The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

“Thank you. It’s not his best, but it’s better than the bitter stuff that Holagryn used to peddle.”

  “Do you have to work at the inn after you finish here?”

  “What else?”

  “An ale, Fosset!” came a loud voice belonging to a short and stocky graybeard.

  Beltur nodded to Fosset and moved away, heading into the middle of the square, and drawing a concealment around himself.

  “… mage just disappeared…”

  “… always are doing that, dearie…”

  Abruptly, Beltur frowned, sensing a concentration of order ahead of him and to the right. He dropped his concealment for a moment, but he could see nothing where he sensed the order, which meant that the other mage was also using a concealment. There was something about that very organized pattern of order … Osarus! It has to be Osarus.

  Beltur let the other mage move away, then continued along the parallel line of tables until he reached the end. There he turned north, away from Osarus, and moved toward the stall with the more valuable merchandise. From what he could sense, the Patrol Mage was moving in the direction of headquarters.

  At ninth glass, he met on the northwest corner of the square with Laevoyt.

  “Have you seen anything?” asked the patroller.

  “The Patrol Mage was here for a while.”

  “You saw him?” Laevoyt frowned.

  “No. He was under a concealment, but he was here.”

  Laevoyt hesitated slightly before saying, “Likely he was just checking on the market.”

  “And his patrollers and mages,” added Beltur.

  “That, too. Too quiet for my liking.”

  “The quiet before trouble?”

  “Could be. Might just be quiet.”

  After leaving Laevoyt, Beltur raised a concealment around himself and made his way back in the direction of the more expensive wares, where the silks and laces and some jewelry were laid out, along with one stall that had an array of tools of various sorts. One of the problems with a concealment was that it was often hard to tell much about what people were wearing, although newer garments tended to be more orderly, and worn ones had a misting of chaos, but clothes that had been very expensive when made and worn for years also had a chaos-mist.

  Beltur lowered the concealment to look at the goods on a table that he hadn’t been able to figure out from just sending them. He discovered an array of black-lacquered boxes with lacquer images on them. “The best lacquered boxes anywhere. They come from Hydlen,” explained the deeply tanned man behind the table, whose eyes never stopped moving.

  “Thank you.”

  As he moved toward another table, one filled with elegant-looking porcelain platters, he sensed something behind him and immediately created a shield around the small figure with a tiny but sharp blade.

  The boy looked up at the medallion that became visible as Beltur turned, and his eyes widened. Beltur shook his head and then blew the whistle the requisite three blasts. At the same time, he tried to sense if the boy had an accomplice.

  “Ser … didn’t mean nothing, swear I didn’t…”

  Then Beltur frowned and whirled, throwing a shield around a well-dressed woman as she sidled away from a jewelry stall.

  “Aren’t you being rather presumptuous, Mage.” The young woman offered a scathing glance.

  “I’m afraid not. Now … please show me what is in your hand.”

  “You are being very insulting.” The woman drew herself up in a posture that was both arrogant and offended. “To think—”

  “Open your hand, palm up.” Beltur tightened the shield around her hand, preventing her from opening it and dropping whatever she had in it.

  At that point, Laevoyt appeared.

  “I believe that woman picked up a piece of jewelry from that table, and left something in its place. I’ve put a shield around her hand so she cannot drop what is in it.”

  The older man behind the table leaned forward, studying the items, then lifted a ring. “This one is brass! Mine was gold.”

  The woman whom Beltur had restrained seemed to swoon.

  “She’s acting,” said Laevoyt dryly. “Shall we see what’s in that hand?”

  The young woman straightened. “You wouldn’t dare. My father is Trader Eskeld.”

  “The Patrol captain will decide. Now about that ring…” Laevoyt nodded to Beltur.

  Beltur released the shield.

  Laevoyt’s hand picked the ring out of midair. “You have good taste.”

  The woman offered a withering glance.

  “About the ring?” said the vendor.

  “That will have to wait, ser,” replied the patroller.

