Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Fydel and Shyren sat on the right and left of the viscount, while an officer in green and gold sat beside Fydel. Beside Shyren sat a man clad in black and red and beside him a white-haired man in gray and gold. Below the officer beside Fydel sat the hulking Teras.

  As a full mage, even a junior one, Cerryl apparently ranked near the top of the various captains, as he found his place only five spaces down from Fydel on the same side. According to the place slates, the name of the sandy-haired captain on his left was Setken and the younger black-haired captain to Cerryl’s right was Dierl.

  With his mouth dry, Cerryl sat and waited for the wine to arrive, hoping it wouldn’t be long before the nearest pitcher made its way to him.

  “What kind of mage are you, if I might inquire?” asked the dark-haired Dierl.

  “We’re all White, except for a healer or two.”

  “No, I meant…chaos or arms or earth or…that sort of thing.”

  “Well…I’ve done all of those.”

  “You’ve been in battle or you wouldn’t be this far up the table. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever killed a man?”

  Cerryl winced.

  “You haven’t?” pursued Dierl, an edge to his voice.

  Cerryl tried not to sigh or explain that he wasn’t exactly fond of killing. “Ah…I don’t know. Somewhere between two and three score.”

  Dierl’s mouth shut abruptly.

  “You had to ask, Dierl.” A smile crossed the face of the redhead across the table from Cerryl. “I’m Honsak.”

  “I’m Cerryl,” the mage answered, realizing the other could not see his place slate.

  “Is it fair to ask if you’ve faced off against an armsman in close combat or been wounded?”

  “Both,” Cerryl answered, deciding not to elaborate more than necessary.

  “Blade?”

  “Arrow in the shoulder.”

  “What about the men you faced? Did they use cold iron?”

  “They did, and they’re dead.”

  “Now that you’ve established his background,” called a voice from down the table, “could you more senior captains pass the wine?”

  Laughter followed the comment.

  Honsak filled his goblet and then Cerryl’s and handed the wine down. Two serving platters followed the wine, one with slabs of beef covered in a brown gravy, one with potatoes. A basket of bread came next. Cerryl filled his plate, then began to eat as the others did.

  “You were here years back, were you not?” asked one of the more junior captains across and down the table from Cerryl.

  “Yes, over two years ago.”

  “Wasn’t there a redheaded woman mage?”

  “Anya—yes, she was here,” Cerryl admitted.

  “Is she still a mage…or what…?”

  “Anya? She’s a very powerful mage,” Cerryl said dryly. “I understand she will be here before long. She’ll come with the High Wizard.”

  “Slekyr said she had her own ideas about men.”

  Cerryl couldn’t help but smile. “She’s been known to like handsome captains, I’m told, but I’d be careful. She brought down one of the big Towers of Hydolar.”

  “Ah…does she throw chaos fire?”

  Cerryl grinned. “She has done much of that—but only against enemies, and Certis is certainly filled with friends.”

  “Best stay on her good side, Deltry,” said another captain.

  Another round of laughter filled the middle of the table, and Deltry flushed.

  “I’m new to this sort of thing…” Cerryl began as the laughter died away, looking at Honsak.

  “You mean, staff type work?” asked the redhead.

  Cerryl nodded, hoping he wasn’t stretching things too much. “And I haven’t really worked with other lands’ captains. I was curious. For example, how often do you pay people, and who holds the coins?”

  “Everyone but us,” came from somewhere.

  A general guffaw, if muted, followed the remark.

  “All the coins are held in the strong rooms in the palace, and the viscount’s finance minister provides them every two eight-days to Overcaptain Levior—he’s the arms purser—the fellow up there in uniform beside your mage.”

  “What if you’re away from your barracks?”

  “They love that. You get all the pay you’ve earned when you get back, but no one gets the pay of those who don’t come back. Well…half goes to a consort, if there is one, but few consort with armsmen or lancers.”

  “Is the finance minister one of those up there with the viscount?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Honsak. “Issel, is the finance minister the fellow in gray?”

