He moved slowly through the aisles and spaces between stalls and carts, grateful that the drizzle finally dribbled to an end, heading back toward the north side of the square, where those who sold more expensive wares located themselves, unlike the produce sellers, who congregated more on the south side. While he’d been recovering from the effects of the last battle, he’d thought about patrolling the market, and he’d realized that he’d often been looking in the wrong places. The reason the lightfingers were around the stalls that carried more expensive goods wasn’t because they wanted to take those goods. It was because that was where those with silvers and golds were most likely to be, and lifting wallets and golds was generally easier than boosting well-watched goods. Also, coins were far less identifiable, which meant that, unless the lifter was caught in the act, wallet in hand, proof of the theft was harder to establish.
Once he neared the tables with the more costly items, he dropped the concealment just so he could get a better impression of the people passing by, since he could only sense people as patterns of order and chaos when he was under a full concealment. Also, he had to admit, he wanted to see what might be available from the silks vendors. He could still recall the intense green shimmersilk scarf he’d once admired and had wanted to buy for Jessyla. He hadn’t been able to afford it, and probably still couldn’t, not and have enough coins to be able to pay Meldryn and meet other obligations with any certainty.
He pushed those thoughts aside and, as he moved toward the silks stall, kept sensing for trouble. As he passed a table with rings laid out on it, the man behind the table nodded politely. Beltur thought the vendor was the one who had almost lost a valuable ring to a trader’s daughter—who had later been released from detention with merely a reprimand. But at least the vendor had gotten the ring back, plus a gold in damages from the trader. Beltur doubted some of the others he and Laevoyt had caught had gotten off that easily, and were still in the workhouse and would be for seasons, if not years, possibly without a hand.
When he reached the silks stall, tended by the same older woman he recalled, he glanced across the array of scarves on display, looking for the one that had caught his eye before. He didn’t have to look far, because it caught his eye once more, with the way the colors shifted from pale seafoam green to a deep and rich sylvan green. He smiled as he thought, again, just how perfectly it would suit Jessyla.
“You’re still thinking about buying it for her?” asked the vendor with an amused smile.
“I am, but not today.”
“It won’t be here forever. She might not be, either, if you wait too long to show her how you feel.”
“It may not be here forever, that’s true, but it’s not exactly an inexpensive trifle.”
“I told you it was three silvers, just for you, almost a season ago. It still is.”
Once more, thinking about just how expensive shimmersilk was, Beltur studied the scarf. “She’s a healer.”
“She could wear it, then, whenever she wanted.”
You wouldn’t be where you are without Jessyla. “Thank you. You’re right. I’ll buy it.” Beltur eased three silvers and two coppers from his belt wallet and extended them to the vendor.
“I only said three,” she said.
“The silvers are for the scarf. The coppers are for the advice.”
As she eased the scarf off the polished wooden rack, she said, “I wish you and the healer the very best, ser.” Then she wrapped a small woolen cloth around the scarf and handed it to Beltur.
“Thank you.” Beltur paused, then asked, “Will you be here all winter?”
The woman shook her head. “Once the snows stick, you won’t see me until spring.”
“Then, if I don’t talk to you again, I wish you well.”
The vendor nodded.
Beltur slipped the wrapped scarf into the inside pocket in his tunic, then turned back toward the stalls and tables with the jewelry.
He was again nearing the man who had nodded to him when he sensed a flicker of chaos to his left. He turned to see a man perhaps ten years older than Beltur himself attired in a dark brown jacket and trousers with a waterproof folded over his arm. Something about the man, as well as a faint aura of chaos, bothered Beltur enough that he fixed his eyes on the other, coldly.
The man met Beltur’s gaze. “Have I done something to upset you, ser mage?”
Beltur managed what he hoped was a lazy smile. “Not yet. I do hope you don’t. For your sake, not mine.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
“You already have. Just don’t do it.”
Beltur could sense the other’s dismay by the swirling of order and chaos.
