Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “No. Kinowin knows. For the others, I had to wait until the Recluce matter was settled.”

  “Is it settled?”

  Cerryl shrugged. “For all but Anya and a handful. Dealing with her and her followers comes next. Then I will have to alert Redark and the Guild about the dangers of Certis. We will use some of Esaak’s calculations…”

  “Do you really think Rystryr will try to take Sligo?”

  “If he can get away with it—or thinks he can.” Cerryl rubbed his forehead. “And eventually, that will mean more meetings and efforts to persuade others of the danger.”

  Leyladin stood and stretched. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how many meetings I’ll be able to observe. My lips will be bloodied.”

  “It’s hard for you not to speak.”

  “Only when people are being stupid.”

  “All meetings bring out stupidity. So do…It doesn’t matter.” Cerryl shook his head.

  “What were you going to say about Certis?” prompted Leyladin.

  “Rystryr will try to take Sligo, if he can. The glass has already shown that Disarj has convinced Rystryr that this is the time to act, when the Guild is the weakest. Or maybe Disarj let Rystryr convince him. Rystryr is beginning to mass forces at Rytel. So I’ve already sent a scroll asking Disarj to go to Tyrhavven to confer with Heralt.”

  “Will he do that? With Rystryr thinking about invading Sligo? Disarj, I mean?” Leyladin squinted as she glanced out the Tower window into the bright light of the clear winter day.

  “Disarj would not come to Fairhaven—not now—he would find an endless well of excuses. Besides, Rystryr has doubtless prevailed upon Disarj to go to Tyrhavven. If Disarj thinks he can overpower Heralt, then…perhaps armsmen would not be needed, except…”

  “To help the Sligan Council keep ‘order’?” Leyladin’s tone turned ironic.

  “Of course. That way Certis would regain a port to avoid the tariffs and more golds to stand against the Guild.”

  “What will stop him?” Leyladin raised her eyebrows.

  “I will.” Cerryl laughed, harshly. “Then we will destroy his forces—if we must.”

  “You sound like Jeslek.”

  “No. I tell you, and only you. Jeslek told the world. I will tell everyone that I’m going to Tyrhavven to review the trade and tariff problems and to confer with Heralt. Everyone will think I’m displeased with him. I will claim that I hope to work out something. As my critics have said, I will speak many, many words.”

  “Convincing everyone that you do not intend to act,” predicted the healer.

  “I’ve dispatched Kochar and Kiella to Tyrhavven to support Heralt, and also told them to be very polite to Disarj should he arrive earlier than expected.”

  “The Guild—some of the older mages will say you’re just using this…Black Order thing…as an excuse not to fight Recluce,” said Leyladin.

  “Some will,” Cerryl admitted. “Most of those remaining will say so most quietly. I will listen and talk to them—privately. After I deal with Anya.”

  “What will you tell them?”

  “What will make them happy. I will not tell them that all prosperous lands are based on a combination of acceptance and force. Fairhaven and Recluce are no different.”

  “We’re no different from Recluce? Darkness forbid that the High Wizard of the White City admit such.” A lazy smile crossed her full lips. “Surely you must be jesting.”

  Cerryl returned the smile. “Each person wants in his heart for everyone to believe the way he does, but everyone has different beliefs. Some form of force is necessary to ensure lands do not fall apart. Recluce uses the force of order; we use the force of chaos. Both are force.” He shrugged. “They exile those who will not accept their way—unless, as in the case of this Black engineer, the exiles have enough force to change things. We allow people to think as they will, unlike the Blacks. We only force those who do not keep the peace to flee—or we kill them. The Blacks exile those who even think the wrong way and let others do the killing. It’s still death, one way or the other. But we’re more forgiving and more honest about it, I think.”

  “What of those who can accept neither your rules nor those of the Blacks?” Leyladin frowned.

  “Each man and woman wants rules that are suited for them. Can we have a thousand sets of rules in a town of a thousand? Even fifty sets of rules in a village? It’s better to have a few absolute rules than many that attempt to deal with all that may befall people.”

  “A few simple rules?” Her eyebrows arched.

