The Mage-Fire War (Saga of Recluce)

by Modesitt. Jr. , L. E.

  After Beltur and Jessyla left the tack room, he checked the mule first, and then eased into Slowpoke’s stall and checked the feed. “It’s not the best, big fellow, but it will do.”

  Slowpoke swung his big head around and nuzzled Beltur, then whickered softly.

  “I know. It’s not as nice as Barrynt’s or especially Korsaen’s, but we’ll have you out in a bit, and we won’t be going that far.” Just out of habit, Beltur checked all four hooves, although he would have sensed if there had been anything severely wrong.

  After grooming and saddling the gelding, as well as continually talking to him, something that Slowpoke seemed to enjoy, Beltur led him out into the stable yard and over to where a boy was dumping stall refuse into a cart. “Where does that go?”

  The boy looked up, then stiffened. “Ah … to grower Vortaan, ser. He pays a few coppers for it.”

  “Are you related to Claerk?”

  “Yes, ser. He’s my brother.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Aaskar, ser.”

  “And your mother cooks here at the inn.”

  Aaskar nodded.

  Given what Claerk had said, and Aaskar’s much younger age than his brother, Beltur decided that further investigation of their familial or nonfamilial situation could wait. “Are you going to be an ostler?”

  “Bythalt says I could do worse. The big warhorse is yours, isn’t he?”

  “He is.”

  “Do most mages have warhorses?”

  “No. Most don’t.”

  “Why do you?”

  “Because I needed a horse, and he’d saved my life, and if I didn’t buy him—except a friend bought him for me—then he would have been slaughtered.”

  “Why? He’s a good horse.”

  “He doesn’t like most other people to ride him.” That was hardly the whole story, but Beltur didn’t feel like telling it all.

  Aaskar was still looking puzzled when Jessyla led her mount out of the stable and up beside Slowpoke.

  “We can’t waste time. Just staying here is costing us almost a gold a day,” she said.

  “That may be, but we need to find out more before we jump into something.”

  “This morning … it was a different—”

  “It’s not the same,” Beltur said quickly, trying not to blush.

  “Is that what most men say?”

  “I didn’t rush you. It was more than a year, and it was as much your idea as mine.”

  Jessyla grinned. “Sometimes, you’re too serious.”

  Beltur just shook his head.

  A little while later, after Aaskar had returned to the stable, Claerk appeared. “Bythalt said you needed paper and markers.”

  “We do, thank you.”

  “If you’re heading to the Brass Bowl, be careful with Phaelgren. He can be nasty.”

  “That’s kind of you to let us know,” said Jessyla. “Is there anyone else who might be like that?”

  “There’s lots of folks who are gruff or who don’t want to talk, but, except for Phaelgren and maybe Widow Taarbusk—everyone calls her Thornbush—they’re not nasty and mean through and through. Anyone can be a little mean on a bad day.”

  Beltur smiled at that as he took the papers and crayons. “We appreciate it.”

  “I need to get back to work. I’m repairing some chairs that got broken. Maybe that won’t happen so often now that you mages are here.”

  “People don’t change overnight, but we’ll see what we can do.”

  Claerk nodded and then headed back into the inn.

  Once Lhadoraak, Tulya, and Taelya joined them, and Beltur gave Tulya some paper and a crayon, the five mounted and rode west on the main street past the still-empty square, which Beltur studied. Just a stone-paved area with a simple fountain ringed by the worn and chipped low stone wall. There was no sign of the older man who had been sitting there the day before. Beltur wondered how much work it would take to get water running to the fountain again.

  The Brass Bowl was even more run-down than Beltur recalled, but then, he’d only taken a quick look at it on fourday. When he reined up outside the front door, there was no one around. So he dismounted and tied Slowpoke to the railing, as did the others with their mounts.

  “Do you want us to come in?” asked Lhadoraak.

  “Why don’t you just stand in the doorway?” said Beltur. “That way you can watch the horses and still see what we’re doing.”

