices, too.” Athaal lifted a worn and empty leather bag. “Bring some coins in case you see something you need.”

  Beltur nodded. Over the past eightday, he’d actually earned some eleven coppers. Or at least that was what Meldryn and Athaal had insisted he’d earned, a silver and a copper. He couldn’t help but think about all the silvers that he should have received as his share of the spoils from the fallen raiders. That’s water well downstream.

  In a fraction of a glass, Beltur was ready, with his coppers, although he had little inclination to spend them. He’d just reached the bottom of the stairs when Laranya appeared in the main floor hallway.

  “You don’t have to clean the kitchen,” said the dark-haired woman.

  “But I should,” replied Beltur. “Before I came, you didn’t have to clean my room.” He grinned at her. “And you can always clean up whatever I missed, if that makes you feel better.”

  Laranya shook her head, but couldn’t conceal her smile.

  “How is your son?” Beltur only knew that the boy was ill and that Meldryn thought he was unlikely ever to be other than sickly.

  “He is much better, thank you. He spends the day with my mother. That makes them both happy.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” With those words, Beltur smiled again, and then slipped past her to join Athaal in the front foyer.

  Once they were outside and walking south on Bakers Lane toward the main market square, Beltur said, “I didn’t want to ask her, but what sort of sickness does her son have?”

  “He is deficient in order, and neither Meldryn nor Cohndar nor Felsyn has been able to find the cause. There’s no unnatural chaos in his body, either. Sometimes, that happens with children. They either get stronger as they get older, or they get weaker and die. I might have mentioned that was a problem with Lhadoraak’s daughter Taelya. Thankfully, I could do a little, guided by Grenara, and that was enough to get her through the hard times. She’s fine now.”

  “You and Meldryn worry that Laranya’s son will get weaker.”

  Athaal nodded. “We don’t talk about it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t know, and you’ve waited two eightdays before asking. I should have told you. It could have been awkward if you weren’t so polite. There are some illnesses that even the best healers can’t do much about.”

  Athaal’s words tended to confirm Beltur’s suspicion that neither Athaal nor Meldryn was comfortable in discussing things they didn’t do well. But are you any better? “That must be hard.”

  “You understand that. You would.” After the slightest hesitation, Athaal immediately went on. “Once we get to the market square, there’s no point in your following me around. You can discover more on your own. We’ll meet at ninth glass on the middle of the north side of the square where Hill Street leads up to the Council building.”

  Beltur hadn’t seen any sign naming the street, but he recalled it. “Are there any goods you’d suggest I look at, just because they’re unique to Elparta?”

  “We have good cabinet and furniture crafters here, but the best won’t have works on the square. Some of the lacework is good, I’m told.”

  “Any produce that is particularly special?”

  “Sometimes there are mountain peaches. They bloom late, but even so, many years the growers get late frosts. Nothing better than a good mountain peach, though.”

  And likely very costly. “I’m certain that there’s plenty to look at.”

  “Just don’t overdo it in looking at the women. You’d find some of them worth looking at. That’s one reason why Felsyn enjoyed touring the square.” After a moment, Athaal cleared his throat. “One other thing … you might want to carry light shields around you all the time in the square. Some of the cutpurses are so light you wouldn’t feel a thing.”

  “Are there that many?”

  “No, and there are patrollers.” Athaal offered a crooked smile. “But it only takes one. Besides, it’s good practice.”

  That was another thing Be
ltur really couldn’t argue against. Before long, the two reached the square. While Athaal headed off, his empty leather bag in hand, Beltur just stood at the edge for several moments, raising a shield close to his body and looking around. He definitely saw what Athaal had meant about it being more crowded earlier in the day. “Crowded” might have been an understatement, since there were people everywhere, although the buyers and sellers weren’t nearly as boisterous as those in Fenard.

  He looked at the nearest line of carts and stalls, most of which seemed to be hawking melons or root vegetables, although he did see baskets of apples and pearapples. Finally, he shrugged and headed for those carts. You might as well see everything you can.

