Colors of Chaos

XXXIV

IN THE AFTERNOON quiet of the duty room, Cerryl looked at the blank sheet of paper before him and then at his informal journal beside it.

Dulkar brought in Aarhl, accused of stealing three barrels of molasses from the loading dock of the factor Hsian. Truth-read. Aarhl sent to south prison for preparation and assignment to road duty…Beggar without a name stole three coppers from youth on the Way of the Masons. Caught by Jiark’s patrol and attacked Jiark with dagger. Turned to ash…

Cerryl began to write slowly, glad that the beggar remained only the third peacebreaker on whom he had been forced to use chaos fire during his first three eight-days as a Patrol mage for the southeast section. Using chaos fire troubled him, especially on beggars and old women. Is it because you don’t understand them? Why would anyone attack a mage when the attack meant death? And why did people steal when most were caught and ended up spending their lives on the road crew? The beggar would have gotten better fare on the road than begging-and yet he wanted to die? Or he couldn’t stand the thought of abiding by another’s rules? Yet everyone, even the High Wizard, lives by rules, and life would be sorry indeed without them.

Cerryl shook his head. Yet he’d killed several score as an apprentice and a mage. The reasons did not make it easier, not much, but the alternative was worse. Still…

One every eight-day? More than two score in a year? He shook his head, hoping that his patrolling and firmness would Recluce those numbers. From what he’d seen, he had few options. He kept writing. The first midafternoon bell had rung, and it wouldn’t be long before Gyskas arrived.

Cerryl could sense that chaos that accompanied Gyskas long before the balding and graying older mage marched into the duty room with the second midafternoon bell, just as Cerryl was folding and sealing his daily report.

The oncoming duty mage nodded, and his deep-set green eyes swept the room. “Not too long a report?” He pushed fine brown and gray hair back off his high and receding forehead.

“No. One beggar took a knife to Jiark.” Cerryl shrugged. “How many do you have to flame every eight-day?”

“On this shift?” Gyskas frowned as Cerryl stood. “Two or three. Mostly outsiders. Our people know what happens if they attack a patroller.” He took a deep breath. “It gets to you sometimes, but you can’t have a set of rules that’s harder on locals than on outsiders.”

Cerryl stepped around the flat desk and called, “Wielt!” Waiting for the sandy-blonde youth, he added, “If you figure we’ve got four sections with two shifts…”

“Fortunately, it doesn’t work that way. There’s more peacebreaking here than in the other three combined. Lucky us.”

Or is it more peacebreaking of the kind that comes to the Patrol’s attention? Cerryl wondered.

The messenger appeared in the duty room doorway.

“If you would, lake this to Mage Isork or Huroan at the main Patrol building.” Cerryl handed the folded and sealed daily report to the stocky messenger in red.

“Yes, ser.” Wielt turned to Gyskas. “Voar is in the assembly room, ser.”

“Thank you.” Gyskas turned his eyes back to Cerryl, coughing once. “Tomorrow’s your off-day?”

“The day after tomorrow. I think Dujak…”

“That’s right. He’s covering most of the morning off-days this season, here and in the southwest section.” Gyskas glanced toward the chair.

“Oh…sorry.” Cerryl stepped around the desk. “Have a good afternoon and evening.”

“It’s never that good, Cerryl. You’ll see.” Gyskas gave the younger mage a twisted smile. “Say…in a year or so. Enjoy morning duty while you still can.”

Cerryl nodded before turning and leaving the duty room, nodding to the black-haired Voar, who stood by the messenger stool. Then Cerryl walked past the assembly room and through the doors.

Several off-duty patrollers followed Cerryl outside, where the wind had picked up under a dark gray sky, and the air held a damp chill. After a smile and a nod, Cerryl headed west toward the Avenue, picking up the low murmurs they exchanged as they left.

“…didn’t wait for Isork to ash that beggar…”

“…not like Klyat last spring…”

“…bet he’s going walking through the section again.”

“…least you don’t have to explain where something happened.”

Cerryl kept from nodding as the low voices died out behind him. When he reached the Avenue, he stopped for a moment and watched.

A long canvas-covered wagon creaked northward, pulled by a four-horse team. Beside the driver sat a guard with a spear. A pair of mounted guards rode behind. All four wore a green livery Cerryl hadn’t seen before.

He extended his perceptions, and from what he could tell the wagon held bales of cleaned and carded wool. Wool-so late in the year? Or had it come from Kyphros on its way to Lydiar? He shook his head. The wool had to have come from Montgren. Was it being shipped later in the year just because prices were likely to be higher? But why all the guards?

