The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Two silvers and five for gray trousers. For you, two silvers and eight for black.”

  “I’ll do that. A silver in advance?”

  “A silver and two. Black wool is more expensive.” She paused. “I need to measure you.”

  That only took what seemed moments, and Beltur handed her the coins. “What would it cost for a black tunic?”

  “Five silvers. You should have a good tunic.”

  Beltur winced, but then he thought about how worn his tunic was already. He did have enough silvers to pay for a new one, and the trousers, even if he made nothing more for the next two eightdays, especially with the six extra silvers he had just earned. “How much in advance?”

  “Two silvers.”

  Beltur refrained from sighing as he handed over two more silvers. “When will they be ready?”

  “Next sixday.”

  Beltur nodded, then watched as she swiftly folded the shirts and the smallclothes and slipped them into a cloth bag that looked to have been made out of scraps of fabric, a bag which she then presented to him. “Thank you.”

  Celinya moved to the door and peered out through the peephole. After several moments, she stepped back and opened the door, motioning for him to leave.

  The door closed swiftly behind him.

  Beltur glanced around, trying to sense any untoward chaos or order, but there was no one near him, and he began to walk west toward Bakers Lane, wondering just what had led to the seamstress being so fearfully cautious.

  XLIV

  Since he slept late on eightday morning, Beltur was surprised to find Meldryn and Athaal still sitting at the kitchen table when he came downstairs wearing one of his new shirts.

  “I didn’t think you two ever slept late,” said Beltur as he took a mug and began to tap some ale.

  “It happens now and again,” replied Meldryn. “We got to talking last night.”

  “About the Prefect and the Gallosians?”

  “Among other things,” said Athaal. “It is troubling. Veroyt said that armsmen from Kleth were supposed to have arrived by sixday.”

  “Not to mention that Elparta really doesn’t have that many mages compared to Gallos.” Meldryn gestured to the platters in the middle of the table. “The rest is yours.”

  “Thank you.” Beltur sat down and helped himself to the still faintly warm cheesed eggs and the ham strips. There was also a single honey roll left, obviously for him, but he decided to save that until the end. He ate several bites of the eggs before saying, “I thought Spidlar had a number of black mages. Are there any whites at all anywhere in Spidlar?”

  “None that any of us know of,” replied Meldryn. “Chaos is unpredictable, and it spoils things. Traders dislike unpredictability, and they hate anything that causes spoilage.”

  “Is that why Cohndar is skeptical of me? Because he thinks of me as an unpredictable mongrel mage?”

  Meldryn chuckled. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s from a trader family and set in his ways. He wouldn’t even accept a dinner at the inn because it upset his eating habits.”

  “There might be a score of blacks between Elparta and Kleth,” added Athaal, “most of them here. There might be a score in Spidlaria, but the Council won’t send them here.”

  “They wouldn’t get here in time,” declared Meldryn.

  Beltur took a swallow of ale. “I don’t know for certain, but there can’t be even a score of strong whites in Gallos.”

  “That’s more than enough to cause concern.” Athaal lifted his mug, but didn’t drink from it, instead setting it back on the table.

  “Even strong white mages can only do so much,” Beltur said. “They have limits, just like we do.” He eyed the honey roll, then decided—again—to save it for last.

  Athaal frowned. “What sort of limits?”

  “How far they can throw chaos-bolts, and how often. From what I saw, throwing chaos-bolts was very tiring. Chaos isn’t that effective against stone walls or even earthworks.”

  “What about earth-mages?” asked Meldryn.

  “Earth-mages?” Beltur had never heard of that kind of mage.

  “They can tap into the chaos deep beneath the ground. In some places, near volcanoes and steaming springs, the chaos is very strong.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone do that, and Uncle never said anything about it.”

  “Then we can hope the Prefect hasn’t found a mage like that.” Meldryn shook his head.

  “Sometimes, as you always say,” replied Athaal, “relying on hope is a very bad idea.” He turned back to Beltur. “On a more cheerful subject, what are you planning to do today?”

