The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Celinya frowned. “A mage without coins? How can that be?”

  “I had to leave Gallos in a hurry. Black mages … well, any mages who do not absolutely serve the Prefect are not welcome there. Some have been killed.”

  “But who would kill a mage?”

  “A powerful white mage and those who obey him and who want all mages to support the Prefect.”

  She shook her head. “You serve the Council, do you not? Should not the mages in Gallos serve the Prefect?”

  “The Council doesn’t tell mages to kill other mages or to help the armsmen attack other lands, does it?”

  Celinya’s eyes widened. “The Prefect does that?”

  “He’s gathering an army to attack either Spidlar or Gallos.”

  “The more fool he. Even chaos-mages cannot destroy the city walls.”

  Beltur hoped that was so. “That’s why I have few coins.”

  “Then you should come back again when you do. I’ll sew you a fine black tunic to go with those trousers you need.”

  “The trousers will have to come first.” Beltur smiled. “You’ll have these next sixday, you said?”

  “Sevenday would be better.”

  “After fourth glass, then. I have patrol duty on sevenday.”

  “I won’t be anywhere else.”

  Beltur extracted the silver and eight coppers and offered them to Celinya.

  The coins vanished into her hand, and then somewhere into the jacket she wore, despite the comparative warmth of the small room. “Thank you.”

  “My thanks to you.” Beltur turned toward the door, studying the seamstress. He didn’t sense any chaos around her leg or foot, and in fact there was a certain orderliness about her that reminded him of the order around healers, but then, he supposed that the best seamstresses were indeed orderly.

  Celinya opened the door.

  Beltur stepped out onto the street, the door closing behind him almost immediately. He continued west until he reached Bakers Lane and then headed north, happy that he’d be able to have a few more clothes so that he wouldn’t be washing what he had so often. He still had the slight headache, but some of Meldryn’s ale and bread would likely take care of that.

  XXXVI

  On sixday, Beltur left the smithy, walking swiftly because a stiff wind blew out of the east-northeast, and behind that wind was a line of dark clouds that looked like it might be the edge of a northeaster—or at least a heavy downpour. By the time he could see the southeast gate to Elparta, intermittent fat droplets of rain were beginning to pelt him, and the raindrops were falling even more heavily as he hurried through the city wall.

  He slowed for an instant, only to hear one of the guards shout, “Get a move on! No sheltering here!”

  While Beltur doubted the guard was shouting at him, he kept moving, deciding to take the wall street north, because he could see that at least some of the rain was being blocked, especially if he stayed on the side of the street beside the wall. He managed to cover another two blocks at not quite a run before the downpour turned into a deluge.

  He stopped as he saw a coach moving toward him and flattened his back against the wall, strengthening his shields—and getting a headache in the process, no doubt because of the heavy rain. Then, out of the side street ran a young woman, chased by two men, seemingly into the path of the carriage. The coachman managed to bring the horses up short, only to find one of the young men up beside him with a blade at his throat.

  The “young woman” discarded the dress, and he and the other man approached the coach doors, blades in hand. Beltur moved quickly toward the coach, putting a shield around the coachman that forced the blade away from his throat, and a second shield around the coach.

  The bravo beside the coachman tried to strike with his blade, a shortsword somewhat shorter than a sabre, but the blade skidded off the shield. By then, Beltur was beside the two-horse team.

  The two others attempted to reach for the coach door, but could not.

  Then the bravo on the coach caught sight of Beltur. “There’s a mage here!” He scrambled off the coach, and the three men disappeared into the rain.

  Once Beltur was certain the three were well out of sight, he dropped the protective shields and looked up to the coachman. “Are you all right?”

  “I am, thank the Rational Stars. You did something to keep that blade from my throat, didn’t you?”

  “I shielded you and the coach.”

  The coach door opened and an older woman peered out through the rain, while trying to avoid getting wet. Then she glared at Beltur. “Why didn’t you catch them?”

