“That sounds as though she’ll fit right in there,” said Athaal dryly.
“If that’s the way she feels,” Meldryn replied, “then would you advise her to come here?”
“Probably not.”
“How many members of the Spidarian Council are women?” Jessyla asked Athaal.
“Women don’t serve on the Council.”
“Why not?”
“They just don’t.”
“Men aren’t the ones who rule in Sarronnyn,” said Jessyla, her voice even. “Why is that any different from women not ruling in Spidlar?”
Still standing behind Athaal, Meldryn smiled, if briefly, but said nothing.
“Women and men are different,” Athaal finally replied.
“Some men are different from most men. Should such men not be allowed to be on the Council? Some women are different from most women. Shouldn’t they be allowed to be on the Council, since they’re different from other women?”
While Jessyla’s voice remained even, Beltur could sense a certain chaotic movement in the order surrounding her, suggesting that she was struggling to remain calm.
“You do raise some very good questions, Jessyla,” said Meldryn, “but I do have some doubts as to whether what we think will much affect the Council.”
Jessyla looked ready to say something else, then pursed her lips for a moment, before turning to Beltur. “You haven’t said much.”
For a long moment, Beltur couldn’t think of what he should say, or dared to say, feeling caught between wanting to agree with Jessyla and not wanting to upset Athaal. After what seemed an interminable length of time, he finally managed to say, “Maybe it’s best the way it is where it is. That way, Dhurra can go to Sarronnyn, where she’s more comfortable, and Athaal and Meldryn can enjoy the benefits of living in Spidlar.”
“Do you really think everything’s for the best?” demanded Jessyla. “When the Prefect killed your uncle and wants to destroy Spidlar and Certis?”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant that it might be best to have some lands ruled by men and some by women. I don’t like the idea of the Prefect ruling anything.”
“You should have said that,” replied the younger healer.
“I would have,” replied Beltur, as ruefully as he could manage, “if I could talk and think as fast as you do.”
Margrena grinned.
Jessyla laughed.
Meldryn smiled broadly.
After a moment, even Athaal smiled.
“Now…” offered Meldryn in a mellow voice, “might I suggest that Beltur and I get on with preparing dinner while the three of you catch up on what has happened.” He gestured toward Beltur.
Beltur rose and followed the oldest mage into the kitchen.
“If you’d get out the platters and cutlery … put them on the worktable. I’ll bring the meat pies and some bread from the bakery while you’re doing that.”
“Yes, ser.” As he arranged plates on the worktable, Beltur mused over the fact that Meldryn had not wanted the discussion in the parlor to continue, almost as if he had wanted to separate Athaal and Beltur, even though Jessyla had been the one who had been asking the provocative questions.
He had just finished arranging the platters on the worktable and the cutlery on the main table when Meldryn returned, carrying a large tray with three meat pies, two smaller pies, most likely berry pies, and two large loaves of bread.
“That was an interesting observation you made in the parlor,” said Meldryn. “How did you come up with that?”
“I guess what I was partly thinking was that Arms-Mage Wyath had Uncle Kaerylt killed because Uncle didn’t want to be like him. People are different, and maybe not all kinds of people belong together.”
Meldryn nodded. “If you had lands of different kinds of people, wouldn’t the lands just fight?”
“Why would they do that? No one’s attacked either Westwind or Sarronnyn in years.”
“In over a hundred years. That’s not very long in the life of countries. Both old Lornth and Gallos attacked Westwind until the dark angels proved it was far too costly. Both lands attacked, if the stories and The Book of Ayrlyn are accurate, because the women on the Roof of the World wanted to change things. After all that, Nylan and Ayrlyn had to leave Westwind because they were different.”
“That may be,” said Beltur, “but isn’t it better to let people leave than to kill them because they’re different?”
“A land won’t survive unless its people agree on what’s good and what’s not good, and who should rule and how.”
“That doesn’t mean that people in different lands shouldn’t be able to have different ways of doing things. That was what I meant.”
Meldryn shrugged. “As an idea, I’d agree with that. But what makes the idea work in the examples of Westwind and Sarronnyn is how strong they both are. Something may be right, but without the strength to protect that idea or way of doing things, it will fall to those who are stronger. A bad idea, or a terrible way of ruling or a bad ruler—like Denardre in Gallos—will triumph over those unable to stop them. That’s why the Council of Spidlar is careful to make sure everyone knows the laws and customs and does what is necessary to maintain them both.”
“Does the Council drive out the people who think differently, the way the Prefect is?”
Meldryn shook his head. “Not as long as they obey the laws. At the same time, life is not as easy for anyone who doesn’t believe what most people do. That’s why some leave. Women who think they should be able to be on the Council would be more comfortable in Sarronnyn. Relynists usually move to Axalt, or maybe to Montgren.”
“Montgren?” Athaal had mentioned the Relynists in Axalt to Beltur, but no one had ever said much about Montgren.
“What’s important in Montgren is sheep. They don’t get upset about much of anything else as long as people don’t hurt each other. The Duchess is said to be fair.” The older mage gestured. “Pour two pitchers of ale, and then tell the others that supper, such as it is, is ready.”
