L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“Anya?” suggested Heralt.

“She’d like that.” Lyasa laughed. “But she won’t be chosen.”

“Then who?”

Cerryl leaned back in the chair, trying to ignore the headache from the rain and the concerns raised by Anya’s visit. He also tried to stifle a yawn but did not quite succeed.

Leyladin leaned closed to him and whispered, “You need to leave, don’t you?”

He nodded slightly.

“Are we boring you, Cerryl?” Faltar asked.

“I was up before dawn, and I walked some of the section after duty. I’m tired.” He forced a smile. “Not bored.”

Leyladin stood. “I had to spend more time with Myral, and I’m about to fall over.”

Cerryl rose slowly. “I’m sorry. I am tired.”

Lyasa smiled. “Bedtime, then.”

Cerryl found himself flushing.

“Go on, you two. We understand.” Faltar grinned broadly.

Cerryl could sense Leyladin’s embarrassment as well. “Faltar…not everyone has quite the same approach as you do.”

“Ha!” said Heralt. “He’s got you, Faltar.”

“Everyone gets me,” grumbled the blonde mage good-naturedly as Cerryl followed Leyladin out of The Golden Ram.

Out in the lamp-punctuated misty darkness, the blonde healer turned to Cerryl. “You don’t have to walk me home. You’re tired.”

“It’s but a few blocks, really, and the exercise will do me good.”

“You’re lying. Your feet hurt, and your head aches, and the fog and rain don’t help.” Her voice was soft, and a smile followed.

“Never lie to a Black mage,” he said. “I still would feel better if I walked you home.”

“I can accept that.” Leyladin smiled. “Perhaps you could come to dinner, the night after tomorrow? Father should be back by then.”

“Back? Is he off again?”

“He’s in Lydiar, something about brass fittings and about getting armsmen for a ship bound for Summerdock.”

“He’s been traveling more lately.”

“He says he has to.”

After a short silence, Cerryl glanced to his left at the bulk of the White Tower, almost glowing with the power of chaos through the drizzle and mist.

“You’re worried. Why?” Leyladin glanced up the Avenue.

“Anya came to see me.” Cerryl’s pale gray eyes followed her green ones. “Fydel stopped me in the courtyard on the way to The Ram. Neither one of them has spoken to me in eight-days. Or longer.”

“What did they say?” Leyladin glanced toward the Market Square, dark and wreathed in a foglike mist.

“Nothing. Well…not quite. Anya delivered a veiled hint that it would be better if the next overmage happened to be one that wouldn’t challenge Jeslek in power. Fydel? He as much as told me that I shouldn’t get too involved in anything beyond simple peacekeeping.”

“Hmmmm…and what are you up to, dear Cerryl?”

“I’m not up to anything. I am worried about that missing cart. That’s the one I told you about.”

“I asked Father. He didn’t know about anyone missing, at least not anyone he trades with.”

Cerryl shrugged. “I don’t see why Fydel would even care.”

“Fydel doesn’t. Anya might. Muneat’s her uncle.”

Cerryl swallowed. “I asked her where she came from. She never answered.”

“Her father died several years ago. Of the flux. So did all her brothers. She has a younger sister who is the consort of Jiolt’s oldest, Uleas or something.”

“Who is Jiolt? All I know is that he’s a rich factor.” Cerryl took Leyladin’s arm to guide her across a puddle as they turned westward from the befogged and darkened Market Square. Feeling her warmth so close to him, he wished, not for the first time, that he could hold her more than the few brief embraces she permitted.

Leyladin cleared her throat. “Jiolt…Father doesn’t talk about him much. He’s one of the governors of the Grain Exchange, but he factors other things, like Father, whatever interests him-wool, linen, tin, but not copper…oils, but only the rare ones…that sort of thing. Like Muneat, but Jiolt has three sons, where Muneat’s only living heir is Devo, and he’s not all that bright.”

“Why do all you female mages come from trading families?”

“Lyasa doesn’t.”

“I wasn’t sure. She never told me.”

“Nor me, but I know all the trading families. So if she does, it’s not from Fairhaven or Lydiar or Vergren.”

Cerryl nodded.

“She does not come from poverty. She is mannered and not ill-used.” Leyladin laughed softly, almost bitterly. “Only those talented daughters who come from coins survive.” Her eyes went to the lamps by the doorway of her house, less than fifty cubits ahead.

“Few enough chaos-talented boys without coins survive,” Cerryl said quietly, thinking of his father.

“I’m sorry, Cerryl. I did not mean it that way.”

“I know.”

At her doorway, her arms went around him. “Go home, and please get some rest.”

“I will.” He returned the embrace, enjoying momentarily the warmth and even the order that infused her.

Her lips touched his, warmly but briefly, before she leaned away from him. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

Somehow, the evening seemed damper and colder on the walk back to his empty apartment.

CERRYL WALKED QUICKLY across the foyer toward the Tower steps. The day hadn’t been that bad, but he was glad that it had been quiet. Only a few celebrating mercenaries at The Battered Cask, and they’d quieted down even before he’d gotten there after the summons from Coreg, the lead area patroller. Both the innkeeper and Coreg recommended that Cerryl but warn them, and Cerryl had heeded the recommendation, if warily. Everyone had seemed relieved at that. Cerryl wondered if he’d have trouble later-or if Gyskas would.

Cerryl shook his head as he started up the steps to the lowest level of the White Tower. You still don’t have enough experience .

Neither guard was more than passingly familiar, and Cerryl nodded politely as he passed and began the climb to Myral’s quarters, hoping the older mage happened to be there.

He paused outside Myral’s door, then knocked once. Thrap .

After a moment came the familiar voice: “You can come in, Cerryl.”

Cerryl opened the door, then closed it behind him. Myral sat by his table, a mug of hot cider before him.

“To what do I owe this visit?” Myral smiled, then half-choked and lapsed into a series of deep and retching coughs.

Cerryl bolted toward Myral. The older mage held up a hand even as the heavy retching coughs subsided. Cerryl stood, waiting for Myral to stop coughing, glancing toward the windows shuttered against the chill breeze and then at the older man. After a time, Myral cleared his throat and took the smallest of sips from the mug.

“Are you all right?” Cerryl asked.

“I swallowed wrong. It happens with age. Now…what do you wish?”

“I thought you could help me.”

“All I can provide these days is information, and you know that.” Myral smiled. “So what knowledge can this aging mage provide?” He gestured toward the chair across the table from him, then lifted the mug of cider.

Cerryl seated himself. “I need to know more about tariffs and trade.”

“For the Patrol?” Myral raised his eyebrows. “For peacekeeping?”

“For peacekeeping. Over an eight-day ago, we found an abandoned cart-a painted and well-kept cart. There was blood on the seat, and a scrap of silksheen under the seat, and traces of chaos.” Cerryl went on to explain how nothing else had turned up, but not about Fydel’s veiled suggestion that such interest was beyond peacekeeping. “It keeps bothering me, but I don’t know exactly why. So I thought about you.”