  “Later, I thought I’d walk to Grenara’s and see Jessyla, if she’s there. She didn’t mention they were leaving, but her mother talked about it earlier.”

  “I doubt the Council would let two healers leave with a Gallosian army likely to attack shortly,” said Meldryn.

  “The Council can do that?”

  “How long did it take for Raymandyl to have you on Patrol duty?” asked Athaal sardonically.

  “Something like three days.”

  “And how soon was Councilor Jhaldrak at Jorhan’s smithy about cupridium?”

  “Three days, or so,” replied Beltur with a rueful smile.

  “All lands have laws,” said Meldryn calmly. “Most of them are good, even in Gallos or Westwind or Certis. Often, how they are applied and enforced—or not enforced—is what makes living in a country good or less good. The Council is far from perfect, but for the most part, it tries to be fair. Part of that fairness is looking into questionable matters early.” He smiled wryly. “Sometimes, that can be annoying, but we’d rather be here than anywhere else.”

  “You were worrying about Jessyla?” prompted Athaal, as if he wanted to change the subject. “Is that why you have on that new shirt? To display your newfound prosperity to the young woman?”

  “She likely won’t even notice with it under my tunic. I didn’t think wearing the new one to the smithy was a good idea.”

  “You could use a new tunic, for when you’re not working at the smithy,” suggested Meldryn.

  Beltur didn’t want to mention that just yet. “You think so?”

  “The one we found for you in Fenard is barely dark enough,” added Athaal. “Besides, a new tunic will show Margrena you’re doing better.” After a moment, he added, “You’re worried about how she sees you. That might help.”

  “I am worried. I’ve gotten the feeling that Margrena may not want me to see Jessyla. What if she just tries to send me off after a few moments?”

  Meldryn grinned. “I think I can make things much easier for you.” He stood.

  At those words, Athaal smiled, then added, “I think we have a large basket in the corner of the bakery.”

  A good half glass later, Beltur left the house carrying a large basket holding several loaves of bread, a berry pie, a fowl pie, and a bag of raisin-oat cookies, as well as a melon that Athaal had declared would spoil before they could eat it since he’d been paid with four of them.

  As Beltur walked north on Bakers Lane heading for Crafters Way, he thought about what Athaal had pointed out about the Spidlarian Council. While Beltur generally agreed with the laws and rules—so far—he’d seen hints, as with the trader’s daughter and the cupridium incident, that Spidlar was governed as strictly as Gallos. He certainly didn’t want to get on the wrong side of the Council, although it was more likely, if that happened, he’d be forced into leaving Spidlar, rather than facing chaos-bolts or the black mage equivalent.

  Before he knew it, Beltur stood at the door of the narrow two-story dwelling. He glanced at the window, but the curtains blocked his view of the inside, which meant that it was likely no one saw him approach. He knocked, and then waited.

  After a time the door opened a crack, and then more widely, revealing the red-haired Jessyla.

  Beltur smiled.

  “I’m so glad it’s you. I could sense the blackness,
and I worried that it was Waensyn.” Her eyes went to the large basket.

  “I told Meldryn and Athaal I was coming to see you, and,” Beltur shrugged, “Meldryn insisted that I bring a few things.”

  Jessyla grinned. “You’re even telling the truth.”

  “I am.” I wouldn’t dare not to, not to you.

  “Come on in. Mother will be happy. Auntie … less so.” Jessyla stood back and opened the door wider.

  “What about Growler?” Beltur grinned.

  “He’s sleeping upstairs. He doesn’t care for strangers, especially men. I think I told you that. You probably won’t see him.”

  “You did.” Beltur entered the front room, a parlor with two padded and backed benches, two straight-backed chairs, and a single wooden armchair with a thick but worn green cushion on the seat. A small table was set at each end of the benches. The wooden floor was largely covered by a woven or braided rush mat. Besides the front window, the only source of light was a brass lamp suspended from a wall bracket above the bench set against the side wall. At the far end of the parlor was a hearth, clearly open on two sides, the other side being the kitchen. Directly facing the door was a narrow staircase up to the second floor.

