Colors of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Everything?” She arched her eyebrows.

  “Everything.”

  “I’m glad you approve. Have some cheese… or something. You’re pale.”

  Cerryl cut several slices of cheese off each wedge and nodded to her.

  “Thank you.” The healer took a wedge of the white and one of the yellow, then broke off a chunk of the dark bread.

  Cerryl tried the pale white with bread. Before he knew it, he’d eaten three wedges of cheese with bread.

  “You were hungry.”

  “It’s been a long day,” he admitted.

  “Yesterday was for me. I just about fell into my bed last night.”

  “How is Duke Estalin’s son?”

  “He will recover. He wasn’t that sick.” Leyladin shook her head. “Sometimes…” She looked at Cerryl. “You heard about Duke Berofar, didn’t you?”

  He frowned. “Heard what? I don’t hear that much, not on gate duty, and not when I really don’t know that many of the full mages-the younger ones, I mean.”

  “It couldn’t hurt to eat with a few others,” she pointed out. “The more who know you as a real person…”

  He nodded. That made sense. “What about Duke Berofar?”

  “He died. Gorsuch… I just don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?” Cerryl continued to feel that the more he learned about anything, the less he really knew. He took one of the green apples and cut it into wedges, then offered them to Leyladin.

  “Thank you.” She took one and ate it. “Berofar-he’s from the old line out of Asula, and his first consort and his son and daughter died of the raging fever. That wasn’t ten years ago, and that left him without an heir. I don’t think he cares much for women. Still, he needed an heir, and that’s why he consorted again. Young Uulrac was born at the turn of spring four years ago.”

  Cerryl ate two of the apple quarters and offered the last to the blonde healer. He cut another wedge of cheese for himself and listened.

  “I think the Council will suggest that Gorsuch be one of the regents.”

  “He’s the Council representative to Hydlen?”

  She nodded. “Doesn’t it seem strange to you?”

  “What?”

  “Jeslek has you kill Lyam-and Lyam wouldn’t go along with the road taxes and tariffs, and the new prefect of Gallos knows that he could be removed if he doesn’t. The old Viscount of Certis opposed our tariffs, and he and his entire family died of the bloody flux. Duke Berofar was trying not to provide levies and troops for us… and as soon as I’m tending one duke’s son-where my absence would be a problem- Berofar dies…”

  “Strange” wasn’t the word Cerryl would have used. He could see the patterns once he had the facts. He just didn’t know enough and wondered if he ever would. Fairhaven seemed so open and simple on the surface, like a calm ocean or lake, but most of what went on was below the surface. Was it that way everywhere?

  “It’s possible,” he agreed.

  Her eyebrows raised, as if in a question.

  “That Sterol decided Berofar was a problem. I don’t think any of the more powerful mages-Sterol, Jeslek, maybe Anya, or Kinowin- would stop for a moment to remove a ruler who might thwart Fairhaven.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  Cerryl shrugged, then took another swallow of the ale and refilled his goblet before answering. “It does, and it doesn’t.”

  “That’s a safe answer.” Her tone was bitter.

  “That’s not what I meant. I haven’t seen any place like Fairhaven.

  The streets are clean. There aren’t many thieves. You can drink the water. You can buy most anything if you have the coins. People seem happy, most of them, and happier than the other places in Candar where I’ve been.“

  “That’s because we push out those who are too poor or put them on road crews-or kill some of them if they make trouble.”

  “True. But what’s the difference? In Fenard, the urchins live in the streets, and I’d wager most die young. Everyone has to worry about thieves and brigands, and there’s flux and misery everywhere. There the prefect lets people die and others do the killing. Either way, the poor either find a way to make a living or die. Here, though, everyone else is better off as well, and I’m probably proof that an orphan has a chance.”

  “Don’t you see, Cerryl, that’s why you’re a mage? So that Sterol and Jeslek can say that even a poor boy can rise to being a White mage?”

  “What about Heralt? Or Kinowin? And I don’t think Kiella exactly comes from coins.”

  Leyladin looked down at the polished white oak table. “It’s the same thing.”

