Colors of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  In the silence that followed, Kinowin studied the Council Chamber, his eyes covering the gold oak desks and red-cushioned gold oak seats at the front, then scanning the polished white granite columns at the sides for any mages who might be standing there under the swagged crimson hangings. Finally, he announced, “Seeing as no other candidate has been proposed, as overmage and representative of the Council, I declare that the new High Wizard is the honorable Jeslek.” The tall blond mage gestured toward the front row, motioning Jeslek up to the dais.

  Jeslek bowed, then straightened. “Thank you all for your support.” He paused and studied the chamber. “I have two matters to discuss. The first is a tribute. I would like to announce that my predecessor, Sterol, will be honored for his service to Fairhaven and the Guild by having his image added to those facing the Tower. We can do no less for a great mage.”

  From his seat at the north end of the third row Cerryl watched, with Heralt to his right.

  “Second, this is a time when the Guild faces great dangers,” Jeslek announced. “These dangers do not seem real to some. Yet even one of our own Guild members has been attacked-in Fairhaven, less than two blocks from the Halls of the Mages.”

  Cerryl wondered if Jeslek would call him to the dais or give the impression that anyone could have been attacked by leaving the mage “victim” nameless.

  “Some of you know who was attacked; some do not; but a name matters little when a full mage is attacked with iron-headed arrows in Fairhaven itself. It could have been any mage…”

  Cerryl wanted to snort at that, but he kept his mouth shut and his face expressionless, his eyes on the center part of the second row where Anya and Fydel sat. Faltar probably would have been there, had he not been one of the very few not able to attend, because he had the evening gate duty.

  Myral sat in the front row, forward and to the right of Anya. He seemed healthy, despite Leyladin’s concerns. At the other end of the front row, almost in front of Cerryl, sat Sterol, quietly watching Jeslek, a cold and ironic smile on his face.

  “Why doesn’t he name you?” whispered Heralt to Cerryl.

  “More effective if he doesn’t,” Cerryl answered.

  “Why is this occurring?” demanded the new High Wizard. “It has happened because those in Recluce have never respected Fairhaven and because the traders of Spidlar would listen to the Black angels in hopes of filling their wallets with golds they deserve not.”

  “How do we know this had anything to do with Spidlar?” asked Disarj.

  Cerryl’s eyes went farther back in the chamber, settling on Isork, who nodded very slightly at the question raised by the frizzy-haired mage.

  “Nothing is certain,” Anya said, rising slowly from where she had been sitting in the second row of the Council Chamber. “But a fragment of a blue cloak was found, as was a bow of the type used by Spidlarian mercenaries. One of those mercenaries entered the city not long before Cerryl was attacked.” She shrugged.

  “… was Cerryl… was it?”

  “… why him?”

  A fleeting expression of annoyance crossed Jeslek’s face but vanished even more quickly. Cerryl wondered why Anya had named him, then nodded. By giving his name she had subtly linked him to an attack by Spidlar and strengthened the impression that Spidlar had been the absolute cause of the attack-even though Cerryl knew that was not the case, even if he had no way of proving otherwise.

  “This is something that should not be countenanced,” suggested Fydel, standing up from beside where Anya had reseated herself.

  “We need more proof!” came a call from the back, a voice Cerryl did not recognize.

  “What kind of proof do you want?” demanded Anya, turning to face the rear of the chamber. “Every eight-day, more Black ships and more Black goods pour into Spidlar. Every eight-day, the prefect of Gallos becomes more and more reluctant to pay the road tariffs. Every eight-day, our own traders complain more about how they cannot sell their goods and pay their taxes. Do you wish to wait until the lancers of Gallos seize the Great White Highway? Or until the Guild cannot pay your stipend?” The redhead’s voice dripped scorn.

  “Then how are we to deal with Spidlar?” asked Disarj.

  “How are we to deal with Recluce?” came from another voice somewhere near the front of the chamber.

  “Repeal the surtax,” suggested yet another anonymous voice from the midbenches of the Council Chamber.

  Cerryl brushed his mouth with his hand, as if to cover a cough, rather than the smile he felt.

