L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

…all know of the past power and glory of Fairhaven, and few would wish to believe that any in present-day Fairhaven would stoop to preserve unpopular and unnecessary tariffs through banditry or raids upon neighbors or neighbors of neighbors…

…moreover, no power in Gallos could stand against its people and their unwillingness to be taxed for that from which they see little benefit…

The seal and signature were those of Syrma, prefect of Gallos.

Great benefit from the highways, yet the people see no benefit? Cerryl puzzled over the apparent contradictions even as he continued to listen to the four around the table.

“It’s a veiled threat,” Kinowin observed. “He’s saying that he knows Fairhaven is behind the banditry and raids on Spidlarian traders.” His fingers touched the purple blotch on his left cheek momentarily.

“What are we supposed to do?” asked the ginger-bearded Redark. “Just let them take over the highways and still maintain them out of our vast treasury and generosity?” Bitterness dripped from his words.

“What do you-and Sterol-think, Anya?” Jeslek asked the red-haired mage. “I am certain you know the thoughts of the former and esteemed High Wizard.”

“You grant me too much insight, ser.” Anya smiled.

“Then, what do you think?”

“My thoughts matter little. What matters not is truth. What matters is what those with whom we must deal think. They seem to think that we have less power than in years past and that they can avoid paying their obligations. Unless we can compel them in some fashion, they will not pay.” Anya finished her statement with a brisk nod.

Kinowin nodded with her, but Redark frowned.

“Gallos is lagging,” Jeslek said. “I’ve already sent messages to Gorsuch, as regent for young Duke Uulrac, Duke Estalin, Viscount Rystryr, suggesting that it may be necessary for them to raise levies to deal with the problem of Spidlar.”

“They won’t do it-except for Gorsuch,” interjected Kinowin. “They all think it’s our problem.”

“That is very clear,” said the High Wizard. “The problem is Syrma. Rystryr will do as we suggest if given a push. Gorsuch will also.”

While Gorsuch would do exactly as Jeslek told him, Cerryl reflected, Gorsuch’s direct power lasted only so long as Uulrac remained alive. Pushing Gorsuch to require levies might well shorten the sickly young duke’s life span-and possibly Leyladin’s. The young mage pursed his lips and continued to listen.

“Syrma’s power as prefect is recent, and he must defer to others, especially to those of coins and the great factors who continue to profit from the trade with Recluce and Spidlar. So we will ask for levies, and he will demur. He will not refuse. He will say that it is early yet and that he respects Fairhaven.” Jeslek snorted. “He may say anything, but he will not post the listings.”

“And then what do we do?” asked Redark.

“We find a way to convince them all.”

“You wouldn’t turn Fenard into a mountain, I trust?” said Kinowin, his voice dry.

“Not Fenard. What would be the point? All those golds we need would be lost.” Jeslek smiled. “No. We need another more…subtle reminder for our friend Syrma. I will have to think about that.” His eyes flicked toward Cerryl, if but momentarily. “We will talk that over later, when I have a better thought of what might be required.”

The cold expression behind the High Wizard’s smiling mouth chilled Cerryl, but the younger mage kept on his face a look of mild interest.

“Now, we need to review what coins we must disburse in the next season.” Jeslek glanced at Redark. “Do you have the numbers I asked for, Redark?”

“Yes, ser.” From somewhere Redark produced a set of papers, placing one in front of each of the others at the table. “You see…there are the golds required to fit the last three ships and the extras for the White Lancers. Below are what must be spent on the Guild, or stipends, and support, and there are the requirements for supplies for the masons, and for the Patrol and for the sewers and aqueducts…”

Cerryl stifled a yawn. He had the feeling that the meeting would be getting duller.

CERRYL STOOD BY the wall, trying to avoid Anya’s glance, as Kinowin and Redark walked into the High Wizard’s chambers. Fydel stood with his back to the bookcase on the other side of the table.

“Why did you want us here now? You gave us little warning,” said Redark as he slumped into a seat at the table.

Kinowin took the chair between Anya and Redark but said nothing, his eyes on the white-haired, sun-eyed High Wizard.

“You may recall that I have been concerned that Recluce was playing a larger part in Spidlar than those in Gallos or Recluce would admit,” Jeslek said easily.

“You have said that for several years, as I recall,” replied Kinowin. “There has been little proof.”

“I hope that I am about to remedy that.” Jeslek nodded toward Anya and the screeing glass that still held residual chaos from the red-haired mage’s earlier efforts. “Anya has been following certain activities in Spidlar, and she tells me that it appears likely that we will be witnessing just how certain matters have escaped the notice of our neighbor the Viscount Rystryr. I have also asked Fydel to be present, since he will be involved more in Gallos.”

Kinowin’s eyebrows flickered, Cerryl noted, but the overmage did not speak.

“Let us watch now.” Jeslek gestured to the glass where the white-silver mists swirled away to reveal the brown fall grasses of the upland meadows somewhere north of Fenard and south of Elparta. In the center of the mirror, a trader’s wagon plodded southward. A red-haired woman drove the wagon, and a man rode beside her, hunched and shrouded in a dark cloak.

Over the top of the hill waited another group, wearing the dark green tunics of Certis. As the wagon neared the hill crest, the riders fanned and charged toward the two traders.

Just as quickly, the redhead halted the wagon, and two men with bows stood in the wagon bed, throwing off brown cloths and aiming their arrows at the charging raiders. A pair of swords appeared in the hands of the redhead, and from behind the raiders Spidlarian guards appeared, led by a blonde giant who strewed bodies before him.

Not a single Certan raider survived. As the shovels appeared for grave digging, Jeslek waved his hand, and the image vanished from the mirror. “Bah…no magic at all. Just good tactics and cleverness. No one survives; no bodies are found, and the rumor spreads that the Spidlarians are using magic.”

“It doesn’t exactly help to tell that to either the viscount or the prefect,” observed Anya from the chair closest to the window.

“Or to admit it took more than a season and magic to figure it out,” added Fydel. “That’s hard when they claim to have lost nearly a hundred men over the last two seasons.”

“Do we know who is responsible?” asked Cerryl deferentially, with a nod toward the High Wizard. “Beyond the obvious?” He gestured toward the blank mirror.

“Our…sources…in Spidlar would indicate that most of the damage has been caused by one squad formed for this purpose last spring. Supposedly, the squad leader and assistant are outcasts from Recluce. Those are the big blonde warrior and the redhead who drove the wagon.”

“Supposedly? That’s rich! They exile two people, and those two people just happen to be in the right spot to block everything. Do you really believe that, honored Jeslek?” asked Fydel.

Jeslek did not correct Fydel’s mathematicks. “I said supposedly. There is also the Black mage who is a smith in Spidlar. You may recall his name, Fydel. Dorrin, is it not?”