After the wagon passed he turned south, down toward the Way of the Tanners, walking through the drizzle that had begun, ignoring the faint headache the light rain created. Cerryl walked slowly along the Way of the Tanners, just looking.

The incident with the purple cart still bothered him. No one had claimed it from the Patrol storage, and no one had reported either a cart or a person or silksheen missing, not according to Huroan. Medallions weren’t that cheap either.

Three youths leaning against the brick wall on the other side of the street, the north side, watched him as he neared. Cerryl studied the three, none that much younger than he was. The tallest wore a faded gray vest over a worn brown shirt and patched brown trousers. His curly hair looked oily and dirty. The smallest wore drab gray, blotched white as if from spills from some kind of caustic or acetic. The third wore a sheep-herder’s jacket.

Abruptly the tallest spat on the sidewalk.

Cerryl wanted to sigh. Instead, he concentrated, then flashed a firebolt to the pavement where the spittle had landed.

With the flash, all three youths straightened.

Cerryl smiled broadly.

The three remained immobile as he passed on the far side of the street.

“…hate ’em…”

“…uppity Whites…”

“…careful…can be touchy…”

Cerryl let his perceptions linger with the three until he was a good fifty paces east of them.

Eventually, he turned into Likket’s shop.

The apothecary looked up from a table containing several piles of what appeared to be bark as the mage entered. “Ser?”

“I’m Cerryl, Likket. I know what some of the apothecaries do, but what sorts of things do you provide?”

Likket looked at Cerryl for a long moment. Cerryl looked back steadily until the older man’s eyes dropped.

“I provide potions, some to loosen the bowels, some to tighten them, others to loosen the muscles, others to ease pain, ser. Here…here is the willow bark.”

Willow bark? Wasn’t there something about that in one of the books you copied for Tellis?

“The elixir from willow bark is most useful in lowering fevers from the flux and pains in limbs. Sometimes, it aids in pains in the head.”

“You don’t provide dyes for cottons or wools, then?”

Likket shook his head in a way that suggested the question was ridiculous.

“Nivor provides the basics for scriveners’ inks.”

“Most dyers would not trust an apothecary with any such knowledge, ser mage.”

“What about silksheen?”

“That cannot be dyed. Surely you would know that?” Likket squinted at Cerryl.

“I’m one of the newer Patrol mages.” Cerryl offered an embarrassed smile. “I know about scriving and timber and a few other things, but not about fabrics and dyes and potions for pain. Is there anything stronger than willow bark?”

“Stronger, aye. Poppy juice or powder in wine-it be far stronger.” Likket cackled. “Strong enough to let some folk sleep on a stone boat. That’s only for those already a-dying of mortification.”

Cerryl nodded. “You mentioned other potions?”

“Ah…” Likket held up a hand blown glass bottle, stoppered with a cork. “This manchieniel syrup…if made from the green leaves, it tightens the bowel. But if made from the brown-gray leaves, it loosens them mightily…”

Cerryl smiled and waited for Likket to say more.

The rain had begun to fall more heavily when Cerryl left the apothecary’s, and his skull had begun to throb. He turned westward and began to walk back toward the Avenue and the Halls of the Mages.

Once inside the front foyer and out of the damp, he nodded to Kochar as Jeslek’s redheaded apprentice rushed by in the direction of the courtyard and, presumably, the Meal Hall.

“Good day, Kochar.”

“Good day, ser,” Kochar said quickly, with only a brief pause, and he hurried past Cerryl and toward the Meal Hall.

Cerryl crossed the fountain courtyard and took the side Hall to the rear courtyard and entered his own building. He was opening his door when Faltar appeared in the corridor.

“It’s creamed lamb again. Let’s go over to The Ram.”

Cerryl thought, his hand touching his clean-shaven chin.

“I asked Leyladin for you. She’ll meet us there in a bit.” Faltar grinned, looking vaguely raffish with a lock of blonde hair almost across his left eyebrow. “She was coming down from treating Myral.”

“Where is she now?”

“She went to her house. I would, too, if I had a palace like that. You go there often?”

“Not often. Sterol had been sending her all over Candar, and I’ve not been going many places right now.”

“They say only Muneat’s dwelling and maybe those of Chorast, Scerzet, and Jiolt are grander. Loboll…who would know?”

“I wouldn’t.” Once, when he had been Tellis’s apprentice, Cerryl had delivered a book to the factor Muneat, and the factor’s front hall had certainly appeared grand to him back then, but he’d not seen any of the rest of the mansion. Nor did he know the dwellings of the others Faltar had mentioned.

“Are you coming?” Faltar raised his eyebrows.