“I appreciate your solicitousness, ser mage.”
“You really don’t, but you should. Good day.” With that, Beltur drew a concealment around himself, but kept his senses fixed not only on the man in brown, but those around him. The other turned, slowly, seemed to scan the stall beside him, and then moved on. Beltur followed the other as he made his way toward the east side of the square, seemingly browsing as he did so.
Another figure approached the man Beltur had followed. “You weren’t gone that long.”
From the voice and the patterns of order and chaos, Beltur felt that the newcomer was a woman dressed as a young man.
“They’ve got a mage on duty. Young one, but he spotted me even before I got set up along the jewelry row.”
“How do you know that?”
“He made it clear, and he did it in a way that told everyone else around what he thought I was. Everyone was looking at me. We’ll have to try the other market square.”
“That’s a long walk, and the pickings aren’t as good.”
“There’s only one mage on duty on any day. If he’s here, he won’t be there.”
That wasn’t quite true, Beltur knew, because Osarus occasionally patrolled the squares, but it was largely so.
The two turned and walked northward on East Street, clearly headed for the square not all that far from where Jessyla and her mother lived with Margrena’s sister. Beltur couldn’t do much but let them go, since they hadn’t done anything, and might not. Not today, anyway.
He had mixed feelings about his encounter with the lightfinger, because if he’d just walked past and out of sight, then doubled back under a concealment, he might have been able to catch the man lifting something—and that would have brought him a token worth two silvers. Somehow, that felt wrong to Beltur, even though it was more than clear that the man was a lifter of some experience and likely would never change.
At ninth glass, according to the routine he and Laevoyt had set up eightdays and eightdays ago, Beltur made his way to the corner of Patrol and West, where Laevoyt was already waiting.
“You haven’t whistled for me yet. Losing your touch?” The tall patroller grinned.
“I did manage to scare a lightfinger away from the square.” Beltur went on to explain, briefly, what had happened, then said, “I know he was going to lift something, but I didn’t feel right about trailing him around.”
“I don’t know about that, but what if he’d been put there as a decoy for another lightfinger? You could have tailed him all morning, while the others were lifting. Osarus warns us about that every so often.”
Beltur nodded, then offered a crooked smile and asked, “So we’re really here to catch those who are less skilled?”
“Mostly. The most skillful lightfingers prey on the wealthy. It makes sense. Why risk spending a year or more in the workhouse, or even losing a hand, for a few coppers, or even a few silvers?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“You had enough to learn, and you were doing just fine. Better than a lot of mages much older.” Laevoyt gestured toward the square. “We need to get back to work. See you at first glass.”
“Until then.” Beltur stepped away from the tall patroller, raised a concealment, and headed back toward the tables and stalls with the more
expensive goods, wondering if he’d find more traces of the flickering chaos.
For whatever reason, he didn’t, and he made his way through the square, dropping the concealment as he went down the produce rows, which seemed largely to feature, unsurprisingly, either late-season crops, such as heavy apples, or root crops, although he did see some beans, but then he remembered that some growers planted beans for late harvests.
Despite the chill in the air, which had lessened somewhat as noon approached, Beltur was still thirsty as he made his way to the single ale cart, located, as always, halfway between the north and south sides of the square on West Street.
The clean-shaven and stocky Fosset watched as Beltur approached, then said cheerfully, “So you’re back from the fighting.” He took a small mug off the wooden rack. His black curly hair was still damp and plastered against his skull.
“They didn’t seem to want me any longer than they had to have me,” replied Beltur, taking out his loaf of bread. “I could really use a mug of your ale. The ale I got with the company I was assigned to wasn’t all that good.”
“That’s because the Council only buys the cheapest stuff.” Fosset filled the mug and handed it to Beltur, a single small mug on each Patrol day being the only free perquisite allowed to patrollers and mages working the market square.
“And your uncle isn’t about to brew something that bad?” Beltur took a mouthful of bread and followed it with a swallow of the ale, a smooth solid medium dark brew, better than most, and definitely welcome.
