Colors of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Look in the corner!”

  Whst! Whst! Whst!… Chaos flared across the room, in six quick flashes that centered on the guard first, then the traders around the table. The chaos flashed so quickly that there was not a single scream or exclamation.

  Cerryl felt the world twist around him, and for a time he just leaned against the wall gasping. When he looked up, his shields down, the center of the room remained a drifting pile of white ash.

  He walked heavily to the door and gently unlatched it, raising his blur screen as he stepped aside and let the door swing open. The pounding in his head bit through his skull like a disintegrating sawmill blade. He gritted his teeth and waited.

  “What happened?” One of the armsmen in the main room bolted to the open door. “Everything’s gone!”

  After the first rush to the door, Cerryl waited and eventually slipped through an opening, ignoring the exclamations from the disguised armsmen. Trying to hold his guts and the blur shield together, he walked slowly back along the main street and around the corner to where Lyasa and the lancers waited. He dropped the shield with relief, ignoring the few gasps.

  The lancer subofficer reined up beside Lyasa was a dark-haired and hard-faced woman-one of the few women subofficers in the lancers, Cerryl suspected. Beside Lyasa was Cerryl’s mount.

  “You’re all right?” asked the black-haired mage.

  “I’m fine.” Sort of… He swung up heavily into the saddle, trying to ignore the weakness in his legs, the pounding in his head, and the faint queasiness in his guts.

  “This is Subofficer Suzdyal. Mage Cerryl.” Lyasa raised her eyebrows. “Now what?”

  “They ought to have arms ready,” Cerryl said.

  “What did do you?”

  “Arms ready!” snapped Suzdyal. Blades and white-bronze lances glittered in the late-afternoon sun of the fading summer.

  “Let’s just say that the plotters all vanished.”

  “All five?”

  Cerryl offered a twisted smile. “That’s my one skill-removing people who are difficulties. I have to use it too much.”

  “I wish more leaders did,” said Suzdyal dryly. “You expecting a riot or something?”

  “No. Let’s ride down the side street to the public house.”

  As the formed-up lancers approached the public house, several of the disguised armsmen stopped on the street.

  “Armsmen, all right,” said Suzdyal. “Locals’d run and get cut down from behind. What’d you want us to do with them?”

  Cerryl looked at Lyasa, then looked at the five men standing before the sign of The Brown Boar. He raised his voice. “Let them go, unless they cause trouble. If they do, kill them.”

  One of the leather-clad armsmen started to open his mouth. The man next to him elbowed him in the gut and spoke. “He meant nothing, ser mage. We’ll be going peaceably.”

  “Good. Spidlar is going to stay peaceful, and people are going to start trading again-out in the open. Those who think otherwise won’t be around long.” Cerryl offered an icy smile but kept his eyes fixed on the men until they slowly began to walk down the street away from the lancers.

  Every so often one or another would glance back over a shoulder.

  Cerryl kept scanning the area, for anything that might cause problems, with both senses and sight, but could find nothing.

  When the shadowed street stood empty, silent, Suzdyal gave Cerryl a quick look. “They’ll tell the others.”

  “And?” Cerryl finally wiped the dampness off his forehead.

  “There won’t be so many eager the next time some fop flashes silvers before them.”

  Cerryl hoped not. “I think we can head back.”

  Suzdyal and Lyasa nodded.

  CLIII

  With Suzdyal’s lancers behind him and Lyasa beside him, Cerryl rode slowly around the square, glancing at the handful of people who moved from shop to shop. Three or four buildings remained shuttered, but most were open, despite the air of sullenness, almost of shock.

  The day was cooler than the hot late-summer days that had preceded it, with high hazy clouds and a warmish wind out of the south that brought a dryness to the city. Spidlaria wasn’t as bustling as it doubtless had been once, but people were going through the motions of buying and selling. Sooner or later, because sneaking around was exhausting, most would return to normal-except that there wasn’t enough trade.

  “They’re doing what you wanted,” Lyasa said, her voice dry. “They don’t like it much.”

