Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The junior mage waited.

  “The Duke of Lydiar is beginning to expand the copper mines south of Hrisbarg…and might be persuaded to reopen the old iron mines. He’s not happy about the cheaper copper…or the iron.” Kinowin stopped. “Does this tell you anything?”

  It told Cerryl a great deal—and nothing at all. Traders were always unhappy when someone else could sell cheaper, unless they were the ones who had the cheaper goods. Certainly Syrma would be in a hard position in Gallos. He’d become prefect because the Guild had effectively announced—through Cerryl’s assassination of Lyam—that it was most unhappy with the Gallosians’ use of the White highways without paying the tariffs. Jeslek’s use of chaos to destroy one small Gallosian army had also pointed out that Gallos would have trouble using armsmen to defy Fairhaven. At the same time, the traders and merchants of Gallos were doubtless displeased with the thought of paying tariffs—and Lyam’s family certainly wouldn’t be in the best of humors.

  “The situation isn’t good and may not get better,” Cerryl finally temporized. “What about the Viscount of Certis?”

  “The viscount cares little about any mining or metals, or the wool. His concerns are oils, and right now his merchants can sell more oil than they can harvest and press. It costs the Certans about the same whether they get wool from Montgren or from Recluce through either Tyrhavven or Spidlaria.”

  Cerryl thought, half-wondering at the idea that he—an orphan raised by a disabled miner—would be worrying about merchants and traders and rulers as a member of the White Order of Fairhaven. Finally, he glanced at Kinowin. “I am only guessing, ser. Much of what supports the Guild and ties Candar together are the White highways. What you say tells me that if the prefect of Gallos supports us, he may be replaced. The Viscount of Certis does not care, and does not wish to offend, but may find it difficult to encourage his overcaptains to support us against Gallos.” He paused. “What of the Duke of Hydlen?”

  “Duke Berofar is old, and tired.”

  Cerryl swallowed. “War, then? Sooner or later?”

  A grim smile crossed the overmage’s face. “Although Jeslek and Sterol and I agree on little…we all fear such. And you are not to tell anyone that.” Kinowin sat back in his chair, as if to let Cerryl digest what he had just said. After a moment, he continued. “You were with Jeslek when he used chaos to destroy the Gallosian lancers, were you not? How did Jeslek look after the battle?”

  “It took all six of us, ser,” Cerryl said carefully. “Jeslek did much more than anyone else.”

  “But you might not have won without all of you?”

  “It would have been in much greater doubt,” Cerryl admitted.

  Kinowin laughed. “Well said, and with great care.” The big mage stood and wandered to the window, looking into the shadows that fell across the Avenue to the east of the White Tower. “How many Gallosians were there?”

  “Around twenty score.”

  “The prefect of Gallos can raise nearly twenty times that in lancers, if need be.” Kinowin turned and faced the seated Cerryl. “The Viscount of Certis cannot match that, though he might come within fifty score. I doubt the Duke of Lydiar, for all his boasts, can raise more than one hundred score—trained lancers, that is. We have somewhere over two-hundred-fifty-score lancers and another hundred score of other armsmen and archers. Do you have any idea how many coins that takes each year?”

  “No, ser.”

  “Were the pay chests for the year put together, just the pay chests, I would guess the total would easily exceed five-hundred-score golds.”

  Cerryl swallowed. The thought of that many golds, just for armsmen, left him speechless.

  An ironic smile crossed Kinowin’s face. “How many lancers did you kill in Gallos? You?”

  “I didn’t count, ser. I’d say a half-score, perhaps a few more.”

  “In one battle you killed more than some lancers do in years. You also clean sewers and water aqueducts. The other day you killed a man, kept some guards from being injured, and saved the Guild from being cheated on taxes and tariffs. Your stipend is more than ten times that of a senior lancer—because the Guild expects more than ten times as much from you.” Kinowin paused. “There is a problem with that. Do you know what it is?”

  Cerryl frowned. “The Guild isn’t that big?”

