Colors of Chaos (12 page)

“More costly, as well,” countered the curly-haired mage.

“Mages aren’t meant to die with coins,” said Lyasa. “We can’t leave them to anyone. You might as well enjoy what you eat.”

“And drink,” added Faltar.

“The other day, there was a big wagon that headed out toward Lydiar,” Cerryl said. “Filled with worked brass. Ship fittings…”

“Has to be for the warships,” replied Faltar after wiping his mouth and emptying his mug. He held the mug up for the server to see.

“I thought the Guild’s ships were built in
Sligo.”

“Off that island in the Great North Bay. It’s faster to use the highway to Lydiar and send heavy stuff by boat.”

“That’ll be two more,” said the server as she took Faltar’s mug. “You’ll have it,” the blond mage promised, reaching for his belt purse.

“Ten ships seem like a lot,” mused Cerryl.

“I know of at least seven solid ports in eastern Candar,” Lyasa pointed out. “With time for supplies and transit, that’s only one more ship to watch each port.”

Put that way, reflected Cerryl, ten ships seemed almost too few.

“The only two ports that matter right now are Diev and Spidlaria…maybe Quend,” suggested Faltar.

“That’s still only three ships for each port. The
Northern
Ocean
is pretty big.” Lyasa sipped her ale.

Thump! Another mug of ale appeared at Faltar’s elbow. “Here you be.”

The blond mage extended three coppers.

“How would you use the ships, Heralt?” Cerryl asked. “You know more about trade than most of us, I suspect.”

The curly-haired and dark-eyed mage shrugged. “Lyasa’s right. No one’s going to smuggle through Lydiar or Renklaar. Ruzor or Worrak, maybe. That’s only four or five places, but we’d have to mount a blockade, and the Blacks would try to use the weather. I don’t know. I wonder if we could afford as many ships as we need. They say we’ve only got a score or so now. Ten more-that might do it.” Heralt yawned. “Unless the Blacks build more ships, or better ones, or something like that.”

“How could you build a better ship?” demanded Faltar. “A ship’s a ship. If you make it faster, then it carries less cargo-or less armsmen-and there’s not that much difference in speed under sail anyway. They all need the wind.”

“Hamor uses slave galleys in the calmer parts of the
Western
Ocean
,” Lyasa said.

“Water’s too rough here,” insisted Faltar.

“Probably.” Heralt yawned again. “I need some sleep.”

“I’ll walk back with you,” said Cerryl. “Morning duty.” He rose, then looked at Lyasa. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll keep Faltar out of trouble.”

“Me? Trouble?”

“Yes, you,” she answered amiably.

Cerryl and Heralt slipped out into the fresher air, air still warm, with the faint fragrance of something.

“You think there’s trouble coming?” Heralt asked as they headed toward the rear Hall, stifling yet another yawn.

“There’s always trouble coming.” Cerryl offered a laugh. “It’s just taken me a while to understand that.”

His eyes went to the northern sky and the pinpoints of light, distant lights supposedly, if Colors of White were correct, with suns similar to the one that brought chaos and light upon them.

Did they have their troubles? Did it matter?

He tried not to yawn as he started up the steps beside Heralt.

XVIII

Cerryl blotted his forehead with the back of his forearm. Even in midmorning, the shadiest space behind the rampart of the guardhouse was almost unbearably hot. He felt sorry for Heralt, who would have to endure it all afternoon, with even less shade, although the dark-haired young mage was from Kyphros-to the south and far warmer than Fairhaven. Perhaps Heralt was better able to withstand the heat than Cerryl. Cerryl hoped so.

The green-blue sky was clear, with a haze toward the horizon that bespoke the promise of greater heat as the day went on. The air was still, hot, thick, weighing on Cerryl like a heavy blanket.

He glanced back toward
Fairhaven, but the Avenue down toward the Wizards’ Square was empty of all but a few riders and some folk on foot, none headed toward the gates themselves. He turned. The highway to Hrisbarg and Lydiar was equally deserted, a long, gently curving arc of deserted white stone in the midmorning glare.

Was that because it was summer? Or the result of the higher taxes and tariffs? Or had the High Wizard already started using warships somehow to enforce the taxes? He frowned. The taxes were levied in ports, such as Lydiar and Tyrhavven. How could the Guild levy a tariff or a tax on a ship’s cargo if the goods were shipped elsewhere-to Spidlar or Sarronnyn?

