L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

Cerryl nodded slowly, then smiled.

CERRYL SCRIPTED OUT the last of his daily report, his eyes running over the hand-written letters whose narrowness Tellis had insisted upon so long ago-at least it seemed so long ago.

A gust of hot wind from the high window that was barely open brushed his hair, and he glanced up. It had been more than a year, more like a year and a season, since he had become a Patrol mage, and he was still on morning duty. Another fall and another harvest was coming in another handful of eight-days, and little had changed. He still walked the streets with the area patrols occasionally, and while peacebreaking had dropped for a time, the number of offenders had seemed unchanged for the past two seasons.

There was still the occasional cart or wagon with goods and driver missing, but no other traces-and while Cerryl had kept personal records, he had not ventured beyond what Fydel would have called “simple peacekeeping.” Cerryl had his ideas, but without proof and/or more understanding, his ideas were but ideas. He’d learned early that to those without power patience was a necessity, however little he liked waiting. The incident with the iron arrow had reemphasized that lesson.

That also applied to Leyladin. He and Leyladin saw each other more frequently, but a sense of reserve had built between them, an unspoken wall. Behind everything Cerryl felt forces were building, forces he could not see but certainly could feel.

His eyes went to the Patrol report before him:

…Guarl, who is a laborer for the tanner Huyter, stole five loaves of bread from the baker Sidor. Guarl was caught by Duarrl’s patrol. Guarl claimed he needed the bread for his consort and children…given refuse duty for four eight-days…

Cerryl shook his head-he’d bent the rules on that one, but his truth-read had shown Guarl to be honest and desperate. Afterward, Cerryl had gone to the tanner’s and asked Huyter about Guarl. The tanner had said that he had only been able to pay his laborers half their normal pay because he had no coins left. The boot makers were getting their leather from a factor named Kosior, supposedly made from hides from Hydlen, where the maize crop had failed and the late rains had devastated the grasslands earlier parched by the late-summer drought. After a second year of grassland and crop failure, rather than have the cattle starve, Hydlenese farmers had sold many for slaughter, with the meat salted and the hides sold for what they would bring.

“So…” Cerryl murmured to himself, “cheap leather comes to Fairhaven, and tanners cannot pay their laborers. The Blacks use their ships to bring cheaper goods to Spidlar and then use the coins to buy scarce grain.” He shook his head. “And I keep the simple peace in the southeast sector.” He folded the report.

After a moment, he blotted his forehead, then called, “Orial?”

The messenger in red appeared.

“Here’s the daily report for the Patrol chief.”

“I’m leaving, ser.” With a smile, the redhead bowed and scurried out and down the corridor.

Cerryl stood. Gyskas had not arrived yet, since the older mage no longer hurried to relieve Cerryl, an indirect compliment or acceptance, Cerryl supposed.

He walked back and forth in front of the table-desk. Myral had cautioned patience, and so had Leyladin. Having few choices, and none better, Cerryl had been patient.

Jeslek remained High Wizard and had accompanied Eliasar to Fenard-and then returned, with a chest of golds from Prefect Syrma. Most of the “honor guard” of White Lancers had also returned, but according to Jeslek’s reports at the seasonal Guild meetings, the golds had continued to come from Fenard and Certis. Nothing came from Spidlar but cheaper goods smuggled on back roads, followed by protests that the prefect could not spare the armsmen to patrol every road in the desmesne of Gallos. Less loud demurrals came from the viscount of Certis.

Cerryl paused in his pacing as he sensed the rush of chaos that accompanied Gyskas.

“Anything new?” asked the balding older mage, blotting dampness off his high forehead.

“I put a tanner’s laborer on the refuse crew.”

“Beating a woman?”

“Stole some bread for his family because he wasn’t paid.”

Gyskas frowned. “That should be road crew.”

“I know, but I truth-read him. Child and mother are sick; they don’t have enough coins. The tanner can’t pay because of the cheap leather from Hydlen.” Cerryl shrugged. “I couldn’t let him go, but…”

“Cerryl, be careful that you don’t get in the habit of bending the rules. Especially now. We’re going to see more of that.” Gyskas took a deep breath. “I still say that whatever Jeslek did in raising those mountains changed the weather, and it’s hurt the crops and grass. Bread’s a copper for two of the big loaves. Ale at four coppers at The Ram?”

“I don’t see as many carts in the Market Square, either,” Cerryl pointed out.

“They don’t want to travel the roads when they can get as much or more in Hydlen or Spidlar.”

“Would you?” asked the younger mage.

“Probably not, but this can’t go on.”

“The High Wizard’s waiting until both the wealthy factors and the poor traders see that.”

“He’s waited long enough.” Gyskas walked around the table-desk and pulled out the chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Till tomorrow.” Cerryl nodded and left, passing the assembly room before the second shift patrols filed out.

The wind on the street was hot and dry, as always in the height of late summer. Cerryl turned south, toward the Way of the Tanners, eyes and senses studying everything as he moved quickly along one block, then another.

“Afternoon, ser Cerryl!” called the washerwoman who had set her basket on the narrow porch of Esad’s-a store of odd items, neither a chandlery nor a miller’s market nor a weaver’s shop, but a place that held items partaking selectedly of all.

“I hope it has been a good one for you,” he answered, not recalling her name but knowing he had seen her in the assembly room a season back for something.

“Some days are good, some bad, but Ikor does not beat me now. The foul words-those he may keep and use.” She smiled and lifted the basket.

Cerryl nodded and resumed walking.

When he reached the Way of the Tanners, he turned eastward and continued on for another two blocks until he reached a narrow building with a single window and a wooden boot hung over the doorway. He stepped under the wooden boot over the open entry and into the shop.

The black-haired boot maker at the bench looked up. “Ser Cerryl, your boots were ready the day before yesterday.”

“I know. I had to take part of a duty in the northeast section.” Cerryl shrugged. Isork had only let Cerryl cover the time until dinner, saying that it wasn’t Cerryl’s lack of experience, but that he didn’t want to overwork anyone. So Cerryl had taken the first part and Klyat the second, while Wascot recovered from a flux from bad food.

“They say there be more peacebreaking there in the past eight-days,” offered the boot maker, turning toward the shelf on the wall where rested a pair of white and thick-soled Patrol boots. He lifted the boots off the shoulder-high shelf and turned back to Cerryl. “You keep the peace good here. Fairer ’n most, too.”

“I try, Miern.”

“That’ll be a gold, you know?”

Cerryl extracted a gold and a half-silver from his wallet. “There.”

“You need not-”

“Good boots are worth it.” Cerryl reached for the boots.

“For that…at least…” Miern fumbled under the workbench and came out with a worn cloth sack. “…don’t need this anyway.” The boot maker put the boots in the gray sack, splotched with faded patches nearly white, and extended the sack.