  The fruits and vegetables for sale looked good, but unremarkable, and Beltur moved toward carts, tables, and stalls that held what looked to be various items for sale. The first stall held some wooden boxes, some lacquered, but mostly wooden candlesticks, ranging from the plain to the highly ornamented. There was one pair that featured the figure of a heroic smith, using a lightning bolt as a hammer, with a circular depression in the anvil for the candle, with the second candlestick that of a woman wielding twin blades standing beside a fallen figure curled around a fountain that provided the circular depression for the candle. The work was good, but not outstanding, Beltur judged. “Are those meant to be Nylan and Ryba?”

  “None else,” replied the almost wizened woman seated on a stool behind the stall. “Two silvers for the pair.”

  Beltur nodded and moved on, thinking that the matched pair really should have been Ayrlyn and Nylan, at least according to what he’d read in his uncle’s library. But then, most people don’t read … especially old books and history.

  The next few tables clearly belonged to various apprentices, from the ages of the youths behind the small tables, one displaying an assortment of tin boxes, another of breadboards and wooden canisters, and a third clay pitchers and mugs. Some of the mugs didn’t look that bad, but when Beltur let his senses range over them, he detected signs of weakness, especially hairline cracks, and he continued on.

  After some time, he found himself standing before a narrow stall that displayed lace collars. The collars looked good, but Beltur was momentarily impressed by the young woman standing beside the stall. With her mahogany hair and stature, for a moment, she reminded him of Jessyla, until he saw that her face was rounder and her eyes were blue, rather than green. She also wore a shirt and jacket of blue, rather than green.

  “The collars are what’s for sale, ser,” she offered gently.

  “I’m sorry. For a moment, you reminded me of someone.”

  “If I were her, I’d be complimented. Would you like to buy a collar for her?”

  “I’d think about it, but she likely wouldn’t wear it.”

  “She’s a healer, then.”

  That stopped Beltur for a moment. “How…?”

  “You’re a black mage. She wouldn’t wear lace. Healers don’t. Most healers prefer blacks, or at least men who are very orderly.”

  Beltur studied the woman for a moment, then asked, “Who made the lace?”

  She smiled. “My aunt.”

  “I imagine the collars look very good on you.”

  “That’s why I’m here. We both profit.”

  Beltur laughed softly. “I can see that.”

  “Wouldn’t you even consider—”

  “Thief! Stop him!”

  Beltur immediately whirled in the direction of the shout. He saw someone sprinting past the stall one over from where he stood. Almost without thinking, just in the fashion that Athaal had drilled him, he extended a shield around the slender figure, freezing the thief in place. As he moved toward the thief, he could see that his shields held a young woman, or girl, and that she wore the clothes more suited to a young man.

  For a moment, it seemed as though everyone halted. Then the woman at the adjoining table, on whose table was a series of embroidered aprons, quickly stepped back as Beltur stopped short of the girl who had stopped her brief pounding at the shields.

  Around them voices began to break the momentary silence.

  “… young mage … stopped her…”

  “… never seen him before…”

  “… new one working with the City Patrol, you think?”

  Another sharper voice called out. “Don’t let him go! Cut away my wallet, he did…”

  Beltur wasn’t about to release the thief, not yet, anyway, but he really didn’t have any idea of what he should do next. So he found himself standing there, just looking at the girl.

  “That’s it. Just stare at me. Let everyone see. Ruin me.” The girl’s voice held an edge, but whether it was anger or fear—or both—Beltur couldn’t tell.

  “You didn’t have to steal.”

  “That’s what you think. That’s what they all think.”

  Then, at the end of the row, Beltur could see a man who had to be a city patroller, from the blue uniform and the truncheon in his hand. The patroller hurried, not quite running, until he saw Beltur, when a puzzled expression appeared on his face.

  “You’re not Chamyt or even Athaal.”

  “No, I’m Beltur. Someone yelled out, ‘Thief!’ and I put shields around her. I wasn’t quite certain what to do next.”

  “That’s my wallet!” declared a graying woman whose stall Beltur had passed earlier.

  “It is,” said an older man.

  “You’re not even working for the Patrol, and you did this?” The girl’s voice was almost a screech.

  “What else was he supposed to do?” asked a third voice, one that Beltur recognized. “Let you steal whatever you wanted, Lizabi?”