  “Because it took all I had to shield you and the coachman.” Beltur could see that the woman wasn’t the type who cared or understood that handling magery, especially three shields at once, was even more difficult in the rain.

  “And you let them get away because of that?” asked the fresh-faced young man, who peered out from beside the woman who was likely his mother. To Beltur, he looked to be barely old enough to wear the silk jacket and fine ruffled linen shirt.

  “Would you rather you or your coachman were stabbed and robbed?” asked Beltur, trying to keep his voice calm.

  “You’re a mage. You’re supposed to take care of ruffians like that.”

  “I did the best I could, and it saved you from being robbed or worse.”

  “You should have apprehended them. Disgraceful.” The woman raised her voice. “Pelhant! Drive on! If anyone else gets in front of you, run over them! Go!”

  The coach door shut.

  The coachman looked down at Beltur. “Thank you, ser.”

  “I’m glad I could help you.” Beltur managed not to emphasize the word “you,” although that was definitely the way he felt.

  As the coach eased away from him, Beltur studied the design on the coach door—an ornate “C” surrounded by a wreath of some sort. Then he massaged his forehead and resumed walking, trudging, it felt more like. By the time he reached the house, he was soaked through and shivering. Athaal actually hurried from the kitchen to meet him.

  “You need to get into dry clothes. I’ve got a fire in the kitchen hearth.” Athaal looked at Beltur. “Is something wrong?”

  “It might be. I’ll tell you as soon as I get into something dry.”

  Both Athaal and Meldryn were waiting in the kitchen, and there was a mug of hot spiced cider waiting at Beltur’s place at the table.

  “You can tell us while we eat,” suggested Athaal. “But drink some of the cider first.”

  Beltur was more than happy to follow Athaal’s suggestion, since his head still ached and he was still feeling a little chilled, despite the warmth from the low fire in the hearth.

  After several swallows, he began. “Everything was fine at Jorhan’s. We worked on some elaborate candelabra, and a pair of small daggers—waistcoat daggers, he called them. I left a little early because there wasn’t really anything I could do and because I could see the storm coming in. I was just inside the walls when the rain began to come down…” Beltur went on to relate exactly what happened and what he had done. “… and the coachman drove off, and I came home through the rain with a headache. It’s better now.”

  “Likely the combination of your not having eaten for a time and trying to hold shields in the rain,” said Meldryn. “Did you really put a shield around the whole coach?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve been practicing on my walks to and from the smithy, but so far, I can’t hold four shields for long. Well, I can hold three, but I can only hang on to the fourth one for just a very short time. And not at all in the rain.” That wasn’t quite true. He’d been afraid to even try. He also didn’t miss the quick glance Meldryn gave Athaal.

  After a moment, Athaal spoke again. “Do you know who the woman was?”

  “She never said. I didn’t ask. My head was almost splitting at that point. I did see the design on the coach door. It was a very elaborate ‘C’ surrounded by a wreath.”


  “I don’t know who that would be.” Athaal turned to his partner. “Do you have any idea?”

  “It might be Caalsyn or possibly Chaeltyn. They’re well-off enough for a coach. There must be others, but I wouldn’t know who. People that wealthy don’t come to the bakery themselves. They send their servants. Sometimes, the servants tell me who they’re buying for. Most times, they don’t.”

  “So even the wealthy who can afford their own cooks buy from you?”

  “Fewer than we’d like,” replied Meldryn, “but more than they’ll admit.”

  “Are there any mages who are wealthy?” asked Beltur.

  Meldryn laughed. “Not that I know of.”

  Beltur couldn’t help wondering why that might be so. “I’d think there might be a few.”

  The graying mage shook his head. “Those who become wealthy deal in goods or coins. You’ll never see a healer or a scrivener or a musician who’s wealthy. People who only earn by the work of their body or mind seldom if ever become rich. Mages are the same.”

