At ninth glass, he returned to the corner of Patrol and West Streets, where he only had to wait a few moments before Laevoyt arrived.
The tall patroller offered an inquiring look.
“I haven’t seen or heard anything. What about you?” asked Beltur.
“It’s quiet. The next glass or so will tell if it’s going to stay that way. I’d wager that it will. Better that way.”
“We’ll try and keep it that way.”
With a smile, Laevoyt turned away and walked toward East Street.
Beltur raised a concealment and returned to the stalls near the jewels and silks.
Although the day was pleasant, for some reason he was thirsty, and more than ready for the small mug of ale. Just before noon, he dropped the concealment and made his way to Fosset’s cart. “Could you spare a mug of that wonderful ale?”
“That I could.” Fosset pulled a small mug off the rack, filled it, and handed it to Beltur.
Beltur took a swallow. The medium-dark ale tasted better than he recalled, perhaps because his throat was so dry. “Have you heard anything about the Prefect or the Gallosians?”
“I can’t say as I have. My uncle told me last night that there are thousands of troopers on the old west road that comes down the far side of the river, and that there haven’t been any flatboats at the south piers in the last three days.”
“That might mean that the Prefect is moving men down the river.”
“More likely siege machines, trebuchets, that sort of thing. Men and horses can walk.”
Beltur had heard of trebuchets, but had certainly never seen one. He also wondered if Wyath’s white mages would accompany the troopers or the boats. Both probably. “How long do you think it will be before they show up?”
“At least another three days. That’s the soonest.”
That made sense to Beltur. It had taken him and Athaal almost an eightday to come down the river from Portalya.
“That was good ale,” Beltur said after his last swallow when he handed the mug back to Fosset. “Thank you.”
“You going to work with the armsmen, like some of the other mages?”
“That’s what they tell me. I’ll find out more tomorrow.”
“I don’t know what the Prefect thinks he’ll gain by attacking Elparta. Years back, his grandsire did, and all he did was lose men.”
“The Prefect wants what he wants.”
“We all do, but there’s a difference between wanting and getting. Sometimes, wanting what you can’t have is starting down the road to ruin.”
“That doesn’t stop some people.”
“Then they’ll get what they deserve.” Fosset shook his head.
Much as he hoped otherwise, Beltur wasn’t so certain. So far, the Prefect was getting what he was taking, not what Beltur thought he deserved.
For all of Beltur’s concealments and walking through and around the square, the remainder of the day was as unexciting as Laevoyt had hoped, and at just after fourth glass, the two of them met on the northwest corner and walked toward Patrol headquarters.
“A fine quiet day. That was good,” affirmed the patroller.
“You said it would be. Do you get tomorrow off?”
“Not this eightday. Someone has to keep the peace on eightday. Tomorrow’s my turn. I’ll get oneday off instead.”
“How many eightdays do you work?”
“Two out of every season. That’s the same for all patrollers. We get off either sevenday or oneday, depending on the rotation.”
Beltur nodded.
They walked the rest of the way to headquarters without talking.
After signing out, Beltur turned to Laevoyt. “Tomorrow, I report to the Council and find out what I’ll be doing with the infantry battalion. I don’t know when I’ll see you, but it was good working with you.”
“You made it very quiet, and that was good.” Laevoyt’s smile vanished. “Quiet’s good in fighting, too. Don’t let some officer make a hero out of you. Do what you do, and don’t make a fuss. That’s what’s made you a good patrol mage. It’ll serve you well with armsmen, too.”
The quiet intensity in Laevoyt’s voice stunned Beltur, and for a moment, he could say nothing. “Thank you. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Wouldn’t want to lose a good patrol mage. Best of fortune to you.”
“The same to you. Take care.”
With an almost sad smile and a nod, the tall patroller turned and headed toward the door.
Beltur followed, but, once outside, he headed north, and Laevoyt turned south.
XLIX
Eightday morning, Beltur slept late—or late for him, which was almost until seventh glass. Meldryn and Athaal were still at the kitchen table when he came down the stairs, unwashed and unshaven.
“How are you going to spend your last day of comparative freedom?” asked Athaal.
“Will it be that bad as a mage for an infantry battalion?”
Athaal laughed sardonically. “I have no idea. Nothing like this has happened before.”
“Do any of the other mages know?”
“If they do, they’re not saying,” replied Meldryn. “Cohndar keeps avoiding me, and no one I’ve been able to see has even glimpsed Waensyn since he was here. Felsyn just complains about all of us being ordered into some sort of duty. Mharkyn’s younger than Athaal, not all that much older than you, and he doesn’t know anything. Neither does Lhadoraak. I haven’t seen any other mages lately, but part of that’s because it’s been so busy at the bakery.”
“No one seems that worried about the Prefect,” said Beltur as he poured an ale and then headed to the table, where he sat down.
“Do you think they should be?” asked Athaal.
“Wyath’s mages can’t do much against stoneworks, but they could kill a lot of armsmen.”
“That suggests that his marshal will use the mages to keep our forces away from his engineers,” said Meldryn, “while they use trebuchets to batter the walls down.”
