The Mongrel Mage

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “He does at that. I’ll miss it.”

  “You’ll have to leave here?”

  Athaal shrugged. “Who knows? It’s likely to be a day or so before I find out more. The command group will remain in Elparta until the marshal learns where the Gallosians are.”

  “They won’t take the river?”

  “Some of their force might, but most will take the old trading road, and that follows the west side of the river. What the marshal does will depend on where the Gallosians form up.”

  “What if they just attack the west river tower?”

  “So that we can’t stop any trading boat that refuses to stop and pay tariffs? That’s the same as attacking Elparta. In the end, it would end up as a part of Gallos.”

  “Wasn’t it once, long ago?”

  “Not in hundreds of years, and that wasn’t for very long. That was why the Council back then built the walls and towers, so it couldn’t happen again. If it did … with Wyath as the Prefect’s arms-mage, we’d all have to flee.”

  Beltur took a mouthful of the ham and eggs, then followed it with a swallow of ale. “I’d rather not do that twice.”

  “We’d rather not do it once,” said Athaal dryly. “It’s taken years for us to become comfortable here, and to start over somewhere else…” He shook his head. “It would be even harder to stop the Gallosians if they took Elparta. They might end up holding all of the river.”

  Beltur was still mulling over what the other two had said when he left the house. Outside, the morning was cooler than previous mornings, if not much, but a reminder that fall was approaching. Along with the Prefect and his forces.

  His concern must have carried him along, because he found himself walking faster from the northeast city gate to the smithy, and he arrived there much earlier than he usually did.

  “Good thing you’re here early,” announced Jorhan. “Today, we’re going to cast a straight-sword. I’ve been working on the mold, and it’s being heated right now.”

  “A straight-sword?”

  “Double-edged all the way, five digits or so longer than a sabre. Shorter than a bastard blade, but longer than a shortsword. Don’t know what to call it other than a straight-sword.”

  “You’re making it special, then?”

  Jorhan nodded, then said, “Don’t ask me who wants it. I don’t know. Well, I do. It’s for a trader from Axalt who has a commission from someone in Certis to find a straight cupridium blade of that length with both edges sharp. He’s been looking for over a year.”

  “Whoever it was really wanted an ancient blade, then.”

  “The trader says not. Said it could be old or new. It just has to be cupridium. With no iron anywhere.”

  That sounds like a white mage or wizard. But one in Certis? Beltur managed not to frown. “I hope you’re getting a good price for it.”

  “We have to deliver it, first. He’s agreed to what I told him it would cost. I’ve dealt with him before.” The smith paused. “It’ll take more of the melt than you’ve seen before.”

  “How much more?” asked Beltur as he hung his worn tunic on the peg by the smithy door.

  “A fourth part more, I’ve figured.”

  “That should be all right. Is it any thicker? Or just longer?”

  “A shade thicker through the tang and the base of the blade. Just as well you weren’t here yesterday. It took me all day to get it right. Well … to get two of them right.”

  “Two?”

  “Just in case. Always better that way. I can save it if the first one goes right, but the first time you try something new…”

  Beltur laughed softly, shaking his head and recalling how many attempts it had taken just to get the feel of cupridium, even before trying to cast those first sabres.

  Needless to say, glasses later, when the blade came out of the mold, Beltur was shaking his head again, not humorously. “It’s going to be too soft.”

  “We’ll see.”

  After the blade had cooled enough for Jorhan to work it, and the hammer came down on the metal, he looked up at Beltur. “You were right. Think we can do better with the next mold?”

  “I think so. I hope so. I thought I’d worked out just how much order and chaos with the extra metal … but it’s a matter of feel.”

  “Aye,” replied Jorhan, his voice rueful, “like all smithing. Can’t say I hadn’t hoped.” He paused. “Can we rework this? The way you did with the others that got spoiled?”

  “There’s more metal there, but once you heat it, I can pull out the order and chaos, and we’ll have close to the basic bronze for cupridium.”

  The second blade was better, but not up to what either Jorhan or Beltur wanted, and by that time, it was well past fourth glass.

  “Tomorrow will be better,” Jorhan said as Beltur reached for his tunic. “We’ll get it right. We have before.”

  The only question is how long it will take. But Beltur just said, “I’ll be here early.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  As he began the walk back to the city, Beltur couldn’t help wondering why such a change in the amount of basic bronze had made it so much harder for him to gauge the amount and placement of the order-linked chaos nodes necessary to get the right “feel” of the alloy. He’d added more than a fourth part more, and it had felt right when the melt had been in the mold, but some of that order had “leaked” away in the cooling process.

  Could it be that with more metal you’ll need to hold the pattern longer because there’s more chaos heat?

  That was very possible. More than possible.

  He kept walking, deciding to practice multiple shield containments, at least as long as he could … or until he reached the northeast gate.

  XLIII

  The first part of sixday at the smithy was all too much like fiveday, beginning with another unsuccessful forging, this time of a blade too hard to be worked, but by the end of the day Beltur and Jorhan finally had a straight-sword that was of the same quality cupridium as the sabres they had forged earlier. More important, Beltur had learned more about the integration of his order-chaos web-nets into the molten bronze. He also left with four more silvers.

