The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Athaal?”

  “He’s a black from Elparta. A friend of Mother’s.” Jessyla lifted two bags of burnet from the shelf. “If you’d open the outer storeroom door all the way.”

  “I can do that.” Beltur did so, stepping back.

  He felt useless in watching as she made four trips to the front entry, and then returned.

  “You want me to close the inner door, I take it?” she asked with an indulgent smile.

  “I would appreciate it, thank you.”

  Once she had done so, he closed and locked the outer door, then eased the chaos back into the lock.

  “That’s a rather nasty precaution,” she observed.

  “It was my uncle’s idea, and it is his house.”

  “Are all the doors trapped that way?”

  For a moment, Beltur debated not answering, except he realized that she and her mother could sense the chaos anyway, assuming even that they had any reason to enter the house. “Just the storeroom doors. What Uncle has done in his own chambers, I have no idea.”

  The two walked back to the entry hall, where Beltur eased the front door ajar and looked out onto Nothing Lane. No sign of either a man or a cart. “How far does your mother’s man have to come?” He turned to face Jessyla.

  “A little over eleven blocks. We live in the northeast.”

  “The black corner.” Not really poor, but close.

  “It’s not really black. It’s just that there aren’t any whites or much chaos there.”

  “There aren’t that many near here, either. Most live in the southwest.” He paused, uncertain what to say, but not wanting to seem distant. “How long have you been an apprentice?”

  “Too long. It won’t be long before I’m a full healer, though.”

  “According to the senior healers?”

  “Three of them have to agree. Mother can’t be one of them. What about white mages?”

  “There’s a set of tests. If you can do them, you’re a mage. Two other mages have to witness the tests.”

  “And not your uncle?”

  “No. He wouldn’t count … although he’s harder on me than the examiners were.”

  “Mother’s the same way.” After a moment, she asked, “Why does your uncle deal with herbs he can’t use?”

  “It’s a way to make coins.” Beltur knew because he’d asked the same question.

  Jessyla frowned, then nodded. “That makes sense.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Because most of those who would pay for a white mage’s services would want them more for things like battle magery. Mother said that your uncle decided not to avoid that. So he’d have to do other things. What else do you do? She never said.”

  “Sometimes the Prefect pays him to do things. We also use chaos to clean out places that need it, barns and stables, mostly. That’s after they move out things that could burn. Chaos-fire gets rid of vermin. Sometimes, Uncle will help a healer.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous for the person who’s ill?”

  “I suppose so, but they don’t ask him unless they think the person will die if he doesn’t do something.”

  “Destroy wound chaos with chaos?” Jessyla’s expression wasn’t quite one of revulsion.

  “Sometimes, it works. Sometimes, it doesn’t. It’s not something I’ve ever done.” And I hope I never have to.

  Abruptly, Jessyla looked past Beltur. “Here comes Bardek.”

  Beltur turned to look out the partly open door. A slightly stooped graybeard pulled a small handcart down the lane, bringing it to a stop opposite the front door. Beltur opened the door wide and stood back as Jessyla carried the bags of burnet from the entry hall to the cart, crossing the two-yard distance and back four times, before returning to the door a fifth time.

  “Thank you. I enjoyed talking to you.”

  “You’re welcome. So did I.”

  Jessyla’s brief smile was pleasant, but nothing more … and brief, before she turned and hurried back to the handcart.

  Beltur watched from the doorway as Jessyla walked northward on the lane beside the cart. He wished that Margrena’s man had taken longer.

  III

  Between thoughts of what Kaerylt might expect of him and Jessyla’s almost offhand comment that he wasn’t really a white, Beltur didn’t sleep all that well on twoday night. He even had a nightmare where Kaerylt was telling him that he’d never be more than a fifth-rate chaos-mage. He awakened early, just after the first graying of dawn. After he washed up and dressed, he took a quick look in the small mirror. He hadn’t changed—the same muddy brown hair and hazel eyes, and the same pug nose. With a wry smile, he headed downstairs and was eating what breakfast there was—mostly stale bread and hard white cheese, washed down with some flat ale—when Sydon joined him.

