“I do happen to like it, Daughter.”
“It tastes like sawdust.” The blonde grimaced.
“Then I like sawdust,” replied the trader.
After the momentary silence, Layel served himself one of the fowl halves, then some of the potatoes and a heaping helping of quilla. He passed the last platter to Cerryl. “I was at the seasonal auction today. The one at the Patrol building.”
Cerryl nodded and served himself fowl and potatoes and just a few slices of the smothered quilla.
“Did you bid on anything?” Leyladin took the fowl platter from Cerryl.
“I bid—and purchased—some rare oils and essences. Five golds and I got nearly a score of bottles of oil. Some fool had tried to smuggle them past the gates in a wagon with a false bottom.” Layel smiled. “The gate guards are getting better, I think. That trick used to work.”
“This was the auction of goods taken by the guards?” Cerryl took a sip of the fruit-tinged wine.
“Yes. They have one just before each season turn.” Layel refilled his goblet. “I always go, if only to see what goods are so dear that they must be smuggled. I was taken by the clarity and perfection of these oils, though, and since none seemed to recognize their value…” The merchant shrugged. “Even with a gold’s tax on my bid, I stand to triple my investment.”
“What else was so dear,” Cerryl asked, “that it was smuggled? I mean, that usually isn’t?”
“That you can never tell. At the auction, there were the usual oddments—woven willow baskets, two barrels of soft wheat flour, three second-class hand-and-a-half blades, twoscore wool and linen carpets from Hamor…I bid on those, but Muneat’s fellow took them. At what he bid, he can have them. Chorast didn’t show. Usually he doesn’t. Loboll sat there, didn’t bid but once.” Layel shoveled a mouthful of quilla down.
Leyladin winced almost imperceptibly.
Cerryl cut a small slice of the quilla and chewed, swallowing quickly after deciding that Leyladin was right—the quilla tasted even less appetizing than sawmill sawdust, more like sawdust mixed with axle grease. He’d inadvertently tasted enough of sawdust as a youth. He reached for the wine, ignoring the faint knowing smile that crossed her lips.
“Good stuff, quilla,” Layel proclaimed. “You don’t know what you’re missing, dear.” He speared the second half-fowl and transferred it to his plate.
“I’m quite happy not knowing.” The healer cut a slice of the fowl.
“How do you find Patrol duty?” The factor took a healthy slice of fowl, then dipped it in glaze before eating.
“I’m not really on duty yet, not for a few more days. I’m still learning about the southeastern section of Fairhaven.”
“That’s where all the little smugglers are—tin, pigments, copper. Why, if you mages could tax them, you’d get half the coins you’d need for the roads.”
Cerryl doubted that, but he nodded politely. “Everything seems quiet. Even the Market Square has fewer carts, and they leave early.”
“That is true in late summer, every year, almost until harvest. Then there will be peddlers everywhere,” predicted Leyladin, “but it will be quiet until then.”
“Some of the factors have not been so quiet in recent days past,” Layel volunteered. “Scerzet said that he would run any Spidlarian trader off the road, were any to cross his path.”
“Oh?” Cerryl frowned.
“’Tis simple. The Spidlarians—they do not lower their prices for wares. They match ours and then go a copper or two lower.”
“They’re actually pocketing extra coins in the amount that the tariffs raise your prices. Or just a few coppers less than that.”
“So simple that a new-minted junior mage can see it.” Layel beamed. “No matter how much we lower prices, they always can match our prices and make more coins.”
“Do you think the Gallosians are encouraging them?” asked Leyladin.
“No, Daughter. The Gallosians, like all people, think of themselves. They will buy where they can buy the best quality for the fewest coins. Unless the White mages”—he inclined his head toward Cerryl—“unless they either force the Gallosians to pay more for goods traded through Spidlar or forbid their sale at all in Gallos, the Gallosians, as will all in Candar, will buy where they can most cheaply.”
Cerryl could see more than a few problems.
As if anticipating Cerryl’s thoughts, Layel continued, “Once goods are unloaded from a ship, to ensure all tariffs are paid is like catching smoke after it has left the chimney.”
