Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “What do you know of crossbows?”

  Aliaskar frowned under his lowered brow but answered, “They kill people. Beyond that, I little…”

  Cerryl nodded and continued as he had with the first factor.

  After each factor, he made notes on the sheets of paper.

  Midday had neared when Reylerk stepped into the converted hall, bowing as he stepped forward, clearly not recognizing Cerryl. “You summoned me, master of Spidlaria?”

  “I summoned all the traders and factors. You are Reylerk?”

  “Yes, ser. That I am.”

  “And what do you factor?”

  “I once factored many things—timber, rare and precious woods, even the spidersilk from Naclos. Now there is little to factor and few who would buy such.” Like the others, Reylerk avoided Cerryl’s eyes.

  Cerryl looked at Reylerk. “What do you know of how the mage Eliasar was murdered?”

  “I know nothing…” The portly merchant’s words trembled, as if to reinforce his fear—and his lies. He coughed several times, dryly, as if forcing the cough, and his hand went to his mouth.

  “Tell me what you know of crossbows.”

  “They are weapons, ser.” The factor coughed again. “Save they are little use to a trader. They take too long to reload.”

  “That is true. Have you traded in crossbows?”

  “No, ser.”

  Cerryl could sense that the crossbow subject was making Reylerk nervous, though the man hadn’t lied outright, from what Cerryl could tell.

  “Have you met any crossbowmen in the past few eight-days?”

  “No, ser.” Reylerk coughed and put his hand to his mouth again.

  That had been an outright lie. “Reylerk…I spared you once. You are lying to me. Now…did you help plan the murder?”

  The merchant gulped convulsively once more, swaying. Abruptly he collapsed on the stone tiles of the floor.

  “Kalesin!” snapped Cerryl, sensing the ebb of both chaos and order that signified death.

  The door opened, and the sandy-haired mage walked in. “Darkness!” His eyes went to the contorted figure. “Poison?”

  “It would appear so.” Cerryl shook his head. “Have the body removed and dragged out past the others. Then turn it to ashes in the square.”

  “Me…in the square.”

  “Why not? Announce that he was one of those who plotted Eliasar’s murder. He was, but he wasn’t the only one.” Cerryl gestured for Hiser, who had peered inside the chamber. “Hiser. Kalesin will need an escort. This merchant admitted that he had helped plan Eliasar’s murder. He swallowed some poison before I could discover more. Kalesin is going to announce that in the square and then turn chaos on the corpse.”

  “His…family…they will not…like that,” offered Kalesin.

  “I’m sure they won’t. But the High Wizard would be most offended if he received an honorable burial after killing one of the most respected mages in Fairhaven.” Cerryl fixed his eyes on Kalesin. “Don’t you think so?”

  “Ah, yes, ser.”

  “Hiser, have one of your subofficers provide the escort for Mage Kalesin. I would like you to usher the remaining traders in to see me, as Kalesin was doing, while he is occupied.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Cerryl waited until Kalesin left with two lancers and Reylerk’s body. Then he nodded at Hiser, and the questions resumed.

  As Cerryl suspected, he learned little more about Eliasar’s death but a great deal more about which factors had traded in what—and received continued false protestations that no trading was occurring in Spidlaria.

  He finished interviewing the factors Kalesin had rounded up early in the afternoon and retired with a pounding headache to the study. He carried a tray of bread and cheese and wine that one of Hiser’s lancers had gotten for him.

  Lyasa was waiting, sitting in the straight-backed chair. She stood and offered a sheepish smile. “I sneaked in. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Cerryl closed the study door and looked at Lyasa. The circles under her olive brown eyes were as dark as her black hair. “Sit back down before you fall over.”

  “I look that bad?”

  “Worse.” Cerryl offered a wry smile. “Tell me about it.” He set the tray on the edge of the desk closest to her. “Have some.”

  “Thank you.”

  He poured out wine, some into the goblet for Lyasa and some into the mug he used for water for himself. “You were going to tell me how bad things were and why.”