“I doubt that’s any secret,” said Athaal. “That’s why the Council wants mages. So they can get to the siegeworks, but since the Gallosian armsmen are coming by road, they’ll have to cross the river first, and they’ll need boats before they can set up their siege engines.”
“So the first fighting will be to keep them from landing on the east side of the river?” asked Beltur.
“That’s a guess on my part.” Meldryn shrugged. “I’ve never been an armsman.” He paused. “Have you ever fought armsmen?”
“I’ve held shields to protect armsmen so that they could fight. That’s what I did best. I guess you could call the Analerian raiders armsmen.”
“Does the Council know that?” asked Athaal.
“I’d doubt it. No one ever asked me.” Beltur scooped the remaining egg and mutton hash onto his platter and took the small loaf that had clearly been left for him.
“They just might tomorrow,” said Meldryn. “Then they might not. It’s been years since the Suthyans tried to take Diev. That was the last time anyone here really fought.”
“That’s not good,” ventured Beltur after swallowing some of the hash. “Some of the Gallosian armsmen have been fighting the Analerian raiders and herders on and off for years.”
“They also put down a revolt in Kyphros less than ten years ago.”
“I never heard about that,” replied Beltur.
“There probably wasn’t any reason that you would have,” said Meldryn, standing. “We’ll leave the food and the kitchen to you.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Beltur replied cheerfully.
By the time he finished eating and cleaning up the kitchen, both Meldryn and Athaal had left the house to “go visiting.” Beltur didn’t ask who or where.
Beltur took his time eating, cleaning the kitchen, and then heading back upstairs to wash and shave. He finally donned his new shirt and trousers and went downstairs to the parlor, where he spent a glass reading more
in On Healing. A glass was more than enough. He looked among the other books in the small bookcase, but didn’t see any histories or anything about magery.
In the end, he picked up a thin book entitled, Considerations on the Nature of Man, one that looked almost new, although the dust that sifted from the binding when he picked it up suggested it wasn’t that new, and that it certainly hadn’t been read recently. In the middle of the second page, a paragraph caught his eye, and he reread it.
Some learned scholars claim that men are orderly and well-mannered by nature, and become corrupted by the necessity to obtain the wherewithal with which to live. Others, equally learned, claim that men are born self-centered, and unless taught otherwise, will always strive for their own personal betterment, regardless of the cost inflicted upon others. I will claim neither, seeing as the world has men of both qualities, as well as those with both in assorted and not always sanguine mixtures and shadings. The question for any who would rule is not from where we came or how we arrived at the personages we have become, but how best to govern a land when it contains a myriad of people whose qualities range from the exemplary to the despicable …
“Very practical,” murmured Beltur, turning back to the title page to see the name of the author, a name he had skipped over. The name was Heldry of Lydiar. He’d never heard of the man, or scholar, or whatever he had been. He paused. Or had he? Heldry the Mad? Could they be the same person? How likely was it that there were two Heldrys from Lydiar? Still …
He shook his head.
He read a little longer, but his eyes kept skipping over the words. He finally stood, slightly before noon, replaced the volume on the shelf, and donned his new tunic.
Moments later he was walking northward on Bakers Lane, wondering what if anything Jessyla would say about his new tunic and trousers. He had no doubt that Grenara would notice, but he doubted she’d offer a word. The day was similar to those previous, except there was a high overcast and only the slightest hint of a breeze.
He’d only walked about three blocks when he looked down a cross street toward the river, where he noticed armsmen in blue uniforms gathered outside a building, most likely a tavern or a public room. How many will there be before it’s all over? He immediately had a second thought. What if the fighting drags out and goes on and on?
He pushed those thoughts out of his mind and kept walking, eventually turning east on Crafters Way and continuing to Grenara’s house, where he knocked on the door.
The door opened, and Grenara looked at him. “They’re not here. I don’t know where they are or when they’ll be back.”
Beltur could tell that she was half lying, since he could sense that no one else was in the house, but the chaotic nature of the order around the older healer suggested that she very well did know where Margrena and Jessyla were and when they would be likely to return. “Oh?”
“That’s all I have to say.” Abruptly she stepped back and closed the door.
For a moment, Beltur just stood there. He’d known that Grenara didn’t care much for him, but the suddenness and coldness of her rebuff had still stunned him.
He managed a wry smile, then turned and walked back to the nearest corner, from where he could see the door of the house, but where Grenara couldn’t see him without stepping outside. Then he waited, watching as people walked by, or the occasional wagon or coach rolled by, wheels sometimes whispering, sometimes rumbling. A couple walked past, not all that much older than Beltur and Jessyla, except she was clearly expecting.
Then an older white-haired man with a cane approached. He stopped and looked at Beltur. “What are you doing here, young mage, with the Gallosians on their way?”
“I’m off-duty, and waiting for a friend.”
“Hmmm.” Then the oldster hobbled away, leaning heavily on his cane.
Beltur couldn’t sense any chaos-infection in him, just the lower level of linked order and chaos that seemed to come with age. After a time, he walked around the corner and back. There was still no sign of the two healers.
Close to a glass later, Beltur made his way back to the house on Bakers Lane. When he stepped inside, he discovered Athaal and Meldryn sitting in the parlor talking.
