The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Beltur managed not to wince. He’d heard that more than once.

  “After we eat, I’d like you to slip away in a fashion that doesn’t call attention to you when you conceal yourself. Then I’d like you to walk around and just look at things. See if you can sense anything about the women. Don’t get caught, either.”

  “What about me?” asked Sydon.

  “You’ll be with me, meeting with the council.”

  Sydon frowned.

  “If two mages are meeting with them, it conveys greater importance. It’s also less likely that anyone will be thinking about Beltur.” Kaerylt gestured. “The barracks are this way.” He led the two to an iron-banded heavy door set in the brick rear wall of the stable and along a short hallway, narrow and windowless, to a second iron-bound door.

  Both doors, Beltur noted, were designed with slots for triple bars on the back, and the bars were there as well, resting against the inner wall in slots in the brick floor. The walls also looked to be almost a yard thick, but the edges of the bricks were rounded, suggesting that they were anything but recent.

  “We have a room around that corner ahead.”

  As they passed a square archway, Kaerylt nodded. “That’s the mess—the dining hall where we’ll eat.”

  Beltur glanced through the archway. The chamber was oblong and contained two tables, one short and one long. There were chairs at the short table and benches at the longer one. He could smell spices and the scent of cooked meat, but not what kind.

  The sleeping room for the three was simple enough. There were three pallet beds, each set on square brick posts barely a third of a yard off the floor, which was the same as the stable floor. Two high windows too small for a man to crawl in or out of provided some light and air, and there was a bar for the door leaned against the wall in the corner. Pegs sticking out of the wall beside the end of each pallet bed were for clothing.

  “This is it?” asked Sydon.

  “It’s far better than the alternative, but you can try the way station if you wish,” suggested Kaerylt.

  Beltur concealed a smile. He waited for the others to pick their beds, then put his duffel on the one closest to the door.

  “There’s a fountain for washing in the small courtyard through the door at the end of the hall. You need to hurry if you want to wash up. I washed while you two dealt with the horses.”

  Dusty and sweaty as he felt, Beltur hurried in washing up as much as he could, then made his way to the dining hall, reaching it just after Sydon, who’d barely washed his hands and just splashed water on his face.

  Kaerylt and Pacek were already seated at the smaller table, and Sydon and Beltur joined them. The only items on the table were four earthenware mugs, four bowls, and four spoons.

  A tall and thin, almost gaunt-looking, white-haired woman walked from the kitchen carrying a large bowl to the table. She wore a high-necked but loose-fitting shirt with long sleeves over equally shapeless trousers. Both trousers and shirt were of the same faded blue as the councilor’s garments. When she set the bowl before the undercaptain, she did not speak, but merely nodded and then headed back to the kitchen, returning almost immediately with a large pitcher in one hand and a basket in the other, which she set on the table and which contained four loaves of flatbread. She set the pitcher on the table and then departed, again without speaking.

  A second woman, gray-haired, joined the first in serving the troopers at the longer table.

  “They don’t speak at all?” asked Kaerylt.

  “They never have when I’ve been here.” Pacek used the ladle that was in the large bowl to fill his smaller bowl. “The brown meat and sauce here, that’s a lamb chili,” said Pacek. “I’d take small mouthfuls with plenty of the bread. Otherwise, you’ll think you’re eating raw chaos.”

  “Rather fiery, I take it?” Kaerylt looked at the large bowl dubiously.

  “It’s their way of telling us that they’re dutiful subjects of the Prefect, but that they don’t have to like it. Or something like that. Also, go easy on the teekla.”

  “Teekla?” asked Sydon.

  “The drink in the pitcher. You might call it cactus ale, except it’s three times as strong.”

  Beltur let his chaos-order senses range over the food, but he could sense no actual chaos. After the others had served themselves, he ladled out a modest amount of the lamb and broke off a good chunk of the flatbread. He half filled the earthenware mug, then took a small mouthful of the lamb chili. For a moment, the chili didn’t seem all that spicy or hot—but only for a moment. An instant later, his mouth felt as though he had chewed on red-hot coals.

  He started to grab for the mug, then remembered what Pacek had said and jammed a chunk of bread in his mouth. It helped, but he could feel his entire head getting hot and feel sweat beading on his forehead. A second mouthful of bread helped more.

  Sydon grinned, then took a large mouthful of the chili. In moments, he was gulping the teekla.

  “The teekla doesn’t get rid of the burning,” said Pacek, after calmly taking another mouthful of the spicy lamb chili and following it with a modest bite from the chunk of flatbread he held. “Only the bread helps.”

  Sydon promptly stuffed a large hunk of bread in his mouth.

  Beltur noticed that his uncle took small mouthfuls of the stew with equally small morsels of the flatbread. He immediately followed that example and discovered that the chili, while spicy hot, was indeed tolerable. After a time, he asked the undercaptain, “Is everything here in the grasslands this heavily spiced?”

  “Chilies are a part of everything they cook, but here in Arrat, it’s about as hot as it gets.”

  “Are most of the hamlets fortified in some fashion?” asked Kaerylt.

