Colors of Chaos (25 page)

“Who knows?” Lyasa lifted jet-black eyebrows. “Kinowin is still the other overmage. So maybe Jeslek will suggest someone.”

“He won’t,” offered Heralt. “He’s taken being High Wizard. He’ll let the Guild select someone.”

“But who?” asked Faltar. “Myral’s too old. Derka won’t come back from Hydolar. Jeslek’s going to need to send Eliasar to Gallos. Esaak doesn’t care about anything but mathematicks.”

“Anya?” suggested Heralt.

“She’d like that.” Lyasa laughed. “But she won’t be chosen.”

“Then who?”

Cerryl leaned back in the chair, trying to ignore the headache from the rain and the concerns raised by Anya’s visit. He also tried to stifle a yawn but did not quite succeed.

Leyladin leaned closed to him and whispered, “You need to leave, don’t you?”

He nodded slightly.

“Are we boring you, Cerryl?” Faltar asked.

“I was up before dawn, and I walked some of the section after duty. I’m tired.” He forced a smile. “Not bored.”

Leyladin stood. “I had to spend more time with Myral, and I’m about to fall over.”

Cerryl rose slowly. “I’m sorry. I am tired.”

Lyasa smiled. “Bedtime, then.”

Cerryl found himself flushing.

“Go on, you two. We understand.” Faltar grinned broadly.

Cerryl could sense Leyladin’s embarrassment as well. “Faltar… not everyone has quite the same approach as you do.”

“Ha!” said Heralt. “He’s got you, Faltar.”

Everyone gets me,“ grumbled the blond mage good-naturedly as Cerryl followed Leyladin out of The Golden Ram.

Out in the lamp-punctuated misty darkness, the blonde healer turned to Cerryl. “You don’t have to walk me home. You’re tired.”

“It’s but a few blocks, really, and the exercise will do me good.”

“You’re lying. Your feet hurt, and your head aches, and the fog and rain don’t help.” Her voice was soft, and a smile followed.

“Never lie to a Black mage,” he said. “I still would feel better if I walked you home.”

“I can accept that.” Leyladin smiled. “Perhaps you could come to dinner, the night after tomorrow? Father should be back by then.”

“Back? Is he off again?”

“He’s in Lydiar, something about brass fittings and about getting armsmen for a ship bound for Summerdock.”

“He’s been traveling more lately.”

“He says he has to.”

After a short silence, Cerryl glanced to his left at the bulk of the
White
Tower
, almost glowing with the power of chaos through the drizzle and mist.

“You’re worried. Why?” Leyladin glanced up the Avenue. “Anya came to see me.” Cerryl’s pale gray eyes followed her green ones. “Fydel stopped me in the courtyard on the way to The Ram. Neither one of them has spoken to me in eight-days. Or longer.”

“What did they say?” Leyladin glanced toward the
Market Square
, dark and wreathed in a foglike mist.

“Nothing. Well… not quite. Anya delivered a veiled hint that it would be better if the next overmage happened to be one that wouldn’t challenge Jeslek in power. Fydel? He as much as told me that I shouldn’t get too involved in anything beyond simple peacekeeping.”

“Hmmmm… and what are you up to, dear Cerryl?”

“I’m not up to anything. I am worried about that missing cart. That’s the one I told you about.”

“I asked Father. He didn’t know about anyone missing, at least not anyone he trades with.”

Cerryl shrugged. “I don’t see why Fydel would even care.”

“Fydel doesn’t. Anya might. Muneat’s her uncle.”

Cerryl swallowed. “I asked her where she came from. She never answered.”

“Her father died several years ago. Of the flux. So did all her brothers. She has a younger sister who is the consort of Jiolt’s oldest, Uleas or something.”

“Who is Jiolt? All I know is that he’s a rich factor.” Cerryl took Leyladin’s arm to guide her across a puddle as they turned westward from the befogged and darkened
Market Square
. Feeling her warmth so close to him, he wished, not for the first time, that he could hold her more than the few brief embraces she permitted.

Leyladin cleared her throat. “Jiolt… Father doesn’t talk about him much. He’s one of the governors of the Grain Exchange, but he factors other things, like Father, whatever interests him-wool, linen, tin, but not copper… oils, but only the rare ones… that sort of thing. Like Muneat, but Jiolt has three sons, where Muneat’s only living heir is Devo, and he’s not all that bright.”

