L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

On the street side of the room-between the windows-three patrollers held a man in a ripped gray shirt, a figure Towering well over four cubits. Even with his hands shackled, the three patrollers were having difficulty holding him still-that despite an undressed wound in the shoulder that had to have been painful.

On the other side of the room was a dark-haired woman who was tiny, reaching barely to Cerryl’s shoulder.

Cerryl nodded to both as he walked across the room and climbed up on the platform. He felt silly doing it, but Isork had been firm about his speaking only from the stone platform. The Patrol mage cleared his throat, loudly. “Gerlaco…Jeyna.”

The patrollers looked at him warily. So did the woman.

The big man spat on the floor. “I don’t care if he’s a White demon…no smooth-skinned youth is going to judge me…”

Cerryl decided to cut him off. He concentrated chaos and let fire flare from his fingertips.

“Tricks! All tricks. You’re worse than the Black angels!”

The dark-haired woman flung herself on the floor almost at the base of the low platform. “Gerlaco’s from Delapra. He doesn’t understand! Don’t kill him…please…He drank too much…Please…”

Cerryl could sense, even without trying, that she spoke the truth as she knew it.

“Kill someone…that boy? Ha!” The big man lunged toward Cerryl, getting close enough to one of the patrollers to twist his shackled arms and lash out with an elbow.

The patroller dropped like a stone, then sat on the stone floor cradling an arm that was wrenched or broken.

Cerryl kept his face stolid. His own appearance didn’t help matters, but he really had no choice, not after everything.

“Stand back.” Cerryl’s voice was level.

“NOOO!!!!”

The patrollers backed away abruptly, almost thrusting the giant into the center of the assembly room.

Cerryl concentrated on focusing the chaos as tightly as possible, more like a light lance, but not quite. He didn’t want to give that secret away.

WHHSSTT! A pillar of fire flared where the big man had stood.

“NOOO!!!” The woman sobbed from where she lay on the floor tiles.

“I’m sorry,” Cerryl said quietly but firmly. “No one attacks a patroller. No one. It doesn’t matter whether they’re from Delapra or Recluce or Hamor.” Somehow he kept his voice firm, even as he felt almost like shuddering. He shouldn’t have had to do that, not on his first eight-day as a Patrol mage. Not just because he was small and slender.

“Fystl…we’ll talk in the office.” Cerryl turned and walked out of the room that served as meeting place and judging space, leaving both the patrols and the woman.

“…just like that…Wait till I tell Reyll.”

“…let the boys on tannery row know about this.”

“…like to see him on the streets, though…”

Ignoring the comments, he walked back down the few cubits of the corridor and into the duty room, sinking onto the padded leather cushion on the chair, the only bit of softness in the entire building, and the cushion wasn’t all that yielding. He waited until Fystl closed the door, then gestured to one of the chairs.

Fystl sat, his eyes flicking every which way but not meeting Cerryl’s.

“How many more like this can I expect until the word gets out that I’m just like every other Patrol mage?” Cerryl asked wearily.

“Ah…I don’t know, ser. You handle ’em quick…maybe not many.” Fystl shook his head. “Ser…was that a firebolt?”

“Yes,” Cerryl lied. “Just a very controlled one. I didn’t want anyone else hurt,” he added more truthfully.

“Most clear the room.” Fystl finally met Cerryl’s eyes. “You that good all the time, ser?”

“Anywhere under fifty cubits.”

A faint smile crossed the squad leader’s face, then faded. “What about the woman?”

“He started it. She’s been punished enough. Let her go.”

Fystl nodded. “That be all, ser?”

“That’s all.”

“By your leave, ser?”

Cerryl rose. “Let me know if any problems come out of this.”

“Won’t be none, ser. Not a one.” Fystl offered a half-bow, then turned and departed.

Cerryl hoped there wouldn’t be, but hope often didn’t match reality. He’d seen that often enough, especially with Uncle Syodor and Aunt Nall.

Cerryl looked at the short stack of papers he had put aside for a few moments to read On Peacekeeping , then leafed through them. He hadn’t understood that another aspect of the drudgery of being a section Patrol mage was writing reports. Isork had mentioned reports, but understanding and doing were often two separate things. Cerryl had to write down any incident where the Patrol took someone into custody or where he used chaos to turn someone into ash or anything else he thought that Isork or the Council should know about.

Cerryl understood, belatedly, the stack of scrolls Isork had been reading when he had first met the Patrol chief. Slowly, he picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink. For a while, he’d decided he’d keep what amounted to a journal-jotting down notes as things happened throughout the day, then writing down at the end of his duty those matters that still seemed worth reporting.

His eyes flicked across the day’s jottings…before the incident with Gerlaco.

…brought in Kealf, accused of stealing apples. Kealf said under truth-read that Vilo wouldn’t take his copper because he was from Sturba. Vilo agreed to take copper and pay a copper in damages to the Patrol.

…one Azorf stole three loaves of bread. Caught by Nuryl’s patrol. Sent to south prison for preparation and assignment to road duty.

…vagrant who would not give name stole purse from Seorlica, consort of the cooper Huntyl. Huntyl struck with barrel stave and hailed patrol (Sheffl-leader). Truth-read vagrant, committed theft. Sent to south prison for preparation and assignment to road duty…

Cerryl took his eyes off the notes and began to write, hoping he wouldn’t have to detail turning too many peacebreakers into ash.

CERRYL TOOK A large helping of creamed lamb from the Meal Hall’s serving table and a full mug of the amber ale. At most of the tables around the room were apprentices, faces he did not know-except for the two redheads, Kiella and Kochar. The exception was the big circular table near the Meal Hall entrance, where Faltar, Lyasa, and Heralt sat, almost through with their meal. Lyasa waved to Cerryl, and he headed in their direction. He sat down and grinned as he noted the crumbs around Faltar’s plate. “A touch of lamb with your bread?”

“I was too tired to go out, even with creamed mutton.” Faltar grinned back. “I’m not a highly paid Patrol mage. I have to watch my coins.”

“Someone told me that even junior mages could go out every night,” Cerryl replied.

“He was wrong.”

Heralt and Lyasa laughed at Faltar’s woebegone expression.

“How does being a Patrol mage compare to gate duty?” Heralt-the curly-haired young mage originally from Kyphrien-took a sip of ale.

“Harder. Much harder,” mumbled Cerryl between bites of lamb.

“You get off in midafternoon. You been over at the trader’s place?” asked Faltar. “With your favorite healer?”

“No…walking the southeast section. Only way to get to know it well enough.”

“By yourself?” asked Lyasa.

“As a Patrol mage, it wouldn’t look all that good to have an escort off-duty.” Cerryl’s tone was dry. “I stay out of shadowed alleys and the taverns.”

“He’s still acting like an apprentice who has to learn everything,” Faltar told Lyasa.

“He’s also bringing in more coins, Faltar,” she replied. “There might be some relation between the two.”