  The overmage nodded. “Yes, and Gallos as it is now is too large and too powerful, and all the tariffs and all the taxes will barely pay for our mages and our lancers. Yet we must ensure that Gallos pays its road taxes or soon none will do so. That is why Jeslek sent you to kill Lyam and why he is raising mountains. And why Sterol must allow it.”

  Cerryl licked his lips. He had known that Jeslek had needed to raise the Little Easthorns for more than a vain show of power.

  “I would not be overly surprised if we must send Eliasar and the White Lancers to Gallos before long. There must be someone to replace Sverlik, and that wizard must have enough force behind him to convince Syrma to treat with him.”

  “There must be a reason, ser, but can you tell me why we cannot raise the taxes and tariffs?”

  “Cerryl…think…What did I tell you when you sat down?” Kinowin’s face was expressionless.

  The thin-faced and slender junior mage tried to recollect what the overmage had said. “Oh…because higher tariffs make the prices higher and people won’t use the roads and pay any taxes?”

  Kinowin nodded. “Roads are more costly than shipping, especially when the Blacks can call the winds to their beck.”

  Cerryl thought some more. “There are a lot of things you can’t get from Recluce or by ship. Carpets from Sarronnyn and olives from Kyphros and brimstone from Hydlen.”

  “People forget the gains from the roads; they only think of the costs.” Kinowin cleared his throat. “You need to think about those things. You can talk all you want to your friends about trade and tariffs.” The overmage smiled. “Even to a certain blonde healer, but not a word about the pay chests or any thought of war. And not a word outside the Halls of the Mages.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl couldn’t quite keep from flushing at the reference to Leyladin.

  “Go get something to eat. Your guts are growling.”

  Cerryl rose and slipped out the door, noting that Kinowin had turned back to the window, hands clasped behind his back.

  IV

  CERRYL GLANCED UP as he started up the steps from the front foyer of the Halls of the Mages, his eyes going to the full-body stone images on the ledge just below the top of the wall—the images of the great mages, he guessed. He knew the stocky figure that was the second from the far left was Hartor, the High Wizard who had restructured the Guild to oppose Recluce. As if it had done much good.

  He paused on the stone landing just outside the White Tower’s first level. Did he hear a set of boots on the stone steps? He stepped into the lower level, where one of the guards he did know, Gostar, was talking to the boy in the red tunic of a messenger who sat on the stool behind the guards, waiting for a summons from one of the higher mages in the Tower.

  “Doesn’t always take so long, lad.” Gostar’s eyes went to Cerryl. “The mage Cerryl here. He was a student mage for but two years.”

  The black-haired boy from the crèche looked away from Cerryl.

  “It’s true,” Cerryl said. “Sometimes it’s easier if it takes longer, though.” His friend Faltar had taken nearly four years, but Faltar hadn’t had to fight brigands in Fenard and sneak across a hostile land…or deal with Jeslek day in and day out. Cerryl frowned. Faltar also hadn’t gotten a half-score of lancers killed, either.

  “You see there, lad. All in the way you look at it,” said Gostar heartily.

  The messenger kept his eyes on the white granite floor tiles.

  At the sound of boots coming down the Tower steps, Cerryl glanced through the archway, and a broad smile filled his face as Leyladin descended the last few steps from the upper levels, wearing her green shirt, tunic, and trou
sers—even dark green boots. Her blond hair, with the faintest of red highlights, had been cut shorter and was almost level with her chin.

  “How is Myral?” asked Cerryl, not knowing quite what to say.

  “Better today.” After a moment of silence, Leyladin offered a smile, somehow both shy and friendly. “Can you come to dinner? Tonight?”

  “I’d like that.” Cerryl paused. “If you can wait a bit. I have to meet with Kinowin first. For the first season I do gate duty I have to talk to him after I finish. It shouldn’t take that long.”

  A mischievous smile crossed her lips. “Father can wait that long.”

  “Your father?” Cerryl’s throat felt thick.

  “I’ve talked about you so much that he says he must meet you.”