Creeakkk…

Cerryl turned.

A thin figure led a donkey and cart off the side road a half-kay to the northwest and onto the highway toward the guardhouse. The young mage watched as the farmer led the cart around to the side of the guardhouse. The cart contained several baskets of greenery-beans?

“Ser? Another farmer for a medallion.”

Cerryl nodded, turned, and started down the steps. Another farmer? As he reached the back medallion room, he asked, “Vykay? Have we had a lot of farmers lately?”

The thin guard looked at the other man, who had the ledger before him. “Sandur?”

“A moment.” Sandur glanced at the waiting farmer. “That’s five coppers for a cart, a silver for a full four-wheeled wagon.”

“A cart be all I can pay for.” The thin farmer pushed five coppers across the wooden surface of the counter behind which stood Sandur, the lancer acting as medallion guard. The medallion guard handed the bronze rectangle to Vykay but looked at the farmer. “Vykay and the mage will attach it to your cart, ser.”

The farmer grunted.

Sandur turned the pages of the ledger, then glanced at Cerryl. “Says here… been six in the last eight-day. More than I recall.”

Cerryl nodded to himself. The highway was emptier, and there were more farmers getting medallions. He turned to the farmer. “Your cart outside, ser?”

“By the door, young ser.”

Cerryl led the way back out into the heat, followed by the farmer and Vykay with his drill, pouch, tools, and the medallion.

Cerryl waited beside the cart as Vykay drilled the holes for the medallion-another new medallion, no less.

More farmers than Sandur recalled? Again, Cerryl didn’t know enough to determine whether that was just coincidence… or more. As if you could really do anything about it.

XIX

“Here you be. Ten for the lot.” The serving woman set down the two mugs of wine and then the two of ale.

Cerryl glanced past her toward the archway that held the door into The Golden Ram, thinking he had seen Anya’s red hair. He decided he’d seen but a glint of something off the bronze reflector of a wall lamp. He extended seven coppers before Leyladin could reach her wallet, eased the two mugs of ale across the table, then slid one of the mugs of wine before Leyladin.

Bealtur and Myredin each extended two coppers, and the serving woman swept them all up and headed back to the kitchen. Past her, in the far corner, past the cold hearth, sat Broka and Elsinot with a third, ginger-haired mage-Redark, Cerryl thought.

Cerryl reached under the table and squeezed Leyladin’s hand, even as he looked at the two other mages. “How is guard duty going for you?”

The goateed Bealtur shrugged. “Mostly, it’s boring.”

Myredin’s fine black hair drifted across his forehead. “I had a farmer walk up and ask why he had to pay for a medallion when his potatoes and maize fed the city. I told him everyone pays to trade. He wasn’t happy, but he came back and bought a medallion.”

“Does everyone pay? I sometimes wonder.” Bealtur fingered his goatee, then took a sip of ale.

The serving woman set down four bowls. “Three each, twelve in all.”

Cerryl frowned. “Stew used to be two, didn’t it?”

“Was till last eight-day. Hioll says he can’t get the fixings for what he used to.” The server shrugged. “Whatever… he says what it is, and I tell you.”

“And we pay,” said Myredin.

“Better you than me, ser mage.”

Cerryl grinned and extended his coins, as did the others.

After the server took the coppers and slipped away, Leyladin glanced at Cerryl. “Three for stew? There’s not as much as there was last eight-day.”

“Food must be getting dearer.”

“It does anyway in the summer before harvest,” added Myredin.

“What does this have to do with… anything?” mumbled Bealtur. “Guard duty is guard duty. It’s boring.”

“The farmers,” Cerryl said. “More are selling goods in the city.”

“They don’t pay if they carry goods on their backs,” said Leyladin.

“But they can’t sell in the squares,” pointed out Myredin. “Not without a cart, and you can’t bring a cart into the city without a medallion.”

“Some folk sell to people they know.” Cerryl recalled a woman who had brought spices to Beryal when he had been working as an apprentice to Tellis. “They can do that.”

“They have to know people. They can’t peddle on the streets.” Myredin’s bulging eyes protruded a shade more as he took a deep swallow of ale. “More medallions mean more farmers selling in the squares.”

“Have any of the older mages mentioned anything about more farmers getting medallions?”