  As Beltur and Laevoyt began to escort the young woman away from the jewelry table, Beltur released the shield around the boy with the knife, murmuring, “I never want to see you again.”

  The child swallowed, then darted away.

  Beltur feared he would see the boy again, but he had no real evidence, and no one had seen or lost anything to the boy, from what he’d been able to tell. Yet …

  “I presume you are escorting me to my coach,” the woman said. “It’s over there, with the matched grays.”

  Beltur’s eyes took in the black-trimmed gray coach, noting the well-groomed grays and the coachman, whose eyes were now on the three of them.

  “Your coach will have to wait,” replied Laevoyt cheerfully.

  Beltur would have wagered that the patroller wasn’t nearly as cheerful as he sounded.

  The duty patroller’s eyes widened as Laevoyt and Beltur escorted the woman into headquarters.

  “We’ll need to see Captain Fhaltar. It might be best in his study.”

  The patroller stood and opened the inner door.

  Laevoyt escorted the woman to the third door, which he opened, and said, “This is a matter for you, ser.” He ushered the other two into the study and closed the door.

  The Patrol captain was already standing beside the table desk. He was almost as tall as Laevoyt, broad-shouldered with close-trimmed blond hair and blue eyes. “What seems to be the difficulty here?” His voice was warm and friendly.

  “This lady,” said Laevoyt firmly, “lifted this ring from a jewelry stall in the market and attempted to leave without paying for it.”

  “I fully intended—”

  “And,” continued the patroller, “she left a brass ring in its place. The mage caught the deception and contained her. She attempted to drop the ring, but I was fortunate to be able to catch it. She then declared that she was the daughter of Trader Eskeld and demanded that we escort her to her coach and release her. We felt that, under the circumstances, you would wish to see her.”

  Fhaltar nodded. “I would indeed.” He looked to Laevoyt. “Do you still have the ring?”

  Laevoyt extended it.

  The captain took it. “Good workmanship.” He turned to the woman. “You do have good taste, Lady.” Then he looked back at Laevoyt and Beltur. “Thank you for bringing her to me. I’ll handle the matter from here on. You can return to your duties.”

  Laevoyt inclined his head. “Yes, ser. By your leave, ser?”

  Belatedly, Beltur added, “Yes, ser,” and also inclined his head. Then he followed Laevoyt from the study and back out to the north chamber.

  “The captain sent us back to duty,” Laevoyt said as he passed the duty desk.

  Once the two were outside headquarters, Beltur said quietly, “How was I to know?”

  “How was either of us to know?” replied Laevoyt. “The captain will handle it. That’s what we have to do if it involves someone of wealth. You just can’t tell by garments, but the coach was the telling point.”

  “What will he do?”

  “Smooth it over and suggest to her father that such acts might be best avoided.”

  “But if someone else—”

  “They’d end up in the workhouse or without a hand. I know that. So do you. The young woman will likely suffer in a different fash
ion.”

  But she’ll escape most of the consequences.

  “You’ll notice that the captain never used either of our names. It’s better this way. You’ll see after a while.”

  Left unsaid was the implication that Beltur definitely should see. He nodded.

  “You do get a disk for catching her.”

  “Even if she’s never … disciplined?”

  “You restrained her so that the City Patrol could determine what happened. That’s what the disks are for. That goes along with the other thing. Everyone in the market saw us take her off to Patrol headquarters. We didn’t just let her go.”

  But the captain likely will. “So people get the idea that everyone is treated the same?” Even if they’re not?

  “Can you think of a better way? Especially with the power of those with golds?”

  Laevoyt had a point, a very good one. Beltur had to admit that. He just didn’t have to like it. “I hope nothing too bad has happened while we were gone.”

  “We weren’t gone all that long. Most people probably didn’t notice.”

  Laevoyt was probably right about that as well. Beltur took a deep breath and managed a smile as he approached the square.