Beltur did both. Before long, all five were seated at the main kitchen table, with Meldryn and Athaal at each end, Beltur on one side, and Margrena and Jessyla on the other.
“This looks like the best fare we’ve had in days,” said Margrena, after taking a bite of the meat pie, and sipping the ale.
“More like eightdays,” added Jessyla.
“Eating here has been a real pleasure,” said Beltur.
“You did most of the cooking in Fenard, didn’t you?” Margrena’s words were as much statement as question.
Beltur wondered how she had known that. “For the last few years, once my uncle trusted me in the kitchen. That’s another reason I enjoy eating here. The food is better than my cooking.”
“It makes sense,” Jessyla said. “You wouldn’t spoil the food the way your uncle and Sydon would have.”
“He mentioned that to you?” Beltur finally asked Margrena.
“In passing. He said he appreciated your efforts.”
“‘Efforts’ is probably as good a word as any.”
“You were friendly with Beltur’s uncle?” Meldryn asked.
“Cordial. Not friendly. He was an honest man, and he sent people to me for healing. He even arranged for me to get burnet when it was hard to come by.”
Jessyla nodded. “That was how I met Beltur. He helped me load it.”
Jessyla’s words definitely surprised Beltur, because, while he had been friendly and as helpful as he could be, he hadn’t actually touched the burnet, and Jessyla had definitely noticed that when she had come for the healing herb.
“Some things are getting clearer,” said Meldryn dryly. “I have a much better idea why Arms-Mage Wyath was after Beltur’s uncle, and why you encouraged Athaal to help Beltur.”
“How could we not?” replied Margrena. “Beltur certainly did nothing wrong according to our lights, and his uncle was the only white in Fenard who was helpful to us.”
Meldryn offered a thoughtful nod, then said, “There are some berry pies when you finish the meat pies.”
“His berry pies are outstanding,” confirmed Beltur, wanting to move the conversation away from blacks and whites.
“It’s seems like forever since we had something like that to look forward to,” said Jessyla, offering a brief smile.
Beltur wasn’t sure if she’d meant the smile for him, but he enjoyed it anyway.
XXXIII
Eightday was quiet, so quiet that Beltur slept through breakfast, which he almost never did, possibly because the work of manipulating order and chaos had turned out to be far more exhausting than he’d thought possible for something that sounded so simple. Even so, the section of cold meat pie that Meldryn had set aside for him was more than enough. Because the two had left the house, most likely to visit friends, as they had mentioned they might the night before, Beltur cleaned up everything, washed up, and settled down in the parlor to read more in On Healing. Although Athaal had almost dismissed the book as more of a primer on anatomy, Beltur continued to find it informative, given that he needed something fairly basic and that he still worried about what could have gone wrong when he had used the order to destroy the strange chaos in the head of Claudyt’s grandson.
Athaal and Meldryn returned in the late afternoon, but did not say where they’d been. He had had half expected that they had gone to see Margrena and Jessyla, but what they said in passing at dinner indicated they had been elsewhere.
On oneday and twoday Beltur worked with Jorhan at the smithy, casting two cupridium sabres, several bowls, and a fairly ornate platter. Diligent as he was in carrying light shields whenever he was out in public, between that and the efforts involved in casting the cupridium, by the time he reached the house each night, he was exhausted.
On threeday, when Beltur came down to breakfast, he found an envelope at his place. Immediately, he looked to Athaal. “What is that?”
“It arrived early this morning by a Council messenger. It’s still sealed. I don’t know what’s in it, but I’d wager it’s a summons to aid the City Patrol. They’re always shorthanded, and you came to the attention of the Council last eightday.”
Beltur opened the envelope gingerly and began to read.
Greetings and salutations, Honored Mage Beltur—
As a mage resident in Elparta, you are required to serve periodically in support of the City Patrol for two days out of each eightday for a season, but no more than one season every three years, or less, if so decided by the Council. This duty is required of all mages. Failure to do so can result in either extra non-remunerative duties or immediate exile from Spidlar. For each day of duty you will receive one silver for your presence, and additional stipends based on performance.
Please report to Clerk Raymandyl in the Council building within two days of receiving this notice.
The signature was that of one Veroyt. Under his name were the words “under the direction of Jhaldrak, Councilor from Elparta.”
Beltur looked up. “It’s definitely a summons for duty. I need to report to Raymandyl either today or tomorrow.”
“I’d suggest today. Putting off Council duties can only lead to trouble. Also, if you report for your duty assignment immediately, that will make Raymandyl think more highly of you, and that could be very useful.”
Beltur understood what Athaal wasn’t saying—since you’re a newcomer to Elparta and you’re from Gallos.
“You should go early,” added Athaal. “It won’t hurt for Laranya to clean the kitchen this one time.”
Beltur didn’t argue with the other mage.
“Take the summons with you,” added Athaal.
In less than half a glass, Beltur was on his way, headed south on Bakers Lane. It took him a bit longer, because he’d only been to the Council building twice, both times coming from the main market square, and he missed Hill Street coming south and had to retrace his steps.
