L. Modesitt - Natural Ordermage

“Sweet woman…she had some real trouble…a couple years back. Part of her left leg was crushed…Daelyt helped her, and they fell in love. She can’t walk far.”

“He cares for her a lot,” suggested Rahl. “I can tell that.”

“More than most for their consorts,” agreed Chenaryl. “More ’n most.”

Rahl nodded. That was true enough from what he’d seen. “What are you doing here?”

“Someone has to feed the horses and check on things. Both drivers have the end-day off today. So it’s my turn.” Chenaryl’s eyes dropped to the truncheon at Rahl’s belt. “You almost look like a bravo. Walk like one, too.”

“My father said I had to learn to defend myself. I was bruised most of the time growing up.”

“Won’t hurt you to know that here, but stay away from the west side south of the naval piers. Gangs there, and good as you might be, one against a half score isn’t a good wager.”

“Thank you. Is there anything you think I should see-that I can walk to?”

“If you’ve got a few coins, you might try Hakkyl’s. Better than Eneld’s. It’s some five blocks west and three south, opposite corner from the Triumph fountain and the square.” Chenaryl frowned, and his forehead crinkled. “Not really much else to see close by. When you’ve got more coins, you could take a coach down to Pharoa. There’s a nice inn there, only costs a half silver a night for a room to yourself…”

Rahl listened for a time, until Chenaryl shook his head. “Zaena’ll have my head if I don’t finish this and get back.”

“I wouldn’t want that.”

“I wouldn’t either.”

“Thank you.” Rahl nodded politely and turned away.

Just like Shyret and Daelyt, the warehouse supervisor carried a faint chaos-mist.

Rahl walked back to the gates and let himself out, but he was careful to lock them behind him. Then he turned and began to walk. Despite the mist that was so fine that it almost drifted around him like fog, Rahl had to get away from the Association buildings, feeling that he could not have spent another moment there, especially after talking to Chenaryl.

He might as well locate Hakkyl’s, if only to know where the place was, but even if it happened to be open so early on eightday, he wouldn’t be eating there until far later in the day. His coins were far too few for more than one modest meal.

Following Chenaryl’s directions, Rahl turned westward, walking easily, but not hurriedly. A young couple walked toward him, the man wearing a white fharong embroidered in red and black, the woman in a filmy blue blouse and scarf over white flowing pants. As soon as they saw him, they immediately crossed the street.

Rahl frowned. He didn’t look that menacing, did he? A clerk with a truncheon?

He crossed the side street behind the warehouses, so narrow that it was almost an alley, and so filled with the foglike mist that he could only see a handful of cubits beyond the edge of the two-story building that held the cotton factorage. Once on the other side of the alley or cross street, he moved away from the shuttered windows. For the next several blocks, he passed shuttered windows and doors with iron gratework-and almost no one on the sidewalks, except two bent old women, and a younger bearded man who tottered along, singing nonsense syllables to himself. At least, what the fellow sang didn’t sound like any language Rahl knew.

Between the dampness of the air and his rapid pace, Rahl could feel sweat beading up everywhere especially under his garments. He couldn’t do much about that, but he did wipe his forehead with his sleeve.

He turned the corner at the fifth cross street and passed a shuttered cooperage, then a cordage shop. He began to feel something or someone lurking in the alleyway ahead to his left. Even as he debated crossing the street or turning back, two figures jumped out of the mist and fog-filled serviceway. Rahl pulled the truncheon out, hoping he didn’t have to use it, but he didn’t want to turn his back on the pair.

“Pretty Boy…you know how to use that toy?” The taller man, still shorter than Rahl, laughed mockingly through a roughly trimmed square-cut beard. He waved a long knife.

The other man grinned broadly, showing sparse and blackened teeth and holding a long walking stick topped with tarnished brass. Both men reeked of chaos, not of the active energy of a mage, but the type that Rahl felt was more decaying and corrupt, almost like wound chaos. He eased away from the alley, moving toward the edge of the street. He could sense another presence in the next alleyway ahead. He needed to keep the three as separate as possible.

“You’re going to hand over your coins, Pretty Boy, one way or another.”

“I think not.”

“Oh…an Atlan pretty boy…no brains at all.”

Having no brains would have been handing over anything. Rahl could sense that they had no intention of leaving him alive.

The first man came in, with his knife held low and to the side.

Rahl stepped back, trying to look tentative.

“Oh, Pretty Boy’s trying to give us the slip.”

Rahl could sense the tension even before the first man darted in low and fast. Quick as the attacker was, Rahl was quicker. The truncheon smashed across the attacker’s wrist, before Rahl reversed it into the man’s jaw, although the second blow was almost glancing.

Eeeiii! With a scream, the man reeled back, then went to his knees, moaning and clutching his broken wrist.

Rahl pivoted, barely in time to deflect the walking stick that was more like a short staff, but instead of moving away, he swung inside, and half rammed, half slammed the truncheon into the spot just below the center of the man’s ribs.

The second assailant crumpled, his stick flying. Rahl could sense that he was dead. Dead, because he held so much chaos?

Whhssst!

A bolt of chaos flew past Rahl and slammed into the still-moaning first attacker.

Rahl blinked. There was nothing left except a scattering of ashes and a few metal items, including a handful of coins, and the faint sound of fleeing footsteps echoed from the alleyway farther to the south.

Whhsstt! With the impact of the second chaos-bolt, the body of the dead man vanished as well, except for similar leavings.

“Very nice, friend,” came a voice from behind Rahl.

He wanted to freeze, but instead he forced a smile and turned, still holding the truncheon.

A mage-guard stood there. Chaos played around her. She was another hard-faced woman, but not the one who had advised him to register. “You used a bit of order there. I do hope you’re registered.”

“I’m registered. The bracelet’s in my wallet.”

“Why don’t you put away the truncheon and get it out…slowly.”

“Yes, ser.” Rahl slipped the truncheon back into its half scabbard, then fumbled his belt wallet out and extracted the bracelet. He started to extend it.

“Just toss it to me. If it’s real, it won’t break.”

Rahl complied, lofting it gently.

The woman caught it easily without taking her eyes or senses off Rahl. Then she looked at the bracelet, and then at Rahl, alternating between the two.

For just a moment, Rahl could sense puzzlement. He also had the feeling that she had a headache and wasn’t in the best of moods. That bothered him, but there wasn’t much that he could do about it.

“You’re an outlander?” The mage-guard’s words were half statement, half question.

“Yes, ser. I work for the Nylan Merchant Association. I’m a clerk there.”

She tossed the bracelet back to him.

This time, he slipped it on his wrist.

“It’s a good thing I saw them attack you. Even registered, you could have had someone question your actions. Where were you going?”