  “You’re up early.”

  His mouth full, Beltur just nodded as Sydon sat down and cut a wedge out of what remained of the round of cheese.

  Moments later, Kaerylt appeared. “Finish up. The troopers will be here before long. We need to be out of Fenard before sunrise.”

  “You didn’t say anything about that,” mumbled Sydon.

  “I did. You weren’t listening.” Kaerylt sat down, took the remainder of the loaf of bread, and sliced off a small wedge of cheese. “The Prefect doesn’t want everyone knowing he’s sending three white wizards south.”

  “We could have left earlier,” offered Beltur.

  “If we left before dawn, that would be unusual enough that the other troopers here in Fenard would have it all over the city even before we departed. The Prefect would prefer not to have it known that he’s sending white mages to deal with the Analerians. This way, we’re just leaving early enough to make good time before the day gets too hot.”

  Beltur could see that. He swallowed the last of the ale in his mug, then stood. He would have preferred amber ale, but Kaerylt liked the dark chewy brew and wasn’t about to indulge Beltur’s preferences. Beltur had few enough coins that he wasn’t about to spend them on ale when he didn’t have to. A brew with more bitterness than he liked paid for by his uncle was preferable to spending coppers he generally had to hoard.

  “Bring your gear down to the foyer first, Beltur. You can clean up things after that. And don’t forget to sweep up as well.”

  “Yes, ser.” He picked up his mug and set it on the wash table, then made his way up to his room.

  Once there, he checked what he had packed, then put on the battered visor cap that Kaerylt had provided, most likely a castoff from a trooper, and without any insignia, then lifted the duffel and carried it down the stairs to the entry hall, where he waited until Kaerylt and Sydon left the kitchen. Then he washed the mugs and put them away, and packed what was left of the cheese round as well as the hardtack crackers into a cloth bag that he carried out to the entry hall. He wiped off the table and swept the floor … carefully.

  Then he waited for a good quarter glass for Kaerylt and Sydon to return, which they did just about the time that ten troopers and an undercaptain reined up outside on Nothing Lane. All wore faded grays. The rankers immediately lined up the three spare mounts, one beside the undercaptain and two behind him and in front of the rest of the squad, formed up two abreast. Beltur waited until Kaerylt picked one of the spare mounts, then took the one of the two remaining and immediately looked over at the way the troopers had fastened their gear before strapping his duffel—and his impromptu food sack—behind the saddle. He mounted the horse cautiously … and more than a little awkwardly.

  Immediately, Sydon appeared. “I wanted that horse.”

  “You didn’t say so,” replied Beltur. “I’ve already strapped my gear in place.”

  “Just take the other mount, Sydon,” ordered Kaerylt. “If you’re going to dally around, you don’t get choices.”

  Beltur had been half counting on that. His uncle hated anyone else to delay anything.

  “Are you ready, Mage?” the undercaptain asked Kaerylt
as soon as Sydon was in the saddle.

  “We’re ready, Undercaptain.”

  Without another word, the junior officer flicked the reins of his mount.

  Beltur tried the same thing. Nothing happened. So he tried to apply his boot heels to the horse’s flanks. That was more difficult than it looked, but he managed, at least enough so that when he flicked the reins again, the horse moved.

  Nothing Lane was deserted, although a few peddlers were already setting up in the Great Square. Not a one even looked up as the troopers and mages rode past.

  Obviously, they’ve seen early riders before.

  Even the guards at the city gates paid them little attention.

  Once outside the inner gates, Beltur could see more than a few people already in the fields, and by the time he rode through the outer gates, there were even more people in the fields, although he couldn’t really see what most were doing because anyone who saw the soldiers quietly moved farther away from the road.

  That didn’t change even when they were several kays away from Fenard.