“The traders would not support a war against Gallos and Spidlar, would they?”
Layel shrugged. “Some, like the grain factors, see no difficulties. Recluce does not ship grain, and Austran grain is more dear than any grown in Candar. Nor is maize a problem. The wool factors would pay for war tomorrow—if not with many coins. So would the oilseed growers—those outside of the lowlands of Certis. The metals factors and, so I am told, the Duke of Lydiar are most wroth at the copper shipped from Southport.”
In short, it’s like everything else…with no really clear answers. Cerryl nodded.
“Few choices are there—to take either the city of Elparta or all of Spidlar…or see trade suffer and revenues for Fairhaven fall.”
“Elparta?” Cerryl asked involuntarily.
“Aye…most of the trade to Gallos comes up the river to Elparta. Some goes to Certis through Axalt, but the pass beyond Axalt is narrow and can be patrolled, if need be. So, if the lancers took Elparta…then the surtaxes could be levied there.”
“That would be somewhat difficult without the agreement of the prefect or the viscount and those of Axalt.” Leyladin’s tone was dry. “We would have to send lancers through the greater breadth of Gallos, or through Certis and Axalt.”
Layel shrugged. “It will come to such. Not this year, but it will.”
“Why do you think that?” asked Cerryl.
“The prefect will not oppose the Guild, not openly. But he will not send hordes of his own armsmen to collect our taxes, even though his own people gain vast sums of coin from the White highways. The Spidlarian traders will not impose or pay the tax, and they will sell where they can. The regular tax for them is half what it is for us. The only truly high taxes are the surtaxes, and yet they complain and complain.”
“So we will have a war over taxes?”
“No. We will have a war over trade. That has always been the basis of war with Recluce. They can travel the seas more cheaply than we can build and travel the roads. And their magics allow them to create some goods more cheaply.”
“Enough of this talk of war,” Leyladin said abruptly. “If it comes, then we can talk of it. I’d rather talk even of wool carding and dyeing.” She glanced at her father. “Or Aunt Kasia’s tatwork and embroidery.”
Cerryl smiled sheepishly. So did Layel.
“Who is your Aunt Kasia?” Cerryl finally asked, after enjoying several mouthfuls of the cheese-and-sauce-covered potatoes.
“Mother’s youngest sister. She consorted with a landholder near Weevett. I spent a summer there, and she insisted that I learn the ladylike skills of tatting and embroidering. ‘After all, dear, your children should be well turned out, and you should know how to teach them needle and yarn work. All those coins your father has amassed may not last.’”
Cerryl found himself grinning at the blonde’s mimicry of her aunt.
“It was a very long summer,” Leyladin said dryly.
“What about your aunt?” asked Layel, looking at Cerryl. “She raised you, I understand.”
“Aunt Nall?” Cerryl paused, then said slowly, “She wanted the best for me, but she didn’t want me to be a mage. There wasn’t a glass or a mirror in the house. She was always telling me that glasses were only for the high-and-mighty types of Fairhaven.” His lips quirked as he lifted his goblet. “I feel far less than high-and-mighty.”
“Would that more of ’em in the Halls felt that way. Much they’ve don
e for Candar and the city, but just folk with mighty skills—that’s all they are.” Layel lifted the leg—the sole remnant of fowl on his plate—and chewed on it.
Folk with mighty skills? Cerryl half-smiled at the thought, knowing that the very words would upset both Anya and Jeslek…and amuse Kinowin.
After the three finished, Meridis cleared away the china and returned with three dishes of a lumpy puddinglike dish.
“Bread pudding…good…” Layel smiled.
Leyladin took a small morsel of the pudding, then laid her spoon aside.
Cerryl took one modest mouthful—enjoying the combination of spices with the richness of the creamed and sweetened bread. Then he had another.
“See; even the White mages like bread pudding,” Layel announced after his last mouthful.
“Not all mages,” countered Leyladin. “It’s too sweet for this one.”
“I do have a fondness for sweets,” Cerryl confessed, then blushed as he saw Leyladin flush.
