L. Modesitt: Colors of Chaos

CERRYL SHIFTED HIS weight. He stood in the west corner of the small second-level rampart of the guardhouse before the north gates to the White City of Fairhaven. That was the only corner where the sun touched. His white leather jacket was fastened all the way up to his neck, and even with the heavy shirt and white wool tunic of a full mage underneath, he was cold.

He glanced out at the white granite highway that stretched north and, just beyond where he could see, curved eastward toward Lydiar. As the day had passed, it had warmed enough that his breath no longer formed a white cloud, but the north wind still cut through his white woolen trousers. His eyes went down to the armsmen in red-trimmed white tunics who stamped their boots and walked back and forth in front of the gates, waiting for travelers.

The rumbling of another set of wheels-iron ones-on the stone alerted Cerryl, and he looked up and out along the highway to study the approaching vehicle, a high-sided wagon painted cyan and cream, escorted by a full score of lancers in cyan livery, ten preceding and ten following the wagon. Cyan was the color of the Duke of Lydiar.

Cerryl couldn’t help but wonder what was being conveyed to Fairhaven with so many lancers: Chests of golds owed for road taxes? Trade goods from the port at Lydiar as some sort of repayment? The ponderous approach of the wagon and the four horses indicated the load was heavy.

Slowly, slowly, the teamster in cyan eased the wagon up to the gates and the White armsmen. The Lydian lancers reined up on each side of the wagon and behind.

“Tariffs and goods for Fairhaven. Bound for the Wizards’ Square,” announced the captain of the Lydians, a squarish black-haired and bearded figure. He extended a scroll to the man in charge of the inspection and guard detail.

Cerryl took a deep breath and let his order/chaos senses study the wagon. Metal-coins in chests, as he had suspected, although there were but three chests. Under the dark gray canvas were also a dozen small barrels, more like quarter-barrels. Salt perhaps. Most salt came from Lydiar, the closest port, for all that it was two long days or three short ones.

The head gate guard glanced up at Cerryl, his eyes questioning the mage. Two of the lancers behind the Lydian officer followed his eyes. One swallowed as his eyes took in Cerryl’s whites.

“That’s what the scroll says, ser!” the detail leader called up to Cerryl.

“It’s as they say, Diborl,” Cerryl answered.

“You may pass,” the head guard announced.

The wagon rolled past the guardhouse, and Cerryl listened. Listening was the most interesting part of the duty, at least usually.

“…always have a mage here?”

“Always…Sometimes you see someone get turned to ashes…”

“…you’re jesting…”

“No…not something to jest at.”

Cerryl hadn’t had to use chaos fire on any person yet in his gate-guard duties, but he’d turned two wagons carrying contraband-one had iron blades hidden under the wagon bed-into ashes and sent the teamster and his assistant to the road crew, where they’d spend the rest of their lives helping push the Great White Highway through the Westhorns.

The young mage shrugged. He doubted that either man had been the one who had planned the smuggling-or would have benefited much-but he’d seen Fenard and Jellico and grown up in Hrisbarg in the shadow of the played-out mines. He’d been a mill boy, a scrivener’s apprentice, and a student mage under the overmage Jeslek. All those experiences had made one thing clear. Strict as the rules of the Guild were, harsh as the punishments could be, and sometimes as unfair as they had been, from what he’d seen the alternatives were worse.

After stamping his white boots again, Cerryl walked across the short porch, four steps, and turned back, hoping that keeping moving would keep him warmer. Sometimes, it did. Most times, it didn’t.

He wanted to yawn. He’d thought sewer duty had been tiring, but it hadn’t been half so tiring as being a gate guard. At least, in cleaning sewers he’d been able to perfect his control of chaos fire. As a gate mage, mostly he just watched from the tiny rampart on top of the guardhouse just out from the north gate. Also, the sewers were warmer in winter and cooler in summer. The sewers did stink, he reminded himself, sometimes a great deal.

“Ser?”

Cerryl glanced down.

Diborl looked up at the young mage. “We’ve got two here need medallions-a cart and a hauler’s wagon.”

“I’m coming down.” Cerryl walked to the back of the porch area, where he descended the tiny and narrow circular stone staircase. He came out at the back of the guardroom. From there he entered the medallion room, where a wiry farmer with thinning brown hair stood. Behind him was a hauler in faded gray trousers and shirt.

The farmer had just handed his five coppers across the battered wooden counter to the medallion guard. Behind him, the hauler held a leather pouch, a pouch that could have held anywhere from several silvers to several golds, depending on the trade and the size of the wagon. That didn’t include actual tariffs, either.

“Ser,” said the guard to the farmer, “Vykay, there”-he pointed to another guard who held a drill, a hammer, and a pouch that Cerryl knew contained soft copper rivets-“he and the mage will attach the medallion.”

“Just so as I can get going.”

“It won’t take but a moment,” Cerryl assured the man, who looked to be close to the age of Tellis, the scrivener with whom Cerryl had apprenticed before the Guild had found him and made him a student mage.

The cart stood at the back of the guardhouse, a brown mule between the traces. The mule looked at Cerryl, and Cerryl looked back, then at the baskets of potatoes in the rear.

“Medallion should go on the sideboard around here.” Vykay positioned the brass plate a handspan below the bottom of the driver’s seat. “That be all right?”

“Might catch on stuff in the stable. A mite bit higher’d be better.” The farmer nodded. “New wagon. Old one not much better than a stone boat no more.”

The guard raised the medallion and glanced at Cerryl.

“That’s fine.”

With quick motions, the guard used a grease stick to mark the wood, then took out the hand drill and began to drill the holes for the rivets.

“Can remember when it was only three coppers,” the farmer said to Cerryl. “Before your time, young mage.” He offered a wintry smile. “Not be complaining, though. Do no good, and ’sides, I’d rather be using the White highways than those muddy cow paths they call roads.”

Cerryl nodded, his eyes straying to the medallion Vykay had laid on the wagon seat-simple enough, just a rectangular plate with the outline of the White Tower stamped on it and the numeral 1, for winter, and the year.

“Just about ready, ser,” Vykay announced, straightening, placing the medallion on the sideboard, and slipping the rivets/pins through the holes in the medallion and in the cart sideboard. Then came the offset clamps and two quick blows with the hammer. The guard glanced at Cerryl.

The White mage nodded and concentrated, raising a touch of chaos and infusing the medallion and rivets. He could feel the heat in his forehead, not enough to raise a sweat, but noticeable to him. “There.” Cerryl turned to the farmer. “Your cart is allowed on all White highways for another year, ser. I must warn you that if anyone tampers with the medallion, you will need another. And…they could get hurt.”

“I’d be knowing that, but I thank you.” The farmer offered a brusque nod and took the leads to the mule, flicking them and leading the cart away, walking beside the mule, rather than riding.