L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“And you’d wondered at that.” Leyladin offered a small smile. “Didn’t you?”

“Ah…yes,” he admitted. “But I’m getting used to good food.”

“Then you will stay for dinner?”

Cerryl flushed. “I’d be hard-pressed to leave, lady.”

“I’m Leyladin, not lady.” She grinned.

“I’m Cerryl, and I would be delighted to stay.” He returned the grin. “Leyladin.”

Her deep green eyes danced, and with her smile, warmth flowed up from within him.

THE SUN HAD barely cleared the low hills to the east of Fairhaven when the heavy wagon rumbled through the north gates and onto the highway. Cerryl watched. The entire wagon bed was filled with brass fittings, ship parts of various sorts, headed for Lydiar.

Fittings for the warships Sterol had mentioned? No…those were being built somewhere in Sligo. But could there be others being built on the Great North Bay?

He shook his head. Again, he didn’t even know enough to conjecture. How could he find out? Without asking anyone directly?

Leyladin had offered one suggestion-become friendly with more of the other younger mages. Some of them had to know things he didn’t, and most people would talk, he’d discovered, with a slight bit of encouragement. That hadn’t been his style, but…the more he saw, the more he understood the danger of being alone and aloof.

He glanced down at the white stones of the highway, arcing out to the north and then east, seeing the fine white dust that was everywhere in Fairhaven slowly settle back onto the stone. Then he walked across into the sunlight to warm up, knowing that before midmorning he’d be seeking the shade to cool off.

Below, Diborl watched as the prisoners from the city patrol swept the stones clean. Then another guard escorted them back to the holding room where they were kept between cleanup duties.

Not for the first time, Cerryl wondered exactly what the pair had done. Smuggling, disturbing the peace?

The creaking of another set of wheels alerted him.

Coming down the road from the direction of Hrisbarg were two farm carts and, farther behind them, yet another-the beginning of the line of produce vendors that would fill the markets before many folk were fully up and about.

He stood on the rampart and waited.

LYASA, FALTAR, AND Cerryl stood in the front foyer of the main Hall. Cerryl glanced toward the steps up to the White Tower, his eyes drifting momentarily to the upper ledge and the life-size statues of past great mages-most of whom he still did not recognize.

“Here he comes.” Cerryl nodded to Faltar. “Let’s ask him.”

Heralt walked slowly down the steps from the White Tower into the front foyer of the Hall.

“Heralt?” called Cerryl. “We’re going over to The Golden Ram. Why don’t you join us?”

The dark-haired young mage lifted his head. “I’m tired. I thought I’d just eat in the Halls.”

“All you get in the Meal Hall this late is stale bread and old cheese,” Cerryl pointed out. “You don’t have to stay with us long, and it won’t be that late. I have morning duty, remember?”

Heralt offered a shy smile. “The Ram does sound better than bread and cheese or dried lamb.”

“Dried lamb.” Beside Cerryl, Faltar shook his head. “Any form of lamb…”

“Your feelings about mutton are well-known,” said Lyasa. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

“Well…” Heralt shrugged and turned toward the other three.

The Golden Ram was half-empty by the time the four young mages settled around a circular table in one corner. Broka and another mage-both on their way out together-nodded.

“Good evening.” Cerryl returned the nod and smiled.

Almost as soon as the three were seated, the serving woman was at Faltar’s elbow, looking toward Cerryl and asking, “Drinks?”

“Ale,” said Cerryl.

“Ale,” agreed Faltar.

“Make that three.”

“Four,” added Lyasa.

“Fare’s on the board. Ribs, fowl breast, or stew. Ribs and stew are two. Fowl’s three.”

Cerryl settled on the fowl, as did Faltar. Heralt had ribs and Lyasa stew, and the server with the swirled braid on the back of her head slipped back to the kitchen.

“You once said that your father was a merchant in Kyphros.” Cerryl glanced at Heralt. “Do you see him much?”

Heralt laughed. “Kyphrien is rather far to travel…and he’s not one for sending scrolls. My sister and I exchange messages, but not often.”

“Here you be…four ales. That be eight.”

Cerryl added three coppers to the pile. The server smiled and swept up a silver’s worth of coppers. Lyasa had added the other extra copper.

“I wonder how people in Kyphros feel about the new mountains Jeslek is raising,” mused Cerryl. He took the barest sip of the ale.

“The wool factors are worried.” Heralt took a healthy swallow from his mug. “They say the Analerians have lost some of their flocks and that will make wool scarce.” He shrugged. “Axista says it won’t help prices, though, not so long as the Black Isle sends wool to Spidlar. That worries Father.”

“Isn’t their wool more expensive?”

“Not after all the tariffs on his. Or not much.”

“Then, the road taxes and tariffs bother him?” Cerryl’s tone was interested but not sharp.

“They bother everyone. They make prices higher, and people can buy less.” Heralt took another sip of ale. “You didn’t used to be interested in trade, Cerryl.”

“I figure I’d better learn. That’s what gate duty is all about, isn’t it? Watching trade and trying to see who’s smuggling?” Cerryl glanced to the white-blonde Faltar. “You have any smugglers lately?”

“Not for an eight-day or so,” Faltar mumbled as he finished a mouthful of ale. “This is better than Hall swill any day.”

“More costly, as well,” countered the curly-haired mage.

“You didn’t mention smugglers,” Cerryl prompted. “What were they trying to sneak past you?”

“Hides. Uncured hides to sell to the tanners,” said Faltar.

“There can’t be that much profit in hides,” suggested Heralt. “Why smuggle them?”

“Because,” added Lyasa, brushing a strand of jet-black hair off her forehead, “some gate guards have trouble discovering things that aren’t made of metal or hard materials.”

“And some don’t look at that hard,” added Faltar dryly. “From what I’ve heard.”

From Anya? Cerryl wondered. Then he pondered how Faltar, usually so sensible, had fallen for the red-haired mage who apparently bedded half the Hall and cared little for any beyond the moment or what she could gain from using her body. Is that why you still keep Faltar as a friend-because he’s a friend despite Anya? Or because he’s kept supporting you? Still…Faltar’s relationship with Anya meant that Cerryl had to be careful in some of what he said to the blonde mage.

“How did you sense the hides?” asked Heralt.

“I didn’t really sense them,” admitted Faltar. “But there were some blades hidden under the wagon seat. Not enough to be contraband, but enough to make me worry. So I asked the guards to check the wagon. They knew where to look.”

“They still couldn’t have made more than a gold or so,” protested Heralt.

“A single gold is more than some folk see in a year,” Cerryl said.

“Spoken like a man who knows,” said Lyasa.

“I made about three silvers in the whole time I was a scrivener’s apprentice,” Cerryl admitted. “The same when I worked at the mill.” He laughed. “But I was at the mill a whole lot longer.”

“I think I’d rather be a mage.” Heralt took the last chunk of bread from the basket.