L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

He extended his perceptions, and from what he could tell the wagon held bales of cleaned and carded wool. Wool-so late in the year? Or had it come from Kyphros on its way to Lydiar? He shook his head. The wool had to have come from Montgren. Was it being shipped later in the year just because prices were likely to be higher? But why all the guards?

After the wagon passed he turned south, down toward the Way of the Tanners, walking through the drizzle that had begun, ignoring the faint headache the light rain created. Cerryl walked slowly along the Way of the Tanners, just looking.

The incident with the purple cart still bothered him. No one had claimed it from the Patrol storage, and no one had reported either a cart or a person or silksheen missing, not according to Huroan. Medallions weren’t that cheap either.

Three youths leaning against the brick wall on the other side of the street, the north side, watched him as he neared. Cerryl studied the three, none that much younger than he was. The tallest wore a faded gray vest over a worn brown shirt and patched brown trousers. His curly hair looked oily and dirty. The smallest wore drab gray, blotched white as if from spills from some kind of caustic or acetic. The third wore a sheep-herder’s jacket.

Abruptly the tallest spat on the sidewalk.

Cerryl wanted to sigh. Instead, he concentrated, then flashed a firebolt to the pavement where the spittle had landed.

With the flash, all three youths straightened.

Cerryl smiled broadly.

The three remained immobile as he passed on the far side of the street.

“…hate ’em…”

“…uppity Whites…”

“…careful…can be touchy…”

Cerryl let his perceptions linger with the three until he was a good fifty paces east of them.

Eventually, he turned into Likket’s shop.

The apothecary looked up from a table containing several piles of what appeared to be bark as the mage entered. “Ser?”

“I’m Cerryl, Likket. I know what some of the apothecaries do, but what sorts of things do you provide?”

Likket looked at Cerryl for a long moment. Cerryl looked back steadily until the older man’s eyes dropped.

“I provide potions, some to loosen the bowels, some to tighten them, others to loosen the muscles, others to ease pain, ser. Here…here is the willow bark.”

Willow bark? Wasn’t there something about that in one of the books you copied for Tellis?

“The elixir from willow bark is most useful in lowering fevers from the flux and pains in limbs. Sometimes, it aids in pains in the head.”

“You don’t provide dyes for cottons or wools, then?”

Likket shook his head in a way that suggested the question was ridiculous.

“Nivor provides the basics for scriveners’ inks.”

“Most dyers would not trust an apothecary with any such knowledge, ser mage.”

“What about silksheen?”

“That cannot be dyed. Surely you would know that?” Likket squinted at Cerryl.

“I’m one of the newer Patrol mages.” Cerryl offered an embarrassed smile. “I know about scriving and timber and a few other things, but not about fabrics and dyes and potions for pain. Is there anything stronger than willow bark?”

“Stronger, aye. Poppy juice or powder in wine-it be far stronger.” Likket cackled. “Strong enough to let some folk sleep on a stone boat. That’s only for those already a-dying of mortification.”

Cerryl nodded. “You mentioned other potions?”

“Ah…” Likket held up a hand blown glass bottle, stoppered with a cork. “This manchieniel syrup…if made from the green leaves, it tightens the bowel. But if made from the brown-gray leaves, it loosens them mightily…”

Cerryl smiled and waited for Likket to say more.

The rain had begun to fall more heavily when Cerryl left the apothecary’s, and his skull had begun to throb. He turned westward and began to walk back toward the Avenue and the Halls of the Mages.

Once inside the front foyer and out of the damp, he nodded to Kochar as Jeslek’s redheaded apprentice rushed by in the direction of the courtyard and, presumably, the Meal Hall.

“Good day, Kochar.”

“Good day, ser,” Kochar said quickly, with only a brief pause, and he hurried past Cerryl and toward the Meal Hall.

Cerryl crossed the fountain courtyard and took the side Hall to the rear courtyard and entered his own building. He was opening his door when Faltar appeared in the corridor.

“It’s creamed lamb again. Let’s go over to The Ram.”

Cerryl thought, his hand touching his clean-shaven chin.

“I asked Leyladin for you. She’ll meet us there in a bit.” Faltar grinned, looking vaguely raffish with a lock of blonde hair almost across his left eyebrow. “She was coming down from treating Myral.”

“Where is she now?”

“She went to her house. I would, too, if I had a palace like that. You go there often?”

“Not often. Sterol had been sending her all over Candar, and I’ve not been going many places right now.”

“They say only Muneat’s dwelling and maybe those of Chorast, Scerzet, and Jiolt are grander. Loboll…who would know?”

“I wouldn’t.” Once, when he had been Tellis’s apprentice, Cerryl had delivered a book to the factor Muneat, and the factor’s front hall had certainly appeared grand to him back then, but he’d not seen any of the rest of the mansion. Nor did he know the dwellings of the others Faltar had mentioned.

“Are you coming?” Faltar raised his eyebrows.

“I think the lamb in the Meal Hall can serve others,” Cerryl said. “Let me wash up first.”

“I’ll meet you at The Ram,” Faltar said. “Oh…Heralt’s coming. Is that all right?”

Wondering why Faltar would even ask, Cerryl answered, “Of course. I like Heralt.”

“Good. We’ll see you there.” With a broad and self-satisfied smile, Faltar turned.

Cerryl slipped into the gloom of his room, closing the door and sinking into the chair before his desk for a moment. His feet ached. He still couldn’t imagine spending all his duty on his feet for year after year, the way most patrollers did. Then, he couldn’t imagine doing anything year after year.

He took a deep breath and massaged his still-aching forehead.

Thrap .

Slowly, he rose and trudged toward the scent of sandalwood and trilia that seeped into his room even before he opened the door.

“Might I come in?” Anya smiled her brilliant and patently false smile.

“Of course.” Cerryl gestured for her to enter.

The redhead swept past him and sat on the edge of his bed.

Cerryl turned the chair to face her and sat down. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“How do you like being a Patrol mage?” asked Anya.

“So far, it’s been interesting.” He offered a smile, hoping it was more genuine than hers. “What have you been doing?”

“Helping Sterol and Jeslek. Drafting scrolls…that sort of thing.”

“You must have a fine hand.”

“Not so fine as a former scrivener, but it suffices. I did learn a few things before the Guild found me.”

“You’re from Fairhaven, then?”

“Most mages are.” Anya leaned forward, yet somehow the white tunic clung even more suggestively to her form. “You know, once Jeslek officially becomes High Wizard, the Guild will need another overmage?”

“Would you like my support?”

Anya laughed, twice, two musical notes, perfect in pitch, yet ringing off-key. “No. I doubt the Guild would feel secure with a woman as overmage.”

“Who might be considered?” Cerryl shifted his weight on the chair.

“Eliasar, Redark, Esaak, perhaps Myral or Broka.” Anya shrugged. “A few others.”