  By midmorning, Beltur, Kaerylt, Sydon, and the half squad of the Prefect’s troopers were a good ten kays south of Fenard on the main road south to Kyphrien, a road wide enough for the three mages to ride abreast, with Kaerylt in the middle, although Beltur knew that in several days, they would have to take another road that headed more to the southwest … and through the rolling hills that separated the flatter plains to the south and west of Fenard from the grasslands that comprised most of Analeria. A single ranker rode beside the undercaptain.

  The greenish-blue sky was clear, and the white sun of late summer beat down on the riders. Sweat oozed from under the visored riding cap that Beltur wore and down his forehead. He had thought to bring a kerchief, but it was already soaked from blotting away the sweat.

  Beltur had refrained from asking his uncle anything earlier, given how short Kaerylt had been, but after another glass of quiet riding, he finally spoke. “You haven’t said much about what we’re going to do … or how we might proceed, ser.”

  “You know, Beltur, you sound like a black mage, wanting a nice neat plan to follow with everything lined up in columns like a trader’s bookkeeper. I’d like that, too, except it doesn’t work that way. First, we don’t even know which villages and hamlets have the biggest problem. We have orders to proceed to the nearest hamlet with a problem and work from there. We only know that the arms-commander in Kyphrien has reported a problem in conscripting Analerians and that he believes the problem is somehow connected to ungrateful women abandoning their consorts and fleeing to the bitches of Westwind. We need to find out if both of those reports are true before we can do much of anything.”

  “You don’t think the reports are accurate?”

  “I’m sure that the arms-commander believes what he has been told.”

  “Oh…”

  “Exactly.” Kaerylt’s tone suggested quite definitely that any discussion of details would have to wait, either until they knew more or until they were well away from the hard-faced Undercaptain Pacek, who rode several yards ahead of them.

  Not knowing what else he could ask, but feeling that their conversation should continue for at least a little while, Beltur looked to his uncle again. “What do you know about Jessyla?”

  Kaerylt didn’t turn in the saddle to look at Beltur. “Not much.”

  “She’s an apprentice healer. She says it won’t be long before she’s a full healer.”

  “That’s not surprising. Her mother’s almost strong enough to be a black mage.”

  “What about her father?”

  “Margrena never said anything about her daughter’s father. In fact, I often wondered if she just seduced a likely fellow. With blacks and healers, you never know.”

  “Jessyla mentioned a black mage by the name of Athaal. She said he was a friend of her mother’s from Elparta.”

  “He wouldn’t be her father. He’s a lot younger than Margrena, doesn’t look to be really that much older than you. Decent sort, as blacks go. Doesn’t put on airs the way some do here in Fenard.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “I’d rather not say. I’d just say that there might be three blacks left here, and there’s not much difference between them.”

  “What about the ones from Sarronnyn?”

  “I have no idea. I’d venture there are more there, given that the marshals of Westwind don’t much care for mages of any sort. The first marshal drove out the black mage who gave her victory and a daughter … and then she drove out the woman who became the first Tyrant of Sarronnyn, except it was called Lornth then. You should know that. It’s in The Book of Ayrlyn.”

  “Ah … ser, it just says that Ryba dispatched Saryn to bolster the regent of Lornth.”

  “You have to read more than the words, Beltur. Saryn the Black had to have been more powerful than Ryba. She trained all the Westwind Guards. As soon as Ryba could, she sent Saryn off. Most likely she just thought that Saryn would do enough to weaken the rebel lords and get killed in doing it. That would have done two things at once—gotten rid of a rival and left Lornth weak for a generation or two.”

  “It didn’t work out that way,” said Beltur mildly, hoping to draw Kaerylt out, since it would make the time pass, and he might learn something new.

  “No, it didn’t. Instead, Candar has two lands ruled by women, and the black bitches of Sarronnyn may be even worse than Westwind. That’s the problem with relying on scheming. It often doesn’t work out as planned. Force is always surer.”

  “It kills more people, though.”