  “They’re in the kitchen.” Jessyla hurried ahead, cheerfully announcing as she stepped into the kitchen, “Beltur stopped by to see us, and you should see what he brought.”

  Beltur followed her into the kitchen, immediately setting the basket on the table between the two sisters, both clad in the same healers’ green that Jessyla wore. “Meldryn thought you might like these. The melon’s almost ripe. Athaal sent it because someone paid him in melons, and we won’t be able to eat them all before they spoil.” He followed the words with a smile.

  “Meldryn’s fresh-baked bread,” said Jessyla. “Is that a large meat pie?”

  “A large fowl pie, and a small berry pie.”

  “You do know how to make an entrance,” said Margrena with a smile, one that Beltur felt vanished all too quickly.

  “I know how I felt when I arrived in Elparta, but, in all fairness, it wasn’t my idea. It was Meldryn’s.”

  “We appreciate it. Oh,” said Margrena, looking to her sister, “Grenara, this is Beltur. You’ve heard of him, I’m certain. And, Beltur, this is my older sister Grenara.”

  “She makes certain everyone knows that,” said Grenara. “She’s never forgotten all the years I called her my younger sister.” Her eyes fixed on Beltur. “You’re the one whose uncle was the white mage killed by that … egotist … Wyath.”

  “I am.”

  “How did you end up a black?”

  “I always was. I just didn’t know it. I don’t think my uncle was comfortable with it.”

  “Just like that, was it?”

  Beltur shook his head. “It began almost a season before I left Gallos. I wasn’t ever comfortable using chaos, and I tried to avoid it more and more, and use order. Then everything got much easier, and I wasn’t using any chaos—except a little and that’s wrapped in order. For the forging, that is.”

  “Beltur’s working with a smith,” offered Jessyla. “They’re forging cupridium.”

  “Why? That’s something that makes it easier for chaos-driven men to kill.”

  “It’s also harder than regular iron, and it’s beautiful. We’ve made candelabra and platters and candlesticks as well.”

  “Ordermages make black iron to kill chaos-driven men,” said Jessyla. “Not everyone who handles chaos is evil. Beltur’s uncle was a good man. That’s why Wyath had him killed.”

  “That’s true,” said Margrena. “He helped us many times, and asked nothing.”

  A quick expression of surprise crossed Grenara’s face and vanished.

  “You two,” Margrena said quickly, “don’t need to stand around listening to us. Why don’t you go into the parlor? We’ll unload the basket, and I’ll bring you some cider in a bit.”

  “That would be lovely, Mother.” Jessyla gestured to the parlor.

  “Thank you.” Beltur inclined his head before he turned and followed the youngest healer. Once in the parlor, since Jessyla had taken the one bench, Beltur took the other one, so that they faced each other.

  “It was sweet of you to bring all of that.”

  “I wanted to see you, but the food was Meldryn’s idea. I’m glad he had it.”

  “So am I.” After a long silence, she said, “Have you been doing any patrolling?”

  “Yesterday was one of my duty days. We caught a man who was running two light-fingered youths. He tried to pretend that he had nothing to do with them. He was very well-dressed, but they were looking to him. One of them was a girl dressed like a boy.”

  “What will happen to them?”

  “They’ll go before the Council magistrate. He’ll decide. Or she’ll decide. I think they have a woman magistrate who deals with women.”

  “It seems so unfair for the two. They didn’t have any choice. No one would do that if they could do anything else.”

  “Laevoyt said it was likely they’d get the workhouse. He hoped the man would lose a hand.”

  “He just hoped?”

  “Patrollers and mages don’t decide.”

  “The workhouse?” Jessyla gave a little shudder.

  Margrena cleared her throat as she moved into the parlor carrying two small mugs. “Here’s the cider I promised.”

  “Thank you.” Beltur stood and took the mugs from her, then handed one to Jessyla.

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “You’re more than welcome.” Margrena returned to the kitchen.

  Beltur reseated himself and took a swallow of the cider, enjoying the taste. Finally, he spoke. “You said you were doing some healing at the Council Healing House.”