  Issel, who sat across and one place up the table from Cerryl, turned in the direction of the viscount and frowned, but for a moment. “That’s him, old Dursus himself.”

  Cerryl fixed the name and face. “Does the finance minister have much to do with you?”

  “As little as he can, and us with him. He doesn’t collect enough coins, and they say we don’t get paid. Hasn’t happened yet.”

  “He must have a lot of assistants,” ventured Cerryl, looking at Issel.

  “Only one I know of is Pullid. He’s the fellow in gray and scarlet farther down toward us.”

  Pullid and Dursus…“What sort of field rations do you usually get?” Cerryl continued, deciding to steer the conversation away from finances.

  “If we’re out more than an eight-day, whatever we can find,” said Setken from Cerryl’s left. “Less ’n that, it’s hard biscuits, yellow cheese, and a few strips of dried beef. Plus anything you can stuff into your saddlebags, if you get enough warning and every other officer hasn’t been out scrounging for his men. What about you Whites?”

  “Pretty much the same, except the cheese is hard white, and we usually get some dried fruits. Hard as darkness to chew, but it helps.”

  “Dried fruits. Maybe we could—”

  “Don’t even think about it, Honsak,” interrupted the sandy-haired Setken. “Dursus would have you sent to garrison duty in Quend before you could even find Overcaptain Gised. ‘Dried fruit for armsmen? Ridiculous. Far too many coins.’”

  At Setken’s impersonation of Dursus even Cerryl found himself smiling.

  “Coins, always the coins,” muttered Honsak.

  “That’s true everywhere, I think,” Cerryl agreed, after finishing the last of his wine and glancing around for the pitcher. “There are never enough coins.”

  “Even for you Whites?”

  “Especially for us Whites,” Cerryl said, noting the mix of surprised and frankly incredulous looks. “We only get road taxes and tariffs on the merchants in Fairhaven. We don’t have any peasants to tax, and we have no ports and only one city.”

  “But the road taxes…?”

  “It costs a good many coins to build and maintain the roads,” Cerryl pointed out, adding, “All of the Halls of the Mages would fit within one portion of the viscount’s palace.”

  “Have you seen other great cities besides Jellico and Fairhaven?” asked Setken smoothly, clearly wishing to steer the conversation in another direction.

  “I’ve seen Fenard and Hydolar,” Cerryl admitted.

  “And how did you find them?”

  Resigning himself to a continued discussion of pleasantries, Cerryl replied, “I would say that the walls of Jellico are among the more impressive…”

  As he spoke, Cerryl’s eyes wandered to the head of the table, where the Viscount Rystryr leaned toward Fydel, apparently making some sort of point with his fist. Cerryl kept talking, suspecting that he would need many more innocuous subjects and humorous comments to see himself through his days in Jellico. Many, many more.

  LXXXI

  CERRYL GLANCED DOWN at the glass on the oval braided rug, watching the mists clear, showing a blonde healer in green sitting at a desk, her head cocked to one side, a sheet of paper before her. A broad smile crossed her face, and s
he lifted her fingers to her lips and then blew the kiss outward.

  Cerryl smiled and let the image fade, knowing she had sensed his presence.

  After a time, he looked down at the glass again, concentrating until the silver mists formed and then spread, showing a figure in scarlet and gray. The man sat in a carriage, but Cerryl could not tell where the carriage was bound.

  A time later, he tried again, concentrating on a more distant view of Pullid, but the glass merely showed the carriage nearing the viscount’s palace, the image blurred by the intermittent spring snow flurries fluttering down.

  Cerryl pulled on his white jacket with a shrug and made his way through the corridors toward the front courtyard where he had seen the mounting block for carriages. There he waited with the two pair of armsmen who guarded what appeared to be the entrance to the viscount’s part of the sprawling warren of buildings.

  Cerryl stepped forward as Pullid eased out of the carriage. “Ser Pullid?”

  The bulky man in gray and scarlet turned. “I do not believe I know you, ser mage. Young ser mage.”