  Jeslek swiveled toward the voice. “Who suggested that?”

  There was no answer.

  “If you don’t want the Spidlarians or the Blacks making golds, then you’ll be making the Hamorians and the Nordlans rich,” suggested Myral from the first row. “Or the Suthyans and the Sarronnese. Trade is like water. It has to go somewhere.”

  “Why can’t it flow here?” demanded Jeslek.

  “That is easier said than done.”

  “Why not increase the tax on Recluce goods?” asked another White wizard.

  “Think again,” said Esaak, his voice rumbling. “That surtax is a hundred percent already.”

  “So? Those are spices, wines, luxury goods. Besides, who can wear their wool anyway? People will pay still more, and the Treasury will benefit, but not the Hamorians and Nordlans.”

  “Couldn’t we use the tax to build a larger fleet?”

  “We could build even more ships, but why do we need any more?” Cerryl found himself asking, amazed that he had spoken.

  “To cut off outside trade to Recluce, of course,” snorted Jeslek, young-looking despite the white hair and golden eyes. His eyes pinned Cerryl momentarily.

  Anya glanced sideways at Cerryl, as if to suggest silence might be better for the young mage.

  Her look irritated him enough that Cerryl continued. “That would have worked three centuries ago, but after Creslin we had neither ships nor money. It won’t work now. All Recluce is doing now is buying our grain from the Nordlans. The Nordlans pick it up in Hydolar and ship it to Recluce. Then the Blacks sell their stuff to the Nordlans in return. It costs them more, but we lose all that trade.”

  “That’s Jeslek’s point,” offered Anya in the silence that followed. “Unless we cut off trade to Recluce, we lose.”

  Heralt jabbed Cerryl in the ribs as Cerryl reseated himself. “You’re probably right, but Anya looks like she’d consider hiring the next mercenary archer to shoot you.”

  Cerryl refrained from answering that, just nodded at Heralt, then added, “I won’t say any more.”

  “Good idea.”

  “All that is fine in theory,” snorted Myral, wiping his bald pate with another of his gray cloths. “But I have yet to see something which will work. Nor did any of our predecessors. Do you honestly think, Jeslek, that previous councils have approved of the growing power of Recluce? Did they lose scores of ships and thousands of troops on purpose?”

  “Of course not.” Jeslek frowned, then smiled. “But, remember, the Blacks cannot use the winds now-even if they had a Creslin. What if we put more wizards on our ships?”

  “How many would that take?”

  “Not that many. That way, we could blockade Recluce. The Nordlans won’t make enough off the island to want to lose ships.” Jeslek’s face bore a smug look, the look of a man who has discovered a solution.

  In the third row the ponderous Esaak stood and offered a wide shrug. “That may be, Jeslek. Bring the Council a plan. For such an expenditure of coin, we should see a plan.”

  Cerryl shivered. Even for Esaak to ask Jeslek to justify himself to the Guild was risky indeed.

  Jeslek still smiled as he nodded. “I will indeed. In the interim, however, to protect our interests in Gallos, I will be dispatching the mage Eliasar with an honor guard of a thousand White Lancers to Gallos, in order to encourage the prefect Syrma to remit those revenues owed the Guild. I will be accompanying Eliasar.” The High Wizard smiled. Now, we
need to consider the selection of an overmage to fill the vacant position on the Council.“

  Anya smiled as well, her eyes on Esaak, but her smile was one for which Cerryl cared little.

  Are there any suggestions for a new overmage?“ asked Kinowin, stepping forward on the dais, ignoring the round of murmurs following Jeslek’s announcement.

  Cerryl wanted to shake his head. Jeslek was effectively announcing that, one way or another, he was going to ensure coins from Gallos, even if he had to use his chaos power to turn the city of Fernard into rubble. The so-called honor guard was large enough to protect Jeslek long enough for him to destroy Fenard, if need be. Cerryl was certain that the prefect Syrma would see it the same way.

  Kinowin waited for the whispers to die away before repeating his question. “Are there any suggestions for a new overmage?”