  “Eliasar thought you could just ride lancers around and kill peacebreakers and then people would get the idea. It hasn’t been working that way.” Lyasa took a deep breath, then reached for the wine.

  “I got that idea. What’s been going wrong?” Cerryl took a swallow from his mug, then broke off a chunk of bread.

  “Nothing. Nothing’s going right, either. People are sneaking away along the coast into Sligo, or into the Westhorns through what’s left of Diev, or up the river woods into Gallos. Almost no one comes to the chandleries or the shops here—not during the day. I can see figures at night, but I can’t stay up all the time, and Kalesin doesn’t have the night sight.”

  There is much Kalesin doesn’t have. “I am not surprised. He was not pleased when I showed up to take over Eliasar’s job.”

  “He wouldn’t have been. He’s a lot like Kesrik.”

  Cerryl nodded, recalling the blonde apprentice mage who had held far too high an opinion of his modest abilities—until, played by Anya, he’d run afoul of Cerryl and the High Wizard.

  “What were you doing this morning?” Lyasa asked.

  “Interviewing traders, asking questions, truth-reading—and getting a terrible headache.”

  Lyasa laughed.

  “And the feeling that I’d have an even bigger one if I knew what I should.”

  “Maybe you know more than you think you do.”

  Cerryl refilled her goblet and added some wine to his mug. Then he ate another chunk of cheese. “Do you recall Reylerk?”

  “The big old trader?”

  “He was involved with Eliasar’s death. I started to get close to asking questions, and he took poison. He died right in the hall.”

  “That’s bad.”

  Cerryl stood and looked out the open window, blotting the sweat from his forehead. The study felt close. “I hadn’t even threatened him. He knew I was truth-reading him.”

  “And he poisoned himself? Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  The dark-haired mage moistened her lips. “You want me to guess. Well, I would wager that he knew something and he knew you could find it out and he didn’t want to let you know it.”

  “A trader self-willed enough to kill himself? An attack against us?” He eased back to the massive desk.

  “I would say someone he feared more than you, perhaps someone who threatened his family,” suggested Lyasa. “As mages, we don’t always understand how strong family can be.”

  “Some of us don’t have family, but I can look at Leyladin and see where that might be the case.” He took a sip of wine and used his belt knife to cut several small slabs off the block of yellow cheese. “Have some.”

  The black-haired mage took a chunk of cheese and began to eat.

  “I have to wonder,” Cerryl mused, “why someone would care enough to threaten Reylerk. Or what he would care enough about to kill himself to keep me from finding out.”

  “That shows we have a big problem.”

  “We already knew that.” Cerryl turned and looked out at the harbor once more. After a few moments, he turned back. “I’m not very good at intrigue.” But you’re getting better, unfortunately. “Some of this is obvious. The traders know we can tell when they lie. One of the most powerful traders takes his own life rather than let me question him. No one is doing any trading or even buying things in the city.”

  “Recluce?” Lyasa finished her water.

  Cerryl reached forward and refill
ed the goblet from the pitcher, then shook his head. “They’ve been used, just as we have. Jeslek and I played right into Rystyr’s hands. I can’t prove the viscount is the one, but it feels right.”

  Lyasa shrugged helplessly. “You may be right, but I don’t see it.”

  “First, take the crossbow bolts. Someone tried to kill me with a crossbow when I was in Jellico. Eliasar was killed with three at once. Now…Sverlik was supposedly killed by Lyam. Remember, he was prefect of Gallos before Syrma? It took over a dozen archers—archers, not crossbowmen.”

  “What are you pointing toward?”

  “Bear with me.” Cerryl turned and took a swallow of the clean but warm water in the goblet. “Axalt—Axalt controlled the direct land trade between Spidlar and Certis. Axalt is no more. Then, there is Gallos, now split in twain by those Little Easthorns raised by Jeslek, with much of the High Grasslands burned to ashes. And Hydlen, rent by struggles over who would be duke ever since the untimely death of Berofar and then his son. Of course, Ferobar might have been a strong duke, too, except I was sent to kill him and I succeeded. Spidlar—Spidlaria is the best port on the northern coast, and it had strong free traders. Diev is gone…”

  Lyasa’s mouth opened. “Everything that has happened…it all helps Certis and its traders.”

