The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Carrying the leather bag that appeared half full, Athaal joined Beltur not long after.

  “Did you find the cardamom?”

  “No. There was none to be had.” Athaal gestured. “Let’s go.”

  Beltur and Athaal climbed Hill Street to the Council building. Halfway up, Beltur released the shield. Holding it for glasses had been tiring.

  When they reached the top, Athaal led the way past the west-facing main entrance. “The small door at the north end is where we’re going. That’s where people pay what they owe the Council and where mages who do work for the Patrol or the council get paid.”

  “Did you get paid for getting the supplies for the Council?”

  “Quite nicely. I wouldn’t have gone to Gallos, otherwise.” Athaal opened the single door at the north end and gestured for Beltur to enter.

  A round-faced clerk in blue seated behind a table desk looked up, then smiled at Athaal. “I thought I’d seen the last of you for a while.”

  “You might have, but you’ll likely be seeing some of Beltur now and again. He’s likely the first from Fenard now that the Prefect is driving out blacks and even whites who won’t grovel to his arms-mage. Beltur was in the square earlier this morning and restrained a cutpurse.” Athaal motioned for Beltur to join him before the desk.

  “Anyone I’ve heard of?”

  “I doubt it. Lizabi. She was in trouble a few years back. She supposedly went to Kleth. I was surprised to see her back. She won’t like the women’s house.”

  “Most of them never do.” The clerk looked to Beltur.

  “Beltur, this is Raymandyl. He handles tokens and quite a few other tasks for the Council.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “You have the token?”

  Beltur handed it over.

  “One of Trakyll’s. Don’t see many of his. Most of the light-fingered types avoid the square when he’s there.” Raymandyl took out a thin black leather-bound ledger and opened it. “Your name here. Your profession here. That’s black mage. Don’t know why the Council insists on that. No one gets tokens besides blacks or grays, but I haven’t seen a true gray since Sarmean died, must have been ten years back now. Oh … and your address here.”

  Beltur signed his name and looked to Athaal quizzically.

  “Black enough,” said the other mage, adding to the clerk, “Beltur has a few wisps of white because he was raised by his late uncle, but he’s blacker than many who’ve never questioned what they were.”

  Even with that explanation, writing “black mage” felt strange to Beltur, although he certainly wasn’t white any longer, and he was getting to wonder if he really ever had been, as Jessyla had suggested. “Bakers Lane at…? I’ve never seen a sign.”

  “Crossed Lane.”

  “Staying with you?” asked Raymandyl.

  “Until he gets his feet on the ground here. He left Fenard barely with even his life.”

  The clerk shook his head. “I daresay I don’t know what this world is coming to, between the Prefect and the Viscount.” He took out a small seal brazier, struck a lighter, and waited for a time before putting a tiny dollop of blue wax in the pan, letting it melt, then deftly transferring a small drop to the ledger in the empty space beside Beltur’s signature before pressing his seal into the wax. “There.” He took a key from somewhere and unlocked a cabinet beside his desk, reaching in and extracting two coins, and then relocking the cabinet door. “Here you are, ser.”

  “Thank you.” Beltur offered a nod with his words.

  “Always my pleasure.” Raymandyl turned to Athaal. “You going to do any patrol duty soon?”

  “I’ve done my share for a time, and with what else I’ve done for the Council…” The black-bearded mage shook his head.

  Once Beltur and Athaal were outside the Council building, the bearded mage said, “Now that you’re on the books, you might get a call to duty in the next season. You get paid a silver a day, and you only have to work two days out of every eight, and that’s just walking either of the market squares, not every day, but the days are changed every few eightdays so that the thieves don’t know when a mage is likely to be there. Duty lasts for ten eightdays, equivalent to one season, and not more often than once every three years.”

  “Is that what you meant by a summons to duty?”

  Athaal nodded.

  Beltur considered the possibilities. Given his considerable lack of coins, a silver a day didn’t sound all that bad. “Why are the disks redeemed here, rather than at Patrol headquarters?”

