Colors of Chaos

XVII

LYASA, FALTAR, AND Cerryl stood in the front foyer of the main Hall. Cerryl glanced toward the steps up to the White Tower, his eyes drifting momentarily to the upper ledge and the life-size statues of past great mages-most of whom he still did not recognize.

“Here he comes.” Cerryl nodded to Faltar. “Let’s ask him.”

Heralt walked slowly down the steps from the White Tower into the front foyer of the Hall.

“Heralt?” called Cerryl. “We’re going over to The Golden Ram. Why don’t you join us?”

The dark-haired young mage lifted his head. “I’m tired. I thought I’d just eat in the Halls.”

“All you get in the Meal Hall this late is stale bread and old cheese,” Cerryl pointed out. “You don’t have to stay with us long, and it won’t be that late. I have morning duty, remember?”

Heralt offered a shy smile. “The Ram does sound better than bread and cheese or dried lamb.”

“Dried lamb.” Beside Cerryl, Faltar shook his head. “Any form of lamb…”

“Your feelings about mutton are well-known,” said Lyasa. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

“Well…” Heralt shrugged and turned toward the other three.

The Golden Ram was half-empty by the time the four young mages settled around a circular table in one corner. Broka and another mage-both on their way out together-nodded.

“Good evening.” Cerryl returned the nod and smiled.

Almost as soon as the three were seated, the serving woman was at Faltar’s elbow, looking toward Cerryl and asking, “Drinks?”

“Ale,” said Cerryl.

“Ale,” agreed Faltar.

“Make that three.”

“Four,” added Lyasa.

“Fare’s on the board. Ribs, fowl breast, or stew. Ribs and stew are two. Fowl’s three.”

Cerryl settled on the fowl, as did Faltar. Heralt had ribs and Lyasa stew, and the server with the swirled braid on the back of her head slipped back to the kitchen.

“You once said that your father was a merchant in Kyphros.” Cerryl glanced at Heralt. “Do you see him much?”

Heralt laughed. “Kyphrien is rather far to travel…and he’s not one for sending scrolls. My sister and I exchange messages, but not often.”

“Here you be…four ales. That be eight.”

Cerryl added three coppers to the pile. The server smiled and swept up a silver’s worth of coppers. Lyasa had added the other extra copper.

“I wonder how people in Kyphros feel about the new mountains Jeslek is raising,” mused Cerryl. He took the barest sip of the ale.

“The wool factors are worried.” Heralt took a healthy swallow from his mug. “They say the Analerians have lost some of their flocks and that will make wool scarce.” He shrugged. “Axista says it won’t help prices, though, not so long as the Black Isle sends wool to Spidlar. That worries Father.”

“Isn’t their wool more expensive?”

“Not after all the tariffs on his. Or not much.”

“Then, the road taxes and tariffs bother him?” Cerryl’s tone was interested but not sharp.

“They bother everyone. They make prices higher, and people can buy less.” Heralt took another sip of ale. “You didn’t used to be interested in trade, Cerryl.”

“I figure I’d better learn. That’s what gate duty is all about, isn’t it? Watching trade and trying to see who’s smuggling?” Cerryl glanced to the white-blonde Faltar. “You have any smugglers lately?”

“Not for an eight-day or so,” Faltar mumbled as he finished a mouthful of ale. “This is better than Hall swill any day.”

“More costly, as well,” countered the curly-haired mage.

“You didn’t mention smugglers,” Cerryl prompted. “What were they trying to sneak past you?”

“Hides. Uncured hides to sell to the tanners,” said Faltar.

“There can’t be that much profit in hides,” suggested Heralt. “Why smuggle them?”

“Because,” added Lyasa, brushing a strand of jet-black hair off her forehead, “some gate guards have trouble discovering things that aren’t made of metal or hard materials.”

“And some don’t look at that hard,” added Faltar dryly. “From what I’ve heard.”

From Anya? Cerryl wondered. Then he pondered how Faltar, usually so sensible, had fallen for the red-haired mage who apparently bedded half the Hall and cared little for any beyond the moment or what she could gain from using her body. Is that why you still keep Faltar as a friend-because he’s a friend despite Anya? Or because he’s kept supporting you? Still…Faltar’s relationship with Anya meant that Cerryl had to be careful in some of what he said to the blonde mage.

“How did you sense the hides?” asked Heralt.

“I didn’t really sense them,” admitted Faltar. “But there were some blades hidden under the wagon seat. Not enough to be contraband, but enough to make me worry. So I asked the guards to check the wagon. They knew where to look.”