  Beltur opened the door and walked into the small and dusty entry foyer, followed by Jessyla. He didn’t sense any active chaos, but the inn had a certain lack of order, although it was superficially neat. Two men lounged on a bench in the corner, not even looking up.

  “Looking for someone?” asked a figure emerging from a narrow doorway to a small room.

  “We’re looking for Phaelgren.”

  “You’ve found him, Mage. What do you want?” Unlike the short and beefy Bythalt, Phaelgren was taller, if still a digit or two shorter than Beltur, and thin, with a droopy brown mustache and hazel eyes that verged on yellow.

  “Just to tell you that we’ve been sent as the new town council—”

  “Begging your pardon, Mages, but what if some of us don’t want a new town council. What if we like it better without a meddlesome council? What if we like things the way they are?”

  “You’re free to leave Haven,” Beltur said mildly.

  “You ride into town and tell me I can leave?”

  “You don’t have to leave,” said Jessyla. “You can stay and follow the laws. We’re not going to tariff traders. There’s no reason for them not to come and stay at your inn, so long as they respect the people who live here.”

  “Healer … I was talking to the mage.”

  “I was talking to you,” said Jessyla coldly. “And you will listen.”

  “Your mage friend is all that keeps me from putting you down good.”

  The two men in the corner snickered.

  Jessyla concentrated.

  Phaelgren opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Then, he yanked out a belt knife and lunged toward Jessyla, but the knife was wrenched from his hand as it struck her shields. With both fists, he pounded against the unseen barrier. His face began to turn red, and then redder …

  Then, he took a gasping breath as Jessyla released whatever she had done.

  Before he could speak, she did. “I did that. And if I’d held it a bit longer, you’d be dead. I’m more healer than mage, but I’m more than enough mage to kill a worthless arrogant bully like you.”

  Phaelgren’s eyes went from Jessyla to Beltur, then toward the open front door, where Lhadoraak stood, and finally to Taelya.

  “I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” said Beltur. “Taelya’s shields are strong enough to protect her, and if you tried, then any one of us would happily kill you.”

  “Even her…” The innkeeper seemed to sink into himself. “You’ll kill us all.”

  Beltur shook his head. “The town is our charge. We might end up killing a few bullying traders before they get the message.”

  “I thought … it was the troopers … killed the mages.”

  “Lhadoraak and Tulya were here protecting the squads we left. Jessyla and I dealt with the mages and their bravos. She even healed a few. We’ll be putting them to work once they’re able.”

  “They won’t…” The innkeeper looked to Jessyla. “Maybe they will…”

  “Oh … they will … if they want to stay,” she said. “It’s their choice.”

  Beltur smiled pleasantly but coolly at Phaelgren. “We just wanted you to know what was happening so that you wouldn’t be surprised … or do anything foolish. Good day.”

  The two turned and walked out. Beltur kept his senses concentrated on the innkeeper, but Phaelgren didn’t move until after Beltur closed the door.

  “He’s not trustworthy,” said Jessyla as they untied their mounts.

  “I worry more that he’s stupid,” commented Lha
doraak. “He didn’t really understand that Jessyla could have killed him.”

  “In places like this,” said Tulya, “men don’t even think that a mere woman could do that.”

  “Why don’t they?” asked Taelya.

  “Because they don’t think much of women,” said Lhadoraak.

  “Why not?” pressed the seven-year-old.

  “You’d have to ask them,” snorted Tulya, “and you don’t get to do that until you’re older and a much better mage. You saw what Jessyla had to do to get them to realize she was stronger than they were.”

  “That’s a very good reason to keep working on your shields,” added Beltur after swinging up into Slowpoke’s saddle. “We’ll head to the east end of town. Are you three ready to start at the west end of town?”

  “We can do that,” said Lhadoraak.

  Beltur watched for a moment as the three turned their mounts westward, then eased Slowpoke back in the direction of the square.

  “Phaelgren is still going to be a problem,” said Jessyla.