  “It’s sad. Sometimes, there’s really not that much we can do. The Council just provides the basics—dressings, some ointments, usually brinn, sometimes burnet. You know, I’d never seen so much burnet in one place as when I brought it from your uncle’s. We sold the ointment for almost five golds.” She lowered her voice. “Without that…”

  “It would have been hard to leave Fenard?”

  She nodded, then murmured, “Mother wouldn’t want to admit that. We had to leave so much.” In a normal voice, she continued, “We both would have been conscripted as healers for the Prefect’s armsmen. That’s why all those healers who could left the city. Some are likely hiding in the towns well away from Fenard.”

  “You’ll likely have to heal the Spidlarian forces.”

  “We will, but the Council pays. Not a lot, a half silver a day, but we’ll get fed. It couldn’t be as bad as healing for the Prefect.”

  Beltur wondered about that, but he just nodded. “What else are you doing?”

  “Just helping Aunt.” She paused. “Tell me about what else you’re doing.”

  “It’s pretty much the way I said. Five days out of the eightday, I work with Jorhan, two with the Patrol, and I get eightday for myself. The smithing … every time we try something different for the first time, it usually takes several tries to get the order-net in the metal right—”

  “Order-net? You said you put both order and chaos into the metal.”

  Beltur shook his head. “It’s more like little pieces—nodes—of chaos locked in order, and there has to be a balance of sorts, and it has to be spread throughout all the metal, like a fine net. Cupridium doesn’t have order suffused through it like black iron, and it doesn’t have chaos. It’s both, evenly, and it’s hard to get that balance right.”

  “So that’s why a white mage can use a cupridium knife or sword.”

  “Most likely. Anyway, we’ve also done some platters and candlesticks and candelabra. They look almost silver-gold…” Beltur went on to talk about the forging and about the effort Jorhan had to put into the molds. “You can see. There’s nothing that special. I’m just a smith’s helper, and I’m fortunate that I can make a few silvers.” He was definitely fortunate, and he
was making a bit more than a few, but how long that would last he had no idea.

  “You’re making more than a few. I can tell that.”

  Beltur found himself blushing. “I can’t hide anything from you. Yes, I’m being paid a silver a day, and extra when something turns out well, but there’s no telling how long this work will last, and I worry about that. It could last for seasons, or it could vanish tomorrow. It’s only good for as long as Jorhan can sell what we make.”

  Jessyla nodded. “You’re cautious.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Yes. Things change. Sometimes they change quickly. We’ve both discovered that.”

  Beltur was about to say more when Margrena entered the parlor, holding the empty basket. She looked to Beltur. “It was so good of you to stop by, and so kind to bring all of that to us. Please give Athaal and Meldryn our thanks.”

  Jessyla started to open her mouth.

  “We still have quite a few chores to do, dear, to get ready for tomorrow,” Margrena said quickly. “I’m certain we’ll be seeing more of Beltur, Athaal, and Meldryn.”

  Jessyla stood, reluctantly, and Beltur did as well.

  “I’m very glad that you liked what he sent, and I will convey your thanks.” Beltur turned to Jessyla. “I very much enjoyed hearing how you and your mother are doing.”

  “I liked learning more about your smithing.”

  “We mustn’t keep Beltur. I’m certain he will have a long and hard day tomorrow … as will you.”

  Beltur noticed that Grenara stood in the doorway to the kitchen, just behind Margrena, but the older woman said nothing, and her eyes were on Jessyla. He stepped forward and took the empty basket from Margrena, then turned back to Jessyla. “Thank you again. I enjoyed the conversation.”

  Jessyla moved to the door and opened it. As Beltur stepped past her, she murmured, “Do come back.”

  Just as the door closed, Beltur thought he heard a few words that he thought had to have come from Grenara.

  “… shabby-looking sort of black mage.”

  Were you meant to hear that? Most likely.

  He shook his head. Still, he’d enjoyed the time with Jessyla, and he had the feeling that she had as well.