  XXXVIII

  Early on eightday afternoon, Beltur was in the parlor reading On Healing, which he found instructive, even beyond the anatomy that Athaal thought was the best part of Leantor’s treatise. At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Beltur immediately set aside the leather-bound volume and headed for the entry, only to find that Athaal, coming from the kitchen, had reached it first and was ushering in Margrena and another black mage, whom Beltur did not recognize.

  “Good afternoon,” Beltur said.

  “The same to you,” replied Margrena, who then looked back to Athaal. “I thought I’d bring Waensyn by, since he hasn’t ever met Meldryn or Beltur, and he wanted to pay his respects.”

  Beltur took another quick look at Waensyn, who was perhaps a few digits shorter than Beltur himself and who had black hair and black eyes, as well as a well-trimmed short black beard.

  “Come on into the parlor.” Athaal led the way, but stopped by the side hallway that led to the bakery and called out, “Mel! We have company!”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  In moments, Athaal and Beltur and the two arrivals were in the parlor. There, Waensyn took the armchair where Meldryn usually sat, and Margrena sat on the padded bench. Beltur remained standing beside the armchair that Athaal usually took, but Athaal took the straight-backed chair. Beltur sat on the bench beside Margrena.

  “Meldryn will be here in a few moments. He was working on the ovens.” Athaal looked to Margrena. “Are you getting settled?”

  “I don’t know about settled.” Margrena glanced at Beltur. “What about you?”

  “I’m doing some work with a smith.” Beltur really didn’t want to say more. “And you?”

  “We’ve been called on to do some healing.”

  “There aren’t as many good healers here in Elparta as there should be,” said Athaal, looking up as Meldryn entered the parlor, glanced around, and then took the vacant armchair.

  “This is Waensyn,” offered Margrena, looking at Meldryn and gesturing to the man who had accompanied her.

  “We’re glad to see that you arrived safely,” replied Meldryn. “What can you tell us about matters in Gallos?”

  “There’s little good to tell. Wyath and the whites control the Prefect. Anyone with even a shade of ability with order has been killed or driven out, as have white mages who did not worship the Arms-Mage. He now styles himself the Arch-Mage, by the way.”

  Beltur almost nodded. That would follow.

  “Have the blacks of Gallos managed to leave?” asked Athaal.

  “I believe most have. Some have gone to Certis. That I do not understand, since the Viscount is almost as evil as the Prefect. Some have gone to Sarronnyn, for all the good that will do them. Some to Suthya, a place too cold for me, but suitable and similar in governance to Spidlar. None that I know of to Westwind, except one healer. I tried to tell her that was a great mistake. She did not listen.”

  The more Waensyn talked, the less Beltur liked the man, although he managed to maintain a pleasant expression on his face.

  “How are you finding Elparta?” asked Meldryn.

  “It has been most welcoming. I have spent some considerable time with Cohndar. He seems both helpful and knowledgeable, and I think we share many of the same thoughts.”

  “How soon do you think it will be before Denardre attacks someone?” Athaal leaned forward slightly in the straight-backed chair.

  “He was gathering his forces even before we departed. He will attack here within a few eightdays, if not sooner. We need to ready ourselves, and to make sure there are no traitors or those who would throw in with the Prefect for their own gain.”

  “How would you suggest such preparations be made?” Meldryn’s voice was level.

  “By whatever means necessary, of course. Any reasonable man should see the necessity for that. If Gallos holds the River Gallos for its entire length, then no one in the entire midsection of Candar will be safe.”

  “That is obvious,” Meldryn said dryly, “but what preparations might be necessary? Does he have engineers with his forces? Is he assembling siege engines or trebuchets?”

  “I’m not an arms-mage,” replied Waensyn, almost stiffly. “I could not say. All arms-mages I have ever heard about were whites.”

  “One force was assembling piles of large logs near the river just north of the port at Maeryl,” said Margrena. “They were large enough for siegeworks or catapults. There were more than a thousand armsmen there.”

