L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“Is the finance minister one of those up there with the viscount?”

“I don’t know,” answered Honsak. “Issel, is the finance minister the fellow in gray?”

Issel, who sat across and one place up the table from Cerryl, turned in the direction of the viscount and frowned, but for a moment. “That’s him, old Dursus himself.”

Cerryl fixed the name and face. “Does the finance minister have much to do with you?”

“As little as he can, and us with him. He doesn’t collect enough coins, and they say we don’t get paid. Hasn’t happened yet.”

“He must have a lot of assistants,” ventured Cerryl, looking at Issel.

“Only one I know of is Pullid. He’s the fellow in gray and scarlet farther down toward us.”

Pullid and Dursus …“What sort of field rations do you usually get?” Cerryl continued, deciding to steer the conversation away from finances.

“If we’re out more than an eight-day, whatever we can find,” said Setken from Cerryl’s left. “Less ’n that, it’s hard biscuits, yellow cheese, and a few strips of dried beef. Plus anything you can stuff into your saddlebags, if you get enough warning and every other officer hasn’t been out scrounging for his men. What about you Whites?”

“Pretty much the same, except the cheese is hard white, and we usually get some dried fruits. Hard as darkness to chew, but it helps.”

“Dried fruits. Maybe we could-”

“Don’t even think about it, Honsak,” interrupted the sandy-haired Setken. “Dursus would have you sent to garrison duty in Quend before you could even find Overcaptain Gised. ‘Dried fruit for armsmen? Ridiculous. Far too many coins.’”

At Setken’s impersonation of Dursus even Cerryl found himself smiling.

“Coins, always the coins,” muttered Honsak.

“That’s true everywhere, I think,” Cerryl agreed, after finishing the last of his wine and glancing around for the pitcher. “There are never enough coins.”

“Even for you Whites?”

“Especially for us Whites,” Cerryl said, noting the mix of surprised and frankly incredulous looks. “We only get road taxes and tariffs on the merchants in Fairhaven. We don’t have any peasants to tax, and we have no ports and only one city.”

“But the road taxes…?”

“It costs a good many coins to build and maintain the roads,” Cerryl pointed out, adding, “All of the Halls of the Mages would fit within one portion of the viscount’s palace.”

“Have you seen other great cities besides Jellico and Fairhaven?” asked Setken smoothly, clearly wishing to steer the conversation in another direction.

“I’ve seen Fenard and Hydolar,” Cerryl admitted.

“And how did you find them?”

Resigning himself to a continued discussion of pleasantries, Cerryl replied, “I would say that the walls of Jellico are among the more impressive…”

As he spoke, Cerryl’s eyes wandered to the head of the table, where the Viscount Rystryr leaned toward Fydel, apparently making some sort of point with his fist. Cerryl kept talking, suspecting that he would need many more innocuous subjects and humorous comments to see himself through his days in Jellico. Many, many more .

CERRYL GLANCED DOWN at the glass on the oval braided rug, watching the mists clear, showing a blonde healer in green sitting at a desk, her head cocked to one side, a sheet of paper before her. A broad smile crossed her face, and she lifted her fingers to her lips and then blew the kiss outward.

Cerryl smiled and let the image fade, knowing she had sensed his presence.

After a time, he looked down at the glass again, concentrating until the silver mists formed and then spread, showing a figure in scarlet and gray. The man sat in a carriage, but Cerryl could not tell where the carriage was bound.

A time later, he tried again, concentrating on a more distant view of Pullid, but the glass merely showed the carriage nearing the viscount’s palace, the image blurred by the intermittent spring snow flurries fluttering down.

Cerryl pulled on his white jacket with a shrug and made his way through the corridors toward the front courtyard where he had seen the mounting block for carriages. There he waited with the two pair of armsmen who guarded what appeared to be the entrance to the viscount’s part of the sprawling warren of buildings.

Cerryl stepped forward as Pullid eased out of the carriage. “Ser Pullid?”

The bulky man in gray and scarlet turned. “I do not believe I know you, ser mage. Young ser mage.”

Cerryl ignored the condescending tone. “I was hoping you might bring your vast knowledge of finance to my aid.” He offered what he hoped was a warm smile.

Pullid merely scowled. “What would a mage need to know of finance?”

“Well…we do raise some coins, through the assistance of rulers like the viscount, of course, in order to build and maintain the great White highways. All say you are the one who is most important in assisting Finance Minister Dursus and that you know the best ways to ensure the collection of tariffs and such. We have had some difficulty in Montgren,” Cerryl lied, “and I thought I might ask for your advice.”

Pullid continued to frown without responding.

Cerryl could read the man’s thoughts from his face. He didn’t want to offend a mage, particularly one brought on a war campaign, since that meant one able to turn him to ash. But Pullid clearly did not wish to talk to Cerryl.

“I wondered…obviously the viscount has roads of his own to maintain. Is that a separate tariff, or do you collect them both together?”

“We would not dare to collect taxes more than once.” Pullid offered a slightly off-key laugh. “Even once is difficult enough.”

Cerryl nodded as he gained a definite feel for the man.

“Now…if you will excuse me…”

“Of course.” Cerryl bowed, if but slightly.

Back in his guest quarters, he took out the glass. Perhaps he had stirred Pullid into action. The next image was that of Pullid talking to the finance minister, but from what Cerryl could tell, Dursus seemed unmoved, talking easily, before finally motioning Pullid out of the paneled study or office. Pullid walked until he reached a smaller, a much smaller, paneled room, where he sat behind a table for a long time, long enough that Cerryl finally had to let the image lapse before his head threatened to burst.

His problem still remained. How could he prove the viscount was diverting coins? Everything Cerryl felt told him that it was happening, but he had not one single vision or item even remotely close to proof. Most likely, his efforts had only made everyone nervous and unhappy with one mage named Cerryl. Yet if he didn’t push, how would he find anything in a city where he knew no one?

He sat on the bed and massaged his neck and forehead, trying to massage away the headache.

Perhaps later.

CERRYL SAT ON the edge of the bed and looked down at the glass that rested on the braided oval rug-a rug that might once have been green but now appeared gray. The silver mists vanished, and he was left with a blank glass reflecting the timbered ceiling. He was getting nowhere through screeing.

His brief interchange with Pullid had led nowhere, nor had his repeated attempts to track the man with the screeing glass. Finance Minister Dursus never seemed to leave the palace, except to be driven to and from his luxurious home on the hill south of the one on which the prefect’s palace perched. While Pullid traveled to meet a number of people, even armsmen and those who appeared to be tax collectors, Cerryl could never see any trace of coins, let alone anything other than conversations, usually brief. He wished he could hear what he watched, but the glass did not allow such.