  “The glass would show it that way…” Cerryl paused. “Shyren…when I found the golds in his bedchamber, he said that I was just ‘his’ tool. I thought he was referring to Jeslek. I don’t think so now.”

  “Rystyr?”

  Cerryl nodded. “Then there’s Jiolt. Layel said something about his cousin being the largest factor in Jellico.”

  “Anya’s sister is consorted to Jiolt’s son.”

  “It’s all like a spiderweb. You can barely see it except if you look at it in a certain way.” Cerryl shrugged. “That may not be the proper way, either.” And sometimes you can’t even see things. You can only sense them, like the way in which Anya used her ties with Jiolt to set Kesrik after you when you were an apprentice…and there was no way to prove it and never will be.

  “Best you send Kalesin to Kleth, then.”

  “Kalesin?”

  “Once…he and Anya…”

  “Has she bedded every mage in the Guild?”

  Lyasa laughed. “She’s tried every one, except the women, and she’d try that if she thought it might benefit her.”

  “What about Syandar?”

  “He’s not bad—like Myredin, I’d guess.”

  “Then we don’t want Kalesin with him. We’ll have to be Kalesin’s keepers.”

  Lyasa brushed short black hair off her left ear. “Put that way, I would agree he should stay, like it though I do not.”

  “What do you think? About the whole situation here?”

  “We’re losing as badly as at the beginning. We aren’t getting any golds from Spidlar. The lancers are on edge, and they feel it’s but eight-days before we lose another mage.”

  “It will take years for Spidlar to recover, and Certis will benefit?”

  “Gallos, too, if not so much.”

  “And the Guild is already weaker.”

  Lyasa nodded.

  “We aren’t going to do it this way any longer.”

  “What have you in mind?”

  “I don’t know. Yet.” Cerryl could feel the chill in his eyes, the anger colder than chaos was hot. “But I will stop it. Without letting Anya and Sterol learn what I know.”

  Lyasa shivered.

  CL

  WITH THE DIM light of late twilight fading, Cerryl looked at the image of a blonde healer in the glass for a long moment, savoring the smile offered by Leyladin, wishing, once again, that they were together before letting her visage fade.

  The stacks of lists and papers remained on the study desk—a set of papers larger than those left by Eliasar. Cerryl had read them, all, and, for the most part, they were just that—lists. He picked up the shorter list, the one for the evening, the one that held Lyasa’s suspected nighttime traders.

  He’d already ridden by the shops earlier in the day, beside Hiser at the head of a routine patrol, marking them in his mind, trying to assess which might be the most likely. He’d not told Hiser the purpose of the ride, nor Lyasa the reason for the list. The less anyone knew about what he planned, the safer he would be. Spidlaria was far more dangerous than Kalesin could know. Or than he cares.

  With a deep breath, Cerryl stood, then stepped past the massive desk and out of the study into the hallway. “Good evening, Natrey.”

  “Evening, ser,” answered the lancer guard, remaining alert, his eyes on the entry hall and the front door.

  “How have you found Spidlaria?”

  “It be an unfriendly place, ser. Folk’d spit at you, dared they to.”

  “They’ve never been that friendly, I fear.” Cerryl nodded. They’ll be less friendly before they become more so.

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I’m going upstairs.” Cerryl turned and walked toward the staircase until he was out of the guard’s direct line of sight and only a dozen cubits from the barred side door.

  Where to? The chandlery? The reluctant arms mage turned toward the side door out of the dwelling. He eased the light-blurring shield around him—the illusion protection that caused people’s eyes to slide past him, as if he were a wall or something so commonplace that he were not even to be noticed. Then he slid the bar enough so that he could open the door and step outside.