  “They’ll get used to it,” answered Suzdyal. “They had to realize that Fairhaven was something different from Gallos or Certis.”

  “Because they always used trade as a weapon before?”

  The subofficer nodded, her eyes on three men at the corner of the square. “Those three. You might want to ask them a question or two, honored mages.”

  Cerryl’s eyes flicked to the hard-muscled trio as he guided his mount toward them, flanked by lancers with drawn blades. Cerryl looked into the tall and bearded man’s flat brown eyes. “You wouldn’t be from Certis, would you?”

  “No… ser.”

  Cerryl knew even Lyasa could feel that lie.

  “And you wouldn’t still be on the viscount’s payroll, would you?”

  The man’s eyes flickered to the two lances centered on him. “No… ser. Don’t know no viscount.”

  Cerryl smiled and looked to the second man, shorter and burly in stained gray battle leathers. “How about you? Did you come from Certis, too?”

  “No, ser.”

  Cerryl laughed. “You’re both lying. The viscount paid you to come here and help the old traders cause trouble. Most of them are dead. You keep this up, and you’ll be dead, too. Of course, if you want honest work, you could come to the headquarters and talk to Mage Lyasa. We’ll need some honest and experienced men as patrollers.”

  Abruptly he could sense something wrong, and he turned to see the crossbowman on the roof. Whhst! As the first charred figure fell, Cerryl wheeled the gelding and surveyed the square.

  Whhst! The second crossbowman tumbled from the side porch of the basket maker’s shop.

  Cerryl continued to scan the area, as did Lyasa.

  When Cerryl looked back at the two men, he had to concentrate to keep his legs from shaking. Both were pinned against the chandlery wall with lances against their chests. Several townspeople peered around the corner, watching, waiting for him to kill the disguised armsmen.

  “If… if there is one more attempt on anyone from Fairhaven,” Cerryl said loudly, and coldly, “your lives, if you are seen again, are forfeit. We are trying to heal Spidlaria, to put the city back to work. You, and your friends from Certis, seem more interested in destroying it. Is that because Certis fears the folk of Spidlar? I wonder.”

  Cerryl turned and nodded to Suzdyal. “Let them go. This time.”

  He could feel the eyes on him as he, Lyasa, and the lancer column rode away from the chandlery and then toward the square on the way back to his headquarters.

  “… White bastard…”

  … don’t cross him.“

  “Fair in his own way…”

  “Call destroying five factors fair… had to be him…”

  “Certis-he was certain on that.”

  “Lies… all lies…”

  “… don’t know about that… don’t know at all.”

  Cerryl cleared his throat and looked at Lyasa. “You think I was too easy?”

  “Maybe.”

  “No, begging your pardons, mages,” offered Suzdyal. “Killing the bowmen was fair. Killing a man on the square would have angered ‘em so they’d not think.”

  Cerryl hoped so, but he was hoping far too much. Among other things, he needed a trader, a good trader-like Layel. He pursed his lips. Well, Layel wouldn’t have much competition in Spidlaria.

  “You have an odd look on your face,” Lyasa observed.

  “I’m thinking about bringing in a trader-and giving him Reyl
erk’s establishment.”

  “Layel?”

  “Why not?”

  “You are a dangerous mage,” Lyasa said, almost straight-faced.

  “Can you think of anyone else?”

  “Not that the Guild-and you-could trust.” Lyasa paused, then added, “If he will do it, your redheaded friend will not be pleased.”

  “Because she’s Muneat’s niece, you mean?”

  “She’s very close to some of the traders, one in particular.”

  “And every other man with something to offer,” Cerryl added dryly.

  The black-haired mage laughed.

  Cerryl paused, realizing Lyasa knew more than he did. “Which one is she so close to?”

  Lyasa raised her eyebrows. “It’s only been said…”

  “I understand.”

  “The one who is father to her sister’s consort.”

  Cerryl nodded. Jiolt… again.

  After dismounting in the headquarters courtyard, Cerryl hurried back to the study and began to write. He needed a good trader-and one he could trust. Will Layel see it that way? Will he consider it worth his while?