Meldryn studied Beltur for a long moment. “Celinya made those, didn’t she?”
“She did. You said she was good and wouldn’t be as costly as some of the tailors.”
“She did a very good job. You wore them to see Jessyla, I take it.”
“I wore them. I hoped to see her. She wasn’t there. I thought I’d wear my better tunic and trousers. That way I wouldn’t look so shabby.”
“Shabby?” asked Athaal
“The last time I visited, Grenara told Margrena that I was a shabby-looking black mage. I wasn’t supposed to hear that. I’d already ordered these.” Beltur sat in the straight-backed chair.
“I’ve never seen Grenara,” said Meldryn. “It appears unlikely that I’ll ever wish to.”
“She’s not quite that bad,” said Athaal. “She’s protective of her niece. She’ll be nicer once she gets to know Beltur better.”
“Perhaps.” Beltur had his doubts.
“I’ve never met her,” added Meldryn, “but I’m inclined to share Beltur’s view.”
“I’d like to hope,” replied Athaal.
Beltur shifted his weight in the chair. He really didn’t want to talk about Grenara. “Before I left I got overwhelmed by reading the healing book, so I picked up another one. Considerations on the Nature of Man.” Beltur waited. He hesitated to ask if either had read it.
“I tried, years ago,” said Meldryn. “It seemed well thought out, but…” He shrugged. “It seemed more about ruling, and I knew I was never going to rule anything.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Oh, it was in my father’s bookcase. No one else wanted the books. It seemed a shame to leave it. I did want the book on healing and some of the others.”
“Was your father a healer?”
“He was. He was very good. He just couldn’t heal himself.”
“Most healers can’t, I understand.”
“That’s right. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Unfair, I’d say,” replied Beltur. “They do so much for others, and often risk their lives doing it, at least from what I’ve heard.”
Athaal stood. “I’m sorry to hear that about Grenara. I’ll still think hopeful thoughts.” He stretched. “We were getting ready to take a nap.”
“Then I’ll stay down here and read, if that’s all right.”
“You could do worse,” said Meldryn with a smile as he rose.
“I hope not,” replied Beltur wryly.
“One other thing,” said Meldryn. “If you do see your lady friend, there are several loaves in the cold oven. You could take two or three. They’re a day old, but…”
“Thank you.”
After the two went upstairs, Beltur debated between On Healing and Considerations on the Nature of Man, then picked up the slender volume he had started earlier in the day. As Meldryn had indicated, there was a definite emphasis on ruling. He read several more pages before another section struck him.
… those who praise the power of another, especially of a ruler or one placed in a position of authority over others, should be treated as flatterers seeking a favor or advantage, because power and position are obvious to the discerning. Praising one for the obvious also suggests in itself a feeling that the person praised is not intelligent enough to understand his power or is needy enough to require constant affirmation …
Beltur nodded. Most likely Heldry the Mad. Except from the writing he didn’t seem that mad. Beltur continued reading.
Just after the city chimes struck third glass, there was a determined set of knocks on the door. Beltur set aside Considerations and made his way to the front door. Even before he opened it, he could sense great order with a certain amount of superficial chaos.
Jessyla stood there.
“I went
to see you—”
“I know, and I’m absolutely furious at Auntie! She could have told you.”
“She would only say that she didn’t know when you’d be back, and she wouldn’t say where you were. Would you like to come in?”
Jessyla smiled. “I would. Would that be all right?”
“If we’re quiet. They’re upstairs … napping.”
Jessyla raised her eyebrows.
“I know,” replied Beltur, “but that’s what they said.” And if that’s the way they want to put it, that’s their choice, not mine. He stepped back from the door.
Jessyla entered the house, saying, “We’ll be quiet.” She sat down on one end of the padded and backed bench and pointed to the other end. “Sit there. That way we won’t have to talk loudly.”
As he seated himself exactly where she had pointed, Beltur wondered about her real reasons for wanting him that close, but he didn’t sense any chaos of confusion, and in fact, he sensed that she was already calmer than when she had arrived, but he realized something that he should have seen immediately. “You came alone? There are armsmen from Kleth and elsewhere all over the city. I saw quite a number when I walked to your aunt’s.”
“They won’t touch a healer. Besides, I was so mad I was walking at almost a run. I knew you’d come by, but Mother said our errands wouldn’t take long. When we got back, Auntie wouldn’t even look at me. So I asked her if you had. She said that you couldn’t stay. I could tell she was lying, and I just told her I needed to apologize to you for her rudeness, and I left.”
“What did your mother say?”
“I didn’t let her say anything. I did tell her that you’d walk me back.”
Beltur grinned. “And if I hadn’t been here?”
“I knew you would be.” She smiled back at him. “If you weren’t, Athaal would have done it, and that would have embarrassed Auntie even more.”
“I can’t say I’m not glad that you’re here.”
“I’d much rather be here than there. It’s … just…” She shook her head.
“That you feel something’s not right … not the way it should be?”
“Oh, no. I feel perfectly comfortable here. I meant at Auntie’s.”
The Mongrel Mage Page 44