  “That does make it seem rather likely that they’ll attack here soon,” observed Meldryn.

  “Why aren’t you two involved in helping defend Elparta?” asked Waensyn.

  “Because our talents don’t lie in that direction, as apparently yours do not, either,” replied Meldryn. “If necessary, and we are called upon, we will do our best to shield the Council forces, but I fear that is the limit of what we can do.”

  “Can do? Or will do?”

  “Can do.” Meldryn offered a strained smile. “Is there anything else you’d care to know? That we might know about?”

  “There is.” Waensyn turned to face Beltur. “I am curious to know why the offspring of a disgraced white is here in Elparta.” Waensyn offered the words casually, as if asking what might be for his next meal.

  “For the same reason that a second-rate black might be,” replied Beltur. “When one’s life is threatened for no reason, it’s generally a good idea to go where it isn’t so dangerous.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been so much easier just to toady up to Wyath? I mean, pretending to be a black…?”

  “You’re twice wrong. I’m not pretending to be anything. I was most likely pretending to be a white, although I didn’t realize it, and, second, toadying up to someone who’s killed your uncle and tried to kill you isn’t the wisest of acts.”

  “I’m not sure I understand. Wyath killed your uncle, who was far more powerful than you. Yet you survived. That seems unlikely. Most unlikely.”

  “Uncle held off Wyath long enough for me to escape. He insisted. I didn’t argue.”

  “How utterly noble of you. And now you’re trying to be a black … much good that will do you.”

  “I do believe you’ve said enough,” interjected Meldryn, standing. “I certainly wouldn’t wish you to be uncomfortable a moment longer. Let me escort you to the door.”

  Waensyn looked stunned, as if he could not believe what the oldest mage had said. “You…”

  “We do tend to judge people by their character, not merely by the amount of order in which their prejudices are sustained. Now…”

  “I can find my own way out.”

  “Let me make sure,” said Meldryn coldly.

  “Are you coming?” Waensyn asked Margrena as he rose from th
e armchair almost sinuously.

  “I think not. I’m certain you can find your way to wherever your den is,” replied the healer.

  “If that is what you wish, you’ll get it.” Waensyn turned and strode out of the parlor.

  Meldryn followed him.

  Beltur looked at Margrena, who was clearly upset. That he could tell from just the chaotic flow of the order that surrounded the healer. He wasn’t quite certain what to say.

  “That was quite a departure,” said Athaal dryly. “It did seem to suit him. He only needed to slither.”

  A faint and momentary smile crossed Margrena’s face.

  When Meldryn returned he immediately went into the kitchen and returned with a small brush, which he used to dust off his armchair. He then went back to the kitchen, returning without the brush, and seated himself.

  “I’m so sorry … I had no idea,” said Margrena. “He was pleasant enough for the whole trip. Earlier today, he came by Grenara’s. He said he wanted to meet you and to say a few words to Beltur. I never imagined … I couldn’t believe…”

  “Do you know why he would have been so vitriolic toward you?” Athaal asked Beltur. “Could you have offended him somehow in Fenard?”

  “I don’t see how. I’ve never meet him before.” Beltur thought for a moment. “The only thing I can think of that possibly might have something to do with it was something my uncle said. Jessyla had told me that you had said that the only way to handle chaos effectively was through the use of order. I mentioned that to Uncle Kaerylt. He then said you were a very decent sort, unlike some of the blacks in Fenard who put on airs of being superior.” That wasn’t exactly how his uncle had phrased it, but that was definitely how he had meant it. “He wouldn’t tell me who those blacks were. I had no idea…”

  “That’s strange,” mused Athaal. “I never met your uncle. When you mentioned that before, I just thought you were being kind.”

  “No. He said that.” Beltur turned to Margrena. “Did you ever mention Athaal to Uncle?”

  “Once, possibly twice, in passing.”

  “Then he must have respected your judgment, Margrena,” said Meldryn, adding, “and I’m beginning to think that your uncle had very good judgment about people.”