L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“I can assure you that so long as you confine yourself to that charge any attention you receive will be far more to your benefit. Few appreciate mages extending their talents to where they are unnecessary and unwanted. Especially young mages.” A sympathetic smile, false as those that preceded it, filled the heavyset mage’s face.

“I do appreciate your advice, ser Shyren, and will follow it most scrupulously.” Cerryl bowed. “These recent events have made clear its value.”

“Ah…yes…I am glad you have found that. We all need to do that which we do best. I am most certain Jeslek will be pleased with this…” A last smile crossed the older mage’s lips. “Now, if you will excuse me, as I am tending to a difficulty facing the prefect…”

“Of course.” Cerryl bowed and scraped once more, obsequiously.

“What was that all about?” asked Fydel as Cerryl returned.

“I was conveying to Shyren the value of his advice.”

Fydel raised his eyebrows but did not speak. Then he turned, and Cerryl followed him, conscious that Shyren’s eyes followed him, for all that the older mage had spoken of needing to be excused.

UNDER ANOTHER GRAY afternoon sky, Cerryl and Fydel stood in the second courtyard of the viscount’s palace, waiting as Jeslek and Anya rode through the archway, followed by the first of the White Lancers, headed by a captain unfamiliar to Cerryl.

Shyren, who stood a good thirty cubits to the left of the two younger mages, raised his arm. “Hail to the High Wizard.” His voice was friendly and loud, pitched to reach Jeslek.

Jeslek rode forward, seemingly toward Shyren, with Anya keeping her mount abreast of the white-haired and sun-eyed mage. Then Jeslek guided his mount aside, back toward Cerryl. As he reined up, Jeslek turned to Anya. “You know what to do.” He vaulted out of the saddle and strode up to Cerryl, flinging the reins in the direction of a lancer who followed. “Come over here.”

Anya rode across in front of Shyren and Fydel, raising chaos as she did. “A moment, Shyren. Jeslek has something to deal with.”

Cerryl caught the glimpse of a smile on the heavy mage’s face before Jeslek drew Cerryl aside, under the overhang of the courtyard across from the stable entrance and away from the other three mages. “Shyren has sent a scroll saying you are a danger to the Guild and that if you are not disgraced and removed, none of the traders will continue to pay tariffs to Fairhaven. What did you do?” asked Jeslek.

Cerryl smiled. “I discovered what happened to the tariff coins.”

“And what have you discovered about the coins?” asked the High Wizard with the lazy smile that concealed anger.

“I take it that coins are getting to be a difficulty.” Cerryl forced himself to keep his voice light while keeping his emotions shielded. He also stood ready to divert any chaos Jeslek might muster. “Even after collecting a thousand golds from Hydlen.”

“Two thousand,” Jeslek corrected, with a tight smile. “I raised the cost since I had to travel there. The new duke had to lose another Tower and the northern gates before he saw the wisdom of paying damages and raising the call for levies.”

“I see.” Cerryl paused, noting the further tightening in Jeslek’s jaw, then added, “Did you know that the prefect has been collecting a tariff laid at the Guild’s door?”

“We’ve never been able to stop that,” the High Wizard admitted with a half-rueful smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Is that all?”

“Of 15 percent,” Cerryl added. “Since Rystryr became viscount. Roughly, anyway.”

Jeslek’s smile faded. “And?”

“I haven’t found where it all went, but there is a rather large chest filled with golds and secured with the largest chaos lock I’ve ever seen.” Cerryl offered a smile. “It’s in Shyren’s bedchamber.”

Cerryl had walked by Shyren’s quarters, earlier in the day, behind his blur shield, but the chaos locks, and the chest, remained in place, from what he could tell. He only hoped that Shyren were not more devious than he appeared, or at least that Shyren believed Cerryl comparatively inexperienced, more like a younger version of Fydel.

“You think such is still there, now that he knows you know?” Jeslek’s eyes flicked sideways in the direction of where Anya engaged Shyren, though the High Wizard’s head did not move.

“It was this morning, and I believe he thinks I am a less adept version of Fydel. He did pay some crossbowmen to kill me. I can’t prove that, though.” Cerryl shrugged.

Jeslek’s crooked smile returned. “I think you should escort me to Shyren’s quarters. Now.”

Cerryl glanced back.

“Anya will ensure Shyren is occupied for a time. She is quite good at that. Shall we go?”

Cerryl led the way.

The bronze lock on Shyren’s door remained chaos-trapped, as it had been every time before when Cerryl had checked.

“The lock is never locked but always twined with chaos,” Cerryl said as he eased the chaos out of the bronze, letting it dissipate before opening the door.

“Rather luxurious,” said Jeslek, “more so in person than through a glass.”

Cerryl stepped toward the bedchamber, his own shields still in place.

“Shields, yet. You do not trust your own High Wizard, Cerryl?” asked Jeslek.

“I have no reason to trust anyone,” Cerryl pointed out. “Here is the chest.” He gestured to the white oak chest, then lifted the velvet cushion that covered the lid.

“Allow me,” Jeslek said dryly, stepping forward and bleeding away the chaos inside the chest. “A chest more than two cubits long and half as deep, all filled. This may be even more golds than we brought from Hydlen.”

Cerryl hoped so.

Abruptly the High Wizard stepped back behind the hangings of the four-poster bed as the door to the outer chamber snicked open. Cerryl found himself standing alone by the open chest as Shyren stood in the door to the bedchamber, breathing heavily, his face flushed.

Cerryl prepared himself.

“What are you doing here?” Shyren raised chaos as he spoke. “You’re just his tool, Cerryl. You don’t understand. No, you’re a meddler in things you don’t understand. You will not meddle longer, and I will not be swept aside by an arrogant upstart!”

Whhstt! Chaos flame sheeted around Cerryl’s shields. Behind him, the satin hangings of the big bed began to char, then to smolder.

“Oh…you actually know shields.” Shyren flung a larger firebolt that slammed toward Cerryl.

The younger mage smiled and let his shields catch the chaos energy before adding his own power, turning the force, and narrowing the fires into a bolt of concentrated chaos that drove through the older mage’s shields as if they did not exist.

“Ohhh…” The brief murmur of surprise was cut off as Shyren’s form flared in chaos flame, then fell in fine white dust. All that remained on the stone floor was a white-bronze dagger, glowing.

Anya stepped into the room. “He insisted. You did tell me not to destroy him.”

Cerryl turned, not lowering his shields, to see Jeslek’s reaction as the High Wizard stepped out from behind the bed.

“Cerryl managed well enough. Better than I would have thought, actually.”

“He has that habit,” returned the red-haired mage, almost as if Cerryl were not present. She moved easily toward the chest at the foot of the bedstead.

“I might ask what these are doing here,” said Jeslek, gesturing toward golds lying in the chest he had opened, “save I fear we all know. There must be three thousand golds there.” The High Wizard straightened and favored Cerryl with a smile. “We will proceed to the viscount. You will agree with everything I say. It will be better that way.” His eyes went to Anya. “You will remain here to ensure that no others succeed in lightening the Guild’s purses.”