“I think the lamb in the Meal Hall can serve others,” Cerryl said. “Let me wash up first.”

“I’ll meet you at The Ram,” Faltar said. “Oh…Heralt’s coming. Is that all right?”

Wondering why Faltar would even ask, Cerryl answered, “Of course. I like Heralt.”

“Good. We’ll see you there.” With a broad and self-satisfied smile, Faltar turned.

Cerryl slipped into the gloom of his room, closing the door and sinking into the chair before his desk for a moment. His feet ached. He still couldn’t imagine spending all his duty on his feet for year after year, the way most patrollers did. Then, he couldn’t imagine doing anything year after year.

He took a deep breath and massaged his still-aching forehead.

Thrap.

Slowly, he rose and trudged toward the scent of sandalwood and trilia that seeped into his room even before he opened the door.

“Might I come in?” Anya smiled her brilliant and patently false smile.

“Of course.” Cerryl gestured for her to enter.

The redhead swept past him and sat on the edge of his bed.

Cerryl turned the chair to face her and sat down. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“How do you like being a Patrol mage?” asked Anya.

“So far, it’s been interesting.” He offered a smile, hoping it was more genuine than hers. “What have you been doing?”

“Helping Sterol and Jeslek. Drafting scrolls…that sort of thing.”

“You must have a fine hand.”

“Not so fine as a former scrivener, but it suffices. I did learn a few things before the Guild found me.”

“You’re from Fairhaven, then?”

“Most mages are.” Anya leaned forward, yet somehow the white tunic clung even more suggestively to her form. “You know, once Jeslek officially becomes High Wizard, the Guild will need another overmage?”

“Would you like my support?”

Anya laughed, twice, two musical notes, perfect in pitch, yet ringing off-key. “No. I doubt the Guild would feel secure with a woman as overmage.”

“Who might be considered?” Cerryl shifted his weight on the chair.

“Eliasar, Redark, Esaak, perhaps Myral or Broka.” Anya shrugged. “A few others.”

“You’re more powerful than any of them.” Cerryl paused. “Or is that the reason why you would rather not be considered?”

“You are perceptive-if still somewhat naive.” She paused. “Do you wish to be a Patrol mage all your life?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

The redhead stood. “You might.”

Cerryl stood as well. “You never said who might be a good candidate for overmage. Perhaps I should suggest Fydel, then.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.” Anya smiled again as she reached for the door latch. “But you can certainly suggest anyone you wish.”

“I doubt I will be suggesting anyone,” Cerryl said, holding the door that she had opened. “But I did want your opinion.”

“Expressing opinions too early is seldom wise.” She flashed Cerryl a smile. “Good evening, Cerryl.”

“Good evening, Anya.”

He closed the door slowly. She doesn’t want you suggesting her or Fydel…or anyone. But why should your opinion matter at all? As he sat down again, he nodded. The message had been clear enough: Don’t support anyone of great chaos power for overmage.

Cerryl stood. At least Leyladin would be at The Golden Ram.

After he shaved, washed, and changed his shirt and tunic, he gathered himself together, stepping out into the empty corridor, half-afraid Anya would swoop down again. He half-smiled, then closed his door.

A few moments later, he walked into the fountain courtyard, enjoying the faint breeze, enough to cool but not to chill.

“Cerryl?”

The young mage turned. Fydel stood by the fountain in the fading light of early evening, the spray cascading into the circular granite basin behind him.

“How do you like the Patrol?” asked the square-bearded mage.

“So far, it’s interesting. Better than gate-guard duty.” Cerryl laughed. “I’m not exactly the arms type, like you or Eliasar. Are you going back to Gallos with Jeslek?”

“Jeslek hasn’t said anything about going back. Where did you hear that?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Cerryl admitted. “I’m just guessing, but from what I saw when I was there with you I don’t think that even Jeslek’s creation of those mountains will be enough to convince the new prefect to collect road taxes and tariffs.”

“That may be,” answered Fydel, shaking his head, “but the High Wizard hasn’t said anything. I certainly wouldn’t wish to guess his actions publicly.” Fydel’s eyes seemed lost under the bushy eyebrows that arched as he spoke.

“I was but asking.”

“Jeslek thinks quite highly of your skills.”

Cerryl caught the ever-so-slight emphasis on the word “skills” before he answered. “Mine are poor indeed compared to his.”

“He knows that, also. That is another reason why he respects you among the younger mages.”

Cerryl didn’t bother to comment on Fydel’s lying, a twisting of chaos so obvious almost any mage could have caught it. “He respects you most highly.”

