L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

Cerryl couldn’t sense any medallion on the cart, and he leaned over the rampart. “Gyral?”

“Yes, ser?” The lanky detail leader glanced up.

“Do us both a favor and yell to that woman. Tell her that if she doesn’t have a medallion and she gets close to the gates, I’ll have to destroy her cart and take her donkey. Just tell her to turn around and take one of the farm roads-or something. Or that she’ll need to get a medallion right now.”

The White Guard frowned, then grinned. “You know her?”

“No. I just don’t like taking things from old women. Maybe she doesn’t know the laws.”

“I don’t know, ser. Some of them are pretty stubborn. I’ll try.” Gyral marched away from the two other guards toward the approaching peasant.

Creaaakkk …The cart carried several stacks of woven grass baskets and some of reeds. The woman made her way toward the gates, aided by a long wooden staff half again her height.

Gyral squared his shoulders. “Woman! You can’t use the White roads without a medallion. If you come to the gates and you don’t have the coppers for a medallion, then we’ll have to take your cart and donkey.”

“The roads be for all. That be what you White ninnies are always saying. I be one of the all, and I need to sell my baskets so that my family can live till harvest. And no spare coppers are you a-getting.”

“You can’t bring the cart in on the highway,” Gyral answered. “Not without a medallion.”

“There be no other way. Like as you know that.”

“We’ll have to take your cart and baskets.” Gyral stepped backward.

“You and who else, young fellow?” The crone raised the walking stick and brandished it, waving it at the detail leader.

The lancer backed away and glanced toward Cerryl.

Cerryl gave an overlarge shrug and called down, “If that’s the way she wants it!”

Donkey, cart, and woman creaked toward the gate with no sign of slowing.

“You have to stop,” announced Gyral.

“I belong not to your White City, and, by the light, I’ll sell where I please. The land gives me those rights, not some man who wears white and rides in a gold carriage.” The crone swung the staff at Gyral and the guard beside him. Both backed away, although they had their shortswords out.

“Stand back!” snapped Cerryl.

Even the crone looked up.

Cerryl concentrated, trying to form a fireball that was part firelance, one that would strike the staff and not the woman.

Whhssst! The end of the staff vanished in flame, and then white ashes drifted across the stones.

The crone held a piece of wood no longer than a short truncheon, one that flamed. She dropped it on the granite paving stones before the guardhouse.

“Darkness and the Black angels take you!” The woman clawed at her belt, and a dark iron knife appeared as she launched herself at Gyral.

Whhhsstt! The firebolt enveloped the old woman, and when it subsided where the crone had stood was a faint greasy spot and a pile of white ashes that drifted in the light breeze.

“Stupid woman…mage tried to give her a chance.”

“Don’t buck ’em…not if you want to live…”

Cerryl leaned against the rampart stones, faintly nauseated. He straightened. “Unhitch the donkey and put it in the stable. Unload the baskets. They might be useful somewhere.”

When the cart stood alone below the guardhouse, Cerryl loosed a last fireball, and, once more, only ashes remained, ashes and a few iron fittings that prisoner details carried away. The highway was empty again in the hot afternoon, and Cerryl sank onto the stool in the shade.

He wanted to shake his head. Even when you tried to explain the rules or help people, some of them just didn’t believe. The taxes weren’t new. They’d been there since the time of Creslin, something like three centuries or more, and there were still people who disputed them, who refused to accept the laws unless you used overwhelming force on them. Or, like the old woman, people who turned the words to what they wanted them to mean and then attacked when their interpretation was denied.

He hadn’t had any choice at the end. Even for him, the rules were absolute. Anyone who attacked a gate guard died. Had he made it worse by trying to warn her? Or telling her she needed to pay for a medallion? Would it have been the same either way?

He wiped his forehead again, then glanced obliquely toward the sun, blazing in the green-blue sky. A long time until sunset-too long.

KINOWIN HAD A new wall hanging-one with blue and purple diamonds pierced by black arrows, more like crossbow quarrels. The gently flickering light from the pair of wall lamps and the table lamp cast shadows from Kinowin and Cerryl across the hanging.

Are we as insubstantial as those shadows? Cerryl wondered.

The overmage followed Cerryl’s eyes. “Do you like it?”

“The colors are…brilliant, I guess.”

“It’s Analerian. Jeslek sent it to me with his last dispatch to the Council. He knows I like hangings-and that I dislike being indebted to him.” The big blonde mage took a long pull from the overlarge mug on the edge of the screeing table. “Ah…getting hot too soon this year.”

“Is he going to be High Wizard someday?” Cerryl had no doubts but wanted Kinowin’s reaction and felt he could only seek it while he was still considered inexperienced.

Kinowin snorted. “The entire Guild decides that.”

Cerryl had the feeling that the Guild agreed to support the strongest candidate.

“You don’t think so, young Cerryl?”

“I do not know enough to agree or disagree, ser.”

“Carefully said.” The overmage pulled at his clean-shaven chin. “The Guild often recognizes the strongest mage as the most suitable.”

Cerryl had understood early that the Guild wasn’t about to deny any mage who was strong enough. Since Jeslek was strong enough to create small mountains, sooner or later he would be High Wizard.

Kinowin lifted the mug again, then looked at the younger mage. “Cerryl, you’ve been on gate duty for nearly two seasons. You’re going to have morning duty at the north gate before long. It’s a little earlier than I would like, but Bealtur, Heralt, and Myredin will be made full mages at the next Council meeting-that’s but an eight-day from now.”

Cerryl knew Heralt and Bealtur but not Myredin-except by sight and a few casual conversations in the eight-days.

“Heralt will take afternoon duty. He’s the most dependable.” The overmage studied Cerryl. “You know them. What do you think?”

“I don’t know Myredin. I know that Heralt is solid and trustworthy.”

“Carefully said…once more.” Kinowin laughed. “I’d like it if you didn’t tell anyone. Most know, but I’d still like your silence.”

“Yes, ser.” Silence was usually a good idea, at least when an overmage requested it. When Kinowin requested it , Cerryl corrected himself mentally.

“Are you still upset about the old farm woman?”

“Yes.” Cerryl thought and added, “I know that we have to hold to the laws. I wanted to warn her that she needed a medallion.” He paused and cleared his throat. “What upset me was that she wouldn’t listen. It’s not as though the laws are new. But she wouldn’t listen to anyone, and she drew a blade on a guard, and I had to turn her into ash.”

“Everywhere there are laws,” Kinowin said slowly. “We have laws. Hamor has laws. Even Recluce has laws. No land can long last without laws, and without the people obeying them. Not without thievery and killing and wastes in the streets. Yet, in every land, there are those who feel that they do not have to obey the laws. Some have so many coins that they attempt to buy their way around the laws. Some have armsmen, and some are like the old woman.” The big overmage stood abruptly and walked to the window without speaking, as if he were debating what to say next.