“Why do all you female mages come from trading families?”

“Lyasa doesn’t.”

“I wasn’t sure. She never told me.”

“Nor me, but I know all the trading families. So if she does, it’s not from
Fairhaven or Lydiar or Vergren.”

Cerryl nodded.

“She does not come from poverty. She is mannered and not ill-used.” Leyladin laughed softly, almost bitterly. “Only those talented daughters who come from coins survive.” Her eyes went to the lamps by the doorway of her house, less than fifty cubits ahead.

“Few enough chaos-talented boys without coins survive,” Cerryl said quietly, thinking of his father.

“I’m sorry, Cerryl. I did not mean it that way.”

“I know.”

At her doorway, her arms went around him. “Go home, and please get some rest.”

“I will.” He returned the embrace, enjoying momentarily the warmth and even the order that infused her.

Her lips touched his, warmly but briefly, before she leaned away from him. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

Somehow, the evening seemed damper and colder on the walk back to his empty apartment.

XXXV

Cerryl walked quickly across the foyer toward the tower steps. The day hadn’t been that bad, but he was glad that it had been quiet. Only a few celebrating mercenaries at The Battered Cask, and they’d quieted down even before he’d gotten there after the summons from Coreg, the lead area patroller. Both the innkeeper and Coreg recommended that Cerryl but warn them, and Cerryl had heeded the recommendation, if warily. Everyone had seemed relieved at that. Cerryl wondered if he’d have trouble later-or if Gyskas would.

Cerryl shook his head as he started up the steps to the lowest level of the
White
Tower
. You still don’t have enough experience. Neither guard was more than passingly familiar, and Cerryl nodded politely as he passed and began the climb to Myral’s quarters, hoping the older mage happened to be there.

He paused outside Myral’s door, then knocked once. Thrap.

After a moment came the familiar voice: “You can come, in, Cerryl.

Cerryl opened the door, then closed it behind him. Myral sat by his table, a mug of hot cider before him.

“To what do I owe this visit?” Myral smiled, then half-choked and lapsed into a series of deep and retching coughs.

Cerryl bolted toward Myral. The older mage held up a hand even as the heavy retching coughs subsided. Cerryl stood, waiting for Myral to stop coughing, glancing toward the windows shuttered against the chill breeze and then at the older man. After a time, Myral cleared his throat and took the smallest of sips from the mug.

“Are you all right?” Cerryl asked.

“I swallowed wrong. It happens with age. Now… what do you wish?”

“I thought you could help me.”

“All I can provide these days is information, and you know that.” Myral smiled. “So what knowledge can this aging mage provide?” He gestured toward the chair across the table from him, then lifted the mug of cider.

Cerryl seated himself. “I need to know more about tariffs and trade.”

“For the Patrol?” Myral raised his eyebrows. “For peacekeeping?”

“For peacekeeping. Over an eight-day ago, we found an abandoned cart-a painted and well-kept cart. There was blood on the seat, and a scrap of silksheen under the seat, and traces of chaos.” Cerryl went on to explain how nothing else had turned up, but not about Fydel’s veiled suggestion that such interest was beyond peacekeeping. “It keeps bothering me, but I don’t know exactly why. So I thought about you.”

Myral lowered the mug of hot cider and chuckled. “I am flattered. So many mages forget us relics once they become full members of the Guild.”

“I know I have much to learn.”

“You are one of the few who understands that.” After a pause, Myral asked, “Why do you think taxes and tariffs have anything to do with this strange cart?”

“The silksheen… I guess.”

Myral frowned. “Do you have that scrap of silksheen?”

Cerryl glanced around, then nodded. “No one else seemed to care.”

“Look at it, closely.”

The younger mage extracted the fragment from his white leather belt wallet and studied it for a time. “It was cut…”

“Exactly. Silksheen looks fragile, but you cannot rip it. It takes a sharp blade to cut it, a very sharp blade.” Myral took another sip of the cider, letting the vapor wreathe his face.

That meant the fragment had been placed under the seat deliberately. But why? After another look at the fabric, Cerryl replaced it in his wallet.

