“Who was that?”
He didn’t stop to become visible or explain. Ahead of him, two women were arguing, loudly, almost screaming.
“You slut! You ripped my scarf!”
“… did not!”
Beltur didn’t sense the chaos that should have increased with those words, but a lower-level chaos at an adjoining stall.
A distraction! He immediately moved toward the chaos, but before he reached it, the figure had grabbed something and started to slip away.
Beltur dropped the concealment and clamped shields around the thief, even if he wasn’t certain what the person had grabbed.
The screaming stopped. Then both young women turned and started to run. Beltur managed to put shields around the nearest one, but realized he couldn’t add another shield. He’d never tried to hold more than two at once, in addition to his own personal shields, and he didn’t want to let go of the two he held.
The thief appeared to be an older woman, slightly bent, wearing a voluminous dress of nondescript gray. Held in the shield, she glared at Beltur with undisguised hatred, but said nothing. Beltur looked at his other captive, a much younger woman, dressed in loose trousers, a light tan linen blouse, and a sleeveless maroon vest embroidered in white designs. She tried to spit at Beltur, but the spittle splattered on the unseen shield.
Belatedly, Beltur grabbed the whistle and blew three sharp blasts.
“She’s got three shimmersilk scarves!” the vendor to Beltur’s left cried out.
“Sow-sucking mage…” muttered the thief.
Beltur was about to blow the whistle again when he caught sight of Laevoyt’s tall figure striding along the space between the stalls, with buyers moving out of his way.
“What have we here, Mage?” asked Laevoyt loudly when he came to a stop short of the thief.
“The one in gray lifted something from that table and started to escape when I caught her. The one in the vest was arguing loudly with another young woman, and everyone was watching them. I could only catch these two.”
“The granny thief has three of my silk scarves!” declared the graying woman vendor.
“You can’t count,” muttered the woman in gray, almost under her breath.
“With that dress,” said Laevoyt, “she just might have a lot more.” A pair of leather cords appeared in his hands, and he stepped toward the thief. “Mage?”
Beltur released the shield, but was ready to throw one around both of them if the older woman attempted to flee. The thief didn’t offer resistance, but she continued to glare at Beltur as Laevoyt bound her hands behind her back and then placed a leather collar around her neck attached to a chain.
Laevoyt’s hands ran over the thief’s clothing, and in moments, he held four silk scarves. Then he came up with a small tooled leather bag, and a lace collar. “I do believe this will send you to the women’s house, granny.” He returned the scarves to the vendor, then addressed Beltur. “Hold her again, if you will.”
As soon as Laevoyt stepped back Beltur replaced the shield. Even so, the thief attempted to run and was brought up short.
At the patroller’s gesture, Beltur dropped the shield around the younger woman. Once the decoy was bound and collared, and both collared thieves were chained, Laevoyt had them walk in front of him toward Patrol Street. Beltur walked beside him, all too conscious of a growing headache. From holding three shields … or just because it’s been a long morning? He hoped what they had to do at headquarters didn’t take that long.
“You might as well come all the way with me,” said Laevoyt. “If you caught anyone else, you’d be waiting a long while. I’ll need to return the lace and the leather bag when we return to the square, but they’ll feel fortunate to get them back.”
Laevoyt and Beltur and their prisoners walked back to the north door of headquarters. Beltur opened the door and held it wide for the other three, then followed them inside.
“Two of them?” asked the duty patroller.
“They were busy,” replied Laevoyt. “The one in gray probably has more hidden in that dress. She took four shimmersilk scarves, and this collar, and this bag. The one in the vest was one of the decoys. The other decoy split before the mage could hold her.”
“Two out of three. Not bad.” The duty patroller produced another leather-bound book, then looked at the older woman. “Your name.”
“Cassyndra.”
“I doubt that’s her real name,” said Laevoyt.
“It doesn’t matter,” replied the other patroller, writing down the name and several more words before looking to the decoy. “Your name?”
“Shaedra.”
Then the duty patroller looked up. “Beltur, right? You’re the one who captured them?”
“That’s right,” said Laevoyt.
“Yes,” answered Beltur almost simultaneously.
After writing several lines in the book, the duty patroller reached down and picked up a large bell that he rang vigorously. Several moments passed before another patroller opened the door behind the duty desk.
“Two more prisoners. Grand theft. Main market square.”
“What happens now?” asked the younger woman in a thin almost squeaky voice.
“You’ll go before the Council magistrate,” replied the duty patroller. “She’ll decide whether you keep both your hands and how long you’ll work in the women’s house.”
The younger woman swallowed.
The third patroller took the two prisoners and gestured for them to precede him through the inner door.
Once the three were gone and the door closed, the duty patroller handed Laevoyt two more sets of leathers, chains, and collars. “Have a good afternoon.”
“We’ll try,” replied Laevoyt cheerfully.
Beltur just nodded.
When Beltur and Laevoyt were outside and walking back toward the market square, the patroller said, “You’re one of the few mages I’ve seen that can handle two shields.”
“It’s actually three. I was holding my own at the same time.”
Laevoyt raised his eyebrows. “You’re pretty young for that, if I do say so.”