“Not for as little as he’d get for it.”
Beltur nodded. “Meldryn had that problem baking bread to supply to the troopers.”
“How’s he doing? I heard about Athaal. Didn’t seem right.”
“He’s still upset, but he’s keeping the bakery going. I help as I can. He and Athaal took me in when I fled Gallos and barely had a handful of coppers. I think I might have told you that.”
“Not my type, but they’re good people.”
“In that fashion, Athaal wasn’t mine, either, but neither had eyes for anyone else.”
“There’s a lot to be said for that. I should have followed that path sooner.” Fosset shook his head. “You consorted?”
“No.” Beltur smiled sheepishly. “There is a healer, though.”
“Good for you.”
“Fosset! Stop jawing and draw me a large one. Begging your pardon, ser mage,” added the short and stocky graybeard who approached the cart.
“I wouldn’t want to keep a man from slaking his thirst.” Beltur smiled politely. He thought he’d seen the older man before, probably asking for an ale from Fosset, but wasn’t entirely certain.
When Fosset turned to draw a large mug of ale, Beltur ate more of the bread, and then sipped more ale, trying to space it with the mouthfuls of bread. When he finished, he had to wait for several moments until Fosset finished with another customer before he returned the mug.
“Thank you. Much appreciated.”
“Any day, ser mage.”
Some time after meeting Laevoyt at the first glass of the afternoon and then returning to the square, Beltur made his way along the jewelry row again, once more not under a concealment.
“Why didn’t you take in that lightfinger?” asked the man who had nodded to Beltur earlier. “You made it pretty clear what he is.”
“He hadn’t done anything. I can’t have the City Patrol take someone in for what he’s thinking. I have to catch him in the act, the way I did with that ring that was switched on you.”
“You were that mage?” The vendor frowned.
“I was that mage. You got the ring back and a gold in damages.”
“That doesn’t happen all that often. I just thought … you were younger.” The vendor shook his head.
I was, in too many ways. “I was new to Elparta then.” Beltur smiled. “I suppose I still am.”
“Thank you. I got a good look at the lightfinger, anyway. So did several others. It might help.”
And it might not. “I hope so.” Beltur nodded and continued on.
Although Beltur varied being concealed and being visible, while he did occasionally sense flickers of chaos, the rest of his duty time was uneventful, and at fourth glass, he and Laevoyt walked back along Patrol Street toward headquarters.
“It didn’t seem as though there were as many shoppers or possible thieves around today.”
“There weren’t. It’ll be worse on sevenday. That’s if it doesn’t rain or snow.”
Beltur glanced northward, but the sky was clear.
“We’re getting to that time of year when northeasters are more frequent. Just hope you’re not on duty when one hits.”
“One hit during harvest. It was pitch dark.”
“That was a mild one.”
“Then I definitely don’t want to be on duty when one hits.”
Once they reached headquarters, Beltur signed out and said goodbye to Laevoyt, then hurried out and up Patrol Street to Bakers Lane, where he walked swiftly north until he reached the corner with Crossed Lane—and Meldryn’s house and bakery.
As he was about to open the door, he could sense someone else in the house, in the front parlor, in fact, where neither Meldryn nor Athaal ever sat unless they had company. Beltur paused, then nodded as he sensed the blackness that signified another mage or possibly a healer, although, if the other person happened to be a healer, it couldn’t be either Margrena or Jessyla, because Beltur would have recognized the order/chaos pattern of either. Since he was curious as well as wary, he completely shielded himself from another mage sensing him and then raised a concealment before easing the front door open just enough to slip inside before he closed it as quietly as possible.
Then he just stood there, listening.
“Cohndar and Waensyn insist he’s not a true black mage.” Meldryn’s voice was low. “He’s got strong shields, and the skill to handle the tiniest bits of order and chaos.”
“I understand that. Even Waensyn will grant that. His concern is that while Beltur may be a good man and a strong mage, he’s neither fish nor fowl.”
