Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “That I had not heard, but I will see that it is heard by those who should know in Fairhaven.” Cerryl didn’t have to counterfeit that frown. The last thing the Guild needed was blame for taxes it wasn’t getting and that were lining Viscount Rystryr’s pockets or strong rooms.

  “That disturbs you?” asked Narst.

  “Greatly. It is hard enough to raise the coins to keep the roads open and in good repair. Many already feel that the tariffs are too high. To find that the tariffs are yet higher and that anyone would use the Guild as a way to take more coins from those who trade and those who buy their goods…” Cerryl broke off, afraid he was getting too windy, perhaps because he was too tired. “I’m sorry. Let’s just say it is not good.”

  “That it be.” Narst nodded and lapsed into silence.

  So did Cerryl, hoping he could last the distance to Fairhaven under a winter sun that offered little besides light.

  LXVII

  CERRYL ROUSED HIMSELF out of a state of stupor and exhaustion as the wagon rumbled up the Avenue and neared the Halls of the Mages. The sky was fading into dark purple.

  “If you could stop somewhere near the square there…” Cerryl forced himself erect on the hard wagon seat.

  “That I can do, ser mage. That I can.”

  After the wagon halted, Cerryl eased off the seat and turned to Narst. “I thank you.” He extended his last silvers and clasped them into the trader’s hand. “I wish it were more, but I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”

  “You need not pay me…”

  “I would not feel right if I did not,” Cerryl said. “Mages are not wealthy. If I were, it would be more. Success in your trading.” He smiled, though he was seeing stars before his eyes. “More than success.”

  He could hear the guards as he turned to the steps of Halls.

  “…more amazing yet…a mage who pays.”

  “…he be human…and I hope to the light he remains such.”

  The faint praise bothered Cerryl nearly as much as curses would have, but he had to watch every step, afraid he would trip and fall on his way through the front foyer and to the fountain court. The chill of the spray from the fountain sent him into another bout of shivering.

  The two apprentice mages he passed steered away from him, and Myredin nodded but did not speak. Cerryl was too tired to worry about it and crossed the rear courtyard to his own Hall.

  Lyasa came scurrying as Cerryl limped toward the steps to his quarters and to where he could get water and a good bath. He wanted those more than food.

  “Demon-darkness…what…? You’re sick…”

  “I’m getting better.” That was true. He felt far better than the day before. Or the day before that. “Two days ago, I wasn’t sure I’d live.”

  “What happened?” Lyasa followed Cerryl for a moment, then took his arm as he made his way to his door.

  “Not much sleep, bad food, flux, lost mount, lots of walking…long trip back from Hydolar.” He opened his door. His room appeared unchanged. “I need a bath.”

  “You need some food and wine.” Lyasa studied him. “You’re going to fall over.”

  “Am not.” He sank into the chair in front of the desk. “Need to see Jeslek, too.”

  “Now?”

  “I have to.”

  “You’re stubborn.” Lyasa sighed. “I’ll find something for you while you bathe.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lyasa offered another sigh before turning.

  Cerryl struggled through a bath, shaving, and changing into fresh whites, wondering if the soiled set he had dragged across Candar could ever be gotten clean, especially the jacket. He was pulling on boots that had seen better days when Lyasa returned with a tray.

  “Eat slowly,” she commanded, setting the tray on the desk before him. “I couldn’t get any wine. If Leyladin could see you now…”

  Cerryl started with small mouthfuls of bread, interspersed with slivers of cheese. Shortly the stars flashing before his eyes subsided, as did the worst of the light-headedness. Abruptly he stopped. “I’m full.”

  “You didn’t eat that much. Just what have you eaten lately?”

  “Very little.” Cerryl took a healthy sip of the redberry, probably better for him than ale or wine in his present condition. “I have to see Jeslek.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “When the High Wizard told me to report as soon as I returned?”

  Lyasa gave an exasperated sigh. “Mages…”

  “You’re a mage, too.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. Just go and see Jeslek, and then come back here and get into bed—and eat some more if you can.”

  “Yes, Aunt Lyasa.” Cerryl grinned.

  Lyasa grimaced.