“There are lots of other things I can’t do,” Beltur said. “Shields just happen to be one of the things I’m good at.” Thanks to Jessyla and Athaal.
“You also picked up the actual thief. Many times the mage only gets the decoy.”
“That’s because Athaal and Meldryn…”
“Told you what to watch for?”
“Yes.” If not in so many words.
“That will make your work here easier, but you’d better never let those shields down when you’re on the streets. They don’t care all that much about their decoys, but that false granny in there will likely lose a hand. It won’t be long before word gets out that you’re catching the thieves, and not just their decoys. Someone just might pay an assassin to try to put a crossbow bolt in you. Of course, if you stop that and catch the assassin, then that’s worth five disks, and no assassin will try again. If you just stop the bolt they likely won’t try again, either.”
“I have the feeling that mages without shields are better staying away from Elparta,” said Beltur dryly.
“That’s generally a good idea,” said Laevoyt, again cheerfully.
“Is there anywhere here that has ale?” Beltur asked.
“Ale?”
“I brought some bread, but I need something to drink. Holding three shields at once isn’t easy.”
“We’ll go by Fosset’s cart. He’ll give you the first one free. A small mug.”
“I can take that?”
“One per day, all day, is allowed. After that, you pay.” Laevoyt led Beltur back down the west side of the square to where a man stood beside a small cart, with two kegs set upon it, with a three-level rack between them, each level containing earthenware mugs, with the smallest mugs on the top row, and the largest on the middle. “Good afternoon, Fosset. This is Beltur. You’ll be seeing him for a time.”<
br />
The clean-shaven and stocky Fosset had curly black hair and offered a broad smile. “Best brew on the square, ser mage.” The smile turned into a grin. “Might be because it’s the only brew. You get one free. Would you like it now?”
“If you please.”
“My pleasure.”
Beltur took the proffered small mug, let his senses range over it, and, detecting no chaos, took a sip. The brew was about as dark as Meldryn’s and slightly bitterer, but not nearly so bitter as what his uncle had preferred. “Thank you.” He took a longer swallow, then extracted his loaf of bread and bit off a chunk.
“I wondered if you’d thought about some provisions,” said Laevoyt. “Some mages don’t the first time they patrol.”
Beltur swallowed what he’d taken and replied, “Athaal suggested it.”
“Good advice helps.”
“Where are you from, ser?” asked Fosset. “You don’t talk quite like the mages from here.”
“I came from Fenard. The Prefect wasn’t exactly fond of mages who didn’t want to do his every bidding.” That was a great oversimplification, Beltur knew, but he really didn’t want to explain in detail.
“That’s been a problem for more than one ruler. Head gets too big for the crown.” Fosset shook his head. “Always leads to trouble afore it’s over.”
“Mostly for everyone else, till the end, anyway,” said Laevoyt.
Beltur finished half the loaf of bread, and then the remainder of the ale. “Thank you.” He returned the mug to Fosset. “I do appreciate it.”
“Can’t have you too thirsty to do your job proper.”
By the time Beltur finished a half circuit of the square, in plain sight, his headache had vanished. Nor did it return when he raised a concealment. For the next glass or so, he kept the concealment up, lowering it a few times just to let people know he was still around. Sometime before third glass, he caught a glimmer of chaos in the row of stalls and tables that ran almost across the middle of the square, but by the time he got there, he could sense nothing, and none of the remaining vendors seemed to be upset, since more than a third of them had either packed up and left or were in the process of doing so.
Beltur arrived at the corner of Patrol and West Streets just as the chimes rang out fourth glass.
Laevoyt was already there, smiling. “Some of the vendors are still talking about those two you caught. That group has been getting away with a lot. Most scurfs are men. Before I forget.” He handed Beltur two of the leather disks. “You already know what to do with these.”
“Thank you. Do you get anything for catching people?”
Laevoyt shook his head. “That wouldn’t be right. It’d tempt too many patrollers into making up lawbreaking. Black mages can’t do that. It works out better the way it is. We need to go sign out.”
The two walked for a few paces before Beltur said, “Was today the way it usually is?”
“There are always sellers and buyers. There are always thieves. Sometimes they try and get caught. Sometimes, they’re successful, and we don’t catch them. Sometimes they’re so good we don’t even see them. Sometimes more than one or two try. Sometimes, no one tries. You can’t ever tell how any day will turn out.”
Beltur understood that a single mage and a single patroller couldn’t see everything, but he didn’t like the idea that thieves could get away with stealing and never be seen, let alone not be caught.
“Just remember,” Laevoyt added, “We’ll never catch them all. We’re here to keep the theft down and to keep people from getting hurt. Just being here does most of that.”
When they reached the duty desk, Beltur discovered that signing out amounted to signing the duty book. Once he did, he followed Laevoyt out onto Patrol Street.
There, the tall patroller stopped. “I’ll see you on sevenday. Until then.” After another cheerful smile, he turned and walked away, heading west.