“We think of silksheen as a fabric because it is soft and beautiful and lasts,” Myral said slowly. “Yet I understand the druids use it for ropes and harnesses for its strength.”

“When a small scarf can cost over a gold?”

“What is a rope that will not break worth? Or a scarf that will outlast its wearer?”

“Is it so valuable that anyone would stoop to murder?”

“That is your judgment. I would not, not for a length of fabric, no matter how beautiful, no matter how strong.”

“Some might.”

“Every man has a price, especially those who value everything in terms of coins.” Myral sipped his cider. “You know what I can say about silksheen.”

Cerryl waited, then finally spoke. “About taxes… I know what the golds go for-armsmen, stipends for mages-but I really have no idea how many golds are needed by the Guild.”

Myral shook his head. “Guess.”

“Fifteen thousand? Every year?”

The older mage’s eyes widened. “You are low by a third or more, perhaps by a half these days, but most would not guess a fifth part of that.”

Cerryl permitted himself a slight smile, amazed that his overestimation had fallen so far short. “The medallions… they bring in only but a thousand golds a year, two at most. I cannot imagine twenty thousand golds or more. Where would one keep it?”

“We do not. Nearly so fast as it arrives, it must depart. You get your golds every eight-day, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“So does every other mage. The White Lancers get their coppers and silvers, and the masons, and the cooks, and the haulers… and everyone spends all or part of them, and more taxes are levied on that spending, and the golds return.”

Cerryl nodded. That made sense.

“So where do we get more than five hundred golds an eight-day?”

“Taxes on the factors and merchants and artisans?”

“Who else? There are far more peasants and street peddlers, but how would we collect such taxes?”

That also made sense.

Myral took a long swallow of the hot cider, then held the mug just below his chin, letting the vapor on the damp day wreathe his cheeks before speaking. “
Fairhaven is more than a city, and less than a land.

That is its strength and its weakness. We do not collect tithes from the landowners the way that the Duke of Lydiar or the Viscount of Certis do. Instead, we must tax those who sell goods in the city, and those who carry goods into it, as well as those who carry goods out of it. Yet we cannot drive the merchants away. Of this Sterol and those before him were most aware.“ Myral shrugged. ”Traders are supposed to pay a tenth of their profits in taxes, a tenth of what they clear after paying for their goods and those who work for them. They also pay for trade medallions-“

“The most anyone pays is four golds a wagon a year,” Cerryl pointed out. “That is not a large sum for a well-off trader.”

“They would have you believe differently. They grudge every gold even while they insist the Guild close the roads to all traders but those of
Fairhaven.”

“Perhaps the Guild should charge more for the goods of those from elsewhere.”

Myral shook his head. “It is not possible, or necessary. There are those who sell large amounts of goods to factors in
Fairhaven, and those factors pay taxes on the goods. Those who wish to use the roads but who never come to
Fairhaven, they pay a tax, but it is but half of a tenth, and only for those who trade more than two hundred golds a year. Those with small amounts of goods who sell in the squares, the golds they pay for medallions are those we would not see otherwise.”

Cerryl thought for a moment. “Except for goods such as silksheen.”

“That is true, but there are few such.” Myral adjusted the white wool lap blanket across his legs.

“Gold… jewels?”

“A few others, but most would not dare to carry them in carts.” Myral smiled. “Few would dare to carry silksheen, save that the Tyrant of Sarronnyn has made it dear.”

Cerryl raised his eyebrows.

“Silksheen is traded in two places-in the trading fields east of the Stone Hills and at the
port
of
Diehl
. So half goes to Sarronnyn, and all those who have coins and ships haggle over the other half at Diehl. The druids will not sell to any who represent
Fairhaven.” Myral shrugged. “They know who tells the truth and who does not, and will not trade again with those who deceive them.”

“So silksheen is very, very dear here?”

“When it is found at all. That should tell you all you need to know about silksheen, more than enough.”

More than enough? What has he told me? Cerryl cleared his throat, feeling warm in the close confines of Myral’s room, a room that always seemed hot to him and too cold to the aging mage. “
Fairhaven is clean, and you can drink the water. The streets are safe. It is a good place to live.”