“They still couldn’t have made more than a gold or so,” protested Heralt.

“A single gold is more than some folk see in a year,” Cerryl said.

“Spoken like a man who knows,” said Lyasa.

“I made about three silvers in the whole time I was a scrivener’s apprentice,” Cerryl admitted. “The same when I worked at the mill.” He laughed. “But I was at the mill a whole lot longer.”

“I think I’d rather be a mage.” Heralt took the last chunk of bread from the basket.

“Two fowls, ribs, and a stew.” The four platters and two baskets of bread practically tumbled onto the polished but battered tabletop. “That be ten.”

Cerryl fumbled out four coppers, wondering how often he could afford such luxury-despite Faltar’s mathematicks.

“Thank you all.” The serving woman scooped up the coins.

Faltar took a bite of the fowl and chewed noisily.

Across the table from Cerryl, Lyasa raised her eyebrows. “He only appears neat.”

“Food’s better than talk,” mumbled Faltar. “Specially after a long duty day.”

Cerryl used his dagger to slice off a strip of the chicken to pop into his mouth. Somehow it was both juicy and dry at the same time, but he was hungry enough that it didn’t matter that much. Still, compared to the meals he’d had at Furenk’s and Leyladin’s, The Golden Ram’s fare was definitely inferior. A mere two seasons before, he never would have thought that.

“This is better than Hall lamb any day,” Faltar added.

“Better than stale bread, too.” Cerryl grinned at Heralt.

“More costly, as well,” countered the curly-haired mage.

“Mages aren’t meant to die with coins,” said Lyasa. “We can’t leave them to anyone. You might as well enjoy what you eat.”

“And drink,” added Faltar.

“The other day, there was a big wagon that headed out toward Lydiar,” Cerryl said. “Filled with worked brass. Ship fittings…”

“Has to be for the warships,” replied Faltar after wiping his mouth and emptying his mug. He held the mug up for the server to see.

“I thought the Guild’s ships were built in Sligo.”

“Off that island in the Great North Bay. It’s faster to use the highway to Lydiar and send heavy stuff by boat.”

“That’ll be two more,” said the server as she took Faltar’s mug.

“You’ll have it,” the blonde mage promised, reaching for his belt purse.

“Ten ships seem like a lot,” mused Cerryl.

“I know of at least seven solid ports in eastern Candar,” Lyasa pointed out. “With time for supplies and transit, that’s only one more ship to watch each port.”

Put that way, reflected Cerryl, ten ships seemed almost too few.

“The only two ports that matter right now are Diev and Spidlaria…maybe Quend,” suggested Faltar.

“That’s still only three ships for each port. The Northern Ocean is pretty big.” Lyasa sipped her ale.

Thump! Another mug of ale appeared at Faltar’s elbow. “Here you be.”

The blonde mage extended three coppers.

“How would you use the ships, Heralt?” Cerryl asked. “You know more about trade than most of us, I suspect.”

The curly-haired and dark-eyed mage shrugged. “Lyasa’s right. No one’s going to smuggle through Lydiar or Renklaar. Ruzor or Worrak, maybe. That’s only four or five places, but we’d have to mount a blockade, and the Blacks would try to use the weather. I don’t know. I wonder if we could afford as many ships as we need. They say we’ve only got a score or so now. Ten more-that might do it.” Heralt yawned. “Unless the Blacks build more ships, or better ones, or something like that.”

“How could you build a better ship?” demanded Faltar. “A ship’s a ship. If you make it faster, then it carries less cargo-or less armsmen-and there’s not that much difference in speed under sail anyway. They all need the wind.”

“Hamor uses slave galleys in the calmer parts of the Western Ocean,” Lyasa said.

“Water’s too rough here,” insisted Faltar.

“Probably.” Heralt yawned again. “I need some sleep.”

“I’ll walk back with you,” said Cerryl. “Morning duty.” He rose, then looked at Lyasa. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll keep Faltar out of trouble.”

“Me? Trouble?”

“Yes, you,” she answered amiably.

Cerryl and Heralt slipped out into the fresher air, air still warm, with the faint fragrance of something.

“You think there’s trouble coming?” Heralt asked as they headed toward the rear Hall, stifling yet another yawn.

“There’s always trouble coming.” Cerryl offered a laugh. “It’s just taken me a while to understand that.”

His eyes went to the northern sky and the pinpoints of light, distant lights supposedly, if Colors of White were correct, with suns similar to the one that brought chaos and light upon them.

Did they have their troubles? Did it matter?

He tried not to yawn as he started up the steps beside Heralt.