  Did Jeslek feel he had no choice? Were matters that bad? From what Cerryl could tell, part of the Guild’s problem lay in the basic structure of order and chaos-and the geography of the world. Recluce didn’t need as many armsmen as Fairhaven and the countries of Candar because it was an island and because the Black Order contained weather mages who could destroy the ships of any land that tried to invade the isle. So Recluce didn’t have to spend as many coins on armsmen. Likewise, Recluce simply exiled anyone who didn’t conform. On the other hand, the Brotherhood had to maintain highways and ships… and lancers and gate guards, and wizard envoys to the other lands of Candar.

  Still… he was missing something. There had to be a way to make it possible for the goods of Candar not to be costlier than those of other lands. There had to be a way.

  He laughed to himself. Why was he so worried? He was a Patrol mage, a very junior one, and no one was really going to listen to him, even if he did come up with a solution. Not right now, anyway.

  “What’s so amusing?” whispered Lyasa, sliding up to his seat, standing by the pillar to his left.

  “I was having great thoughts and then realized that it will be quite a few years before anyone will listen to such.”

  “Fewer than you think, the way things are headed.”

  “What do you mean?” he whispered.

  Lyasa shook her head. “Not now.”

  “The Council is asking for suggestions,” Kinowin stated even more loudly.

  “How about Disarj? He’s had a lot to say,” suggested Fydel.

  Disarj rose to his feet. “I lack the experience of, say, the honorable Fydel and so must decline. Perhaps Fydel should be considered.”

  “No one will want it,” murmured Lyasa. “They’ll have to choose between Kinowin and Jeslek on everything.”

  “I wouldn’t want to,” murmured Heralt.

  “You might be right,” Cerryl whispered back.

  “How about Esaak?”

  Cerryl didn’t see who asked the question, but Esaak stood more abruptly than Cerryl would have believed. “High Wizard Jeslek deserves someone with greater youth and vigor than these old bones can muster.” After a pause, he smiled. “Someone like the honorable Redark, who is young enough to provide strength, old enough to have caution, and deliberative enough to provide balance.” Esaak gestured toward the green-eyed and ginger-bearded Redark.

  Redark smiled, warmly.

  “That’s perfect,” hissed Lyasa. “He can’t decide what he wants to eat most days. He’ll do whatever Jeslek wants because he’s not smart enough to understand Kinowin and won’t admit it.”

  Cerryl looked at Lyasa quizzically.

  “Believe me. I know.”

  The bleak tone in the black-haired mage’s voice convinced Cerryl, as did the quiet and muted sighs that swept the chamber.

  “Are there any other suggestions?” asked Kinowin, turning to Jeslek.

  Jeslek offered the smallest of shrugs.

  “Since there are no other suggestions, and since the honorable Re-dark is a full and qualified member of the Guild, the Council accepts him as overmage.” Kinowin inclined his head to Jeslek.

  Is that blotch on Kinowin’s cheek more flushed? Cerryl wondered, admiring Kinowin for his poise in what had to be a strained situation, a very strained situation.

  Redark rose and stepped down the aisle toward the dais.

  “They threw him out of the Patrol, years ago,” Lyasa added.

  “How did you know that?” hissed Heralt.

  “Derka told me before he left for Hydolar.” She shook her head. “Some say he’s Jeslek’s cousin, but no one really knows.”

  Cerryl moistened his lips, his eyes on Anya, seeing the cold smile in profile-a very cold smile.

  XLII

  The thin dressing on his arm felt like it bulged even under the loose shirt. Cerryl glanced at his shoulder and the white tunic and shirt that revealed nothing, then studied the flat desk. Even though he’d been out an eight-day, the desk looked the same as ever-the two empty wooden boxes, the inkwell and quill stand, the lamp, and a stack of rough paper.

  Zubal peered into the duty room. “You all right now, ser?”

  “I’m fine,” he told the messenger. “I’ll spend a little time patrolling, with Nuryl, this morning, I think.”

  “Yes, ser.” Zubal bobbed his head and withdrew.

  After another look at the empty desk, Cerryl shifted his weight, put his white Patrol jacket back on, and then walked through the predawn gloom to the assembly room.

  “He’s back…”

  “…told you wouldn’t be long.”

  Cerryl beckoned to Nuryl.