  “Some are. Most aren’t.”

  “Do you know what makes the difference?” asked Beltur.

  Pacek shook his head. “The men don’t talk much, and they don’t answer questions, and the women don’t talk at all.”

  Beltur could see why he had a task after eating.

  “How many days’ ride to the next hamlet or town after Desanyt?” asked Sydon.

  “Depends on which way you go. East the road will eventually take you to Tellura. Hamlets about a day’s ride apart. No towns, though. South, it’s three days beyond Desanyt to Caanak. Southwest’ll only take you to Kasiera and then into the foothills on the way to the Westhorns.”

  It only seemed a few moments longer when Kaerylt looked to Sydon. “Finish up. We need to meet with the local council.” His eyes then went to Beltur. “You have chores to do while we’re gone. Don’t tarry here.”

  “No, ser. I’m almost finished.” That was actually true, Beltur realized as he looked down at his bowl. He took a last mouthful of the lamb chili, then ate the last of the bread, followed by a small swallow of teekla. As soon as Kaerylt and Sydon rose, he did as well, but headed back in the direction of the sleeping room. He continued past it, making his way through the pen archway to the courtyard that held the fountain, just a simple basin with a raised circular stone spout in the middle, from which water bubbled gently.

  Even without looking around, he knew he was the only one in the courtyard, yet he had the feeling he was being watched, although in the dim light of late twilight he couldn’t see anyone at the second-level windows on the north and south ends of the courtyard. In the middle of the west side of the courtyard was another square archway, beyond which was a covered portico leading toward a grove of what looked to be olive trees.

  He washed his hands and face again. The water did reduce the remaining feeling of burning in his lips.

  Where does the water go? He could see it flow from the spout into the basin, but the edges of the basin were dry, and so were the bricks.

  After several moments he discovered, using both his eyes and chaos-order senses, that the water drained through two openings in the basin into fired clay standpipes that had to connect to something under the bricks. He would have wagered that th
e water was being carried to the olive grove, but that was a guess.

  He slowly walked back to the archway and stepped back into the hall. He looked around. He could see no one, and he didn’t have the same feeling of being watched. He quickly raised a concealment. That wasn’t the hard part, but moving while holding one took great concentration, because a mage couldn’t see, unsurprisingly, since a concealment bent light around the mage. That meant he had to use order-chaos senses to discern where people and objects were, and he could only sense shapes through their order-chaos structure and flow. Kaerylt claimed to be able to read expressions. Beltur had his doubts about that, not that he was ever about to express such.

  He walked back toward the fountain, slowly and carefully, since the concealment didn’t block sound. Nor would it mask footprints in soft earth, sand, or dust. Moving past the fountain, he headed for the open archway on the far side of the courtyard and the covered portico beyond. When he reached the covered walkway that led toward the grove, he could feel the sand under his boots, and even hear the faint gritting against his soles, carefully as he was trying to move. The buildings on each side were some five yards from the walkway’s roof and pillars, and the space was bare ground.

  Beltur could vaguely feel people some distance ahead, but not within the thirty-some yards where his chaos-order senses were more accurate. The roof of the covered walkway ended roughly where the adjoining buildings ended as well, but the brick paving continued for several yards into the open space. Ahead was the grove of trees, and to each side of the grove there were other structures, although Beltur couldn’t determine much more than that.

  What he did sense were two people sitting on a bench in front of the trees. He moved closer, quietly, moving to one side as he did, still trying not to make any noise on the scattered sand that seemed to form a thin layer over hard-packed dirt or clay. Between what he heard and sensed, and from their general bent posture and the lower level of order and chaos in their bodies, Beltur thought it was likely that two older men sat on a bench, certainly not young men.

  “White mages came … with the soldiers.”

  “They come. They’ll be gone tomorrow.”

  “Salket says the young one is powerful.”

  “He should worry about the older one.”

  “Ha … the young always think strength lies in youth…”

  “The old white ones have learned stealth and treachery. Let Salket think what he will. They will find nothing here, and they will leave.”

  “There is nothing to find.”

  “I said that.”

  A long silence followed, and Beltur froze, wondering if either of the two had sensed or heard him.

  “There will be no winds until harvest.”

  “There seldom are.”

  After another silence, one of the men said, “Fharela is not the cook her mother was.”

  “She is too young…”

  Beltur eased away, heading toward the buildings beyond the south end of the grove. The grove was larger than he had thought, and he walked more than a hundred yards before it ended, although he could sense that it extended even farther to the west. The nearest structure, which might be a dwelling, although he wasn’t certain, was also to the west and seemed to be set some twenty yards back from the trees. Staying close to the edge of the grove, he kept moving, then froze in place as he sensed something coming in his direction from within the trees.

  After a moment, he released his breath. The chaos and order pattern had to be a cat, and the feline soon turned away, most likely repelled by the chaos-mist that clung to all white mages, even the smaller amounts that swirled around him. Beltur continued toward the dwelling. Two smaller figures faced each other, making motions in a pattern. As he heard the whisking sound and a muted impact, and then another whisk and no sound, he realized they were playing basket-catch, with the curved baskets affixed to leather gloves, and that both had to be boys.