“I do what I can for him.” Fydel bobbed his head. “Well, I must be going. I trust you continue to find Patrol duty interesting, although it’s sometimes better if something like that doesn’t intrigue you overly. Patrol duty is really meant to be what it is, just simple peacekeeping.” With another nod, Fydel smiled, his white teeth bright in the fading luminescence of twilight.

Cerryl passed through the courtyard and then through the entry foyer to reach the Avenue, turning south toward the inn.

Why had Fydel stopped him? The older mage had been waiting for Cerryl. To tell him what?

That he should stick to the simpler aspects of peacekeeping? That was clear. Why wasn’t at all clear.

Faltar, Lyasa, and Leyladin sat at the round table in the corner by the front window of The Golden Ram.

“It took you long enough!” Faltar exclaimed. “I ordered an ale for you.” He pointed to the mug before the empty seat.

“Thank you.” Cerryl sat down, between Leyladin and Faltar, glad to take his weight off his boots.

“Now your friend is here,” announced a stocky serving woman, who had seemed to materialize at Cerryl’s shoulder, “what would ye mages be having?”

Faltar inclined his head to Lyasa.

“The stew,” answered the black-haired woman, exchanging a brief glance across the table with Leyladin.

“The fowl, whatever it is,” said Leyladin.

“The fowl,” repeated Faltar, followed by Heralt.

“The stew,” Cerryl said, trusting Lyasa’s judgment, since he knew Leyladin cared little for any kind of inn stew.

“Two stews, three fowls.” The server swept away.

“What kept you?” Faltar persisted.

“How about cleanliness and exhaustion?” Cerryl offered a tired grin.

“Unlike some who think but of their guts,” quipped Lyasa, with a pointed look at Faltar.

“Ah, I am slandered most unfairly.”

“Most fairly, I’d say,” suggested Heralt.

“All rumor and gossip,” declared the blonde White mage. “All of it.”

“Speaking of gossip…did you know that Jeslek’s announced a special meeting of the Guild next eight-day?” asked Lyasa. “No one knows what it’s about. It’s a night meeting. That’s so most of the Guild can be there.”

Cerryl took a long, slow swallow of his ale.

“Maybe it’s so we can approve him as High Wizard. That might be nice.” Faltar snorted over his mug of ale.

“You wouldn’t be quite so bold if he were here,” said Lyasa.

“He’s not.”

“No-but Bealtur just walked in.” Lyasa smiled.

Faltar choked, then looked over his shoulder. “That wasn’t fair.”

“He could have,” suggested Leyladin. “Or Fydel, or Anya, or Myredin…”

“All right.” Faltar looked at the mug he held. “Will you let me drink now?”

“I might.” Lyasa grinned.

“Here you be!” announced the server. “Three fowl, two stew. Three each for the stew, four for the fowl. And two baskets of the light bread. Dark’s a copper more.”

“Light will be fine,” Heralt said.

Cerryl frowned as he pulled out coins, handing three to Faltar and three to the server. The last time he’d had the stew, the price had been but two coppers and the fowl had been three.

“That’s right,” Leyladin whispered into his ear. “Prices are higher.”

“Thanks be to ye.” With a smile, the server departed.

“Was the ale three?” Cerryl asked Faltar.

Faltar nodded, his mouth already full of fowl.

Cerryl bent forward. He was hungry, not having eaten since morning. When he straightened again, his bowl was nearly empty, and he’d also finished two large chunks of rye bread.

“You were hungry.” Leyladin offered a smile over a platter of fowl of which she had seemingly only eaten but a third.

“Very hungry,” Cerryl admitted before taking a swallow of the ale.

“We were talking of gossip,” suggested Lyasa.

“At the moment, Jeslek is both High Wizard and overmage,” mused Heralt.

“Who will they select?” asked Faltar.

“It’s who we select,” corrected Lyasa. “We have to select both, even if no one will choose other than Jeslek for High Wizard.”

“But the overmage?” asked Leyladin, almost indifferently.

“Who knows?” Lyasa lifted jet-black eyebrows. “Kinowin is still the other overmage. So maybe Jeslek will suggest someone.”

“He won’t,” offered Heralt. “He’s taken being High Wizard. He’ll let the Guild select someone.”

“But who?” asked Faltar. “Myral’s too old. Derka won’t come back from Hydolar. Jeslek’s going to need to send Eliasar to Gallos. Esaak doesn’t care about anything but mathematicks.”

“Anya?” suggested Heralt.

“She’d like that.” Lyasa laughed. “But she won’t be chosen.”

“Then who?”

Cerryl leaned back in the chair, trying to ignore the headache from the rain and the concerns raised by Anya’s visit. He also tried to stifle a yawn but did not quite succeed.

