L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

In the three days since their arrival, the viscount had hosted no more meals. Cerryl and Fydel had eaten with the Certan officers on a less formal and far less sumptuous basis in a stone-walled hall in the lower level of the barracks building. Cerryl had already explored the barracks building in which he and Fydel were housed, finding it more than half-empty but with the feel of recently having been more fully utilized. Were the absent armsmen and officers those harassing Spidlar in one way or another?

Speculating and observing through the glass wasn’t going to reveal any more than it had. Of that Cerryl was rapidly being convinced. Either he couldn’t see what was going on or he couldn’t recognize it. He somehow needed to find another approach.

Cerryl leaned back on the bed.

He’d been trying to find out things from those who collected the taxes and tariffs…and finding nothing. That could be because he didn’t know what to look for and where or because the collectors knew he or someone was watching and could simply outwait him.

Who paid the tariffs?

Those who had coins, and the ones most likely to have coins were factors and traders. Cerryl, unhappily, hadn’t met that many traders, either inside or outside Fairhaven. In fact, Narst, the trader he’d begged a ride from on his rather painful journey from Hydolar to Fairhaven, was probably the only real trader Cerryl had met, just as Layel was the only real factor he knew.

Narst had mentioned some names…The one from Spidlar wouldn’t do, but what had been the name in Jellico? Fedor? No…Freidr, or something like that.

You can’t do any worse than you’re doing so far .

He struggled to his feet and pulled on the white jacket. While his room was cool, outside would be cold and wet from the spring snow flurries. After closing his door, he made his way down the corridor and steps to the courtyard and to the stable.

He stood for a moment outside the stable, then cleared his throat. Finally, he whistled.

A pale face appeared. “Ah, yes, ser?”

“I’m going riding,” Cerryl told the ostler.

“Oh, you’ve the big gentle gelding?”

“That’s right.”

“Be a few moments, ser.”

“I’ll wait.”

Cerryl studied the courtyard, sensing the age of the structures that surrounded the stable, seemingly far older than even the ancient buildings of Fairhaven.

“Here he be.” The ostler led out the gelding.

Cerryl glanced at the red and white livery, wondering if he would be better off without such an announcement, then shrugged. “Thank you.”

The ostler nodded.

The gelding whuffed as Cerryl swung himself into the saddle, then walked easily toward the archway from the courtyard. From the low gray sky occasional intermittent fat flakes of snow fell, all melting almost instantly upon hitting the stones of the street. A few patches of white clung to sections of roofs. Cerryl guided the gelding downhill and eastward to the Market Square.

He reined up beside the porch of a store, where an older man, dressed in dark blue, was talking with a younger bearded man.

Both turned as they became aware of the rider watching them.

“Ser mage?”

“I’m looking for a trader. Freidr or some such,” Cerryl offered.

“Freidr?” The younger man frowned.

The older one nodded. “Son of Fearkl.”

“Could you tell me where his place is?”

“Like as I recall, not that many trade as much with him as his sire, the narrow street off the north corner of the square-back there.” The older man pointed. “His place is about a hundred cubits off the square. It be a plain building without a sign.”

“How will I tell if it doesn’t have a sign?” Cerryl asked.

“Between the cooper’s and Wrys the silversmith’s. Should have said that.”

“Thank you both.” Cerryl inclined his head.

“Freidr…a trader? Fop and a fool…sister a better man than he be.”

“Takes all kinds, Biuskr.”

The trader’s sister a better man? Cerryl frowned but kept his eyes on the north side of the street, ignoring for the most part the bustle of the square to his right. The corner street was narrow, barely wide enough for a wagon and a mount at the same time, and the building was ancient. How long had the family been in factoring?

Cerryl dismounted and tied the gelding to the iron ring set in the stone post almost at the door, then rapped loudly. There was no answer. He waited a time, then rapped again.

Finally, the door opened, but Cerryl could see the heavy chains on the inside of the antique oak. Behind the chains stood a thin woman with fine blonde hair twisted into a single braid down her back. Wispy hairs escaped both the braid and the sides of her head. “Yes, ser?”

“I’m looking for the trader Freidr.”

Her eyes widened, not meeting Cerryl’s, and she swallowed. “A moment, ser, a moment, I assure you he will be here.” The door was not closed quite all the way, as if to make a statement, but the iron chains remained in place, forming an arc between door and frame.

“Who be it now?” came a rough voice from the dimness beyond the door.

“…one of them …another one…didn’t say…”

A pale face appeared behind the chains. “I’m Freidr.”

“I’d like to speak to you, then,” Cerryl said politely.

After a moment, the man loosened the chains, held the door, and stepped back. Short and squat, he wore a new dark blue tunic and matching trousers. His boots glistened even in the gloom of the small foyer.

Cerryl took in the dark beard and the cold blue eyes, eyes that did not meet his gaze, though they almost seemed to. The man was hiding something, but why was he afraid of Cerryl? Surely not just because I’m a mage?

“Might as well go to the office.” Freidr closed the door, replaced the chains in their slots, and turned to his right, heading down a narrow passageway, then turning into a small room. The trader closed the door after Cerryl entered.

An ancient oil lamp set in a green-tinged copper bracket on the wall spilled light across the space. On one wall was a cage of iron bars with heavy wooden racks behind it. The three strongboxes behind the iron seemed almost lost in the rack shelves that could have held nearly a score.

Freidr sat behind the table-desk, his arms on the table, waiting. Cerryl took one of the antique wooden straight-backed chairs, a chair that felt as old as the building that held it.

“How might I help you?” Freidr offered a professional smile, but his eyes still did not quite meet Cerryl’s.

“The trader Narst mentioned you,” Cerryl offered.

“I’m a factor who deals with many traders.” Freidr presented an apologetic smile.

“I am sure you do. You also deal with the prefect’s tax collectors.”

“Every factor must do so, especially with the road taxes imposed by the Guild at Fairhaven.” Despite the chill in the room, perspiration had already begun to seep from the dark-bearded factor’s forehead.

“Do you keep records of the taxes you pay?” Cerryl raised his eyebrows.

“Surely you’re not suggesting…You already had the warehouse searched.”

“ I didn’t have anything searched,” Cerryl pointed out, wondering just what had been going on in Jellico that Freidr was so fearful of a young White mage.

“No…you might as well have…The prefect’s inspectors did.”

“Was it Pullid?” Cerryl tried to keep his tone casual.

“He stood there, but you think he’d dirty his hands? I don’t know their names, the ones who went over the accounts. They said they were looking for goods stolen from you White mages.”

Cerryl looked at the sweating trader, then smiled. “Why don’t you just show me the tax records?”