  Who knew? All Cerryl could do was offer the opportunity.

  When he was finished, he had one of the guards summon Hiser.

  The blond captain inclined his head as he entered the study. “Yes, ser? I understand you had some trouble earlier. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

  Cerryl shook his head. “Subofficer Suzdyal handled it well, and you can’t do everything.”

  Hiser looked relieved.

  “I do have a small task I’d like to entrust you with.” Cerryl extended the small sealed scroll. “I need this to go to the factor Layel in Fairhaven. I do not wish Kalesin to be troubled with it.”

  “I imagine we could send it with our courier, ser.” Hiser grinned. “I can make sure it’s the last scroll he gets, as he’s leaving.”

  “That would be good. I’m hoping that the trader Layel might be able to help us settle Spidlaria. It would be better if none knew this.” Cerryl shrugged. “He might not wish to do so, and that could cause problems. Or he might, and that would cause other problems.”

  “I understand, ser.” Hiser paused. “I’m glad it was Suzdyal. Prytyr would have done well, also. The others… some I don’t know as well as I should.”

  “Others you do,” replied Cerryl. “I’m glad I got a good one.” He paused. “And thank you.”

  Hiser inclined his head, then turned.

  Cerryl looked at the stacks of paper and scrolls, then stood and stretched. He was hungry, and the papers would be there later.

  CLIV

  Cerryl closed the door of his study on his way to one of his frequent but irregular and unscheduled rides through Spidlaria. He hadn’t done a noon ride in a while, nor one in the rain. He hoped the headache that the light rain gave him wouldn’t get worse, but he couldn’t afford not to keep inspecting the city, and he couldn’t do it only in good weather.

  “Cerryl!” Lyasa’s voice carried an urgency as she marched toward him, her whites as spotless as ever, despite the early-fall rain that had come and gone all morning.

  “Yes?”

  “Suzdyal’s lancers caught a man running from the chandlery-the one where you made them sell their goods.”

  The way Lyasa spoke, Cerryl had the feeling he wasn’t going to like what came next. “And?”

  “The chandler-Tyldar-he said nothing was the matter, but he had blood on his apron and a freshly bound wound on his arm. He kept insisting that he’d cut his arm himself.”

  “He’s afraid to talk.” Cerryl sighed. “All right. Where’s the man who ran?”

  Lyasa smiled. “He and the chandler are in the reception hall-with lancer guards.”

  “You know me too well,” Cerryl complained.

  “Not as well as Leyladin, but well enough for this.”

  “Wait a moment. I need a list.” He turned back to the study.

  “A list?”

  “Of the larger traders still alive and in Spidlar. Kalesin’s effort, the one you cross-checked.”

  “You think one of them is behind this?”

  “If it happened to be planned… yes.” Cerryl opened the door and retrieved the list, then closed the door and nodded to the lancer guard.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be, Foyst. Don’t let anyone in-unless I send Mage Lyasa back.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  As they walked toward the reception/meeting hall that had once been a dining hall, Lyasa added, “I wouldn’t have thought of that so quickly. We don’t have a Patrol here. You’re really the only one with Patrol experience.”

  “We do need a Patrol, but it won’t work if Fairhaven supplies the patrollers.”

  “It won’t work if we don’t control it.”

  “We’ll talk after I see these two.”

  Outside the reception hall were a score of lancers. Cerryl raised his eyebrows.

  “I thought it better to be safe,” she answered.

  “I do hope it’s not that bad.” He opened the door and stepped inside to find another half-score of lancers, two with barred blades flanking the chair set behind a flat table.

  Cerryl took the chair and looked out across the empty table at the man the lancers had caught-burly, short-haired, and with a flatness to his eyes. While the arms mage was certain he hadn’t seen the man before, the accused peacebreaker was of the same type as the disguised armsmen hired by the five traders Cerryl had turned to ash.

  Lyasa eased up behind Cerryl’s left shoulder.

  “Would you care to give your name?” Cerryl didn’t care if the man did or not.

  “Rystryr.”