  “The Council prefers not to have any sizable amount of coin at the Patrol building. It’s better to avoid temptation. Also, it gives the Council a better idea of where to locate mages, in case they need one.”

  “Where are we headed now?”

  “Back to the house, first, so that I can give all this to Meldryn. Then we’ll head north to check a pair of windmills that pump water. After that, we’ll see.”

  XXXI

  Whether it was the howling of the wind or the fact that Beltur couldn’t help but worry over the fact that he didn’t seem much closer to being able to support himself, he woke up early on sixday, and immediately had another disturbing thought, one that was scarcely new. You never really supported yourself in Fenard, either. But then, did anyone who worked for someone else truly support himself?

  Those questions still half preoccupied Beltur when he reached the kitchen and sat down at the table. He sipped the dark ale.

  “You’re looking thoughtful this morning,” said Athaal cheerfully.

  “I’ve had a lot to think over.”

  The other two exchanged worried glances.

  “It’s not bad,” said Beltur hurriedly. “I don’t think it is. It’s just … well … You and Meldryn have been very good to me.” Beltur wasn’t sure what he could say next that wouldn’t come out as either ungrateful or self-serving.

  Athaal hesitated, then went on. “This sounds like you’re concerned you are a burden.”

  “I am concerned. I still know so little about what I could do that wouldn’t … well … wouldn’t take from you.”

  “You’re learning,” said Athaal. “You’re beginning to earn coins on your own.”

  “But not nearly enough.”

  “Others helped us get started,” said Meldryn, “and we’re helping you, and you’ll help others. That’s how it should be.” He glanced to his partner. “Jorhan?”

  “Oh … I hadn’t thought about him,” said Athaal. “There’s a smith you might be able to help … if you’re interested. Jorhan works both iron and bronze, but he thinks there might be a market for things made of cupridium. He’s been asking if we knew someone who could help with that for well over a year.”

  Beltur offered a puzzled expression.

  “As I understand it, forging cupridium requires a slight influx of chaos bound in order. I get very uncomfortable dealing with chaos, even through order. You probably noticed that already. You’d be better at that than either Meldryn or me.”

  “It’s not something I’d feel comfortable with, either,” added Meldryn.

  Beltur hadn’t noticed Athaal’s reluctance about chaos so much as his difficulties in detecting and handling tiny bits of either order or chaos, although he couldn’t have said that he was particularly surprised about either of the two not wanting to handle chaos.

  “What he’d pay,” Athaal shrugged, “I don’t know, but you’d keep it all.”

  That would be a start. “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Good. We’ll go out there after breakfast. I’d thought to head that way sometime in the next few days, anyway.”

  Beltur wondered about that as well, but wasn’t about to say anything, especially since he sensed no deception. It was just that everything seemed so … convenient for Athaal. Then maybe the black mage was just so attuned to order that matters were that convenient. He took another swallow of the dark ale, then helped himself to some of the half-
warm cheesed eggs and the small loaf of bread that Meldryn often made for each of them for breakfast. The eggs were good, and filling, but the bread was warm and fresh, and Beltur savored every bite from the crusty loaf.

  Before all that long, he had finished breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen, and rejoined Athaal in the parlor. The older mage replaced the book he had been reading in the bookcase and stood. The two stepped out into another warm harvest morning, if one with more wind than Beltur could recall since he’d been in Elparta—except for the northeaster. Athaal immediately turned east on Crossed Lane, which surprised Beltur, because any time before that they had left the city, they had headed north first.

  “Where is this smithy?”

  “He’s got a place in the hills, alongside a stream, not more than a kay from the southeast corner of the wall.”

  “That seems like a strange place for a smithy.”

  “Oh?” This time, Athaal looked surprised.

  “All the smithies I’ve ever seen are in towns or cities or really close.”

  “The Council doesn’t allow smelting and heavy forging inside the walls. Didn’t I mention that?”

  Belatedly, Beltur recalled that Athaal had. “You did. I forgot. You did say some had shops to display their work in the northeast quarter.”

  “Jorhan’s a little different. You’ll see. He’s a good man, though.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “There isn’t much to tell. His family’s been in these parts forever. His great-grandfather came from a town on the other side of the southern hills, just barely in Gallos. Back then it didn’t matter, of course.”

  Beltur frowned.

  “There weren’t any tariffs on the river then. Denardre’s father imposed the first ones. Before that, Gallos and Spidlar were on better terms. Supposedly, the Council just looked the other way when bounty hunters chased Relyn all the way to Axalt. They didn’t catch him. Some of them vanished, according to Jorhan.”

  “Relyn? The same Relyn that built the temple whose ruins Wyath destroyed?”

  “There hasn’t been another one that I know of,” replied Athaal. “Anyway, Jorhan’s a childless widower, and the last in his line, except for his sister, and she consorted a merchant from Axalt. I suppose she’ll get the lands, or her children will. Jorhan’s never said much. I learned what I know from others.” He smiled. “You can learn a lot over time, if you just listen. Meldryn taught me that. It’s amazing what he’s heard over the years in the bakery. And you really ought to carry light shields all the time … or as much as you can.”

  Beltur refrained from sighing, and raised his shields.

  Before long, Beltur and Athaal had left Elparta through the southeast gate, where yet another guard had nodded knowingly to the bearded mage.

  “Do you know all the gate guards?”

  “I only know a handful by name, but they know me because most of the people I do work for live outside the city, and I’ve been going out through the gates for close to fifteen years.”

  Athaal’s estimate of the distance between the city gate and Jorhan’s smithy was a little suspect, Beltur thought, since he was certain they’d walked well over a kay, if not farther, past plots with small cots, one woodlot, and several stretches of rocky pastures before the older mage turned up a short stone lane leading up a very gentle slope, at the end of which stood a graystone house with a weathered split-slate roof and a small outbuilding with a single chimney from which a thin line of smoke rose. The morning was hotter than most had been lately, and Beltur had been blotting sweat from his brow and face for a good half glass.

  They were less than ten yards from the house when the door opened, and a man stepped out onto the stone stoop, shouting, “So you’ve finally decided to pay me another visit!”

  Beltur was relieved to see that the broad-shouldered figure was grinning broadly.

  Athaal was also smiling, but he didn’t speak until he and Beltur reached the bottom of the steps leading up to the entry. “I never said I wouldn’t visit. I brought someone I thought you should meet. Beltur, this is Jorhan.”

  “You two might as well come in and get out of the sun.” Jorhan stepped back and into the house, leaving the door open.

  Athaal led the way up the steps and into the house. The door just opened into a room that was furnished in largely unupholstered wooden furniture—two mismatched armchairs, three straight chairs, and a backed bench with two side tables against the wall. One of the armchairs had a worn blue cushion on it, and the bench seat was covered with a matching pad.

  Beltur studied Jorhan. The first thing he sensed was a faint black mist of order surrounding the muscular and stocky smith, not enough for him to be a healer or mage, but more than most people harbored. The second thing was the penetrating gray eyes that were studying Beltur and looking up slightly, since the top of Jorhan’s balding head was level with Beltur’s eyes.

  “Beltur’s a mage who had to leave Gallos with little more than his life,” Athaal said evenly.

  “You don’t look much like a mage.”

  “Why don’t you shield yourself fully,” suggested Athaal. “As strong as you can.”

  Beltur did so.

  “Try to hit him,” said Athaal. “Be careful, though.”

  Jorhan shook his head, then walked to the wood stack beside the cold hearth and picked up a chunk of wood, then walked back toward Beltur. Remembering how he’d almost been unhorsed in Analeria, Beltur spread his feet.

  “You ready, Mage?”

  “Go ahead,” replied Beltur.

  The first blow was light, as if Jorhan wanted to make certain that Beltur did indeed have shields. The second one was not. While Beltur could feel the pressure of the blow, it didn’t hurt.

  Jorhan dropped the chunk of wood and shook his hand. He grinned ruefully. “You know, Athaal, you can be an evil bastard. You bring in a mage who scarcely looks like he could stand up in a northeaster, and I’m going to have a sore hand for a glass.” The smith gestured toward the chairs. “Sit where you please.”

  Beltur let his shields drop to a lighter level, watching as the smith picked up the billet of wood and then put it back on the stack on the hearth.

  “You never come without a reason.” Jorhan sat down in the middle of the bench.

  “I don’t. You asked if I knew of a mage who might be able to help you make cupridium. Beltur might be able to.”

  The smith looked at Beltur.

  “I haven’t worked with smiths before,” Beltur said, “but I can handle very small amounts of both order and chaos.”

  Jorhan looked quizzically at Athaal.

  “He was raised by his uncle, who was a white mage.”

  “Hah! Finally found a mage who might help.”

  “I’ve never even tried to make cupridium,” Beltur said.

  “We’ll have to work that out. I’ve got an old book that describes how the Cyadorans did it. Well … it’s a copy of an old book. Seems to make sense. I’ll pay you for the day, and if we work it out, you get a bonus, and more pay any day you work.”

  “No less than a silver a day,” said Athaal.

  Jorhan raised his eyebrows.

  “Beltur doesn’t know the going rates here, and for this, he’s better than most.”

  “Most? Seems like he’s the only one.”

  Athaal grinned. “In that case…”

  “Off with you, you mercenary son of a sow.” Jorhan’s deep voice held wry humor.

  The bearded mage stood and looked at Beltur. “I’m heading up the road. I’ll stop by here on my way back to the city. If you finish earlier, you know the way back.”

  “I’ll either be here, on my way back, or there.”

  “Then I’ll see you later. I’m sure you can do what Jorhan needs.” Athaal smiled warmly, then turned and made his way from the workshop.

  Jorhan stood and shook his head. “That man doesn’t even like talking about chaos. Do you know why?”

  Beltur e
ased himself out of the chair, then said, “He’s never said anything about it except that he’s not comfortable trying to work with it.”

  “What about you?”

  “I can use order to move or handle chaos, and but it doesn’t bother me the way it does Athaal. I wouldn’t want to handle chaos without using order.” Not necessarily for the obvious reasons.

  “Fair enough. Let me show you what the old book says. You can read it, and then we’ll go out to the forge and see what we can do.”

  “Might I ask why you want to make cupridium?”

  “Cupridium’s stronger than bronze. Cast and forged right, it’s stronger than all but black iron. For all practical purposes, a cupridium blade’ll even hold against one of black iron, and it’s only a shade heavier.”

  “Heavier? I thought…”

  “People got it all backward. They think bronze is lighter than iron. It’s not. It’s heavier.”

  “Then what’s the advantage to making cupridium? Isn’t it a lot of work to make a cupridium blade. Who but a white mage or someone filled with chaos would even need one?”

  “Someone who wanted the blade to last. A cupridium blade lasts forever. It doesn’t rust or corrode like iron or even the best steel. So does anything else made out of cupridium. And it looks beautiful forever. I could sell a pair of cupridium candlesticks for two golds or more.” Jorhan smiled. “There’s one other thing. A really good worked iron blade can take an eightday’s worth of work. A bronze blade takes less than half that, even with work-hardening the edge and normalizing it…”

  “And if I can insert the right amount of order-bound chaos into it…”

  “Then it’s cupridium, and we both benefit. There’s even more profit in creating decorative objects.”

  Somehow, those words, and the honest greed behind them, reassured Beltur. Still … “It can’t be that easy, even for a mage who knows how to do it. I haven’t the faintest idea of how to make this work.”