L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

Directly behind the four armsmen, clearly being escorted by them, was an older and gray-haired man who also wore a uniform, but of black and orange. The older man carried no weapons, and the only insignia he bore was a heavy silver chain from which hung a white bronze starburst medallion.

Along with the others on the pier, Kharl stopped and watched as the five halted opposite a dark red cart. Belatedly, Kharl recognized two things. First, the miasma of chaos was surrounding a thin man dressed in flowing green, and second, the man in orange and black was also a wizard, but his chaos power was contained, so that until he was within ten cubits or so, even Kharl’s order-chaos senses had not sensed the power held within some sort of shields.

The four men in khaki set themselves so that two flanked the uniformed wizard on each side. Light gathered around the figure in orange and black, and the crowd moved back once more, creating a circle around the thin man in flowing green.

“You,” began the uniformed wizard, addressing the man in green. “You have attempted the practice of wizardry without the permission of the emperor. You have not presented yourself for examination, and you have hidden from others that you employed the forces of chaos to deceive and to profit personally. You have preyed upon outlanders…”

A resigned expression fell across the face of the man in green. “I did present myself, honored mage. I presented myself, but none would see me, save that I presented golds I do not have. One cannot-”

“Silence!”

The man in green’s voice continued. “I have not used wizardry. I have deceived no one. All I have done is to be too poor to provide golds-”

A whitish red fireball appeared at the fingertips of the uniformed wizard, then flared toward the man in green. Whhhsttt!!!

A white dome appeared around the man in green, and for a moment that dome was surrounded by the white fires of chaos, but the man in green remained behind his shield.

Kharl tried to sense what it was that the green wizard had done, but before he could truly and fully sense the chaos-shield, the gray-haired wizard flung a second firebolt, and the shield collapsed into a pillar of white fire.

Kharl had to blink, and when he could see, where the man in green had stood there was but a small pile of whitish ash in the midst of a black greasy smear on the grayish stones of the pier.

“The will of His Mightiness! Striking down evil where it occurs,” intoned the gray-haired wizard. Then he turned and walked back off the end of the pier.

Even from the far side of the wharf, Kharl had noted the fine sheen of sweat on the surviving wizard’s face-and the much-lowered level of chaos that remained locked around him. Clearly, using that kind of power took much energy.

At the faintest sense of someone too close to him, Kharl’s hand lashed out, slamming down on the wrist of a young cutpurse. As the carpenter whirled, a thin knife clattered on the stones, and two other youths began to run.

Another man in tan appeared, his truncheon smacked the cutpurse across the temple, and the youth went to his knees. Whiteness flashed from somewhere else.

Kharl looked at the Hamorian patroller, or Watch, or whatever keepers of the peace were called in Swartheld.

“You were very quick, sailor.”

“Just lucky, ser,” Kharl replied, noting that the crowd had moved away from him and the patroller. He could also see the Hamorian wizard returning, something he did not like at all. With the wizard were the other four patrollers-and two dazed-looking youths with blank faces. Kharl could sense some sort of chaos laid over them.

“You are from Recluce?” The wizard looked directly at Kharl.

“No, ser. I am from Brysta, and I am the second carpenter on the Seastag .”

The wizard looked at Kharl for a long moment, and Kharl could sense some other sort of power, grayish, brushing him lightly, like the touch of an unseen spider, but he remained still and waited.

“So it would seem. Did you see what happened here a few moments ago?”

“Yes, ser. You destroyed a wizard who had not followed the laws of Hamor.”

“Those laws apply to all who walk the soil of Hamor. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good.” The wizard gestured to the patrollers. “Take the cutpurses to the transfer gaol.” He looked at Kharl. “They will spend five years-or more-cutting and moving stone for the Great Highway. That is a light punishment. They could have gone to the furnaces at Luba.”

Kharl wanted to lick his dry lips. He did not. “I understand.”

“I believe you do, carpenter. Good day.” Again, the wizard turned, and this time five patrollers followed him, herding the three captives before them.

As they walked away, and those in the crowd gave Kharl passing looks before moving on, he just stood by the stone column marking the end of the pier. The wizard had delivered a clear message without spelling it out. The carpenter pulled himself together, then left the pier and turned left, toward the part of the waterfront that had looked to hold shops and taverns.

Once Kharl was off the pier and onto the street that fronted the harbor, he could move more freely, without feeling so crowded. By the time he had walked past the end of the next pier, one that held but a single small sloop, there were almost no peddlers or carts, just people heading in various directions, or standing before shop windows, or coming in or out of the shops. Compared to Brysta or any other port he had visited, it was crowded.

Most of the shops seemed to carry fabrics. He counted four shops in a row-one dealing just in silks, another in woolens, a third in linens, and a fourth in cottons. In those four shops were as many bolts of cloth as in all of Brysta, from what Kharl knew.

He walked on, but then couldn’t help but stop at the display window of a cooperage in the next block. The barrels were good, but not nearly so good as what he’d crafted, especially the hogshead he saw on display. Yet the cooperage was clearly profitable.

The next shop was one that handled blades. Kharl found himself wincing as he looked at the gleaming array in the display window-sabres, cutlasses, a menacing hand-and-a-half sword, an even longer and wider broadsword, and all manner of knives and dirks. He’d never cared much for blades, but he’d also never felt the revulsion that he did as he beheld the assemblage before him. Was there a difference between working blades and weapons? If so, why did he feel that way? Or had he always, and simply not recognized it? With a shake of his head, he turned and continued to the corner. Across the narrower cross street was a tavern, and one thronged from the sounds issuing forth-despite the fact that it was still afternoon.

Kharl turned left, away from the harbor, and walked along the side of the street, passing first a closed doorway without any sign or indication of what lay behind it, then a wider doorway, with a sign showing a bed, and the words beneath beginning with “Rooms for the night” in Brystan and repeating in other languages.

“Girls…you want one?” A veiled woman beckoned from across the street. “Come and see. Take your pleasure…”

Kharl kept his smile to himself and continued to walk, this time past a rope shop.

A rope shop? In any other port, rope would be in a chandlery. Was Swartheld so large that a merchant could sell just ropes of various types? He glanced through the open doorway, taking in all the coils of ropes and lines.

A sickish-sweet odor drifted down and across Kharl, a scent compounded of something burning, perhaps incense, with something stronger. He faintly recalled the smell, then nodded. Kernash-the substance smoked by those with little hope and less future.