“Why is that a problem? He risked his life for all of us more than once.”
“Ah … you … and, well … Athaal as well … you’ve always tried to help people like some collect stray dogs. Beltur’s not a lapdog nor a guard dog. He’s a talented and well-meaning mongrel. Mongrels are unpredictable.”
“You sound like Cohndar.”
“I just don’t want to see the blacks here divided. We have enough trouble with the Council as it is.”
“So what does Cohndar want? To throw him out into the winter?”
“I don’t know. I know that Cohndar has met with most of the other blacks…”
“And they asked you to bring the matter to my attention.”
“It’s for his own good.”
“I like the way Cohndar and his friends are willing to define Beltur’s own good in a way that makes them comfortable.” Meldryn’s voice was wry. “I should think you’d be happy to have another strong black on our side.”
“I am. But I don’t want to see us split.”
“Why should Beltur be a problem? He’s never done anything—”
“Waensyn would disagree. He finds Beltur most arrogant.”
“Why? Because Beltur politely told him that he was full of sowshit? Because Beltur defended the man who raised him when he was orphaned? All that told me far more about Waensyn than I ever wanted to know.” While Meldryn’s voice was level, Beltur could sense the anger behind him, and likely the other mage could as well. “Or is it because the young healer prefers an honest, talented, and forthright young mage to a slimy snake like Waensyn?”
“Waensyn didn’t mention anything like that.”
“Talk to Margrena about it.”
“Talking to everyone would just do more to split us.”
“I didn’t say everyone. I said Margrena.”
“Waensyn claims she is als
o tainted because of her ties to the whites in Gallos.”
“She’s as black as black can be, and Beltur is black in the best of all possible ways,” said Meldryn firmly.
“Will you let me judge for myself?” replied the mage that Beltur could not identify.
“You will, anyway, I think.”
Beltur decided it was time to make an entrance. He eased open the door silently, then closed it firmly and loudly, dropping his concealment and chaos/order shield as he did. “Meldryn! I’m back!”
“I’m in the parlor,” Meldryn replied loudly.
Beltur hung the waterproof on one of the pegs behind the door and then walked to the archway on his left, which offered the entrance to the parlor from the hallway leading off the small front foyer.
Meldryn rose from his usual armchair and gestured to the older man in black seated on the settee. “Beltur, I don’t believe you’ve ever met Felsyn. Felsyn, this is Beltur.”
“I’ve heard a great deal about you, ser, but I’ve never had the pleasure.” The older mage didn’t look the way that Beltur had pictured him at all. He’d thought to see a wizened old man with tangled white hair, instead of a trim-looking older man with sparse but short-cut gray hair, a round face, and muddy brown eyes.
“I’ve seldom found that I’ve brought much pleasure to most other mages,” replied Felsyn without rising. “My tongue is too often sharper than my wits.”
“I’ve heard otherwise,” said Beltur. “I know Lhadoraak speaks most highly of you, and Athaal and Meldryn certainly respect your knowledge and understanding of magery. I’m certain there are others who do as well, but since I haven’t met them yet, I won’t try to speak for them.”
“Please sit down, both of you,” said Felsyn.
Beltur took the straight-backed chair and waited.
“I understand that your uncle was a white in Gallos.”
“Yes, ser. He raised me from the time I was nine. My mother and her family, all except my uncle, died of a flux when I was very small. My father died of the green flux when I was nine.”
“Were you ever a white?”
“My uncle tried to make me one. I wasn’t any good at it. I really didn’t learn how to be a mage until Margrena’s daughter made the comment that I was really a black. That only happened a few days before Arms-Mage Wyath and his men killed my uncle. He held them off so that I could escape. I didn’t want to leave him, but he insisted. He said that my mother would never forgive him if he let anything happen to me.” Beltur then described what had happened in the audience chamber in the adjoining room when six white mages and the archers with iron-tipped arrows had attacked the two of them.
Outcasts of Order Page 2