  “We would not live half as well as we do,” added Athaal, “if Meldryn had not started the bakery.”

  “I had to,” added the older partner. “I’m not half the mage Athaal is.”

  “But now we have a house and eat very well.” Athaal smiled for a moment. “You’re on duty tomorrow at the main square, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “It might not hurt to tell the Patrol about the attack on the coach.”

  “And we ought to be getting on with supper,” added Meldryn, standing and moving toward the hearth and the small warming oven there.

  Outside, the rain continued to pelt down.

  XXXVII

  When Beltur arrived at City Patrol headquarters on sevenday, a day much cooler than those previous, although the sky was clear, and the air crisp, a different patroller manned the duty desk.

  “Mage Beltur?” The patroller pushed the duty book forward. “Sign in first. You need to see the Patrol Mage.”

  Beltur signed, then laid the pen on the blotter. “I also need to talk to someone about an attack last night.”

  “You can tell Mage Osarus. He wants to see you.” The patroller gestured to the door behind him. “Go on back. He’s in the first study on the left.”

  As Beltur opened the inner door, he wondered whether Osarus had already heard about the attack … or if there was another problem. He stepped into the empty corridor beyond, then closed the door, and made his way to the first door, where he knocked.

  “Come in.”

  Beltur eased the door open and entered, carefully closing it behind him.

  “You’re Beltur?” The man who rose from behind the table desk was of moderate height, with black hair slicked back, and pale blue eyes. He wore a black tunic and trousers, but the cuffs of the tunic were the same shade of blue as the uniforms of the patrollers, and he wore a large silver medallion similar to the one Beltur displayed. He also radiated enough order that Beltur scarcely felt like a black at all, although Beltur suspected that was more his feeling than what Osarus sensed.

  At least, Beltur hoped so. “Yes, ser.”

  “Please sit down.” Osarus seated himself and waited for Beltur to take the straight-backed chair in front of the table desk before continuing. “Laevoyt said you did an excellent job last fourday. Especially for a first patrol. It was your first, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “You’re from Fenard, I hear. Were you an armsman for the Prefect or a patroller there?”

  “No, ser.”

  “Were you a mage for the Prefect?”

  “No, ser. My uncle was hired to do things for the Prefect. I went with him on his last trip to Analeria.”

  “What was that about?”

  Beltur explained as briefly as he could.

  “I heard that the Prefect ordered your uncle killed.”

  Beltur explained that as well, including how he had come to Elparta.

  “Are you always this truthful?”

  “I suppose so. I try not to offer information unless it appears that it will be necessary.”

  “Do Athaal and Meldryn know all you have said here?”

  “They do.”

  Osarus nodded. “There is one other thing.”

  “Before that, ser … I’d tried to report something to the patroller at the desk, but he said to tell you. Late yesterday afternoon, just as the worst of the storm hit…” Beltur related the incident with the coach and the three men. “Athaal said I should report what happened as soon as I arrived here this morning.”

  Osarus smiled tightly. “That’s interesting, because that was what I was going to ask you, whether you were the mage involved, or whether you knew anything about the matter.”

  “Just what I told you. That’s all I know.”

  “The trader whose coach you encountered claims you were disrespectful to his wife and son. Were you?” Osarus’s deep voice was even, neither encouraging nor accusing.

  “No, ser. She yelled at me because I didn’t apprehend the three who tried to rob them. I told her I’d done the best I could. She said it was disgraceful and then she ordered her driver to go on … and to run down anyone who got in the way of the horses.”

  The Patrol Mage nodded. “I thought it might be something like that. How did you manage three shields in that deluge?”

  “With great difficulty. I had a headache for glasses afterward.”

  “Why didn’t you try to attack them?”

  Beltur thought he sensed a certain curiosity in the other mage’s voice, but he answered the only way he could. “With what, ser? I don’t know of any way to use order for an attack, except by using the shields as I did.”

  “Hmmmm … you said your uncle was a white. You didn’t think of trying to use chaos?”

  “He wanted me to do that, but I was never much good at it. I haven’t tried anything like that since I left Fenard.” Beltur paused, then added, “I don’t know if any white could have used chaos effectively in that rain.”

  “Probably not.” Osarus stood. “That’s all I wanted to know. You’d better get on with your day. Laevoyt is probably waiting for you. Don’t worry about Trader Chaeltyn. I’ll tell him everything’s taken care of. And it is. I talked to you. You did what you could. He’ll be happy.”

  “Thank you, ser.”

  “Thank you. If you hadn’t stopped those three, we’d have had a real problem. That sort of robbery can occur when it rains. Only those unable to get to shelter quickly or the wealthy in their coaches are on the streets.”

  Beltur inclined his head and then left the small study. He didn’t think it was a slip that Osarus had mentioned the trader’s name, almost in passing.

  Laevoyt was waiting beside the duty desk, where he had apparently been talking with the patroller. He straightened and smiled. “Ready to set out?”

  “I am.” Beltur let Laevoyt lead the way.

  “Care to tell me what the Patrol Mage wanted?” asked Laevoyt once the two were out on Patrol Street and walking toward the main market square.

  “I stopped a robbery last night, and the trader whose wife I saved complained that I was disrespectful because I couldn’t catch the attackers. All I did in the middle of a downpour was save her coachman from getting his throat slit and block the attackers from the coach. They ran off when they realized I was a mage.”

  “Do you know who the trader is?”

  “I didn’t. Patrol Mage Osarus let it slip that it was someone called Chaeltyn.”

  “He never lets anything slip.”

  “I didn’t think so. Do you know anything about Trader Chaeltyn?”

  “He’s one of the wealthiest factors in Elparta. Owns both a timber mill and a gristmill. He also has a lot of land across the river. Some of it’s timberland. Some he rents to tenant growers. He also owns the rendering yards, but he won’t talk about that. Rendering is where his father got started. Word is that he’s never forgotten t
hat. He doesn’t like anyone to mention it.”

  “Is he on the Council?”

  “He’d like to be, but he’s not. He’s got enough golds that the Council has to pretend to listen to him. Leastwise, that’s what’s said. Did you tell his wife your name?”

  “No. I never had the chance.”

  “That’s good. It could have been any mage.”

  “Why would he complain to Osarus? Because most mages have summonses to serve?”

  “Who else might know who it was?”

  Beltur nodded.

  When they neared the corner of Patrol and West Streets, Beltur asked, “Same pattern as on fourday?”

  “Make your way around so you’re seen, then start weaving in and out of the stalls. A glass from now, it’ll be really crowded.”

  To Beltur the square already looked crowded. He made sure his medallion was showing and that the whistle was where he could reach it. Then he nodded to Laevoyt and turned down West, while the patroller continued along Patrol Street.

  Beltur didn’t see Fosset during his first circuit of the square, and for a time after that he was slipping along the tables and stalls more to the east, because he’d sensed some slight chaos, but that had vanished before he could find anything. He suspected that it might have been a successful cutpurse, but it also could have been someone arguing with a vendor, since no one was yelling about a thief.

  Sometime before ninth glass, he did notice Fosset and his cart, and he stopped for a moment. “How are you this morning?”

  “Passable, Mage. Passable.” Fosset grinned. “Too early to be anything else.”

  “You said you would be the only one with ale for sale.”

  “You’d like to know why?”

  “I’m curious, but I’m not about to press.”

  “The Council only allows one, and it has to be someone who works for an established inn. My uncle owns an inn, and he’d like to keep me out of too much trouble. So he paid the fee to the Council.” Fosset shrugged.

  “The only inn I’ve seen is the Traders’ Rest.”

  “Then you’ve seen his place.”

  “No wonder your ale is good.”