  “Maybe.” He shook his head. “Maybe I am lucky. Am I supposed to turn away from it?”

  “No. You have to make it better.”

  “Me? A junior mage who’s a gate guard?”

  “Myral said that you would be High Wizard.”

  “Me?”

  “He has these visions.”

  Cerryl frowned again. High Wizard? A boy whose father was a renegade? That’s hardly likely. “Once… he did mention that he’d seen the future, after the Guild had fallen, and that Candar was filled with mad chaos wielders… I wondered.”

  “Trust him. He sees more than he says.”

  “So does Kinowin,” Cerryl said wryly, not wanting to think too much about Myral’s visions for him, not at all. “In a different way.”

  “He does. Did you know that Kinowin’s a lot older than he looks?”

  “Myral told me that.” Cerryl shook his head. “I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “Believe it. He’s like Myral. Very careful about how and when he raises chaos. You should follow their example about that.”

  Cerryl nodded. He didn’t want to mention that he’d already patterned his use of order and chaos after Myral’s precepts-and what he managed to figure out from Colors of White. He cleared his throat, not wanting to dwell on the matters the healer had raised, not until he’d had a chance to think more. “I remember when I ate here before and I said how good everything was. You and your father looked at each other. That was because what you fixed was a simple meal for you, wasn’t it?”

  Leyladin looked down, then at him. “Yes. I was afraid if you saw a real full-course dinner, you’d be so upset that you’d never see me again.”

  “I’d see you again,” he protested. “I’m here.”

  “I don’t know, Cerryl. You… when we were at Furenk’s… you were pretty stunned.”

  “I didn’t know about the rear dining area. I’d eaten in the front before.”

  “And you’d wondered at that.” Leyladin offered a small smile. “Didn’t you?”

  “Ah… yes,” he admitted. “But I’m getting used to good food.”

  “Then you will stay for dinner?”

  Cerryl flushed. “I’d be hard-pressed to leave, lady.”

  “I’m Leyladin, not lady.” She grinned.

  “I’m Cerryl, and I would be delighted to stay.” He returned the grin. “Leyladin.”

  Her deep green eyes danced, and with her smile, warmth flowed up from within him.

  XVI

  The sun had barely cleared the low hills to the east of Fairhaven when the heavy wagon rumbled through the north gates and onto the highway. Cerryl watched. The entire wagon bed was filled with brass fittings, ship parts of various sorts, headed for Lydiar.

  Fittings for the warships Sterol had mentioned? No… those were being built somewhere in Sligo. But could there be others being built on the Great North Bay?

  He shook his head. Again, he didn’t even know enough to conjecture. How could he find out? Without asking anyone directly?

  Leyladin had offered one suggestion-become friendly with more of the other younger mages. Some of them had to know things he didn’t, and most people would talk, he’d discovered, with a slight bit of encouragement. That hadn’t been his style, but… the more he saw, the more he understood the danger of being alone and aloof.
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br />   He glanced down at the white stones of the highway, arcing out to the north and then east, seeing the fine white dust that was everywhere in Fairhaven slowly settle back onto the stone. Then he walked across into the sunlight to warm up, knowing that before midmorning he’d be seeking the shade to cool off.

  Below, Diborl watched as the prisoners from the city patrol swept the stones clean. Then another guard escorted them back to the holding room where they were kept between cleanup duties.

  Not for the first time, Cerryl wondered exactly what the pair had done. Smuggling, disturbing the peace?

  The creaking of another set of wheels alerted him.

  Coming down the road from the direction of Hrisbarg were two farm carts and, farther behind them, yet another-the beginning of the line of produce vendors that would fill the markets before many folk were fully up and about.

  He stood on the rampart and waited.

  XVII

  Lyasa, Faltar, and Cerryl stood in the front foyer of the main Hall. Cerryl glanced toward the steps up to the White Tower, his eyes drifting momentarily to the upper ledge and the life-size statues of past great mages-most of whom he still did not recognize.

  “Here he comes.” Cerryl nodded to Faltar. “Let’s ask him.”

  Heralt walked slowly down the steps from the White Tower into the front foyer of the Hall.

