L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“I am pleased to meet you, ser mage,” Arkos said carefully, his luminous brown eyes meeting Cerryl’s pale gray ones for but a moment.

“There have been a number of visitors here over the past eight-days,” Kesal observed.

“My family-my cousins and their consorts-they have come from Kleth.”

“From Kleth?” asked Kesal. “All that way to visit? Tanning must have become far more prosperous.”

“Spidlar is not so good a place to be.” Arkos shrugged. “And it will get less good. So they come to work for me. I do not need so many helpers, but…” He looked helplessly at Cerryl and then at Kesal. “Family is family.”

“Have you seen any silksheen lately, Arkos?” Cerryl asked idly.

“Me, honored ser? How could I find the coins for such?”

Cerryl could sense the honesty behind that response, as he had with the tanner’s response to Kesal’s questions.

“Is Tellis still asking for your best vellum?”

Arkos’s eyes narrowed momentarily. “Ah…yes, ser. Does he not always?”

“Always,” Cerryl agreed. “Good day, ser Arkos.”

“Good day, ser mage.”

Back outside on the stone walk flanking the street, Kesal chuckled. “You worried him with the comment about vellum.”

“He was telling the truth about his family. And about the silksheen.”

“Good. One less problem to worry about.”

One less problem for the Patrol, but not necessarily for the Guild, not if people are already fleeing Spidlar .

“We turn here-that’s the next patrol area to the east.”

The four walked down the north-south side street past three narrow plaster-fronted two-story houses that, while clean, bore the stamp of years. At the corner, Kesal glanced eastward along the Way of the Masons, where a heavy woman carried a basket on her head and dragged a blonde child with one free hand. To the west, the street was empty, but two boys sat on a stone stoop three doorways to the west.

At the sight of the white and crimson, both youths eased inside, leaving a blank door.

Cerryl nodded. He could feel the residual chaos, although it was faint, very faint, and he made a mental note to send a scroll to Kinowin. The overmage was the only one he trusted to handle that fairly.

Two blocks later, they passed a shop with a signboard in black with a white pestle-an apothecary whose name Cerryl didn’t recognize: LIKKET.

“What sort of apothecary is Likket?” asked the mage.

“Who knows? You see servants, women, and apprentices running in and out.”

Cerryl fingered his chin. “Some apothecaries furnish different things. Nivor-his shop is on the other side of the Avenue-that was where Tellis got brimstone and oak galls to make ink. I heard that Rudint dealt mostly in oils for creams and unguents.”

Kesal shrugged. “Can’t say as I know. Seldom have trouble with apothecaries, and patrollers tend to learn things where they find trouble.

That made sense, but it bothered Cerryl, and, again, he couldn’t exactly say why.

IN THE AFTERNOON quiet of the duty room, Cerryl looked at the blank sheet of paper before him and then at his informal journal beside it.

Dulkar brought in Aarhl, accused of stealing three barrels of molasses from the loading dock of the factor Hsian. Truth-read. Aarhl sent to south prison for preparation and assignment to road duty…Beggar without a name stole three coppers from youth on the Way of the Masons. Caught by Jiark’s patrol and attacked Jiark with dagger. Turned to ash…

Cerryl began to write slowly, glad that the beggar remained only the third peacebreaker on whom he had been forced to use chaos fire during his first three eight-days as a Patrol mage for the southeast section. Using chaos fire troubled him, especially on beggars and old women. Is it because you don’t understand them? Why would anyone attack a mage when the attack meant death? And why did people steal when most were caught and ended up spending their lives on the road crew? The beggar would have gotten better fare on the road than begging-and yet he wanted to die? Or he couldn’t stand the thought of abiding by another’s rules? Yet everyone, even the High Wizard, lives by rules, and life would be sorry indeed without them .

Cerryl shook his head. Yet he’d killed several score as an apprentice and a mage. The reasons did not make it easier, not much, but the alternative was worse. Still…

One every eight-day? More than two score in a year? He shook his head, hoping that his patrolling and firmness would Recluce those numbers. From what he’d seen, he had few options. He kept writing. The first midafternoon bell had rung, and it wouldn’t be long before Gyskas arrived.

Cerryl could sense that chaos that accompanied Gyskas long before the balding and graying older mage marched into the duty room with the second midafternoon bell, just as Cerryl was folding and sealing his daily report.

The oncoming duty mage nodded, and his deep-set green eyes swept the room. “Not too long a report?” He pushed fine brown and gray hair back off his high and receding forehead.

“No. One beggar took a knife to Jiark.” Cerryl shrugged. “How many do you have to flame every eight-day?”

“On this shift?” Gyskas frowned as Cerryl stood. “Two or three. Mostly outsiders. Our people know what happens if they attack a patroller.” He took a deep breath. “It gets to you sometimes, but you can’t have a set of rules that’s harder on locals than on outsiders.”

Cerryl stepped around the flat desk and called, “Wielt!” Waiting for the sandy-blonde youth, he added, “If you figure we’ve got four sections with two shifts…”

“Fortunately, it doesn’t work that way. There’s more peacebreaking here than in the other three combined. Lucky us.”

Or is it more peacebreaking of the kind that comes to the Patrol’s attention? Cerryl wondered.

The messenger appeared in the duty room doorway.

“If you would, lake this to Mage Isork or Huroan at the main Patrol building.” Cerryl handed the folded and sealed daily report to the stocky messenger in red.

“Yes, ser.” Wielt turned to Gyskas. “Voar is in the assembly room, ser.”

“Thank you.” Gyskas turned his eyes back to Cerryl, coughing once. “Tomorrow’s your off-day?”

“The day after tomorrow. I think Dujak…”

“That’s right. He’s covering most of the morning off-days this season, here and in the southwest section.” Gyskas glanced toward the chair.

“Oh…sorry.” Cerryl stepped around the desk. “Have a good afternoon and evening.”

“It’s never that good, Cerryl. You’ll see.” Gyskas gave the younger mage a twisted smile. “Say…in a year or so. Enjoy morning duty while you still can.”

Cerryl nodded before turning and leaving the duty room, nodding to the black-haired Voar, who stood by the messenger stool. Then Cerryl walked past the assembly room and through the doors.

Several off-duty patrollers followed Cerryl outside, where the wind had picked up under a dark gray sky, and the air held a damp chill. After a smile and a nod, Cerryl headed west toward the Avenue, picking up the low murmurs they exchanged as they left.

“…didn’t wait for Isork to ash that beggar…”

“…not like Klyat last spring…”

“…bet he’s going walking through the section again.”

“…least you don’t have to explain where something happened.”

Cerryl kept from nodding as the low voices died out behind him. When he reached the Avenue, he stopped for a moment and watched.

A long canvas-covered wagon creaked northward, pulled by a four-horse team. Beside the driver sat a guard with a spear. A pair of mounted guards rode behind. All four wore a green livery Cerryl hadn’t seen before.