  Cerryl pulled himself to his feet. Lyasa watched as he walked slowly out the door and down the corridor. Going down the steps to the main level wasn’t that bad. Nor was crossing the courtyards and making his way back through the front Hall and foyer. The flights of steps to the top of the White Tower took all the strength he had, or so it seemed.

  Hertyl glanced up as Cerryl dragged himself toward Jeslek’s door and the ever-present guard.

  “Tell the High Wizard I have returned.” Cerryl slumped onto the bench next to the messenger, who eased to the end away from the mage.

  Hertyl rapped on the door. “The mage Cerryl has returned, sire. He awaits your pleasure.”

  For the first time Cerryl could recall, Jeslek opened the door. His eyes swept over Cerryl. “Come in.”

  Cerryl forced himself to his feet and followed the High Wizard inside.

  After he closed the door, Jeslek gestured to the chair across the table from the one he took. “Sit down. You look worn out.”

  Cerryl sat and looked at the High Wizard, behind whom, through the glass of the window, Cerryl could see scattered points of light across the city. “Thank you. It was a long trip, and harder than I thought. The duke barred the city to us…”

  “Anya reported that.” Jeslek’s face clouded. “That I had not expected. Never has that occurred, not once since the founding of the Order.”

  After the silence, Cerryl continued. “As you ordered, I removed the duke. Then I climbed down the roof and left the chamber bolted and empty. I couldn’t close the window behind me…” Cerryl went on to explain his return, not omitting, but not dwelling on in detail, his bout with the flux and his having to walk and ride the last two-thirds of the journey.

  “You didn’t tell the merchant anything?” probed Jeslek.

  “Only that I was junior mage and that we ran errands, did small tasks, and that I’d lost my mount in rough ground.”

  “Best you could have done.” The High Wizard pursed his lips. “Duke Ferobar is dead—and vanished? You are certain?” Jeslek’s eyes centered on Cerryl.

  “Yes, ser. So is his personal guard, but no others.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “At night, in his personal chambers. I had to hide there and wait for a time until he dozed.”

  “Did you leave any traces of your presence?”

  “Except for a sense of chaos, no, ser.”

  Jeslek nodded, and a smile crossed his lips. “Good. I had hoped the silence out of Hydolar had meant your success, but it is good to know that.” He reached for the scroll on the table and extended it to Cerryl. “Read this. Is it accurate?”

  Cerryl had to force himself to focus on the black script, and his eyes wanted to skip over words.

  …Duke Ferobar mocked his own people by murdering the rightful Duke Uulrac. He mocked Fairhaven by attempting to murder a representative of the High Wizard, and by imprisoning an innocent healer, and then by closing the city gates on emissaries of the Guild…

  …Duke Ferobar has been removed to where none will ever see him again, and the east Tower of Hydolar has been destroyed. These actions should remind the new Duke of Hydlen of his duties to the
people of his land and to the Guild. We trust that the road duties will be paid immediately. We also trust that an additional sum of 1,000 golds will be paid to recompense the Guild for its efforts to set matters as they should have been…

  “Yes, ser. I mean, the part about what happened to the duke is. He’s ash, and no one will ever see him again.” Cerryl swallowed.

  “I would prefer not to level the city, but I will, if I must.” Jeslek smiled, almost sadly. “Fairhaven can no longer be perceived as weak or tolerant of lapses of obligations by other lands. Weakness leads to either defeat or the need to be more ruthless than strength would have been.”

  “Oh…” Cerryl shook his head. “I heard something else. The trader who gave me a ride…he said that people were saying that Rystryr had raised the road tariffs and was keeping the increase but telling everyone that it was going to Fairhaven.” He shrugged. “He was telling what he thought was the truth.”

  “I had heard some such along those lines from others.” The High Wizard nodded. “We will look into that. Now…you are weak and ill. Do not worry about gate-guard duty. We have a few new mages. Take the next eight-day to rest and recover. Come to me when you are well.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl managed to get to his feet and out of the High Wizard’s chambers without staggering.

  Going down the stairs was also no problem, unlike climbing the last steps back up to his room, which left him panting and his vision filled with stars.