  Cerryl ignored the condescending tone. “I was hoping you might bring your vast knowledge of finance to my aid.” He offered what he hoped was a warm smile.

  Pullid merely scowled. “What would a mage need to know of finance?”

  “Well…we do raise some coins, through the assistance of rulers like the viscount, of course, in order to build and maintain the great White highways. All say you are the one who is most important in assisting Finance Minister Dursus and that you know the best ways to ensure the collection of tariffs and such. We have had some difficulty in Montgren,” Cerryl lied, “and I thought I might ask for your advice.”

  Pullid continued to frown without responding.

  Cerryl could read the man’s thoughts from his face. He didn’t want to offend a mage, particularly one brought on a war campaign, since that meant one able to turn him to ash. But Pullid clearly did not wish to talk to Cerryl.

  “I wondered…obviously the viscount has roads of his own to maintain. Is that a separate tariff, or do you collect them both together?”

  “We would not dare to collect taxes more than once.” Pullid offered a slightly off-key laugh. “Even once is difficult enough.”

  Cerryl nodded as he gained a definite feel for the man.

  “Now…if you will excuse me…”

  “Of course.” Cerryl bowed, if but slightly.

  Back in his guest quarters, he took out the glass. Perhaps he had stirred Pullid into action. The next image was that of Pullid talking to the finance minister, but from what Cerryl could tell, Dursus seemed unmoved, talking easily, before finally motioning Pullid out of the paneled study or office. Pullid walked until he reached a smaller, a much smaller, paneled room, where he sat behind a table for a long time, long enough that Cerryl finally had to let the image lapse before his head threatened to burst.

  His problem still remained. How could he prove the viscount was diverting coins? Everything Cerryl felt told him that it was happening, but he had not one single vision or item even remotely close to proof. Most likely, his efforts had only made everyone nervous and unhappy with one mage named Cerryl. Yet if he didn’t push, how would he find anything in a city where he knew no one?

  He sat on the bed and massaged his neck and forehead, trying to massage away the headache.

  Perhaps later.

  LXXXII

  CERRYL SAT ON the edge of the bed and looked down at the glass that rested on the braided oval rug—a rug that might once have been green but now appeared gray. The silver mists vanished, and he was left with a blank glass reflecting the timbered ceiling. He was getting nowhere through screeing.

  His brief interchange with Pullid had led nowhere, nor had his repeated attempts to track the man with the screeing glass. Finance Minister Dursus never seemed to leave the palace, except to be driven to and from his luxurious home on the hill south of the one on which the prefect’s palace perched. While Pullid traveled to meet a number of people, even armsmen and those who appeared to be tax collectors, Cerryl could never see any trace of coins, let alone anything other than conversations, usually brief. He wished he could hear what he watched, but the glass did not allow such.

  In the three days since their arrival, the viscount had hosted no more meals. Cerryl and Fydel had eaten with the Certan officers on a less formal and far less sumptuous basis in a stone-walled hall in the lower level of the barracks building. Cerryl had already explored the barracks building in which he and Fydel were housed, finding it more than half-empty but with the feel of recently having been more fully utilized. Were the absent armsmen and officers those harassing Spidlar in one way or another?

  Speculating and observing through the glass wasn’t going to reveal any more than it had. Of that Cerryl was rapidly being convinced. Either he couldn’t see what was going on or he couldn’t recognize it. He somehow needed to find another approach.

  Cerryl leaned back on the bed.

  He’d been trying to find out things from those who collected the taxes and tariffs…and finding nothing. That could be because he didn’t know what to look for and where or because the collectors knew he or someone was watching and could simply outwait him.

  Who paid the tariffs?

  Those who had coins, and the ones most likely to have coins were factors and traders. Cerryl, unhappily, hadn’t met that many traders, either inside or outside Fairhaven. In fact, Narst, the trader he’d begged a ride from on his rather painful journey from Hydolar to Fairhaven, was probably the only real trader Cerryl had met, just as Layel was the only real factor he knew.