  “Heralt?” called Cerryl. “We’re going over to The Golden Ram. Why don’t you join us?”

  The dark-haired young mage lifted his head. “I’m tired. I thought I’d just eat in the Halls.”

  “All you get in the Meal Hall this late is stale bread and old cheese,” Cerryl pointed out. “You don’t have to stay with us long, and it won’t be that late. I have morning duty, remember?”

  Heralt offered a shy smile. “The Ram does sound better than bread and cheese or dried lamb.”

  “Dried lamb.” Beside Cerryl, Faltar shook his head. “Any form of lamb…”

  “Your feelings about mutton are well-known,” said Lyasa. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

  “Well…” Heralt shrugged and turned toward the other three.

  The Golden Ram was half-empty by the time the four young mages settled around a circular table in one corner. Broka and another mage- both on their way out together-nodded.

  “Good evening.” Cerryl returned the nod and smiled.

  Almost as soon as the three were seated, the serving woman was at Faltar’s elbow, looking toward Cerryl and asking, “Drinks?”

  “Ale,” said Cerryl.

  “Ale,” agreed Faltar.

  “Make that three.”

  “Four,” added Lyasa.

  “Fare’s on the board. Ribs, fowl breast, or stew. Ribs and stew are two. Fowl’s three.”

  Cerryl settled on the fowl, as did Faltar. Heralt had ribs and Lyasa stew, and the server with the swirled braid on the back of her head slipped back to the kitchen.

  “You once said that your father was a merchant in Kyphros.” Cerryl glanced at Heralt. “Do you see him much?”

  Heralt laughed. “Kyphrien is rather far to travel… and he’s not one for sending scrolls. My sister and I exchange messages, but not often.”

  “Here you be… four ales. That be eight.”

  Cerryl added three coppers to the pile. The server smiled and swept up a silver’s worth of coppers. Lyasa had added the other extra copper.

  “I wonder how people in Kyphros feel about the new mountains Jeslek is raising,” mused Cerryl. He took the barest sip of the ale.

  “The wool factors are worried.” Heralt took a healthy swallow from his mug. “They say the Analerians have lost some of their flocks and that will make wool scarce.” He shrugged. “Axista says it won’t help prices, though, not so long as the Black Isle sends wool to Spidlar. That worries Father.”

  “Isn’t their wool more expensive?”

  “Not after all the tariffs on his. Or not much.”

  “Then, the road taxes and tariffs bother him?” Cerryl’s tone was interested but not sharp.

  “They bother everyone. They make prices higher, and people can buy less.” Heralt took another sip of ale. “You didn’t used to be interested in trade, Cerryl.”

  “I figure I’d better learn. That’s what gate duty is all about, isn’t it? Watching trade and trying to see who’s smuggling?” Cerryl glanced to the white-blond Faltar. “You have any smugglers lately?”

  “Not for an eight-day or so,” Faltar mumbled as he finished a mouthful of ale. “This is better than Hall swill any day.”

  “More costly, as well,” countered the curly-haired mage.

  “You didn’t mention smugglers,” Cerryl prompted. “What were they trying to sneak past you?”

  “Hides. Uncured hides to sell to the tanners,” said Faltar.

  “There can’t be that much profit in hides,” suggested Heralt. “Why smuggle them?”

  “Because,” added Lyasa, brushing a strand of jet-black hair off her forehead, “some gate guards have trouble discovering things that aren’t made of metal or hard materials.”

  “And some don’t look at that hard,” added Faltar dryly. “From what I’ve heard.”

  From Anya? Cerryl wondered. Then he pondered how Faltar, usually so sensible, had fallen for the red-haired mage who apparently bedded half the Hall and cared little for any beyond the moment or what she could gain from using her body. Is that why you still keep Faltar as a friend-because he’s a friend despite Anya? Or because he’s kept supporting you? Still… Faltar’s relationship with Anya meant that Cerryl had to be careful in some of what he said to the blond mage.

  “How did you sense the hides?” asked Heralt.

  “I didn’t really sense them,” admitted Faltar. “But there were some blades hidden under the wagon seat. Not enough to be contraband, but enough to make me worry. So I asked the guards to check the wagon. They knew where to look.”