  “Everything a ruler does kills some people and rewards others. If he makes laws and enforces them, people die because they break them. Someone will always break the laws. If he doesn’t make laws, other people die because the strongest will use force on the weakest.”

  Beltur knew that all too well just in living with his uncle. “How much do the Sarronnese scheme?”

  “Do mountain cats have claws? Do traitor birds call attention to anything that hides?”

  “That’s because they want to scavenge what the cats kill,” Beltur pointed out.

  “The Tyrant of Sarronnyn is the same way. She’ll point out things to the Suthyans or to the Prefect, even to the Marshal, just hoping to scavenge something before matters settle down. That’s the way the Tyrants have always been.”

  “The first Tyrant didn’t scheme, not according to the book.”

  “She couldn’t. Times have changed.”

  “I know why you don’t care for the Marshal, but you’ve never said much about the Tyrant.”

  “There’s not much to say. She’s likely even less trustworthy than the Marshal.” Kaerylt cleared his throat. “Enough of that sort of talk. Thinking about either for long gives me a headache.” Kaerylt paused, then added, “Forget about Margrena’s daughter. If you want to lose what little ability you do have, Beltur, just get involved with a black. Even a healer will leach the chaos right out of you.”

  At those words, Sydon laughed softly.

  “She’d likely do worse to you, Sydon. Where women go, you’ve got even less sense than Beltur.”

  Sydon swallowed.

  Beltur managed not to grin.

  IV

  The remainder of threeday consisted of riding two glasses, stopping, resting, watering mounts, riding, stopping, resting, and riding. They rode through or past hamlet after hamlet, but only one place that might even have been called a village. That night they stayed at a way station, little more than four stone walls with a gate, and a small building with a large hearth, which, given the heat, no one wanted to use to fix a meal. Beltur had to ask one of the troopers for help in unsaddling and grooming his horse, but he watched carefully.

  Fourday was much the same, except for the brief cloudburst that soaked everyone and then made the ride even hotter and muggier … and, for Beltur, made grooming his mount even more difficult and sweaty a process.

  A glass
after noon on fiveday, the undercaptain called a halt on a low rise from which Beltur could see east to where the road they had been following split, with the wider road heading southeast toward a line of trees beyond the fields, pastures, and woodlots and the narrower road continuing due south toward a long ridge that appeared to be rocky and sparsely dotted with low pine trees. Beltur blotted his forehead and waited, grateful for the first wind he’d felt in days, warm as it was, that wafted across him from the southwest.

  The undercaptain turned in the saddle and addressed Kaerylt. “Beyond that ridge is where the grasslands start. Right now, there’s not much grass there. It looks like straw this time of year. Most years, anyway. There’s another way station there, with a spring. Unless we run into trouble, we should make it before dark.”

  “Are there any towns close to the way station?”

  “No. For the next day from the way station, there’s very little but grass. Not much water at this time of year, either.”

  While the two talked, Beltur listened, but he also studied the slope down to the fork in the road, noticing that the grasses of the ground between the diverging roads appeared to have been trampled rather than just wind-blown, yet there had been no tracks to speak of on the road they had just traveled.

  Before long, they were again riding, this time down a long slope toward the fork in the road. As they neared it, Undercaptain Pacek said, “Riders headed southwest, not all that long ago.”

  “Then they must have come from the other road,” suggested Kaerylt. “Why would they come this far and then go back? Why not cut across the space between the two roads somewhere?”

  “There’s a dry wash that begins in another kay or so. Turns into a canyon and separates the grasslands from the better lands. Goes on for some thirty kays. Even the bottom is so rough that it’s easy to have a mount break a leg.”

  Beltur nodded to himself.

  Some five glasses later, as the sun hung just above the ridge they had crossed, Beltur could make out the walls of another way station ahead on the left side of the dusty road. Although he could easily see the tracks of the previous riders, he’d never glimpsed anyone or even seen dust rising from the road that seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance.