L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“Two fowls, ribs, and a stew.” The four platters and two baskets of bread practically tumbled onto the polished but battered tabletop. “That be ten.”

Cerryl fumbled out four coppers, wondering how often he could afford such luxury-despite Faltar’s mathematicks.

“Thank you all.” The serving woman scooped up the coins.

Faltar took a bite of the fowl and chewed noisily.

Across the table from Cerryl, Lyasa raised her eyebrows. “He only appears neat.”

“Food’s better than talk,” mumbled Faltar. “Specially after a long duty day.”

Cerryl used his dagger to slice off a strip of the chicken to pop into his mouth. Somehow it was both juicy and dry at the same time, but he was hungry enough that it didn’t matter that much. Still, compared to the meals he’d had at Furenk’s and Leyladin’s, The Golden Ram’s fare was definitely inferior. A mere two seasons before, he never would have thought that.

“This is better than Hall lamb any day,” Faltar added.

“Better than stale bread, too.” Cerryl grinned at Heralt.

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

“Mages aren’t meant to die with coins,” said Lyasa. “We can’t leave them to anyone. You might as well enjoy what you eat.”

“And drink,” added Faltar.

“The other day, there was a big wagon that headed out toward Lydiar,” Cerryl said. “Filled with worked brass. Ship fittings…”

“Has to be for the warships,” replied Faltar after wiping his mouth and emptying his mug. He held the mug up for the server to see.

“I thought the Guild’s ships were built in Sligo.”

“Off that island in the Great North Bay. It’s faster to use the highway to Lydiar and send heavy stuff by boat.”

“That’ll be two more,” said the server as she took Faltar’s mug.

“You’ll have it,” the blonde mage promised, reaching for his belt purse.

“Ten ships seem like a lot,” mused Cerryl.

“I know of at least seven solid ports in eastern Candar,” Lyasa pointed out. “With time for supplies and transit, that’s only one more ship to watch each port.”

Put that way, reflected Cerryl, ten ships seemed almost too few.

“The only two ports that matter right now are Diev and Spidlaria…maybe Quend,” suggested Faltar.

“That’s still only three ships for each port. The Northern Ocean is pretty big.” Lyasa sipped her ale.

Thump! Another mug of ale appeared at Faltar’s elbow. “Here you be.”

The blonde mage extended three coppers.

“How would you use the ships, Heralt?” Cerryl asked. “You know more about trade than most of us, I suspect.”

The curly-haired and dark-eyed mage shrugged. “Lyasa’s right. No one’s going to smuggle through Lydiar or Renklaar. Ruzor or Worrak, maybe. That’s only four or five places, but we’d have to mount a blockade, and the Blacks would try to use the weather. I don’t know. I wonder if we could afford as many ships as we need. They say we’ve only got a score or so now. Ten more-that might do it.” Heralt yawned. “Unless the Blacks build more ships, or better ones, or something like that.”

“How could you build a better ship?” demanded Faltar. “A ship’s a ship. If you make it faster, then it carries less cargo-or less armsmen-and there’s not that much difference in speed under sail anyway. They all need the wind.”

“Hamor uses slave galleys in the calmer parts of the Western Ocean,” Lyasa said.

“Water’s too rough here,” insisted Faltar.

“Probably.” Heralt yawned again. “I need some sleep.”

“I’ll walk back with you,” said Cerryl. “Morning duty.” He rose, then looked at Lyasa. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll keep Faltar out of trouble.”

“Me? Trouble?”

“Yes, you,” she answered amiably.

Cerryl and Heralt slipped out into the fresher air, air still warm, with the faint fragrance of something.

“You think there’s trouble coming?” Heralt asked as they headed toward the rear Hall, stifling yet another yawn.

“There’s always trouble coming.” Cerryl offered a laugh. “It’s just taken me a while to understand that.”

His eyes went to the northern sky and the pinpoints of light, distant lights supposedly, if Colors of White were correct, with suns similar to the one that brought chaos and light upon them.

Did they have their troubles? Did it matter?

He tried not to yawn as he started up the steps beside Heralt.

CERRYL BLOTTED HIS forehead with the back of his forearm. Even in midmorning, the shadiest space behind the rampart of the guardhouse was almost unbearably hot. He felt sorry for Heralt, who would have to endure it all afternoon, with even less shade, although the dark-haired young mage was from Kyphros-to the south and far warmer than Fairhaven. Perhaps Heralt was better able to withstand the heat than Cerryl. Cerryl hoped so.

The green-blue sky was clear, with a haze toward the horizon that bespoke the promise of greater heat as the day went on. The air was still, hot, thick, weighing on Cerryl like a heavy blanket.

He glanced back toward Fairhaven, but the Avenue down toward the Wizards’ Square was empty of all but a few riders and some folk on foot, none headed toward the gates themselves. He turned. The highway to Hrisbarg and Lydiar was equally deserted, a long, gently curving arc of deserted white stone in the midmorning glare.

Was that because it was summer? Or the result of the higher taxes and tariffs? Or had the High Wizard already started using warships somehow to enforce the taxes? He frowned. The taxes were levied in ports, such as Lydiar and Tyrhavven. How could the Guild levy a tariff or a tax on a ship’s cargo if the goods were shipped elsewhere-to Spidlar or Sarronnyn?

Creeakkk …

Cerryl turned.

A thin figure led a donkey and cart off the side road a halfkay to the northwest and onto the highway toward the guardhouse. The young mage watched as the farmer led the cart around to the side of the guardhouse. The cart contained several baskets of greenery-beans?

“Ser? Another farmer for a medallion.”

Cerryl nodded, turned, and started down the steps. Another farmer? As he reached the back medallion room, he asked, “Vykay? Have we had a lot of farmers lately?”

The thin guard looked at the other man, who had the ledger before him. “Sandur?”

“A moment.” Sandur glanced at the waiting farmer. “That’s five coppers for a cart, a silver for a full four-wheeled wagon.”

“A cart be all I can pay for.” The thin farmer pushed five coppers across the wooden surface of the counter behind which stood Sandur, the lancer acting as medallion guard. The medallion guard handed the bronze rectangle to Vykay but looked at the farmer. “Vykay and the mage will attach it to your cart, ser.”

The farmer grunted.

Sandur turned the pages of the ledger, then glanced at Cerryl. “Says here…been six in the last eight-day. More than I recall.”

Cerryl nodded to himself. The highway was emptier, and there were more farmers getting medallions. He turned to the farmer. “Your cart outside, ser?”

“By the door, young ser.”

Cerryl led the way back out into the heat, followed by the farmer and Vykay with his drill, pouch, tools, and the medallion.

Cerryl waited beside the cart as Vykay drilled the holes for the medallion-another new medallion, no less.

More farmers than Sandur recalled? Again, Cerryl didn’t know enough to determine whether that was just coincidence…or more. As if you could really do anything about it .

HERE YOU BE. Ten for the lot.” The serving woman set down the two mugs of wine and then the two of ale.