  “The Patrol rules are a good start. We need to bring the idea of patrollers elsewhere. More patrollers and fewer lancers, especially in Fairhaven.”

  “You don’t intend to keep that many lancers in Fairhaven?” asked Leyladin, eyes twinkling as though she already knew the answer.

  “Why?” Cerryl inclined his head. “If we need more than fifty score to defend the city, we will already have lost any war. If we cannot hold together Candar east of the Westhorns, then we cannot hold Fairhaven. Life must get better for the people beyond Fairhaven. They must be our responsibility—”

  “Why are they the Guild’s? Some will surely ask that.”

  “Because their own rulers will not do what is best. We will.”

  “The Guild would not. You will,” said Leyladin. “Just as you will deal with Anya—now that you have undermined much of her support.”

  “Not much…but enough.” You hope…Cerryl turned to the window, where, from outside the White Tower, came the faint wail of the late-winter wind.

  “Let us hope.” Leyladin took his hand.

  Both looked into the clear and cold afternoon.

  CLXXXII

  THERE YOU HAVE the fleet,” said Cerryl, nodding toward the glass in the center of the table. A dozen ships bearing the red thunderbolt banner straggled back into the Great North Bay. Cerryl raised a finger, and the image vanished from the mirror. “Now what do you suggest?”

  “You send out another fleet, this time one that will follow orders. That is, if you wish to continue as High Wizard,” Anya said lazily from where she half-reclined in the chair across the table from Leyladin and Cerryl. Anya’s eyes focused not on Cerryl, but past him and on the high gray clouds visible through the Tower window beyond the table. On one side of the table rested a deep basin of cold water.

  “Sterol was right,” Cerryl added, his voice conversational as he looked at the box on the small side table, a box containing a gold-painted iron amulet.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to let that nobody on Recluce humiliate us?” Anya’s voice took a harder tone. “After what he did to Fydel…and to Jeslek? You’ll let it pass? And stand up and tell the Guild that?”

  “There is a Balance, and we can accept it or fight it. Everyone who has fought it has lost. The trick is to make it work for you.”

  “You sound like you’re weaseling out, Cerryl. We can’t have that.” Anya sat up straight in the chair but did not rise to her feet.

  “Why don’t you listen, for a moment? It won’t hurt.” You really don’t think she will, do you? She’s convinced that you won’t ever act against her. Cerryl stood and walked to the window, glancing toward the cold gray clouds, then back at the redhead.

  “I’m listening.” The words were cold, yet white flames lurked behind her eyes.

  “This smith-wizard builds machines. Those machines must contain chaos-fired steam or water. That means they embody great, great order. If he builds many of his machines, he increases the amount of chaos in the world. That would increase our power more greatly than his, because his order would be locked in those machines.”

  “So you would encourage him to build those machines? To attack and destroy our ships? That would certainly increase chaos. How much good it would do us is another question.” Anya rose like a pillar of white flame.

  “He won’t do that.” Cerryl gestured at the now-blank mirror. “He could have destroyed the entire fleet with h
is little Black ship. He didn’t. He’s certainly no weak-willed Black idiot either. Weak-willed idiots don’t fight head-on. He destroyed Jeslek and Fydel one-on-one—Fydel with a staff, not even that iron clad chaos of his.”

  Cerryl turned slowly, almost indolently, and stepped over to the small side table. His back to the redhead, he slipped off the amulet he wore in a quick motion and set it on the table. He opened the wooden box and removed the painted amulet, concealing a wince as the metal burned his hands, not badly, but enough to sting. He had to get back to using less chaos…somehow. “Besides, you saw his ship. Even if we could board it, what could anyone do? Our White Lancers couldn’t even touch half of it with all that black iron.”

  Anya eased out of her chair and stepped toward Cerryl’s back. “It’s too bad you’ll follow Sterol, Cerryl dear. You’ll see once the fleet mages return.”

  Leyladin stiffened but did not move.

  “I don’t think so.” Cerryl lifted the amulet and turned. “But here, you wear it. You always wanted to.” With a quick gesture he dropped the gold-painted iron links around her neck.

