L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

Chaos itself, were one able to apply the lost and Great Mathematicks of vanished Cyador, could be described in symbols as precisely as those used in calculating the forces a building or a bridge must endure; yet even with such precise calculations, chaos would never appear the same in any situation, no matter how minutely all the objects it entered were shaped, weighed, and measured.

That is the nature of chaos, that it can be described, precisely, yet never predicted.

Order, contrariwise, can never be precisely described, for order creates a form dependent upon the objects wherein it is found and the amount of chaos present; yet the result of more and more order being introduced into an object remains always the same, for if of unliving material, the object will cease to change while that order remains, and if living, the excess of order will lead to death.

Thus, order can be predicted but not described.

In living creatures, excessive order will result in death, yet because a creature cannot live without embodying chaos, once it dies, for lack of adequate chaos, the body will collapse into small segments of ordered objects.

If the creature embodied great chaos, suddenly lost, this collapse will occur so speedily that the body will seem to vanish into dust. If great order exists, the same will occur, as a gathering of great order into a small compass cannot be maintained without the influence of chaos…

CERRYL STOOD, WEARILY, as Gyskas stepped into the duty room.

“You look tired,” said the older mage.

“It’s been a long day. I’m spending more time on the streets. It’s the only way to keep the small theft down.” Cerryl eased from behind the table-desk.

“So am I, in the early part of the shift. People almost look the other way when it’s a loaf of bread or a few pieces of fruit.”

“Except for the baker,” said Cerryl, “and people don’t lift things when the merchant’s looking.”

“Coins are getting scarcer, and they’re hungry. Between the problems in Hydlen and the Spidlar and Recluce business, it could be a long winter.”

Cerryl nodded.

“I heard old Myral died. You know, the sewer mage?”

“I know. I learned much from him.” Cerryl managed to keep his voice even. “I hadn’t seen him much lately.” And you should have, and now it’s too late . “He was sicker than anyone thought.”

“I guess so. He was around forever. It seemed that way.” Gyskas offered a brief smile. “Good fellow-even taught me a trick or two.”

Good fellow…taught me a trick or two, and before long no one will remember except in a vague way . “He was good.” Cerryl forced a shrug. “It’s all yours. I’ll wander through the section on my way back to the Halls.”

“Suit yourself.” Gyskas smiled. “Make my duty easier. Thank you.”

Out in the street, the air was hot-and still-more like late summer than early fall. Cerryl turned southward.

“…the mage…the little one.”

“…the tough one.”

Cerryl smiled at the two youths on the porch but kept walking. Was he thought tough because he was often out on the streets? He didn’t feel tough, not at all.

The street was hot, and the sweat began to ooze even more down his neck and back.

Why did Myral’s death upset you so much? He shook his head as he turned westward along the Way of the Masons-anything to avoid going back to the Halls too early. Because his is the first death of anyone who believed in you when you’ve been there? He wondered. He’d loved his uncle and aunt, but they had died in a fire, kays and kays away, and he hadn’t even found out for half a season. He’d never seen their bodies, and there wasn’t even a place he could call theirs. Dylert, the sawmill master, he’d died sometime two years back, but while Cerryl had respected Dylert, he hadn’t loved him. He’d seen enough death. He’d dealt death. Death always happened to others…but it doesn’t, does it?

A figure in brown dashed from the side street, followed by a man in blue, who grasped the youth practically in front of Cerryl.

“No!” The youth saw Cerryl’s white and the red belt, and the color drained from his face.

“Ser mage, this one-he stole a half-basket of potatoes right from the kitchen door.” The gray-haired man glared at the boy, then turned to Cerryl, not loosening his grip on the dirty brown-haired figure-scarcely ten years old, Cerryl guessed.

The Patrol mage repressed a sigh and looked at the trembling but defiant boy.

“I don’t care. You mages don’t be doing anything for us. My sis, she’s wasting, and Ma, she scrubs all day and can’t get coppers for bread, not enough.”

“That’s what they all say,” snapped the man.

Cerryl could sense the truth of what the boy said and his fear. What could he do? If he took him in, it was surely the road crew…a warning?

Almost without thinking, Cerryl concentrated, forming chaos, focusing it into a tight circle, then extended it toward the wide-eyed youth, who tried to move.

“Hold still, or I’ll blind you!” snapped Cerryl.

The youth swallowed but stopped squirming.

There was a faint sizzle as the chaos touched the boy’s forehead.

“NO!” The youth slipped into a dead faint.

The man’s face blanked as he looked at the circular brand on the boy’s forehead.

“Did you get your potatoes back?” Cerryl asked tiredly.

“Ah, yes, ser.”

“I’ll take care of the peacebreaker.” Cerryl bent and lifted the thin figure.

“Ah, yes, ser.”

Behind the blankness of the other’s face Cerryl could sense the fear, close to terror, as the man backed away.

What have you done? You can’t let him go, not without all of them risking a mere brand for food. Idiot! What were you thinking?

He started walking, carrying his burden, until he reached the corner. Now what? With a sigh, Cerryl turned northward, in the direction of the section Patrol building. Already the thin figure was weighing him down.

The boy stirred, moaned.

Even after four blocks, Cerryl could feel his eyes burning and his stomach churning as he carried the half-conscious figure into the section building.

Gyskas stepped out of the duty room. “What have you there?”

“A peacebreaker. Child tried to steal potatoes because his family was starving.”

“You truth-read that.”

“Yes. Unhappily.”

“That burn is chaos fire.”

“Yes,” Cerryl admitted. “A bad idea of mine. I thought about letting him go with the burn to mark him. Now…I don’t know.”

“We’ll have to send him to south prison.”

“I don’t like it.”

“We don’t have much choice,” pointed out the older mage.

“I suppose not.” Cerryl took a deep breath.

“I can handle it from here,” Gyskas said.

“Maybe you’d better. I’m not thinking very well.” Is that the truth!

“It’s not…” Gyskas broke off his words.

“I know. We can’t afford not to think. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hope .

Cerryl walked slowly out of the building and turned westward, toward the Avenue, toward the Halls of the Mages, his stomach still churning, his heart feeling pressed by lead on all sides, each step an effort.

How could you have been so stupid?

Because you were upset .

That’s not good enough .

He kept walking, walking until he reached his room and sank into the chair before his desk. After a time, he looked up, then down at the screeing glass on his desk, reflecting only the ceiling. How had he made such a mess of the day? Just because you were upset…because Myral died? There had to be more.