  Not too bright… a dear Certan name… “What were you doing at the chandlery?”

  “I wasn’t there.”

  “That’s your first lie,” Cerryl said quietly. “Did someone point out Tyldar-the chandler? Did someone point him out to you?”

  “I wasn’t there,” the man repeated.

  “That is your second lie. Was it a trader who paid you to harm the chandler?”

  Rystryr’s eyes flicked to the lancers with barred blades flanking Cerryl and to Lyasa. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Cerryl pulled out the list he had thrust into his belt. “Was it Nussal?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Querialt… Yurtal… Kestrisal…”

  Cerryl stopped and turned to Lyasa. “Go with Hiser or Suzdyal and a full company of lancers to bring in trader Kestrisal.” He beckoned her nearer and added in a low voice, “As soon as you have the trader, bind his hands immediately, and don’t let him put anything near his mouth.”

  “Yes, ser.” A grim smile appeared on Lyasa’s face as she straightened, then turned and left the reception hall.

  The color drained out of Tyldar’s face. Hystryr looked dumbly at Cerryl, his eyes avoiding the chandler.

  Cerryl smiled. “You don’t understand, do you? You’ve seen but a fragment of the power of the Guild.” His eyes went to Hystryr again. “While we’re waiting for trader Kestrisal, you can answer a few more questions.”

  The bravo straightened slightly. “I don’t know nothing.”

  “Were you promised gold by the viscount’s officers… ?

  “Did you do other… work… for Kestrisal… ?

  “For other traders… ?”

  Cerryl plodded through a long series of questions, the reactions of the bravo providing greater certainty that Rystryr had indeed been attempting to subvert the Guild’s hold on Spidlar, but the bravo showed no reaction to other names.

  As Cerryl questioned the bravo, the chandler’s expression varied between fear and horrified interest.

  Cerryl broke off the questions when the reception hall door opened. The bound trader who had to be Kestrisal struggled as the lancers set him on the stone tiles a good dozen cubits back from the table.

  Cerryl mustered the slightest chaos flame,
letting it elongate toward the angular trader. “I suggest you stand there quietly.”

  Kestrisal stiffened, and his goatee quivered.

  “This bravo from Certis has indicated-unwillingly, I must admit- that you directed him to harm the chandler Tyldar. Did you do this?”

  “Of course not,” sneered Kestrisal. “I’m scarcely that stupid.”

  “Like your tool… Hystryr”-Cerryl had to struggle for the bravo’s name-“you lie.”

  Kestrisal looked at Cerryl impassively.

  Cerryl looked at the list. “Did Querialt have anything to do with this?”

  There was neither answer nor reaction.

  “Yurtal?

  “Sieral?”

  Cerryl smiled. “Note the name of Sieral.” Behind him, Lyasa nodded, and Cerryl continued down the list.

  Although the trader refused even to speak, Cerryl could see the slow deflation of the man.

  Finally, Cerryl stopped the questioning of Kestrisal and turned to Lyasa. “See if you can find the other four and bring them here.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  As the black-haired mage left, Cerryl turned back to Kestrisal. “We might as well discover what else we can.”

  The factor’s eyes dropped.

  “Were you approached by agents of Viscount Rystryr of Certis?

  “… of the prefect of Gallos?

  “Were you promised the support of Certis for a new Council of Traders on which you would serve?

  “Were you given golds to continue to oppose the Guild…”

  Cerryl finally paused and had one of the lancers bring him water, so dry was his throat. He had barely resumed when the next trader appeared, also bound. Cerryl motioned for Kestrisal to be moved aside and began to question Sieral, repeating his questions, ignoring the growing headache the effort engendered, but nodding to himself as Sieral silently confirmed the pattern.

  With each of the two succeeding traders, neither of whom would speak, the arms mage continued his efforts. Finally, he stopped and cleared his throat. He was getting hoarse from all the unaccustomed talking.

  Cerryl studied the four bound traders, then the bravo, and finally the chandler, before his eyes went back to the bravo. “Hystryr, you are to be kept in chains until you can be sent back to Certis.”