  Narst had mentioned some names…The one from Spidlar wouldn’t do, but what had been the name in Jellico? Fedor? No…Freidr, or something like that.

  You can’t do any worse than you’re doing so far.

  He struggled to his feet and pulled on the white jacket. While his room was cool, outside would be cold and wet from the spring snow flurries. After closing his door, he made his way down the corridor and steps to the courtyard and to the stable.

  He stood for a moment outside the stable, then cleared his throat. Finally, he whistled.

  A pale face appeared. “Ah, yes, ser?”

  “I’m going riding,” Cerryl told the ostler.

  “Oh, you’ve the big gentle gelding?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Be a few moments, ser.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Cerryl studied the courtyard, sensing the age of the structures that surrounded the stable, seemingly far older than even the ancient buildings of Fairhaven.

  “Here he be.” The ostler led out the gelding.

  Cerryl glanced at the red and white livery, wondering if he would be better off without such an announcement, then shrugged. “Thank you.”

  The ostler nodded.

  The gelding whuffed as Cerryl swung himself into the saddle, then walked easily toward the archway from the courtyard. From the low gray sky occasional intermittent fat flakes of snow fell, all melting almost instantly upon hitting the stones of the street. A few patches of white clung to sections of roofs. Cerryl guided the gelding downhill and eastward to the Market Square.

  He reined up beside the porch of a store, where an older man, dressed in dark blue, was talking with a younger bearded man.

  Both turned as they became aware of the rider watching them.

  “Ser mage?”

  “I’m looking for a trader. Freidr or some such,” Cerryl offered.

  “Freidr?” The younger man frowned.

  The older one nodded. “Son of Fearkl.”

  “Could you tell me where his place is?”

  “Like as I recall, not that many trade as much with him as his sire, the narrow street off the north corner of the square—back there.” The older man pointed. “His place is about a hundred cubits off the square. It be a plain building without a sign.”

  “How will I tell if it doesn’t have
a sign?” Cerryl asked.

  “Between the cooper’s and Wrys the silversmith’s. Should have said that.”

  “Thank you both.” Cerryl inclined his head.

  “Freidr…a trader? Fop and a fool…sister a better man than he be.”

  “Takes all kinds, Biuskr.”

  The trader’s sister a better man? Cerryl frowned but kept his eyes on the north side of the street, ignoring for the most part the bustle of the square to his right. The corner street was narrow, barely wide enough for a wagon and a mount at the same time, and the building was ancient. How long had the family been in factoring?

  Cerryl dismounted and tied the gelding to the iron ring set in the stone post almost at the door, then rapped loudly. There was no answer. He waited a time, then rapped again.

  Finally, the door opened, but Cerryl could see the heavy chains on the inside of the antique oak. Behind the chains stood a thin woman with fine blonde hair twisted into a single braid down her back. Wispy hairs escaped both the braid and the sides of her head. “Yes, ser?”

  “I’m looking for the trader Freidr.”

  Her eyes widened, not meeting Cerryl’s, and she swallowed. “A moment, ser, a moment, I assure you he will be here.” The door was not closed quite all the way, as if to make a statement, but the iron chains remained in place, forming an arc between door and frame.

  “Who be it now?” came a rough voice from the dimness beyond the door.

  “…one of them…another one…didn’t say…”

  A pale face appeared behind the chains. “I’m Freidr.”

  “I’d like to speak to you, then,” Cerryl said politely.

  After a moment, the man loosened the chains, held the door, and stepped back. Short and squat, he wore a new dark blue tunic and matching trousers. His boots glistened even in the gloom of the small foyer.

  Cerryl took in the dark beard and the cold blue eyes, eyes that did not meet his gaze, though they almost seemed to. The man was hiding something, but why was he afraid of Cerryl? Surely not just because I’m a mage?

  “Might as well go to the office.” Freidr closed the door, replaced the chains in their slots, and turned to his right, heading down a narrow passageway, then turning into a small room. The trader closed the door after Cerryl entered.