  Anya lifted her hands, then screamed as a circle of flame burned away the gold paint and the white cloth beneath it. Her hands reached for the hot iron, but Cerryl grasped her wrists and nodded toward the door.

  “I’m not quite as dense as I look, dear Anya. And while I’m not as powerful as you believe you are, or Sterol did, I do occasionally think.” His voice rose. “Gostar! Hertyl!”

  The three guards who hurried through the Tower door and across the white stone floor bore chains of heavy and cold iron in their gloved hands.

  “You need me!” the redhead screamed as the additional heavy iron chains slipped around her.

  “Indeed we do. You will make a perfect example for future would-be schemers. You will look ravishing once your image is captured for display. Most fetching.” Cerryl smiled and inclined his head to the guards. “Good day, Anya.”

  The redhead straightened, ignoring the pain of the cold iron. “You don’t understand, Cerryl. I can see. See like Myral. No matter what you do, it doesn’t matter. I know. I saw you in this room with the amulet. Why do you think your aunt and uncle died? Why did those brigands attack you in the sewer? Despite everything I did, all my actions brought you here.” Her face twisted in pain and rage. “Don’t you see? Everything you do is for nothing. Fairhaven will fall. It will melt under a sun you cannot even think about. Everything you want to do will end as ashes. It’s all worthless! You’re worthless.”

  “Good day, Anya,” Cerryl repeated, watching as the leather-gloved guards wrapped the cold iron chains around the redhead.

  As the door closed, he plunged his hands into the basin of cold water, taking a deep breath as the water soothed his hands.

  Leyladin stepped up beside him. “With all that iron on her, she’ll die before the Guild meets.”

  “I know,” Cerryl said soberly. “That is proof she could not maintain the balance necessary for a mage. It will also relieve everyone of having to make a decision…and leave the blood on my hands.”

  “Sometimes…you can be cruel.”

  “Sometimes a High Wizard has to be cruel. No one listens otherwise. Anya didn’t listen at the end, either.” He shivered. Will you listen? Or will you become like all the others?

  “Was she right?”

  Cerryl offered a harsh laugh. “Of course she was…in a way. Everything ends. Fairhaven will fall. So will Recluce. Cyador and Westwind fell. But she was wrong about what it all means. The end is always the same. That’s why what we do does matter. Good or bad, we die. If we bring some light and prosperity into the world, isn’t that better than there being less light?” He dried his hands on his trousers, ignoring the red blotches on his fingers.

  “Some would say, then, that power for one’s self is all that there is.” Leyladin’s eyebrows lifted momentarily.

  “Some would. I wouldn’t. Power for one’s self is hard to amass and harder to hold. Where are Jeslek? Sterol? Anya?” He shrugged. “Myral died as peacefully as he could have. Kinowin is still here. So are we.” So far…

  “So far,” she repeated. “And I am with you.”

  “I’m glad.”

  The healer touched his hands, and the soothing darkness spread across his skin, lifting the discomfort. “She was screaming about an image.”

  “I’m having her statue put up on the ledge. I did promise her that, and I keep my promises.”

  “You didn’t set one up for Myral.”

  “No, I didn’t. He was more than an image…much more.”

  CLXXXIII

  THE HIGH WIZARD dismounted at the alley gate, and the pair of lancers checked the courtyard before he crossed the rain-puddled stones and entered the small common room that had once seemed so spacious.

  Beside the table stood a wide-eyed boy of less than a handful of years and a woman.

  “Is that you, Cerryl?” Benthann’s voice was hoarse, and the once-blonde hair was mostly gray, the blonde like streaks of sunlight against gray autumn clouds.

  He nodded.

  “Why did you wait so long to come back?”

  “Because had I shown any affection toward you or Tellis or Beryal, my enemies would have used you. The only way I could show my gratitude was not to come.” He smiled, not concealing the twist to his lips. “I did what else I could.”

  “The golds in the leather bags?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought they might have come from you.”

  “Your son?” He inclined his head toward the towheaded boy. “He is handsome.”