His mouth full, Bealtur shook his head. So did Myredin.

“They wouldn’t know, would they?” Leyladin dipped a chunk of bread into her stew. “Esaak-he reviews the Guild accounts, but it’s only a few coppers for a farm medallion, isn’t it?”

“Five,” announced Myredin. “For a cart. A silver for a wagon, but most use carts.”

“So,” continued Leyladin, “if twoscore more farmers sought medallions, that would only be twenty silvers-two golds.”

“I see what you mean.” Bealtur nodded vigorously, his thin goatee almost swinging. “That’s but two golds, and a factor’s wagon alone is sometimes that.”

“The accounts wouldn’t show anything,” Cerryl mused.

“Maybe you should say something at the next Guild meeting.” Myredin glanced at Cerryl.

A glint flitted across Bealtur’s eyes.

“Maybe…” More likely I’ll bring it up to Kinowin first. Cerryl took a mouthful of stew, prompted by a growl from his stomach. “That’s a few eight-days away. Let’s see if we get more farmers wanting medallions.”

“Oh, they all want them,” said Myredin with a laugh. “Most won’t pay for them. They know not how lucky they are. Those who make their trade in
Fairhaven pay tariffs on their shops. The farm folk sell and run.”

“And complain,” added Bealtur.

Cerryl ate more of the stew with a chunk of the crusty white bread, then followed it with a sip of wine, glancing at Leyladin. “Do the traders and factors complain as much?”

She favored him with a wry smile. “No one complains more than traders. Traders are not happy unless they have something to complain about. They prefer to complain about those taxes or circumstances that allow them to ask for more coins for their goods, and of those they talk at great length.”

“That I’d believe.” Myredin took a gulp of ale.

“Of course,” added Leyladin, eyes twinkling, “mages complain all the time about how much good they do for the people and how low the taxes they impose are for all the good they do. And they are not happy unless they can boast of how no one understands what they do.”

Bealtur almost choked on his ale, swallowing hard and gasping for air.

“And healers?” asked Myredin.

“Oh… healers don’t complain much.” Leyladin grinned. “They suffer silently and think how ungrateful are all those that they have cured. Since they say nothing, few of their patients consider their fortune, and fewer still are willing to pay for their services.”

“You, lady healer, are dangerous,” pronounced Myredin.

“Me? A quiet and uncomplaining healer?”

“Very dangerous,” added Bealtur with a smile, turning to Cerryl. “Best you watch out, Cerryl, or she’ll heal you right out of being a Mage.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Leyladin frowned, then looked straight at Bealtur. “Maybe I could try with you.”

“Ha!” Myredin laughed. “Said she was dangerous.” Despite his best resolve, Cerryl found himself yawning.

“You… you have to get up tomorrow, don’t you?” asked Leyladin.

“Sometime,” he admitted.

“Sometime well before dawn.”

“Yes.”

“Then we’d better be going.”

“I think we’ll stay,” said Bealtur.

Cerryl and Leyladin rose and made their way out, Cerryl noting that Broka and the others had already left. Cerryl pushed open the door and stepped into the slightly cooler night air, air that had been far warmer before dinner.

“They’re trying to figure out why you asked them to join us.” The blonde healer looked at Cerryl.

“It doesn’t matter if they figure it out.”

Cerryl and Leyladin walked slowly up the Avenue, arm in arm, enjoying the comparative cool of evening. He glanced around, but there was no one nearby. “Leyladin… would you do me a favor?”

“What sort of favor?”

“A magely favor. Just watch me for a moment.” He let go of Leyladin’s arm, stepped away from her, and stood there concentrating. He tried to let the light flow around him, not to direct it or create a full light shield that would render him invisible to the eyes but all too visible to any mage who could sense perturbations in the order-chaos fabric of the world.

“You’re not quite there. My eyes… somehow they have trouble seeing you.”

“What about your order senses? Do you feel any use of order or chaos?” Cerryl could feel the dampness on his forehead-another skill where he needed more practice.

“No. Not more than a tiny bit, and I couldn’t feel that, I don’t think, if I weren’t right next to you. You’re not there to order senses, either, though.”

Cerryl let the light slip back to its normal flows.

The blonde healer blinked, shaking her head. “That was strange. I knew you were there, sort of, because you… are. I could see you, with my eyes, in a way, but I couldn’t.”