“I have noticed,” added Layel.
Leyladin shook her head. “You…you two.”
Cerryl took the last bite of the pudding, trying not to look at her. “It is good.”
“Next time, Daughter, you may pick the dessert, but occasionally your sire should have a choice.”
“Yes, Father.”
Contentedly full and relaxed, Cerryl found himself yawning, and he closed his mouth quickly.
“I saw that,” Leyladin said. “When do you get up?”
“Before dawn,” he admitted.
She glanced toward the window and the pitch-darkness beyond the lead-bordered glass diamonds. “You need to go.”
“I suppose so.”
“I am sure you will be back many times, Cerryl,” said Layel, rising with Leyladin. “My daughter much prefers your company to mine.”
“She has spoken quite well of your company,” Cerryl managed as he rose from the velvet-upholstered white oak chair. “Often.”
“Would that she did around me.” Layel still smiled fondly at his daughter.
“Oh, Father…”
“See your mage off, dear.”
Leyladin escorted Cerryl back through the silk-hung sitting room and front hall to the foyer. She opened the door.
“Thank you. The dinner was wonderful,” Cerryl said. “And I did learn some new things from your father. I think I have each time.”
“You always listen.” Leyladin smiled.
“Are you going to be in Fairhaven for a while?”
“I hope so.”
“So do I.” So do I!
“I will be.” She leaned forward and hugged him, then kissed him, this time gently on the lips.
His lips tingled—was it how he felt or the interplay of order and chaos?
“Both,” she said, drawing back slightly.
“Both?” He shook his head.
“When we’re that close, I can almost sense what you feel. That’s why it will be a long time.” She offered another warm smile. “Good night, Cerryl.”
As he walked back to the Halls of the Mages, through the rain that had begun to fall, with the headache that had also begun to grow, he understood what she hadn’t said. If they were ever to become closer, he could not handle chaos the way Jeslek or Anya or most of the Whites did. In fact, he’d probably have to get better at keeping chaos away from and out of his body.
Could he manage that? As a Patrol mage? As any kind of White mage? Without verging on the gray that the Guild—and Recluce—abhorred?
XXX
CERRYL LOOKED AROUND the room, a space less than six cubits by nine—the duty room, it was called, with bare stone walls composed of faded pink granite blocks a cubit long and a half-cubit high. Both the walls and the cubit-square stone floor tiles were polished to a dull finish. A single high barred window no more than one cubit by two offered the only ventilation.
The single flat table that served as a desk contained two open-topped wooden boxes for scrolls and documents, an inkstand with a quill holder, a stack of blank coarse paper for reports, and a polished but ancient brass table lamp. The only other pieces of furniture were the straight-backed wooden armchair behind the desk and two backless oak chairs across the desk from it.
Cerryl set down On Peacekeeping and massaged his forehead.
“Ser?”
Cerryl glanced up to see a squad leader of one of the four-man patrols standing in the open doorway, a man of medium height with thick short brown hair and a sweeping mustache. Cerryl struggled for a moment with the name. “Yes, Fystl?”
Fystl stepped into the office and shifted from one foot to the other. “A problem, ser.”
Cerryl stood. “Where?”
“Well, ser…it wasn’t as though…ah…well…She said he didn’t know what he was doing, but she stabbed him, and he bashed her with a staff…and right at the edge of the lower Market Square. What were we to do? We dragged ’em here for you to deal with.”
“Are your patrollers all right?”
“Ah…Hurka, he got a slash—it’s not deep, ser—and Veriot got some bruises from the staff.”
Cerryl took a deep breath. His third day as a full Patrol mage, and there were two people he was supposed to turn into ash—according to the manual and the guidelines set forth by Isork. Yet Fystl wasn’t acting as though the two were doomed, but apologetic.
“Maybe you should talk to them.” Fystl looked down at the floor.
“You brought them here?”
“They’re in the big room, yes, ser. Big fellow’s name is Gerlaco; the woman’s name is Jeyna.”