  “I know, but we’ll just have to watch him.” Beltur paused. “What exactly did you do to him? Put a confinement in his throat?”

  “That doesn’t take as much effort, and I’ve seen more than enough throats to know just where to place it.”

  “Good technique.”

  “I don’t have your strength. I’ll get stronger, but I’ll never have the strength you do.”

  Beltur thought about disputing that, but realized that she was probably right, and only said, “You’ll be strong enough to do what you need to do … or you’ll figure out another way, just like you did with Phaelgren.” As they neared the square again, he studied it more carefully, but it was exactly what it seemed to be—a stone-paved square with little more than a fountain, bordered by an almost tiny chandlery, certainly too small to be a factorage, several shops that looked as though they might be deserted, and several other buildings whose use he couldn’t determine.

  “Perhaps we should stop by the chandlery and the shops first. I should have thought about that.”

  “We should have thought about it. And, yes, we should. The chandlery first.” Jessyla turned her mount toward the chandlery.

  As they rode closer, Beltur still saw no one up and around, only a smoky gray cat sitting on the sunlit corner of the narrow front porch of the chandlery, its green eyes following the two as they dismounted and tied their horses to the railing. Beltur only sensed one person in the chandlery, but he still entered warily. Jessyla followed. The side walls held tools of various sorts, but spaced apart, as if there had been more at one time, and several of the tables held only a few items, although one table looked to have an assortment of dried fruits, nuts, and travel food.

  The burly man who stepped out from the corner where he had been arranging something was half a head taller than Beltur, but as his eyes took in the blacks and Jessyla’s greens, he seemed to relax … slightly. “I heard that some black mages got rid of that white … upstart … You’d have to be one of the blacks, wouldn’t you? Blacks don’t tend to be very numerous.”

  Beltur nodded and briefly explained what had happened and why they were in the chandlery.

  “You’re either young and real green, or you’ve seen more than it appears.”

  “How about young and forced to be an arms-mage, a city patroller, and a trader’s road guard?”

  “And a healer,” added Jessyla. “He’s a healer in addition to all that and a few other things.”

  “I’m Torkell. If you two are even half what you say, the next few seasons are going to be real interesting.”

  “So we’ve been told,” replied Beltur.

  “What have we missed?” asked Jessyla.

  “Not much in the town works and hasn’t for years. The last council never sent the Duchess her due in tariffs. Young women hide most of the time because they’re not safe.”

  “That will stop,” said Jessyla.

  “You going to kill every brigand and bravo who grabs a girl?”

  “If that’s what it takes,” replied Jessyla. “Haven hasn’t had four mages before.”

  Torkell frowned. “Only heard tell there were four of you and a little girl.”

  More people had been watching than Beltur had guessed, then. He said, “Jessyla and the girl are mages as well. The girl knows enough to protect herself, and she’ll get stronger as she gets older.”

  “Like I said, things’ll be interesting.”

  “Do you live behind or over the chandlery?”

  “Have to. If I weren’t here, everything I have’d be gone in a day … maybe an eightday. Do a bit of smithing too, just because there’s no one else.”

  “In time, we’ll also have a patrol.”

  “Now what do you mages know about that?”

  Beltur sighed. Loudly. “Both Lhadoraak and I served as patrol mages in Elparta.”

  “With all that, you just might make it work. Maybe. What do you want from me?”

  “Just what you’ve already told us, and anything else that might help us get Haven back to where it’s a prosperous town again.”

  “Some of the traders are bastards, and some are just greedy. The bastards you’ll never straighten out. The greedy ones won’t mess with you if you’re fair and firm. Best of the greedy ones is Niklos. Comes from a little town north of Hydolar.”

  Before long, Beltur and Jessyla left the chandlery and looked at the adjoining buildings. No one was at the tiny shop that apparently was or had been that of a weaver and a seamstress. The potter’s place looked recently used, but no one was there, and the cabinet maker’s shop was just a shell that looked as if it hadn’t been occupied in years.

  From the square, Beltur and Jessyla rode past the East Inn, riding past one of Karch’s patrols.

