L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

The soup was almost a mustard brown, but tangy and certainly with no taste of the hot spice. Cerryl used the big spoon gingerly, then took another spoonful and one after that. “A good soup…what is it?”

“A pumpkin gourd soup.” Leyladin extended the porcelain bread platter.

Cerryl took a chunk of the golden-crusted white bread.

“One of Meridis’s many specialties,” Leyladin added.

“She has so many that they cannot be termed specialties.” Layel smiled at Meridis, who lifted the tureen and headed back to the kitchen.

Some time later, Cerryl looked up and found he had finished the soup and his bread without speaking.

“Patrol duty must be famishing.”

“That and studying for Patrol duty. There is more to it than I had realized.” Cerryl laughed. “I have found that to be true of everything I have done.”

Layel added a laugh. “True it will be of anything of worth that you or I ever do.”

“What about me?” Leyladin asked in a tone of mock demureness.

“Daughter, since you were born, there has always been more to you and what you do than meets the eye. Why would that change now?” Layel offered a sorrowful look.

Cerryl grinned.

Leyladin turned to him with the same demure expression. “You find that amusing, ser White mage?”

“No, Lady Leyladin…merely true. You set me back the first time I saw you, and nothing has changed.”

A hearty belly laugh issued from Layel. “He knows you, Daughter. Indeed he does.”

Leyladin offered a mock grimace, then smoothed her face back into demureness. “Alas, I am surrounded. Does not anyone understand my plight?”

Cerryl shook his head.

The gray-haired server returned to remove the soup bowls, then delivered three large platters-one with four fowl halves, each covered in an orange glaze; one with sliced potatoes covered with a white sauce; and the third with long slivers of what appeared to be roots covered in the white sauce.

“You didn’t fix quilla?” Leyladin glanced from Meridis to her father.

“I do happen to like it, Daughter.”

“It tastes like sawdust.” The blonde grimaced.

“Then I like sawdust,” replied the trader.

After the momentary silence, Layel served himself one of the fowl halves, then some of the potatoes and a heaping helping of quilla. He passed the last platter to Cerryl. “I was at the seasonal auction today. The one at the Patrol building.”

Cerryl nodded and served himself fowl and potatoes and just a few slices of the smothered quilla.

“Did you bid on anything?” Leyladin took the fowl platter from Cerryl.

“I bid-and purchased-some rare oils and essences. Five golds and I got nearly a score of bottles of oil. Some fool had tried to smuggle them past the gates in a wagon with a false bottom.” Layel smiled. “The gate guards are getting better, I think. That trick used to work.”

“This was the auction of goods taken by the guards?” Cerryl took a sip of the fruit-tinged wine.

“Yes. They have one just before each season turn.” Layel refilled his goblet. “I always go, if only to see what goods are so dear that they must be smuggled. I was taken by the clarity and perfection of these oils, though, and since none seemed to recognize their value…” The merchant shrugged. “Even with a gold’s tax on my bid, I stand to triple my investment.”

“What else was so dear,” Cerryl asked, “that it was smuggled? I mean, that usually isn’t?”

“That you can never tell. At the auction, there were the usual oddments-woven willow baskets, two barrels of soft wheat flour, three second-class hand-and-a-half blades, twoscore wool and linen carpets from Hamor…I bid on those, but Muneat’s fellow took them. At what he bid, he can have them. Chorast didn’t show. Usually he doesn’t. Loboll sat there, didn’t bid but once.” Layel shoveled a mouthful of quilla down.

Leyladin winced almost imperceptibly.

Cerryl cut a small slice of the quilla and chewed, swallowing quickly after deciding that Leyladin was right-the quilla tasted even less appetizing than sawmill sawdust, more like sawdust mixed with axle grease. He’d inadvertently tasted enough of sawdust as a youth. He reached for the wine, ignoring the faint knowing smile that crossed her lips.

“Good stuff, quilla,” Layel proclaimed. “You don’t know what you’re missing, dear.” He speared the second half-fowl and transferred it to his plate.

“I’m quite happy not knowing.” The healer cut a slice of the fowl.

“How do you find Patrol duty?” The factor took a healthy slice of fowl, then dipped it in glaze before eating.

“I’m not really on duty yet, not for a few more days. I’m still learning about the southeastern section of Fairhaven.”

“That’s where all the little smugglers are-tin, pigments, copper. Why, if you mages could tax them, you’d get half the coins you’d need for the roads.”

Cerryl doubted that, but he nodded politely. “Everything seems quiet. Even the Market Square has fewer carts, and they leave early.”

“That is true in late summer, every year, almost until harvest. Then there will be peddlers everywhere,” predicted Leyladin, “but it will be quiet until then.”

“Some of the factors have not been so quiet in recent days past,” Layel volunteered. “Scerzet said that he would run any Spidlarian trader off the road, were any to cross his path.”

“Oh?” Cerryl frowned.

“’Tis simple. The Spidlarians-they do not lower their prices for wares. They match ours and then go a copper or two lower.”

“They’re actually pocketing extra coins in the amount that the tariffs raise your prices. Or just a few coppers less than that.”

“So simple that a new-minted junior mage can see it.” Layel beamed. “No matter how much we lower prices, they always can match our prices and make more coins.”

“Do you think the Gallosians are encouraging them?” asked Leyladin.

“No, Daughter. The Gallosians, like all people, think of themselves. They will buy where they can buy the best quality for the fewest coins. Unless the White mages”-he inclined his head toward Cerryl-“unless they either force the Gallosians to pay more for goods traded through Spidlar or forbid their sale at all in Gallos, the Gallosians, as will all in Candar, will buy where they can most cheaply.”

Cerryl could see more than a few problems.

As if anticipating Cerryl’s thoughts, Layel continued, “Once goods are unloaded from a ship, to ensure all tariffs are paid is like catching smoke after it has left the chimney.”

“The traders would not support a war against Gallos and Spidlar, would they?”

Layel shrugged. “Some, like the grain factors, see no difficulties. Recluce does not ship grain, and Austran grain is more dear than any grown in Candar. Nor is maize a problem. The wool factors would pay for war tomorrow-if not with many coins. So would the oilseed growers-those outside of the lowlands of Certis. The metals factors and, so I am told, the Duke of Lydiar are most wroth at the copper shipped from Southport.”

In short, it’s like everything else…with no really clear answers . Cerryl nodded.

“Few choices are there-to take either the city of Elparta or all of Spidlar…or see trade suffer and revenues for Fairhaven fall.”

“Elparta?” Cerryl asked involuntarily.

“Aye…most of the trade to Gallos comes up the river to Elparta. Some goes to Certis through Axalt, but the pass beyond Axalt is narrow and can be patrolled, if need be. So, if the lancers took Elparta…then the surtaxes could be levied there.”

“That would be somewhat difficult without the agreement of the prefect or the viscount and those of Axalt.” Leyladin’s tone was dry. “We would have to send lancers through the greater breadth of Gallos, or through Certis and Axalt.”