Beltur made his way past the square and eventually to Bakers Lane, absently tucking both the whistle and the medallion inside his tunic, but still maintaining his personal shields—especially after what Laevoyt had said. He couldn’t help but think that, in some ways, Elparta wasn’t all that different from Fenard. Both had rules, and both enforced those rules. But it doesn’t appear that the Spidlarian Council kills people just for disagreeing. At least, he hoped it didn’t, but every day he seemed to learn about some new law or requirement.
XXXV
On fiveday, Beltur returned to working with Jorhan at the smithy, casting four separate daggers, each one different enough to be described as unique, although Beltur could certainly see a basic similarity.
“They’ll look very different when they’re finished,” Jorhan insisted at the end of the day. “You’ll see.”
Beltur had to admit that the finish work he had seen so far was excellent, especially on the two sabres, but that raised another question. “Who in Elparta will buy such expensive blades?”
“Men with golds and good taste, who also like good weapons. There are a few in Elparta. Once their friends in other cities see them, there will be more who want them.”
“Have you sold any of the others?”
“I’m keeping one of the sabres. The other one will be picked up tonight. He’ll also deliver a design for a pair of candelabra. The mold on that will likely take several days. I even sold that first dagger to someone else. He thought it was a bargain. It was. I didn’t put my mark on it. Should have done a better job on the mold.”
“It was a good dagger, wasn’t it?”
“It was. It just wasn’t one I wanted my mark on. He got a good blade for less than he could have spent, and I got paid.” Jorhan handed over a pair of silvers. “Until tomorrow.”
After leaving the smithy, Beltur headed back to the city. He walked swiftly because he wanted to stop at the shop of the seamstress Meldryn had recommended to order some more smallclothes and, if he could afford it, a better-fitting pair of trousers to wear when he wasn’t working in the smithy.
At the same time, his thoughts went back to the previous day, when one of the thief’s decoys had escaped simply because Beltur hadn’t been able to hold four small shields at once. Why couldn’t you do that? It ought to be possible. After all, he had held a shield strong enough to protect a mounted squad and strong enough to stop flights of arrows. And that had been before all of Athaal’s drills and practice sessions.
As he passed a recently harvested wheat field, he saw almost a score of crows gleaning for grains that had dropped on the ground. Several of the crows flew from the ground closer to the road and then settled farther away, but the remainder kept foraging, if with quick looks in Beltur’s direction. What if … Beltur immediately put shields around the two nearest crows, then concentrated on forming a fourth shield around a third. Small as the shield was, he could only hold it for a few moments. But you could do it.
He released the other two shields, smiling as the outraged crows took wing. The smile vanished when he felt the beginnings of a headache. Still … if he worked at it …
The guards at the southeast gate still looked at Beltur as he passed, but only for a moment. Once inside the walls, he followed the street adjoining the east wall north for three blocks, and then turned west on Tailors Way. He massaged his forehead with his left hand several times, but that didn’t seem to help the slight headache. It didn’t get any worse, though.
Meldryn had described the shop as being in the first block on the north side in the middle and having only a small square sign showing a needle crossed with scissors. Beltur almost missed it and had to take two steps back. The door was narrow, and there was but a single high window beside it.
He knocked on the door and waited.
After several moments, there was a faint scraping sound, and the back cover on the door peephole opened.
“My name is Beltur. I’m looking for Celinya. I need some shirts. Mage Meldryn sent me.”
The peephole closed. After a moment, Beltu
r heard a latch moving, and then the door opened.
“Please come in, ser mage.” The thin seamstress holding onto the door looked to be only a few years older than Beltur, but there were lines in her face, and she seemed to stand at an angle, or with one shoulder lower than the other.
After a moment, he realized that one of her legs was shorter than the other and that the foot on that leg was smaller and twisted slightly. He said quickly, “You’re Celinya?”
“I am.” She closed the door, and slid the latch back into place.
He glanced around the small room, no more than four yards across and perhaps slightly more than three deep. The single door on the left side of the rear wall was closed. There were only two wooden straight-backed chairs in the room, and two worktables, on one of which sections of cloth were laid out. There was also a wooden rack with what Beltur guessed were devices on which to hang garments. A single oil lamp—unlit—hung from a brass wall bracket near the larger worktable.
“I need some sturdy smallclothes,” Beltur finally said. “A shirt and drawers. Two of each.”
“I can do that. It will take an eightday.”
“How much?”
“A silver and three for each shirt. Six coppers for each of the drawers.”
Not quite four silvers. “What about a pair of black trousers?”
“Three silvers.”
“The trousers will have to wait.” Beltur paused. “Meldryn said that you’d require something in advance?”
“A silver and eight for the drawers and smallshirts. I will need to measure you. Over here, please.”
Beltur moved to where she pointed and stood there while she used a cloth tape with embroidered marks indicating the digits.
“Hold out your arms.”
Beltur did so, although he noticed that she only really measured one. Her hands were deft, and she barely touched him. When she finished, a faint smile crossed the thin lips of the brown-haired seamstress. “You should have a better tunic. For a mage…” She shook her head.
“I’m not a wealthy mage. In fact, until an eightday or so ago, I was almost a copperless mage.”
The Mongrel Mage Page 34