  Lucky me…He could sense a chuckle from Gostar.

  “I’ll wait here with Gostar.”

  Cerryl nodded. “I hope it won’t be long.” He went to the left, past the guards and the still-mute young messenger.

  “Lady mage…true he killed the prefect of Gallos all by himself?”

  “It’s said to be true.” Leyladin’s voice drifted after Cerryl.

  “He looks…too nice…”

  “…a quiet mage…”

  Appearances—was one of his problems that he looked like a polite young scrivener and not a mage who would upset the world. They said that the Black mage Creslin had been small. Was that why he’d killed—or had to kill—so many? Cerryl squared his shoulders as he stepped up to the overmage’s door.

  At the first thrap on the door, Kinowin replied, “Wait a moment, if you would, Cerryl.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl settled onto the bench outside the white oak door. Even if he hadn’t done that much, it had been a long day, a very long day. The gates opened to wagons at sunrise. His eyes closed…

  “Cerryl?”

  He jerked awake and bolted upright. “Oh…I’m sorry.”

  Kinowin laughed once, gently. “That’s all right. Being a gate mage is more tiring than most realize. That’s why we give it to you younger mages. I wouldn’t want to do it.”

  As Cerryl followed, still groggy, and closed the heavy door behind him, Kinowin walked to the window and looked out at the dark clouds looming to the east. Even the purple wall hanging seemed gloomy rather than striking.

  Cerryl stood by the table, not wanting to sit down.

  “Go ahead. Sit down.” Kinowin did not turn from the window. “It’s storming to the east.” After a moment, he turned. “How did your day go?”

  “It was quiet. I’ve seen farm wagons and even a stone wagon, but not many other kinds. There are more passengers on the coaches, and they look like factors.”

  “That should not surprise you.”

  Cerryl couldn’t say he was surprised, but he also could not have said why he was not surprised.

  “Do you know how the exchanges work?”

  “Not very well. The factors make agreements to buy or sell goods in future seasons, sometimes for things that haven’t even been grown or mined.”

  Kinowin stepped toward the table, then leaned forward and put his hands on the back of the chair. “The exchanges help smooth trade. I’d judge that is as good an explanation as any. The factors use the exchange in hopes of making coins or, when times are lean, to avoid losing too many coins. So…when things are unsettled, long before others realize there may be trouble, the factors are buying and selling those future goods. Will there be a famine in Certis or Southwind? The price of wheat corn two seasons from now goes up. The price of cattle goes down.”

  “Ah…the price of cattle goes down?”

  Kinowin shrugged. “If the fields are brown and bare and grain is dear, the farmers and the holders must sell.”

  Cerryl wanted to shake his head. He’d never even considered such matters.

  Kinowin flashed a sardonic smile. “To the blade’s edge, Cerryl. To the blade’s edge. The exchanges have been most busy lately. The price of future timber is going up. Do you know why?”

  Cerryl looked at the overmage helplessly.

  “Ships—it takes timber to build them, and they require the older, heavier oak and the long pole firs.”

  Cerryl understood.

  “You see? Then tell me what that means.”

  “Well…if someone is building ships, but not so many traders are coming to Fairhaven, then they aren’t building trading ships, but warships…”

  “Both Recluce and Spidlar are building more ships. I’d say for trade. Others…are building ships because they are losing trade.”

  “Are we building ships? In Sligo?”

  “Let me just say that I would be most surprised if the High Wizard had not contracted with the Sligan shipwrights for a few more vessels. That is something I would not mention to anyone.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Myral said you worked very hard to master a wide range of skills.” Kinowin looked hard at Cerryl. “In the times we are living in, I would suggest you continue to work hard. Being a gate guard offers some time and opportunities for practice. You might see if you could master the illusion of not appearing where you stand. Although I have some suspicions you know something about that.” Kinowin’s eyes twinkled. “You might see if you could refine your chaos senses even more—see if you can determine by sense alone every item in an incoming wagon. I won’t offer too many suggestions, but any skill you improve will improve others.” The big mage straightened and let go of the chair.

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I will see you tomorrow.” Kinowin turned back to the window and the still-darkening clouds. A rumble of distant thunder muttered over Fairhaven.

  Cerryl closed the door behind him.

  “…heard the door. Like as he won’t be long, lady mage. Your words are kind…”

  “Just remember…” Leyladin straightened from her conversation with the young messenger.

  Gostar was no longer one of the duty guards and had been replaced by a White Guard Cerryl didn’t know, a man with an angular face and a short-trimmed beard.

  “Shall we go?” the blond healer asked. “I’m hungry.”

  “So am I.”

  Leyladin turned and bestowed a parting smile on the messenger, getting a shy and faint one in return.

  “You’ve made another friend.” Cerryl glanced across the entry foyer of the front Hall as they descended the steps side by side.

  “Most of them are lonely.”

  Cerryl wondered. The children of the mages in the crèche had each other. He’d never even really talked to another child near his own age until he’d been apprenticed to Dylert. Erhana had been snobbish, but she’d helped him learn his letters, and without that, he never would have become Tellis’s apprentice—or been accepted into the Guild. Faltar had befriended Cerryl and become his first real friend, when Cerryl had first come to the Halls. That had been before Faltar had been seduced by Anya, but Faltar remained his friend. Friends were too hard to come by.

  “You’re quiet.” Leyladin glanced at him. “Your childhood was lonelier, I know, but they’re still lonely.”

  Cerryl almost stopped as he stepped off the last riser of the staircase and onto the polished stone floor tiles of the foyer floor but managed not to miss the step.

  “That bothered you. Why?”

  After a moment, he answered, “I just hadn’t thought of it quite that way.”

  “I suppose I’ve had the luxury of being able to look at things without struggling for coins and food.” The blond shivered as they went down the steps to the walk beside the Avenue. “It’s gotten colder.”

  “It has. Faltar said spring was coming.”

  In the early evening, darker than usual with the overhanging clouds, the Avenue was near-empty, with a sole rider plodding northward and away from the Wizards’ Square. Cerryl fastened his white leather jacket halfway up as snowflakes drifted past them. He glanced over at Leyladin, wrapped in a dark green woolen cloak. Snowflakes—Cerryl didn’t expect
such in spring. Then, it was early spring, and the new leaves had barely budded, while the old leaves had barely begun to turn from gray to green. He could feel the slight headache that came with storms, not so severe as with a driving rainstorm, more like the twinge of a light rain.

  “Storms affect you, don’t they?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You told me, remember?”

  Had he? He wasn’t certain he had, but his life had changed so much, and so quickly, he sometimes felt he was just struggling to take in everything—like Kinowin’s continuing lectures on trade and now more insistence on improving his skills.

  The two walked quietly through the scattered flakes until they were less than a block from the south side of the Market Square.

  “This way.” Leyladin inclined her head to the left.

  Another block found them turning north again.

  “Here we are.” She gestured.

  Leyladin’s house was not on the front row of homes on the Avenue below the Market Square, but in the slightly smaller dwellings one block behind those of Muneat and the more affluent factors. Instead of a dozen real glass windows across the front of the dwelling, there were merely four large arched windows on each side of the ornately carved red oak double doors, but each of the windows held several dozen small diamond-shaped glass panes set in lead. Each window sparkled from the lamps within the house.

  The front of the house extended a good fifty cubits from side to side, and deeper than that, Cerryl suspected as Leyladin led him up the granite walk, a walk flanked just by winter-browned grass.

  “The gardens are in the back,” Leyladin answered his unspoken question. “Father said they were for us, not to display to passersby.” The blond mage opened the front door. “Soaris! Father! We’re here.”

  She stepped into a bare foyer barely four cubits wide and twice that in length, with smooth stone walls on either side. Cerryl followed and closed the door. On the left wall was mounted a polished wooden beam, with pegs for jackets and cloaks. Against the right wall was a backless golden oak bench. Beside it was a boot scraper. A boot brush leaned against the wall stones.