  The effort he’d put into forging on sixday had left him so tired that he went to bed earlier … and still overslept slightly on sevenday morning. So he had to rush to wash, get dressed, and eat … and then still hurry to Patrol headquarters.

  He arrived there just as Laevoyt did and signed the duty book right after the patroller. The two walked outside together.

  “You said I ought to disappear from sight before we neared the square,” Beltur said.

  “That’s a good idea, even if I suggested it. We’ll meet at ninth glass on the corner, then?”

  “If we haven’t caught anyone, I’ll be there,” replied Beltur, “but you won’t see me. Wait a few moments, just in case I get delayed.”

  “I won’t see you…”

  “You’ll still be able to hear me.” With those words, Beltur raised a concealment. “Just as you can now.”

  “I don’t think another mage has done that.”

  Why not? “Probably because they didn’t want to call attention to their being able to be near you and not seen. We can still be heard and seen … and have people run into us.” Or our shields.

  Laevoyt resumed walking. “It’s still strange.” He kept his voice low, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear him talking, as if he were speaking to himself.

  Belatedly, as he walked beside the tall patroller, Beltur eased out the medallion and whistle. The medallion needed to be obvious if he seemed to appear, and he needed the whistle handy. “I’ll head down West Street and then into the middle of the square. We’ll see what happens.” If anything.

  After splitting away from Laevoyt, Beltur moved slowly south along West Street at the edge of the square before moving into rows of vendors, listening, then stopping to catch some interesting words.

  “… goes the patroller…” />
  “… like every threeday lately … no mage … need to keep a close watch on the stall…”

  “… be better if there was a mage every day…”

  “… Council doesn’t like to spend more coins than it has to…”

  “… and we suffer…”

  A brief smile crossed Beltur’s unseen face as he resumed moving toward the middle of the square. While he could sense flickers of chaos, a good glass passed without incident. On his previous patrols, when there had been problems, they’d occurred around midday, and he had the feeling that was almost a pattern. He kept listening, while being careful to move so that people didn’t bump against his shields.

  “… tools … good tools … won’t find any better…”

  “… fresh-squeezed cider from the north hills…”

  Two glasses later, still under a concealment, he eased back through the slowly growing crowds to the corner of West and Patrol, where an obviously impatient Laevoyt turned one way and then the other. “I’m here. So far … I haven’t run across any problems. I have the feeling that there might be some, but I had that feeling on sevenday, and nothing happened.”

  “That makes two of us,” replied Laevoyt. “Until first glass.”

  Beltur continued east along the Patrol Street side of the square for about a block before turning south toward the center of the square, where he decided just to stand and wait near the stalls that featured jewelry, silks, and other small items of value, some of them likely not of the most honorable provenance, not that such would be easy to prove. Standing for very long proved tiresome, and he began to move back and forth slightly through gaps in the passersby and possible shoppers.

  Gradually, he could sense that more flickers of chaos seemed to be moving toward the area where he had been moving, if slightly to the east of where he was. Beltur moved gently another two stalls that way, close to a stall that featured delicate lacquer boxes. The chaos flickers drew closer, then turned, and Beltur realized that they were likely moving toward the vendor of shimmersilk scarves.

  A heavy man seemingly blundered into the side of the stall, almost upending one side and sending things sliding. Two others moved to grab scarves and rings.

  Beltur clamped containments around all three, dropped his concealment, and blew three quick blasts on the whistle, while hoping he could hold all three until Laevoyt appeared.

  “… where’d he come from?”

  “… told me no mage with the patroller…”

  The well-dressed and heavyset man said nothing. For an instant, only an instant, he glared at the two youths, one of whom, Beltur could sense, was actually a young woman dressed as a boy. Both of the younger ones were caught with goods in their hands, several silk scarves, and a necklace of polished stones that Beltur didn’t recognize. Then the man donned an expression of outrage.

  “This is most uncalled for. I had nothing to do with this … this pack of thieves.”

  “The patroller will decide that,” Beltur replied. The perspiration began to form on his forehead as he continued to hold the three shields besides his own, waiting for Laevoyt to arrive.

  “… three of them … fancy that…”

  “… caught in the act…”

  While it seemed to Beltur like more than half a glass passed before Laevoyt appeared, it was likely far, far less than that.

  “The two in tan and gray with the silk and necklace, and the man in brown,” Beltur said with a calm he didn’t feel. “Use the leathers on the girl. She’s the one in gray.”

  Laevoyt didn’t question Beltur at all, but immediately bound her and removed the necklace and slipped it inside his tunic. Once the patroller finished, Beltur replaced the shield with one far lighter, while Laevoyt restrained the second light-finger and removed the silks. After that, the patroller handed both the chains to the leather collars to Beltur and moved toward the older man. Quietly, and with great relief, Beltur dropped the shields from around the two youths, but was ready to reapply them if necessary, hoping that he wouldn’t have to, at least for a little while.