  Leyladin was waiting when Cerryl trudged into his room.

  “Oh…Cerryl…just lie down.”

  Cerryl didn’t argue, just stretched out on his bed.

  Leyladin pulled off his boots, shaking her head. He could feel her order senses probing him, ever so gently.

  “Feels good to lie down.”

  “It’s almost as though someone poisoned you.”

  “Maybe they did,” he said hoarsely, explaining about the apples from Duke Ferobar’s fruit bowl.

  “The poisoners weren’t very good. You can do that to apples, but the fluxes conflict, especially for a mage. If they’d put that in pastry, you wouldn’t be here.” Her hand was cool on his forehead. “Don’t talk now. You can tell me everything later.”

  He lay back on the bed, just glad to be there, glad she was there.

  LXVIII

  CERRYL TOOK A long and slow sip of the ale, enjoying it as if he’d hadn’t expected to ever taste it again. That’s a bit of self-pity. With a wry smile, his eyes flicked toward the entry of The Golden Ram, where he could see Myredin and Bealtur leaving. He did not wave to the pair. “This tastes good.”

  “You should not drink too much,” Leyladin said from where she sat at the circular table beside Cerryl.

  “Always the healer,” added Heralt, his dark eyes smiling.

  “Someone has to be.”

  Cerryl finished the last of his stew, mopping it up with a chunk of bread, glad that both headaches and the poison-induced flux had faded away. He was still weak, he’d discovered, but was getting stronger.

  “The words around the tower are that the Duke of Hydlen vanished,” Heralt offered. “Has anyone heard who might be the new duke?”

  “No one stepped forward this time,” Lyasa pointed out.

  “What do you think?” Cerryl turned to Leyladin. “You’ve spent more time in Hydolar than anyone.”

  The blonde healer lifted her shoulders and smiled shyly. “No one talked to me that much.”

  “I’ll bet you listened.” Cerryl grinned.

  “Out with it, Leyladin,” demanded Lyasa, pushing a lock of jet-black hair off her forehead.

  “No one wants to be duke,” the blonde finally said. “The traders control both Hydolar and Renklaar, and they don’t like our taxes. The High Wizard has demanded immediate payment of the tariffs and a thousand golds in damages. Whoever is duke will have to collect those taxes or face disappearing. He’ll also have to rebuild the Tower that Anya destroyed, and that will take more coins.”

  Heralt pursed his lips, then took a swallow of ale. “I’d not like to be in his boots.”

  “That’s because they don’t understand the order of chaos,” Cerryl said absently.

  Leyladin’s face darkened momentarily, and she quickly added, “I don’t think anyone in Hydlen understands much of anything, except the traders, and all they want is more coins.”

  “That’s what most people want,” pointed out Heralt.

  Cerryl glanced across the table toward Heralt, reaching out under the table and squeezing Leyladin’s hand.

  The four looked up as a blonde figure in white made his way past the other tables toward the corner.

  Faltar pulled over another chair to join the group. “I’m sorry, but I had to pull extra duty. Fydel took Buar with him to Gallos.”

  “Fydel went to Gallos?” asked Cerryl.

  “Right after he and Anya brought Leyladin back,” Faltar confirmed. “Something’s going on. Eliasar’s back, and he’s training new lancers. A bunch of them. Some are mercenaries, I think.”

  “Most are mercenaries,” Heralt added.

  Faltar raised his arm to catch the attention of the serving girl. “The stew and some ale.”

  She nodded and kept moving.

  “Another ale,” said Heralt.

  “Another here,” added Lyasa.

  “Three ales and a stew. Be a moment.” The girl did turn toward the kitchen then.

  “Don’t think Búar’s that good,” Faltar observed, looking toward the kitchen. “Hope she hurries with the ale. Buar, he’ll do whatever a senior mage wants, though.”

  “Don’t we all, right now?” asked Cerryl.

  Faltar laughed. “Right you are.”

  “You know, Cerryl,” Heralt began slowly, “we don’t really know how you ended up here in such sorry condition.”