  The area Patrol leader slipped away from his men and over to Cerryl. “You’re going with us, ser?” Nuryl’s eyes went to Cerryl’s shoulder.

  “It’s not as though I have to swing a blade,” Cerryl pointed out “Besides, you’re all out there every day.” He grinned.

  After a moment, Nuryl smiled back, then nodded, and returned to his men. “Let’s go.”

  Cerryl listened to the comments from Fystl’s and Sheffl’s men, the only groups that remained, as he walked out of the assembly room beside Nuryl.

  “… wouldn’t go out after taking a war arrow… not that soon.”

  “… why they get the coins…”

  “… told you he was a tough little bastard.”

  Somehow Cerryl didn’t think of himself as tough in the way someone like Eliasar was, or even as Kinowin must have been in his younger days, both men physically imposing and appearing able to break smaller figures in pieces. Even Jeslek was fairly imposing, at least compared to Cerryl.

  Outside, the streets were still damp with water from the storm of the previous night, glistening almost silver in the gray light just before dawn.

  XLIII

  Pat white flakes of snow drifted down, some sliding off Cerryl’s oil-polished white leather jacket, others melting when they struck the stones of the Avenue or the walkway. Cerryl glanced ahead and to the side, alert for anything unusual, his eyes and senses changing focus continually as he walked northward toward Leyladin’s.

  The Market Square was nearly deserted under the fall of fluffy snow, with but a handful of painted carts clustered in the center. As Cerryl turned westward just south of the square, he surveyed the wall from which he had been shot. The trees, with their shrunken and wizened gray winter leaves, now offered little cover. A thin layer of white covered grass and shrubs, but not stone roads, walkways, or tile roofs.

  He continued westward.

  A thin line of white smoke rose from the center chimney of Leyladin’s house, but the shutters remained open, the glass windows shut. Cerryl remained half-amazed at all the glass windows in Fairhaven- amazed and grateful that even the Halls of the Mages had them.

  Soaris opened the door. “How be the arm, ser mage?”

  “Much better, Soaris. Much better. I appreciated your handling of the carriage. I didn’t thank you at the time, but I trust you understand I wasn’t feeling as well as I might have.”

  “I understand, ser.” Not a trace of a smile crossed the houseman’s face
, though his eyes betrayed a slight twinkle as he stepped back and opened the door fully. “Lady Leyladin asked that you wait in the right-hand sitting room. Her healing duties at the Tower took somewhat longer than she had thought.”

  Following Soaris, Cerryl sat down in one of the velvet upholstered armchairs, the one facing the silver-framed picture on the inside wall. This time he had a chance to study the portrait of Leyladin’s mother. The smile was warmer than Cerryl remembered and the blonde hair longer and more golden than Leyladin’s reddish-tinted hair. The gold threads on the green vest had been carefully reproduced by the artist, so faithfully that even a loose thread near the side pocket showed. The woman’s blue eyes held the same common sense and wisdom as her daughter’s, but not the laughter.

  Had life somehow been hard for Leyladin’s mother? Harder than for the daughter? Cerryl wondered, his own eyes meeting those of the painting. After a moment, he looked away, reviewing the elegant furnishings-the settee, the other armchair, the matching cabinets of polished dark wood, and the low inlaid table before him. All were spotless, as if the room were never used-and almost as though it never had been.

  The scent in the room was that of Leyladin, light and flowery, with a hint of depth.

  After a time, at the sound of leather slippers on the marble of the hall, he turned and stood. “You look beautiful.”

  “I look tired.” A fleeting and crooked smile crossed her lips, erasing for an instant the darkness beneath her eyes.

  “You still look beautiful.”

  “You’re kind.” In silklike green shirt and trousers, with a heavier but sleeveless vest of purple wool, the healer sat on the green velvet settee and touched the place beside her. “Sit by me… please.”

  “Don’t look so serious,” he pleaded as he settled beside her.

  “I am serious. I can’t laugh all the time.”

  Cerryl waited.

  I know you care for me, Cerryl, and I care for you. We keep seeing each other, but we don’t say too much. We look like lovers to others, but we don’t talk like lovers.“