  “I did nothing, nothing at all,” declared the burly man in the matching brown jacket and trousers. “I was just standing here when those two ruffians tried to grab things and run.”

  Laevoyt looked to Beltur.

  “He’s the one who rammed into the stall and sent everything sliding. The two young ones accompanied him from two rows over. They came together.”

  “You weren’t even here,” declared the well-dressed man.

  Beltur raised a concealment and said, “I was right here.” Then he dropped it.

  The man lunged against the shield, which held, then began to flail against his confinement.

  Again, Laevoyt looked to Beltur.

  Beltur concentrated on tightening the shield until the man could not move.

  “I still can’t put the leathers on him,” Laevoyt said quietly.

  “I know.” Beltur was guessing, but he thought that with such tight shields, the man would have to stop breathing before long. He kept watching. The man turned red in the face, trying to gasp. His eyes began to protrude.

  “Get ready,” said Beltur. “Now.” He dropped the shield, ready to raise it.

  Laevoyt was quick with the leathers, and had the man’s hands bound behind his back and the collar in place before the captive began to struggle again.

  Beltur glanced at the two youths. Neither had budged. Both looked almost stunned.

  “Let’s go,” said Laevoyt calmly. “Walk toward the edge of the square.”

  “Why should I—”

  Beltur clamped a shield over his mouth. From just what he’d seen, he disliked the big man. After a moment, he released it. “Walk. Now.”

  The three began to walk, and those thronging the space before them quickly moved aside.

  Laevoyt looked sideways at Beltur for just a moment, then kept his eyes on the three.

  So did Beltur, ready to clamp a shield in place instantly, but the three walked slowly to Patrol Street and then west toward headquarters.

  “Three at once?” said the duty patroller when Laevoyt and Beltur arrived with their prisoners.

  “The big fellow might be running a ring of light-fingers,” said Laevoyt. “There were only two with him today, though.”

  Beltur wondered if the boy he’d let go might have been one. You’ll probably never know.

  “Your names?” asked the duty patroller, pointing at the girl. “You first.”

  “Khassia.”

  Beltur watched the three as the duty patroller entered their names in the book. Then he rang the bell. In moments, another patroller stepped through the door behind the duty desk.

  “Three more prisoners. Grand theft. Main market square.”

  None of the three spoke as the second patroller led the three away.

  Then the duty patroller handed Laevoyt three more sets of leathers, collars, and chains. “You’d better get back to the square.”

  “We’re on our way,” replied Laevoyt, turning and heading for the door.

  Beltur followed, wondering about the three, and hoping that the Council magistrate would be easier on the two youths.

  “That was quite something,” said Laevoyt once they were back outside of headquarters. “How did you manage all three?”

  “I almost couldn’t hold that third containment,” Beltur admitted. “If you’d taken much longer…” He shook his head.

  “But you did, and the look on those two young ones when you turned the big fellow red. I heard that some mages could do that, but I’ve never seen it.”

  “It’s not something I’ve done much.” Beltur wasn’t about to admit it was the first time. “I’d rather not do it. It could really hurt someone, but I didn’t see any other way.”

  “I’m glad you did. If you hadn’t, I would have had to use my truncheon on him, and, big as he was, he’d have been hurt.”

  Beltur knew that Laevoyt might have been as well.

&nbs
p; The rest of sevenday was uneventful, and there were no more flickers of chaos anywhere in the market square, even though Beltur spent most of his time under concealment, except when he visited Fosset’s ale cart.

  Later, after fourth glass, Beltur signed the duty book with three more tokens in his wallet, left headquarters heading south to Tailors Way, where he proceeded east until he reached Celinya’s doorway. When he knocked, the seamstress opened the peephole on the door, as she had before.

  “Celinya, it’s Beltur. I’ve come for my shirts.”

  The latch scraped slightly, and the door opened.

  Celinya stepped aside, if awkwardly, and motioned for Beltur to enter, then quickly closed the door behind him and latched it.

  “You have the shirts and smallclothes ready?” He glanced around the small room, neat and well-swept. He thought he sensed someone in the adjoining room, behind the closed door, possibly a child.

  She gestured toward the wooden clothes rack. “Please try one of them on.”

  Somehow Beltur felt almost embarrassed as he took off his tunic and shirt.

  Her eyes lingered for a moment on the silver medallion and the whistle lanyard still around his neck. “You did have duty today.”

  Beltur managed not to frown. He’d told her that.

  “Even black mages are not so forthright as they would have others believe. You are still young. If you remain as forthright as you are for another ten years, it will be remarkable. Would you like to try them both?”

  “No. How about the one farthest away?”

  Celinya smiled. “You should try them both.”

  Beltur did. When he took off the second one, he returned it to her and donned his old shirt and tunic, both of which felt shabby compared to the two shirts he had just worn. Then he eased two silvers from his wallet. “This is what I owe you, is it not?”

  “It is.”

  “You said a pair of black trousers would cost … what? Three silvers?”