  Beltur glanced at Athaal. “You know her?”

  “Unhappily. I caught her several years ago, when she was a child. I hoped she’d have learned.”

  “The only thing I learned was that the only thing a poor woman is allowed to do is to sell her body. Stealing’s more honest.”

  “There are scores of women here who haven’t done that,” snapped Athaal.

  “And a few men who have,” replied Lizabi in a cutting tone.

  “Ah, ser…” began the patroller. “If you’d release the confinement.”

  “And don’t try anything,” added Athaal to Lizabi. “I won’t be as gentle as Beltur was.”

  Beltur released the shields, and the patroller immediately wrapped leather straps around the girl’s wrists. Then he extracted the leather belt wallet from inside her loose-fitting jacket and looked at the woman who had claimed it. “Is this really yours?”

  “Demon-straight, it is.”

  Beltur could sense both anger and truth.

  The patroller looked to Athaal, who nodded. Then he handed the wallet back to the woman, and took something from his belt and handed it to Beltur. “Your token, ser.”

  Beltur took the stamped leather disk, understanding that he was supposed to, but not knowing why. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” The patroller smiled warmly, and nodded to Athaal. Then he returned his attention to his captive, before pulling on the leather straps. “This way, girl.”

  Lizabi glared at Beltur and hissed, “Bastard!”

  “None of that!” snapped the patroller.

  The stallkeepers faded away, except for the woman whose wallet had been stolen, who looked to Beltur. “Thank you. Would have been an awful day without you, ser.”

  “I just did what I could. I’m glad I could help.”

  The woman inclined her head respectfully and turned, heading back to her stall.

  “The patroller didn’t even ask anything about me,” Beltur said.

  “That’s because I saw Trakyll earlier and told him you were a mage new to Elparta. I didn’t expect anything like this today, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt.”

  Beltur frowned. “Was that one of the reasons why you drilled me so hard on shields that I could use to restrain someone?”

  “One of the reasons. They’re also usef
ul for self-defense when you don’t want to hurt someone. Almost all black mages spend some time working with the City Patrol, doing pretty much what you just did. Once you’ve lived here awhile, it’s required twice an eightday for a season, about every three to four years. Usually, mages discover thieves when they’re under a concealment, since the thieves wouldn’t try anything if they saw a mage. By the way, you can turn that disk in at the Council building for two silvers.”

  “Two?”

  “That’s the fee for restraining a thief. If you catch someone who’s assaulted and hurt someone, it’s four. But it has to be witnessed by a patroller, or reported to one by credible witnesses and in a public space. You can’t get much more public than in the market square. You’ll have to give your name and address, but that’s all. We should do that after we finish here. I’m still looking for some cardamom. That’s hard to come by, even here.”

  “Cardamom?” Beltur had never heard of it.

  “It only grows where it’s hot, places like Naclos and Hamor. Meldryn uses it in some hot drinks and pastries. Sometimes traders from Sarron bring it here. It’s not cheap, either.” Athaal smiled. “Go look around some more. I’ll see you at the bottom of Hill Street at ninth glass.”

  “Until then.” Beltur moved to the next line of carts and tables, most of which seemed to be selling small tools, knives, and a few blades. None of them appealed to him.

  Some little time later, he found an older woman selling shimmersilk scarves. One in particular caught his eye, in the way the colors shifted from pale seafoam green to a deep and rich sylvan green. He couldn’t help but think just how good it would look on Jessyla.

  “That one is four silvers, three for you,” said the vendor quietly.

  Beltur had known shimmersilk was costly—just not how expensive it was for a modest scarf. “Thank you, but I wouldn’t buy it without her to see it.”

  “You’re a wise man, even if it means that I won’t be able to sell it now.”

  Beltur smiled and moved on.

  When the chimes rang out ninth glass, he was standing on the half corner opposite the square, waiting for Athaal. He still wished he’d been able to buy the scarf, but that would have been a foolish gesture, even if he’d had the coins. You do owe her. You wouldn’t have survived without her observations. He smiled wryly, wondering if his thoughts were just a rationalization of the fact that he found Jessyla attractive.