  “Good morning, Mages!” called the squad leader. “Everything’s quiet so far.”

  “Have you seen any of those graycoat bravos?”

  “No, ser.”

  Once they were a block or so past the inn, the eastern part of Haven, or at least the dwellings on each side of the main road, didn’t seem quite so run-down as the western end. Either that, or everything looked a little brighter in the midspring morning sunlight.

  Just a hundred yards west of the worn brick gateposts indicating the east end of Haven stood a well-kept brick house, with a tended garden in the rear, and even several sets of grape trellises. Beltur gestured. “We could start there.”

  They rode up the narrow lane to the hitching rail, where they dismounted and tied the horses, then walked to the front door. Beltur knocked. Before long, he could sense someone approaching.

  The door opened, held by a trim, gray-haired woman in a faded yellow tunic and brown trousers. She studied Beltur and then Jessyla. “A black mage and a healer by your garb. That or a talented pair of grifters. What would you be wanting?”

  “Just to introduce ourselves and tell you why we’re here in Haven.”

  “Most likely to relieve me of the few coppers I have.”

  “Duchess Korlyssa has chartered us, and two others, as the new town council of Haven. That’s why the Montgren troopers accompanied us.”

  The woman laughed. “Likely story. You’re as bad as that fellow in white.” She started to close the door.

  Beltur sighed, then eased a confinement around her, not a tight one. “It does happen to be true. We also destroyed the two whites, and killed or scattered their men.”

  As the woman realized that she was trapped, her eyes widened.

  Beltur dropped the confinement. “That was just to get your attention. I’m Beltur, and my consort is Jessyla. She’s a very good healer, and we will be opening a healing house. Until we do, if you need a healer, you can ask at the East Inn.”

  “You do have a way of getting a body’s attention. What do you really want?”

  “Only to tell you what we just did and to get your name so we know who lives in Haven. We’re trying to reach as many people as we
can.”

  The woman looked past the two toward the horses. “Good mounts. One looks like a warhorse.” Her eyes went back to Jessyla. “You’re a healer. Tell me what’s wrong with me.”

  Beltur studied the woman with his senses, then looked to Jessyla and nodded.

  “Not much of anything, except that you’re not young. It feels like you broke your left arm when you were young. It could have been set better, but there’s no weakness in the bone.” Jessyla looked to Beltur. “Did I miss anything?”

  “You’ve got a tiny bit of chaos in your left big toe. You might have scraped it or cut it, or just bruised it. Whatever it was, it’s mostly healed.”

  For just an instant, the woman looked stunned. Then she frowned at Beltur. “Where in the world did the Duchess find you two?”

  “She didn’t. Lord Korsaen did. He and the Duchess said we could live here if we’d do our best to return Haven to prosperity.”

  “You say you got rid of those whites?”

  “We did.”

  “That’s a good start.”

  “You never did tell us your name,” Jessyla said with a smile.

  “Yamella. Zankar’s my son. This is his house. I live in the cottage over there, but I watch the place while he’s on the road.”

  “He’s a trader?”

  “A good one, too, not like those sleazy fellows from Hydlen…”

  “Did he know about the whites?” asked Beltur.

  Yamella shook her head. “He’s been gone almost four eightdays. He goes first to Lydiar and then to Sligo. I have to say I worried when I heard about the mages, the white ones.”

  “Now you don’t have to worry about them,” affirmed Jessyla.

  “I don’t, do I.” Yamella smiled, then took a step backward. “Thank you for coming by.”

  And she shut the door.

  Jessyla frowned. “There’s something…”

  “There’s something about everyone,” said Beltur dryly.

  After Jessyla wrote down the two names and the approximate location, they untied the horses and walked them across the main street to the house opposite Yamella’s—or Zankar’s—a two-story square structure with heavy wooden shutters on all the windows. The shutters on the ground-level windows were tightly fastened. They had to tie the horses to the branches of an ill-kept pearapple tree, since there was no hitching rail or fence.