  “… almost missed that one!”

  “Did not.”

  “Did so.”

  “Did not.”

  Beltur kept moving until he was past the two and then angled toward the open space between the two. He had almost reached the corner when someone stepped out of the house.

  “Boys … it’s time to come in.”

  From the chaos-order pattern, and the voice, Beltur was certain the speaker was a woman, most likely the boy’s mother. As he concentrated, he determined that she also wore the same shapeless clothes that the older serving women had worn.

  “It’s not dark yet…”

  “How come Mara couldn’t play?”

  “You know the rules. Besides, she’s too old to play with you.”

  “No one comes this way from the gates. Dakar said they were from Fenard, anyway, not from the south.”

  “Rules are rules. Would you like to explain that to the elders?”

  “No, Mother.”

  The two boys trudged into the dwelling.

  Beltur waited, but no one emerged. Finally, he moved on, carefully making his way to the next dwelling, where he eased around to the back, only to discover that a wall enclosed a rear garden or courtyard. He could hear voices, and he moved along the wall, and then back until he found the place where he could hear the best. Even so, it was hard to make out what was being said, partly because some of the words were muffled and partly because the speakers had an accent that made it hard for Beltur to understand. For a time, the words were about the wind and weather, and Beltur was thinking about moving on when he heard something that piqued his interest.

  “… worrisome … Prefect … sending mages … grasslands…”

  “… worry too much … southerners … never raid this far … don’t ever come north…”

  “… never have … lost so many…”

  “… lost scores … last time…”

  “… was then … way back…”

  “… mean they won’t … not if they’ve lost … women…”

  “… horse barbarians … need to treat … better…”

  “… like asking … sun not to shine … wind never … blow…”

  From there, the conversation turned to olives and dates, and Beltur moved on to the adjoining dwelling, which also had a walled rear courtyard. No one was there. He tried listening under several of the high narrow windows, but the voices inside were too indistinct for him to make out anything.

  He tried eavesdropping at three more dwellings. At the first house, no one appeared to be there—or awake. At the second, a man was berating his wife for something. Beltur thought it was for being too hard on their son, but he wasn’t sure. At the third, a couple talked on and on about the fact that the summer had been the driest in years and that the flow from the springs was lower than either could recall … and that it was all the fault of the black angels of the Westhorns.

  People must have been going to sleep or at least not talking at the next two houses, and Beltur headed back to the barracks. He encountered, at a distance, three more cats, but no dogs, which he puzzled over.

  It was pitch dark when Beltur finally returned to the barracks and the single room he shared with Kaerylt and Sydon, both of whom were sitting on the end of their pallet beds.

  “You took a long time,” observed Kaerylt. “What did you find out? Keep your voice down.”

  “Not much. That was why I was gone so long. All the houses are almost like small forts. They only have a single door in front, and the windows are narrow and high. They all have a rear garden or courtyard, but it’s surrounded by a wall. The women I saw or sensed all wore those shapeless garments. They do talk, but it’s hard to understand because of their accent. I didn’t see or sense any young women, but one mother said some things that suggested that girls and young women stay out of sight when strangers are around…” Beltur went on to relate the rest of what he had heard and observed—except for what the two older men had said. He kept that to himself, although he couldn’t have said why.


  “Eight dwellings … and you couldn’t get any closer? You couldn’t discover more than that?” There was a disgusted edge to Kaerylt’s voice.

  “Well … the fountain is drained to the olive grove, and there aren’t any dogs, and every door seems to be kept barred all the time unless someone’s coming in or going out. At least, while strangers are around.”

  “No one was walking around? No one?”

  “I only saw the two boys playing and two old men. They sat on a bench. They talked about the weather and the wind.”

  Kaerylt nodded slowly. “All that makes sense … in its own way.”

  “How can that make sense?” asked Sydon.

  “I would guess that Arrat is so well fortified because the grasslands raiders once attacked here, and no one has forgotten. They distrust all strangers. There are likely weapons in every dwelling. The raiders couldn’t ever take it again, and the cost to anyone else to take the hamlet would never be worth it.”

  “But the Prefect—” began Sydon.

  “It’s far cheaper and easier to pay for someone else to guard the water, and the council is likely glad to get the silvers for doing it.”

  “But…”

  “Sydon … don’t try my patience. Go to sleep. That will do you more good than anything. It will certainly benefit Beltur and me more as well.”

  Beltur slipped off his boots and stretched out on the pallet bed, far more comfortable than anywhere he’d slept since leaving Fenard. As he lay there, he wondered what Jessyla might be doing. Her comment about him being possibly a better black than a white still troubled him.

  VI

  Sevenday morning came early, but Beltur awoke more rested than he’d felt in days, perhaps because he’d slept well. Breakfast—an egg and lamb hash, seasoned with chilies, and accompanied by flatbread—was again served by older women, and all fourteen riders were outside the gates of Arrat well before sunrise, heading south into what looked to be endless grasslands.