“Gerlaco and Jeyna. Let’s go.” Cerryl followed Fystl out of the duty room and down the short corridor to the big room, the room where the patrols mustered in the morning and where offenders were brought to Cerryl for disposition, except the ones there were his first. As in the duty room, the walls of the assembly room were of stone, and the two head-high windows were barred. Unlike the duty room, there was no furniture. On the back wall was a stone platform elevated somewhat less than two cubits above the floor tiles. The space was approximately square, each wall twenty cubits long.
On the street side of the room—between the windows-three patrollers held a man in a ripped gray shirt, a figure Towering well over four cubits. Even with his hands shackled, the three patrollers were having difficulty holding him still—that despite an undressed wound in the shoulder that had to have been painful.
On the other side of the room was a dark-haired woman who was tiny, reaching barely to Cerryl’s shoulder.
Cerryl nodded to both as he walked across the room and climbed up on the platform. He felt silly doing it, but Isork had been firm about his speaking only from the stone platform. The Patrol mage cleared his throat, loudly. “Gerlaco…Jeyna.”
The patrollers looked at him warily. So did the woman.
The big man spat on the floor. “I don’t care if he’s a White demon…no smooth-skinned youth is going to judge me…”
Cerryl decided to cut him off. He concentrated chaos and let fire flare from his fingertips.
“Tricks! All tricks. You’re worse than the Black angels!”
The dark-haired woman flung herself on the floor almost at the base of the low platform. “Gerlaco’s from Delapra. He doesn’t understand! Don’t kill him…please…He drank too much…Please…”
Cerryl could sense, even without trying, that she spoke the truth as she knew it.
“Kill someone…that boy? Ha!” The big man lunged toward Cerryl, getting close enough to one of the patrollers to twist his shackled arms and lash out with an elbow.
The patroller dropped like a stone, then sat on the stone floor cradling an arm that was wrenched or broken.
Cerryl kept his face stolid. His own appearance didn’t help matters, but he really had no choice, not after everything.
“Stand back.” Cerryl’s voice was level.
“NOOO!!!!”
The patrollers backed away abruptly, almost thr
usting the giant into the center of the assembly room.
Cerryl concentrated on focusing the chaos as tightly as possible, more like a light lance, but not quite. He didn’t want to give that secret away.
WHHSSTT! A pillar of fire flared where the big man had stood.
“NOOO!!!” The woman sobbed from where she lay on the floor tiles.
“I’m sorry,” Cerryl said quietly but firmly. “No one attacks a patroller. No one. It doesn’t matter whether they’re from Delapra or Recluce or Hamor.” Somehow he kept his voice firm, even as he felt almost like shuddering. He shouldn’t have had to do that, not on his first eight-day as a Patrol mage. Not just because he was small and slender.
“Fystl…we’ll talk in the office.” Cerryl turned and walked out of the room that served as meeting place and judging space, leaving both the patrols and the woman.
“…just like that…Wait till I tell Reyll.”
“…let the boys on tannery row know about this.”
“…like to see him on the streets, though…”
Ignoring the comments, he walked back down the few cubits of the corridor and into the duty room, sinking onto the padded leather cushion on the chair, the only bit of softness in the entire building, and the cushion wasn’t all that yielding. He waited until Fystl closed the door, then gestured to one of the chairs.
Fystl sat, his eyes flicking every which way but not meeting Cerryl’s.
“How many more like this can I expect until the word gets out that I’m just like every other Patrol mage?” Cerryl asked wearily.
“Ah…I don’t know, ser. You handle ’em quick…maybe not many.” Fystl shook his head. “Ser…was that a firebolt?”
“Yes,” Cerryl lied. “Just a very controlled one. I didn’t want anyone else hurt,” he added more truthfully.
“Most clear the room.” Fystl finally met Cerryl’s eyes. “You that good all the time, ser?”
“Anywhere under fifty cubits.”
A faint smile crossed the squad leader’s face, then faded. “What about the woman?”
“He started it. She’s been punished enough. Let her go.”
Fystl nodded. “That be all, ser?”
Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce) Page 17