  “They still couldn’t have made more than a gold or so,” protested Heralt.

  “A single gold is more than some folk see in a year,” Cerryl said.

  “Spoken like a man who knows,” said Lyasa.

  “I made about three silvers in the whole time I was a scrivener’s apprentice,” Cerryl admitted. “The same when I worked at the mill.” He laughed. “But I was at the mill a whole lot longer.”

  “I think I’d rather be a mage.” Heralt took the last chunk of bread from the basket.

  “Two fowls, ribs, and a stew.” The four platters and two baskets of bread practically tumbled onto the polished but battered tabletop. “That be ten.”

  Cerryl fumbled out four coppers, wondering how often he could afford such luxury-despite Faltar’s mathematicks.

  “Thank you all.” The serving woman scooped up the coins.

  Faltar took a bite of the fowl and chewed noisily.

  Across the table from Cerryl, Lyasa raised her eyebrows. “He only appears neat.”

  “Food’s better than talk,” mumbled Faltar. “Specially after a long duty day.”

  Cerryl used his dagger to slice off a strip of the chicken to pop into his mouth. Somehow it was both juicy and dry at the same time, but he was hungry enough that it didn’t matter that much. Still, compared to the meals he’d had at Furenk’s and Leyladin’s, The Golden Ram’s fare was definitely inferior. A mere two seasons before, he never would have thought that.

  “This is better than Hall lamb any day,” Faltar added.

  “Better than stale bread, too.” Cerryl grinned at Heralt.

  “More costly, as well,” countered the curly-haired mage.

  “Mages aren’t meant to die with coins,” said Lyasa. “We can’t leave them to anyone. You might as well enjoy what you eat.”

  “And drink,” added Faltar.

  “The other day, there was a big wagon that headed out toward Lydiar,” Cerryl said. “Filled with worked brass. Ship fittings…”

  “Has to be for the warships,” replied Faltar after wiping his mouth and
emptying his mug. He held the mug up for the server to see.

  “I thought the Guild’s ships were built in Sligo.”

  “Off that island in the Great North Bay. It’s faster to use the highway to Lydiar and send heavy stuff by boat.”

  “That’ll be two more,” said the server as she took Faltar’s mug. “You’ll have it,” the blond mage promised, reaching for his belt purse.

  “Ten ships seem like a lot,” mused Cerryl.

  “I know of at least seven solid ports in eastern Candar,” Lyasa pointed out. “With time for supplies and transit, that’s only one more ship to watch each port.”

  Put that way, reflected Cerryl, ten ships seemed almost too few.

  “The only two ports that matter right now are Diev and Spidlaria…maybe Quend,” suggested Faltar.

  “That’s still only three ships for each port. The Northern Ocean is pretty big.” Lyasa sipped her ale.

  Thump! Another mug of ale appeared at Faltar’s elbow. “Here you be.”

  The blond mage extended three coppers.

  “How would you use the ships, Heralt?” Cerryl asked. “You know more about trade than most of us, I suspect.”

  The curly-haired and dark-eyed mage shrugged. “Lyasa’s right. No one’s going to smuggle through Lydiar or Renklaar. Ruzor or Worrak, maybe. That’s only four or five places, but we’d have to mount a blockade, and the Blacks would try to use the weather. I don’t know. I wonder if we could afford as many ships as we need. They say we’ve only got a score or so now. Ten more-that might do it.” Heralt yawned. “Unless the Blacks build more ships, or better ones, or something like that.”

  “How could you build a better ship?” demanded Faltar. “A ship’s a ship. If you make it faster, then it carries less cargo-or less armsmen-and there’s not that much difference in speed under sail anyway. They all need the wind.”

  “Hamor uses slave galleys in the calmer parts of the Western Ocean,” Lyasa said.

  “Water’s too rough here,” insisted Faltar.

  “Probably.” Heralt yawned again. “I need some sleep.”

  “I’ll walk back with you,” said Cerryl. “Morning duty.” He rose, then looked at Lyasa. “Are you coming?”