L. Modesitt - Natural Ordermage

After that, Rahl sat alone for a time. Belatedly, he realized the full impact of Chalyn’s warning and last words. Better blades suggested more accomplished assassins. As he considered that, he could feel a slow-burning anger rekindle-or perhaps he just recognized it. Because he stopped a killing, he was going to be more of a target? He was likely to be in even greater danger…and it had all started with that sow’s ass Puvort! Just because Puvort hadn’t liked Rahl, he’d made Rahl’s self-defense into a crime. The bastard had twisted the truth and misrepresented what had happened and exiled Rahl to Nylan, and there the magisters hadn’t been much help, either. Everyone wanted to blame, but no one really had wanted to help or explain. And now, Rahl was stuck in Swartheld, and he not only had to worry about the mage-guards, and what he would do in less than a season, but he also had to worry about assassins, and that didn’t take into account cutpurses, and the schemes of Shyret and Chenaryl.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. No matter what he tried to do, the future was looking grimmer and grimmer, and no one cared. Puvort certainly hadn’t cared, and Kadara hadn’t been much better. The only one who’d tried to explain anything had been Deybri, and she was a healer, not a magister.

He was still seething when Daelyt returned.

“Is everything all right, Rahl? You look…disturbed.”

“Just thinking.” Rahl forced a laugh. “Sometimes, it’s hard to get used to a new place.”

“That’s true. My first year here was hard.” Daelyt paused at the desk. “I’ll be back in a moment. I need more ink.”

Before Daelyt returned, two traders walked in, looking for wool and various dyestuffs. From that moment on, both clerks were busy until late in the afternoon.

When the last of a continuous string of traders had left, Daelyt smiled crookedly. “Didn’t I tell you that it would get busier?”

“You did.”

The door opened again, and Rahl turned his head.

A swarthy young man in a clerk’s summer tunic walked to the desk. “Daelyt!”

“Hylart, what are you doing here? You walk all the way from the north piers?”

“Hardly. There’s a wagon outside with Sumyl and a driver. I’ve got what Waolsyn owes your director. With twenty golds in the pouch, no one was going to let me walk.”

Daelyt inclined his head, and Rahl hurried back to Shyret’s study.

“Director, Hylart is here with twenty golds from Waolsyn.”

“Now? After the Exchange is closed?”

“Yes, ser.”

With a sigh that seemed forced to Rahl, rather than resigned, Shyret rose from behind the fruitwood desk. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

“Yes, ser.” Rahl turned and headed back to his own desk. As he neared the other two clerks, he slowed slightly, taking in what they were saying.

“…anyone else who might have known that Waolsyn was going to pay the Association?” asked Daelyt.

“If Waolsyn knows it, so does all Swartheld,” replied Hylart. “He never says what he receives, but he’s always complaining about all the factors he owes.”

Both stopped talking as they saw Rahl.

“He’ll be right here.”

“Oh…Hylart, this is Rahl. He’s new with us, the past two eightdays.”

Rahl inclined his head. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“From Atla?”

“Just my speech,” Rahl said, offering a smile.

“He’s from Nylan,” Daelyt added, “but he learned Hamorian in Atla.”

As he took his seat at the desk Rahl decided against correcting Daelyt.

“You think the rain will continue?” asked Daelyt.

“For a few days. The first rains of fall always last a few days. Makes the mage-guards edgy, though. Have to be careful around them when it rains.”

“That’s what they say.”

“That’s the way it is,” insisted Hylart.

Shyret approached, clearly his throat loudly, before speaking. “You have something for me, Hylart?”

“Yes, ser. The last remittance on the last purchases.” The clerk handed a cloth pouch to the director. “Ser Waolsyn would like a receipt, ser.” Hylart drew an envelope from his tunic. “If you would not mind signing…?”

“If you would not mind my counting the golds first,” countered Shyret, opening the cloth pouch and easing the coins onto the desktop before Daelyt. “…eight, nine, ten…thirteen, seventeen…nineteen, twenty…all here.” He swept the golds back into the pouch, then took the pen that Daelyt handed him and signed the receipt already spread on the desk. “There you are.”

“Thank you, ser director.” Hylart bowed, then turned, and departed.

Shyret picked up the pouch. “We’d better have Rahl eat first tonight, before you go, Daelyt.”

“Yes, ser.”

Without explaining more, the director turned and headed back to his study.

Rahl looked to the older clerk.

“The director hates getting large remittances after the Exchange closes,” Daelyt said. “He doesn’t want to risk taking them home. So he locks them away in his study. That’s why he wants you to eat first tonight and not go out after that. I doubt anything will happen, but he’d feel better knowing that someone will be here until he can take the golds to the Exchange when it opens in the morning. Tyboran and Yussyl can go with him.”

Despite his genial tone, Daelyt was clearly uneasy.

“Just tell me when you want me to go,” replied Rahl. What else could he say?

Rahl woke abruptly. He’d been dreaming of flame and fire, and sweat was pouring off his forehead. What night was it? Twoday? Was it only twoday? He sat up and swung his legs off the pallet and let his feet drop onto the floor tiles, reassuringly cool.

Chaos! Somewhere nearby…

He grabbed his truncheon and slipped out of his cubby, moving surely through the darkness of the night that seemed little more than early twilight to him. Barefoot, and in drawers and an undertunic, he didn’t feel exactly ready for an intruder, but taking the time to dress seemed unwise.

He quickly checked the rear storeroom door, but it was still firmly closed, with all its multiple locks fastened tight.

As he moved toward the front of the building, the feeling of chaos grew stronger. It was clear something was happening there. Rahl eased closer to the door, sensing some form of chaos. He blinked and looked again, but his order-senses, rather than his eyes, discerned a tendril of chaos threading its way through the thinnest of gaps between the door and frame. It wasn’t chaos alone, but chaos intermixed with something else, something darker. Was it order?

How could it be?

The tendril tugged, then pushed at one end of the bar, slowly shoving it out of its metal brackets. Abruptly one end of the bar clunked to the floor, then the other, and the door swung open, as if it had already been unlocked, pushing the bar aside. Rahl flattened himself against the wall beside the door, his truncheon ready.

A figure in dark garb stepped inside, falchiona extended.

The man started to turn as he caught sight of Rahl, but Rahl was faster, and his truncheon cracked the man’s wrist, hard enough that Rahl could feel bones snap.

“Oooo…!” The bravo reeled back, out of sight, the falchiona clattering on the floor tiles.

Whhstt! A bolt of whiteness flew toward Rahl, but only the edge of it splattered on his shields.

Another bravo charged into the building, and Rahl barely managed to parry the hurried cut from the sabre-not a falchiona, he noted almost absently.

The bravo was nowhere near as good as Aleasya, let alone Zastryl, and within moments, Rahl had slammed the truncheon across the man’s wrist, and the sabre was on the floor. The bravo backed away hurriedly, then turned and ran. Rahl wasn’t about to chase him, not with chaos-fire coming from outside.