Leyladin leaned closed to him and whispered, “You need to leave, don’t you?”

He nodded slightly.

“Are we boring you, Cerryl?” Faltar asked.

“I was up before dawn, and I walked some of the section after duty. I’m tired.” He forced a smile. “Not bored.”

Leyladin stood. “I had to spend more time with Myral, and I’m about to fall over.”

Cerryl rose slowly. “I’m sorry. I am tired.”

Lyasa smiled. “Bedtime, then.”

Cerryl found himself flushing.

“Go on, you two. We understand.” Faltar grinned broadly.

Cerryl could sense Leyladin’s embarrassment as well. “Faltar…not everyone has quite the same approach as you do.”

“Ha!” said Heralt. “He’s got you, Faltar.”

“Everyone gets me,” grumbled the blonde mage good-naturedly as Cerryl followed Leyladin out of The Golden Ram.

Out in the lamp-punctuated misty darkness, the blonde healer turned to Cerryl. “You don’t have to walk me home. You’re tired.”

“It’s but a few blocks, really, and the exercise will do me good.”

“You’re lying. Your feet hurt, and your head aches, and the fog and rain don’t help.” Her voice was soft, and a smile followed.

“Never lie to a Black mage,” he said. “I still would feel better if I walked you home.”

“I can accept that.” Leyladin smiled. “Perhaps you could come to dinner, the night after tomorrow? Father should be back by then.”

“Back? Is he off again?”

“He’s in Lydiar, something about brass fittings and about getting armsmen for a ship bound for Summerdock.”

“He’s been traveling more lately.”

“He says he has to.”

After a short silence, Cerryl glanced to his left at the bulk of the White Tower, almost glowing with the power of chaos through the drizzle and mist.

“You’re worried. Why?” Leyladin glanced up the Avenue.

“Anya came to see me.” Cerryl’s pale gray eyes followed her green ones. “Fydel stopped me in the courtyard on the way to The Ram. Neither one of them has spoken to me in eight-days. Or longer.”

“What did they say?” Leyladin glanced toward the Market Square, dark and wreathed in a foglike mist.

“Nothing. Well…not quite. Anya delivered a veiled hint that it would be better if the next overmage happened to be one that wouldn’t challenge Jeslek in power. Fydel? He as much as told me that I shouldn’t get too involved in anything beyond simple peacekeeping.”

“Hmmmm…and what are you up to, dear Cerryl?”

“I’m not up to anything. I am worried about that missing cart. That’s the one I told you about.”

“I asked Father. He didn’t know about anyone missing, at least not anyone he trades with.”

Cerryl shrugged. “I don’t see why Fydel would even care.”

“Fydel doesn’t. Anya might. Muneat’s her uncle.”

Cerryl swallowed. “I asked her where she came from. She never answered.”

“Her father died several years ago. Of the flux. So did all her brothers. She has a younger sister who is the consort of Jiolt’s oldest, Uleas or something.”

“Who is Jiolt? All I know is that he’s a rich factor.” Cerryl took Leyladin’s arm to guide her across a puddle as they turned westward from the befogged and darkened Market Square. Feeling her warmth so close to him, he wished, not for the first time, that he could hold her more than the few brief embraces she permitted.

Leyladin cleared her throat. “Jiolt…Father doesn’t talk about him much. He’s one of the governors of the Grain Exchange, but he factors other things, like Father, whatever interests him-wool, linen, tin, but not copper…oils, but only the rare ones…that sort of thing. Like Muneat, but Jiolt has three sons, where Muneat’s only living heir is Devo, and he’s not all that bright.”

“Why do all you female mages come from trading families?”

“Lyasa doesn’t.”

“I wasn’t sure. She never told me.”

“Nor me, but I know all the trading families. So if she does, it’s not from Fairhaven or Lydiar or Vergren.”

Cerryl nodded.

“She does not come from poverty. She is mannered and not ill-used.” Leyladin laughed softly, almost bitterly. “Only those talented daughters who come from coins survive.” Her eyes went to the lamps by the doorway of her house, less than fifty cubits ahead.

“Few enough chaos-talented boys without coins survive,” Cerryl said quietly, thinking of his father.

“I’m sorry, Cerryl. I did not mean it that way.”

“I know.”

At her doorway, her arms went around him. “Go home, and please get some rest.”

“I will.” He returned the embrace, enjoying momentarily the warmth and even the order that infused her.

Her lips touched his, warmly but briefly, before she leaned away from him. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

Somehow, the evening seemed damper and colder on the walk back to his empty apartment.