When he stepped inside the door on the north side of the Council building, breathing a little hard from hurrying up the hill, Beltur didn’t recognize Raymandyl for several moments, because the clerk was not at his desk and was facing the other way, so that all Beltur saw was his jet-black hair until Raymandyl turned and walked back toward Beltur.
“Clerk Raymandyl…”
“Just Raymandyl,” replied the clerk cheerfully as he gestured for Beltur to take the single straight-backed chair before it. “I see that Athaal got to you.”
“He was quietly insistent that I come immediately.”
“He can be rather persuasive. I hear you’re working with Jorhan.” At Beltur’s involuntary expression of surprise, Raymandyl laughed. “Elparta may be a city, but everyone knows everyone, or at least all the merchants and crafters and mages do, and they all talk.”
“I have been working with him for the last few days.”
“Good man. Honest. A little abrupt at times.” Raymandyl paused. “What did Athaal tell you?”
“Even before I got the summons, he’d explained that mages had duties.” Beltur laid the summons on the desk. “He said to bring it.”
“Good. Your duty days for now will be fourday and sevenday. In fact, you’ll likely always be working on sevenday often because some people can’t go to the square any other time except sevenday afternoon, or eightday, and most would like to keep eightday for themselves, especially the Chaordists.”
“Chaordists? I thought most of them were in Hamor.”
“There are quite a few here, along with some Relynists.”
“Relynists?”
“You know, the ancient prophet of the black temple. Most of his followers live in Axalt, but we’ve got a few here. Now … do you know where the City Patrol headquarters are?”
“Athaal showed me. The square building several long blocks from the northwest corner of the main market square?”
“That’s it. The street is Patrol Street. That might even be a name painted on a building or two. That’s where you’ll meet the patroller you’ll be supporting. You’re to be there no later than two fifths before seventh glass. Your duty time runs from seventh glass to fourth glass. You get paid once each eightday, right here. You can pick up the previous eightday’s pay, and redeem any disks, any day after oneday.” Raymandyl turned to the cabinet beside the desk and opened a drawer, pulling out what looked to be a medallion of some sort. He handed it to Beltur.
As he took the medallion, Beltur could immediately tell that it and the chain were of worked silver. He looked askance at the clerk.
“That’s the chain and medallion you wear on duty—outside your tunic where it can be seen. You lose it, and you owe the Council five silvers. When your duty is over, you hand it in when you pick up your last pay. Now, you have to sign the book and affirm that you’ve been informed of your duties.” The clerk took a ledger-like book with a blue leather binding from the cabinet and opened it. He began to write. After a time, he turned the book to face Beltur. “Please read this aloud.”
Beltur scanned the words, and then read, “I affirm that the Council Clerk has informed me of my duties and responsibilities and that he has provided me with the medallion of office as the symbol of my duties in support of the City Patrol. I understand that the medallion must be returned upon completion of one season’s duty.”
“Good. Sign on the left side. Leave space for me to sign on the right.” Raymandyl handed the pen to Beltur.
Beltur took the pen, signed his name, and returned the pen.
In turn, the clerk signed, and then melted the wax and applied his seal. “There. That takes care of the formalities. Do you have any other questions?”
“I start tomorrow?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know what patroller
I’ll be working with?”
Raymandyl shook his head. “That’s up to Patrol Captain Fhaltar, since Patrol Chief Chamyt is trying to work out how to best use the Council forces sent from Kleth to reinforce the towers and the city garrison.”
“Because of the Prefect?”
“Haven’t you heard? Prefect Denardre is demanding the Council lower tariffs on goods from Gallos. He sent a missive to the Council declaring, in effect, that those tariffs will be lower, one way or another. Word is that he’s assembling an army and all the white mages in Gallos.”
Do Athaal and Meldryn know this? “I hadn’t heard that the Prefect had put that in writing. Athaal and Meldryn knew about the army, but not that he’d threatened Spidlar. They thought something like that might happen, but…” Beltur shook his head.
“Did they say why?”
“Only that they’d heard from healers who had left Gallos about the army and the white mages.”
“I was hoping they might know more.” Raymandyl sounded disappointed.
From what Beltur could tell, the clerk wasn’t hiding anything. “I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so.” He slipped the medallion and chain over his head but inside his tunic.
“That’s a good idea. Remember … well before seventh glass tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be there. Thank you for all the explanations.”
“It was my pleasure, also my duty.”
Beltur inclined his head, then made his way from the Council building, slightly amazed at the definite formality required by the Spidlarian Council. Quite a contrast from Fenard.
He did his best to hurry, but it was still close to eighth glass by the time he stepped inside the smithy.
“You’re late,” said Jorhan brusquely.
Beltur thought he detected a sense of concern. Worry that you might not show up? “I’m sorry. I got a message to report to the Council building immediately.”
“What did you do to cause that?”
“I stopped a cutpurse in the market last eightday, and the Council found out that I’m a mage and that I haven’t ever served the duty with the City Patrol. So for the next season, I have to work with the market patroller on duty on fourday and sevenday. Starting tomorrow.”
The Mongrel Mage Page 32