  Cerryl took another swallow of ale before he began. “You know I went to Hydolar with Anya and Fydel to get Leyladin, and I was supposed to help Anya.”

  “You said that before. You and Anya brought down one of the Towers.”

  “Nobody told me that,” interjected Faltar.

  “The east Tower,” Cerryl said. “The idea was to tell the duke that he was lucky—that the Guild could bring the whole city down. Jeslek also wanted me to do something in the city. But he didn’t realize that we wouldn’t even be allowed inside the walls. That’s never happened before.” Cerryl shrugged. “I did what I was supposed to do and stole a mount to get back. But somewhere I ate some bad food and got a terrible flux. Then, when I was trying to…well…anyway…” He flushed slightly. “The horse got away, and I had to walk back to the Great White Highway, and I managed to get a trader to give me a ride the rest of the way back. Very embarrassing to admit I lost my mount.”

  Thump! Thump! Thump! “Three ales. That’s four each.”

  “Four for an ale, hard to believe,” muttered Faltar as he eased out the coppers.

  “Stew be ready next.” The server scooped up the coins and slipped off to deliver a mug to the adjoining table.

  “Ah…that’s good,” said Faltar. “Good after a dusty day.”

  Lyasa took a swallow from her second mug without commenting.

  “So…you did whatever Jeslek told you and then you lost your mount?” Heralt shook his head. “That doesn’t seem like you.”

  “He was sick,” Leyladin said. “Very sick. I don’t see how he managed it.”

  “Wait a moment,” Faltar said. “Cerryl goes to Hydolar, and then…”

  “Faltar, that’s all I can say. All right?” Cerryl’s eyes fixed the blonde mage’s.

  “Oh…” Faltar swallowed, then nodded.

  For a moment there was silence around the table.

  “I’ve been gone,” Cerryl broke the silence. “What’s happened with Spidlar?”

  “Three more ships on the blockade,” Lyasa said. “I overheard Redark saying that banditry was rising in Spidlar, and now that the ice has closed in, the winter will be even h
arder than usual.”

  Cerryl frowned. For some reason, the red-haired smith flicked into his thoughts. Did Black smiths have the same problems as White mages? Somehow, he suspected the man had problems, but not the same ones.

  “You sit there in your own thoughts, Cerryl. You’re so quiet,” Lyasa observed, “but you’re the only one in the Guild who’s been the target of an assassin, been advanced and then demoted, and had to escape from two unfriendly cities.”

  Cerryl shrugged. “What can I say? I keep making mistakes.”

  Faltar laughed.

  Even Heralt smiled.

  “I’m not sure I accept that,” Lyasa said. “We all make mistakes. Even Jeslek makes mistakes.”

  “I don’t know,” mused Cerryl, trying to change the subject. “The High Wizard has a real problem. The Guild has been trying to make life in Candar better. Look at Fairhaven. It’s cleaner, the people are more prosperous; and there’s less peacebreaking. It’s almost as if other rulers don’t want prosperity.”

  “They don’t,” said Leyladin. “They’re not interested in prosperity for their people. Look at Jeslek’s quarters. They’re small. The Duke of Lydiar has a palace. So does the Duke of Hydolar. Even the great factors in Fairhaven do not have mansions the way they do in Lydiar or Renklaar.”

  If Leyladin considered her father’s dwelling modest, and she had seen both factors’ dwellings and palaces elsewhere, Cerryl could imagine that the mansions of factors elsewhere must be grand indeed.

  “How can a ruler not be concerned about his people?” asked Faltar.

  “Most are concerned only that the people pay their taxes.” Heralt snorted. “The Guild has a problem. People in Fairhaven don’t know how well off they are, and those outside of Fairhaven don’t know how much better off they could be under the Guild. Because we can raise chaos, people fear us, and their rulers make sure that we’re always the bad ones.” He gulped the last of his ale. “Look at Cerryl. He made a mistake on the Patrol—a little one. If a guard bashed a beggar in Fenard or Kyphrien, do you think they’d punish the guard? I demon-darkness know that they don’t. Same in Lydiar. Cerryl didn’t even do that. Yet we’re those fearsome mages who turn people into ash.”