L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

His eyes turned west again. The road arrowed toward the guardhouse, a line of blinding pinkish white in the last of the full afternoon light.

Somewhere out on the road he could see a shape through the glare, another wagon, or cart, headed in toward the White City. He strained eyes and perceptions, but all he could sense was something moving. After a time, he could hear the faint rumble of iron wheels, and that meant a heavy wagon.

Reluctantly Cerryl stood so that he had a better view, leaning forward and resting one hand on the stone wall of the rampart, waiting as the wagon rumbled northward toward the gate.

Two guards rode before the wagon, drawn by four horses. The wagon itself was of oiled wood, not painted, and filled with barrels roped in place behind the driver and a third guard who sat beside the teamster.

Cerryl extended his senses, but the barrels seemed to be filled with flour, or meal, and the chaos lock around the medallion remained tight, strong enough that it was less than a season old.

The driver flicked the leads, and the team slowed, rumbling to a halt before the guardhouse.

The lead guard stepped toward the driver.

“I be the trader Hytul, bound from Rytel, with flour for the factor Jiolt.”

The lead guard-Besolar-glanced toward the guardhouse rampart and Cerryl.

“Nothing but flour in the barrels,” Cerryl confirmed. “Nothing under the seat. The medallion is fine.”

The two guards beside Besolar looked into the wagon bed and underneath the seat, as if to confirm what Cerryl had said. They nodded at Besolar.

As the wagon rolled past and through the gate, Cerryl sat down on the stool and picked up his list, adding yet another entry:

…Hytul, trader, oiled wagon, four-horse team, bearing soft cake flour from Rytel (Certis) to Fairhaven, for the factor Jiolt, medallion in place…

After he finished writing, he leaned back slightly, his eyes closing almost inadvertently. He jerked upright, stifling a yawn. Dark demons, he was tired, and he still had another bell to go before the gate closed to wagons and carts.

Afraid he’d fall asleep on the stool, he stood once more, wincing as he put weight on his feet, and walked to the edge of the rampart, looking out to where the sun had begun to drop below the low hills to the west of the White highway.

Three days, and you have more than an eight-day and a half to go . He turned and looked toward Fairhaven. Darkness! How quickly life could change, and unpredictably. Except you could predict that stupidity does lead to problems . He stifled another yawn and began to walk back and forth across the short stretch of the guardhouse rampart.

CERRYL WALKED TIREDLY down the corridor and into his room, glancing around. One eight-day almost done-one more day-and one to go, but he still had to finish the written argument for Kinowin. His stomach growled.

There hadn’t been any food left out at the Meal Hall, and he hadn’t seen any street vendors or even an open chandlery on the way back from the south gate. That had been the way things had been going lately-ever since Myral’s death.

But you didn’t cause his death. How could there be any connection? Or was the connection that, with Myral’s death, there was no one to offer subtle advice to counterbalance the scheming that pervaded the Halls? He turned back and closed the open door. Wondering wasn’t going to get the last of his writing done. His stomach growled again.

He should have saved some of the cheese he’d bought at the chandlery two days earlier. He’d been lucky to catch the owner leaving a closed shop, but he couldn’t count on that often. Should have…should have…should haves don’t matter .

He took a deep breath and sank into the chair to take the weight off his aching feet. The blank screeing glass reflected nothing, not in the darkness of the room.

Almost as soon as Cerryl slumped into the chair, Faltar peered in the door, and dim light from the corridor gave the room a gloomy cast.

“Hungry?” asked the blonde mage.

Beside Faltar, Lyasa held the door but did not speak.

“I can’t leave the Halls,” Cerryl said tiredly. “You know that.”

“We know.” Faltar stepped into the room, followed by Lyasa. He had a full loaf of bread in one hand, the other behind his back. Lyasa carried something wrapped in cloth.

“A half-wedge of white cheese,” she announced, setting it on the desk beside the bread Faltar deposited. Then she lit the bronze lamp with a spark of chaos. “We need a little light to get rid of the gloom.”

Faltar set the bread beside the cheese one-handed.

Cerryl looked at the bread and cheese, feeling his mouth water.

Faltar grinned and produced a mug from behind his back. “And ale! Warm and a little flat, but we do what we can.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do this,” Cerryl protested, smiling even as he did. “You didn’t.”

“We did if we didn’t want you to starve. Jeslek’s been telling the serving boys not to leave anything out after dinner, and it’s hard to find any street vendors in the middle of the evening.” Faltar’s mouth twisted. “I know. I’ve had enough evening duty.”

“They were hard on you,” said Faltar, perching on the side of one end of the bed. “After all, the boy was a peacebreaker, wasn’t he? He’d have lost a hand or his life in Certis.”

Lyasa sat on the other end while Cerryl used his belt knife to slice a sliver of the cheese-still cool-and eat it with a chunk of bread.

“No.” Cerryl shook his head after swallowing. “Not so hard as they could have been. I wasn’t thinking. Besides, Fairhaven isn’t Certis.” He took a sip of the ale. “Even this tastes good.”

Faltar glanced at the stack of papers on the corner of the desk. “Surely you’re still not writing Patrol reports?”

“No. Part of my punishment. I have to write an argument on why transgressions on the part of the individual mage are bad for the mage and the Guild.”

Lyasa grimaced. “Jeslek’s treating you like an apprentice.”

“Probably. But I made a mistake even an apprentice shouldn’t have made. How can I complain about the punishment?”

“I hate to be so blunt,” Faltar said. “But if what you did was so bad, why are you still around?”

Cerryl swallowed more of the bread and cheese before laughing harshly. “I don’t know, but I can guess. First, I only hurt and did not injure permanently a poor boy who was already a peacebreaker. Second, the Guild can blame me and give the family of a proven peacebreaker four golds as recompense-and that’s more than they probably see in years. Third, the trading situation and the problems with Spidlar, Hydlen, and Gallos are getting worse, and Jeslek is going to need every mage he can find. If I get through this, I’ll probably be going with the lancers somewhere. That will get me out of Fairhaven for long enough for everyone to forget-if I even survive.” Cerryl shrugged, then took another sip of the warm ale. “Thank you both again. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through tonight.” It’s hard enough to write something when you feel good; it’s near impossible when you’re tired and hungry .

“You have to finish that tonight?” asked Lyasa, pointing toward the stack of papers.

“I’ve been working on it for the last five days. I have to give it to Kinowin in the morning-or leave it for him.”

“As soon as you eat, we’re leaving, then.”

Faltar looked at Cerryl, then at the papers. “I still say it’s not fair.”

“I wasn’t really fair to the boy,” Cerryl said. “And he’ll hate the Guild forever.”

“It won’t matter on the road crew,” Faltar answered.