  Using the blur shield would keep Kalesin, were the other mage even around, from sensing Cerryl’s presence.

  Cerryl paused in the rear courtyard, drinking in the coolness of early evening for a moment. With sunset, the breeze had quieted, but it still blew off the cooler waters of the empty harbor.

  He walked quietly to the rear gateway and stepped through the archway and down along the walled passage to the street below the house. He halted in the deeper shadows of the arch that opened onto the street, one of the four that led to the harbor square.

  A lancer patrol rode by, the hoofs of the four mounts clicking on the stone pavement. Once the patrol passed, with the blur shield still around him, Cerryl slipped along the side street toward the chandlery Lyasa had placed on the list.

  On one side was a cooper’s and on the other was a structure without markings. All three buildings were dark. The chandlery’s door was shut and presumably barred, the shutters fastened, but Cerryl could sense order and chaos within, the order and chaos of people.

  As he watched from the nearby alleyway, a woman walked quickly toward the side of the building, where she rapped on a narrow door—a cellar door—before she darted inside the door quickly opened and quickly shut.

  Cerryl edged toward the low steps that led down to the cellar, remaining shadowed and shielded. He waited, and shortly the door opened and closed quickly once more. The woman scurried past Cerryl, not even sensing him behind his shield, and down the street, staying in whatever deep shadows she could find.

  How long he watched and waited Cerryl was not sure, except that the next prospective purchaser did not come soon. The big man almost waddled up to the cellar door and rapped heavily. Cerryl slid up behind him, then stayed behind the other’s bulk as he lumbered into the cellar.

  Once inside, Cerryl stepped to the side in the momentary darkness.

  “Who you…” The man who uncovered the lamp on the table blinked and frowned. “Thought you had someone with you.”

  Cerryl could smell hot and damp wool, probably from the moist cloth used to mask the lamp. He eased into the corner of the room, trying to blend with the gloom away from the single lamp set on the narrow table.

  “Just me, Tyldar. Got any cheese?”

  “That I do, but don’t be showing or telling it around. Be a silver for a quarter wedge.”

  “Steep, that be.”

  “Know anyone else has cheese?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Would I be telling you that now?” Tyld
ar laughed softly. He removed an oblong rock from the wall and reached into the opening, apparently releasing a catch or lever, because a section of stones swung open.

  “Clever there.”

  “Old trick—put rocks from the tailings from the worked-out coal mines there and no mage, Black or White, can tell what’s there. Said they hid Black healers there in the Days of Fire.”

  Cerryl frowned. Days of Fire? He’d never run across that before. It wasn’t in any of the histories.

  “Here you be.” The chandler pushed the wall back into place with his hip, then set the quarter wedge on the narrow table.

  “You think those Whites’ll ever leave?” The buyer extended a silver.

  “Thank you. When they run out of mages, they might. Some folk are saying they haven’t got that many. The latest one—he’s pretty young.”

  “He figured out Reylerk quick enough.”

  “Luck…had to be.” The chandler glanced toward the door.

  “Well, best be out of here.”

  “Check the street.”

  The lamp was covered, and the man who had bought the cheese cracked the shutters. “Clear-like.”

  “Be off, then.”

  Cerryl nearly tripped on the boots of the man he followed but stepped back into the shadows.

  The buyer glanced around. “Darkness…swore…” He shook his head, then began to walk quickly away from the harbor.

  Standing in the shadows, Cerryl frowned. He could have the lancers seize the merchandise, but what good would that do? He couldn’t track down everyone who sold goods secretly. Besides, what he needed was for them to be sold in public, so that there would be a clear trail of goods on which the tariffs could be levied and collected.

  Finally, he nodded, then began to walk down the street toward his second observation—the basket maker’s two blocks north.

  CLI

  LYASA AND HISER stood on the other side of the desk.

  Cerryl stood behind it because there was but a single chair opposite him. “As I told Lyasa earlier, Hiser, the traders are trying to keep us from collecting tariffs by pretending no trading is taking place. Most everything is done at night.”