  “Like I was once, I suppose.”

  “Yes. I always looked at you.”

  “I know.” Her eyes dropped. “You’re not here just for me.”

  “I need to thank Tellis. I owe where I am to him. Because he took in a mill boy and made him a scrivener.”

  “He won’t know what to do.” Her voice was low. “He’s in the workroom.”

  “Where else would he be?” Cerryl looked at the boy. “If you need help…”

  “Only if I really need it.”

  “If you do…” He nodded and stepped through the archway.

  Tellis was bent over the copying desk as Cerryl stepped into the workroom, but the scrivener’s head jerked up. “Ser? I did not see you enter. My apologies, ser, my apologies. Have you seen the latest copies of the Histories?” Abruptly the scrivener stopped, his eyes on the golden amulet. “Oh, Your Mightiness…what can this humble scrivener—”

  “Tellis.” Cerryl laid a manuscript on the table. “It’s been a long time, but I’d like you to make three copies for me. If you would…”

  “Of course, honored ser. Of course.”

  Cerryl wanted to wince at the politeness, the servility, the near-groveling. “As I told Benthann…I owe you my life and more, and until now there was little I could do to repay it, except through purses left by stealth. I am sorry…but I do try to repay my debts.”

  After a moment, Tellis looked at the manuscript. “Your letters are wide…honored ser.”

  “They were not, once upon a time.” Cerryl grinned crookedly. “If you could find some of the green leather, I would appreciate that. Oh…and if you can finish them by the turn of summer, your fee will be ten golds—for each of the three I need.”

  “Some, honored ser, pay their debts, and that be what a good scrivener would hope for. You’ll have your three, and all in green.”

  Cerryl finally nodded, knowing that to say more would not help. “Thank you. For everything.” For life, for Leyladin, for the chance to become what I have…for not making it too hard to try to repay debts…old debts.

  “Thank you,” he repeated before, with another nod, he turned to head back to the White Tower.

  CLXXXIV

  CERRYL STOOD BEFORE the table as Kinowin and Redark entered the High Wizard’s official apartment, which had come to serve mainly as a meeting and conference room, since Cerryl and Leyladin
continued to spend evenings at her dwelling.

  “Thank you both. I’ve requested your presence for the Council to meet with the last of Anya’s…” Cerryl paused, searching for a word, then added, “acolytes.”

  Redark glanced to where Leyladin stood by the window.

  “The healer is most helpful in discerning shades of truth,” Cerryl said politely.

  “Ah…yes.” Redark cleared his throat.

  “Before they arrive, you should read this.” Cerryl handed the scroll that tingled from the order that filled it to the older overmage.

  “What is it?” asked Kinowin as he seated himself to Cerryl’s right.

  “A request for terms from the Black mage.”

  “Terms? He asks us for terms?” demanded the ginger-bearded Redark.

  “Not exactly. I’d rather you read it. Then we can talk,” said Cerryl.

  After a moment, his face blank, Kinowin handed the heavy parchment to Redark.

  The younger overmage read the document and returned it to Cerryl. “Can we trust him?”

  “Considering that he can destroy any ship upon the seas, do we have any choice?”

  “As I understand this,” Kinowin said, “he is proposing that we Recluce the surtax on goods from Recluce to three parts in ten but will open the new port at Southpoint to any ships from Candar that do not carry White mages on board.”

  “I took the liberty of having Esaak do some calculations,” Cerryl explained. “Our factors will do better at three parts in ten. That is high enough to protect the wool growers.”

  “Why would the Blacks do that,” asked Redark, “if their ship is so mighty?”

  “Like all of us, they must eat, and they cannot compel our ships to port there,” said Cerryl.

  “Because they need the grains and oilseeds and they can still charge more for those cargoes in Recluce. But they have to be able to sell something in Candar. They can’t travel one way in ballast,” suggested Kinowin.

  “We can tell the Guild that we have gained trading rights in Recluce and that more trade will be coming to Candar.” Cerryl smiled. Besides, it doesn’t matter now that you’re getting control of the tariff collections.