Colors of Chaos

“Oh?” Cerryl frowned.

 

“ ‘Tis simple. The Spidlarians-they do not lower their prices for wares. They match ours and then go a copper or two lower.”

 

“They’re actually pocketing extra coins in the amount that the tariffs raise your prices. Or just a few coppers less than that.”

 

“So simple that a new-minted junior mage can see it.” Layel beamed. “No matter how much we lower prices, they always can match our prices and make more coins.”

 

“Do you think the Gallosians are encouraging them?” asked Leyladin.

 

“No, Daughter. The Gallosians, like all people, think of themselves. They will buy where they can buy the best quality for the fewest coins. Unless the White mages”-he inclined his head toward Cerryl-“unless they either force the Gallosians to pay more for goods traded through Spidlar or forbid their sale at all in Gallos, the Gallosians, as will all in Candar, will buy where they can most cheaply.”

 

Cerryl could see more than a few problems.

 

As if anticipating Cerryl’s thoughts, Layel continued, “Once goods are unloaded from a ship, to ensure all tariffs are paid is like catching smoke after it has left the chimney.”

 

“The traders would not support a war against Gallos and Spidlar, would they?”

 

Layel shrugged. “Some, like the grain factors, see no difficulties. Recluce does not ship grain, and Austran grain is more dear than any grown in Candar. Nor is maize a problem. The wool factors would pay for war tomorrow-if not with many coins. So would the oilseed growers-those outside of the lowlands of Certis. The metals factors and, so I am told, the Duke of Lydiar are most wroth at the copper shipped from Southport.”

 

In short, it’s like everything else… with no really clear answers. Cerryl nodded.

 

“Few choices are there-to take either the city of Elparta or all of Spidlar… or see trade suffer and revenues for Fairhaven fall.”

 

“Elparta?” Cerryl asked involuntarily.

 

“Aye… most of the trade to Gallos comes up the river to Elparta. Some goes to Certis through Axalt, but the pass beyond Axalt is narrow and can be patrolled, if need be. So, if the lancers took Elparta… then the surtaxes could be levied there.”

 

“That would be somewhat difficult without the agreement of the prefect or the viscount and those of Axalt.” Leyladin’s tone was dry. “We would have to send lancers through the greater breadth of Gallos, or through Certis and Axalt.”

 

Layel shrugged. “It will come to such. Not this year, but it will.”

 

“Why do you think that?” asked Cerryl.

 

“The prefect will not oppose the Guild, not openly. But he will not send hordes of his own armsmen to collect our taxes, even though his own people gain vast sums of coin from the White highways. The Spidlarian traders will not impose or pay the tax, and they will sell where they can. The regular tax for them is half what it is for us. The only truly high taxes are the surtaxes, and yet they complain and complain.”

 

“So we will have a war over taxes?”

 

“No. We will have a war over trade. That has always been the basis of war with Recluce. They can travel the seas more cheaply than we can build and travel the roads. And their magics allow them to create some goods more cheaply.”

 

“Enough of this talk of war,” Leyladin said abruptly. “If it comes, then we can talk of it. I’d rather talk even of wool carding and dyeing.” She glanced at her father. “Or Aunt Kasia’s tatwork and embroidery.”

 

Cerryl smiled sheepishly. So did Layel.

 

“Who is your Aunt Kasia?” Cerryl finally asked, after enjoying several mouthfuls of the cheese - and - sauce - covered potatoes.

 

“Mother’s youngest sister. She consorted with a landholder near Weevett. I spent a summer there, and she insisted that I learn the ladylike skills of tatting and embroidering. ‘After all, dear, your children should be well turned out, and you should know how to teach them needle-and yarn work. All those coins your father has amassed may not last.’”

 

Cerryl found himself grinning at the blonde’s mimicry of her aunt.

 

“It was a very long summer,” Leyladin said dryly.

 

“What about your aunt?” asked Layel, looking at Cerryl. “She raised you, I understand.”

 

“Aunt Nail?” Cerryl paused, then said slowly, “She wanted the best for me, but she didn’t want me to be a mage. There wasn’t a glass or a mirror in the house. She was always telling me that glasses were only for the high - and - mighty types of Fairhaven.” His lips quirked as he lifted his goblet. “I feel far less than high - and - mighty.”

 

“Would that more of ‘em in the Halls felt that way. Much they’ve done for Candar and the city, but just folk with mighty skills-that’s all they are.” Layel lifted the leg-the sole remnant of fowl on his plate-and chewed on it.

 

Folk with mighty skills? Cerryl half-smiled at the thought, knowing that the very words would upset both Anya and Jeslek… and amuse Kinowin.

 

After the three finished, Meridis cleared away the china and returned with three dishes of a lumpy puddinglike dish.

 

“Bread pudding… good…” Layel smiled.

 

Leyladin took a small morsel of the pudding, then laid her spoon aside.

 

Cerryl took one modest mouthful-enjoying the combination of spices with the richness of the creamed and sweetened bread. Then he had another.

 

“See; even the White mages like bread pudding,” Layel announced after his last mouthful.

 

“Not all mages,” countered Leyladin. “It’s too sweet for this one.”

 

“I do have a fondness for sweets,” Cerryl confessed, then blushed as he saw Leyladin flush.

 

“I have noticed,” added Layel.

 

Leyladin shook her head. “You… you two.”

 

Cerryl took the last bite of the pudding, trying not to look at her. “It is good.”

 

“Next time, Daughter, you may pick the dessert, but occasionally your sire should have a choice.”

 

“Yes, Father.”

 

Contentedly full and relaxed, Cerryl found himself yawning, and he closed his mouth quickly.

 

“I saw that,” Leyladin said. “When do you get up?”

 

“Before dawn,” he admitted.

 

She glanced toward the window and the pitch-darkness beyond the lead-bordered glass diamonds. “You need to go.”

 

“I suppose so.”

 

“I am sure you will be back many times, Cerryl,” said Layel, rising with Leyladin. “My daughter much prefers your company to mine.”

 

“She has spoken quite well of your company,” Cerryl managed as he rose from the velvet-upholstered white oak chair. “Often.”

 

“Would that she did around me.” Layel still smiled fondly at his daughter.

 

“Oh, Father…”

 

“See your mage off, dear.”

 

Leyladin escorted Cerryl back through the silk-hung sitting room and front hall to the foyer. She opened the door.

 

“Thank you. The dinner was wonderful,” Cerryl said. “And I did learn some new things from your father. I think I have each time.”

 

“You always listen.” Leyladin smiled.

 

“Are you going to be in Fairhaven for a while?”

 

“I hope so.”

 

“So do I.” So do I!

 

“I will be.” She leaned forward and hugged him, then kissed him, this time gently on the lips.

 

His lips tingled-was it how he felt or the interplay of order and chaos?

 

“Both,” she said, drawing back slightly.

 

“Both?” He shook his head.

 

“When we’re that close, I can almost sense what you feel. That’s why it will be a long time.” She offered another warm smile. “Good night, Cerryl.”

 

As he walked back to the Halls of the Mages, through the rain that had begun to fall, with the headache that had also begun to grow, he understood what she hadn’t said. If they were ever to become closer, he could not handle chaos the way Jeslek or Anya or most of the Whites did. In fact, he’d probably have to get better at keeping chaos away from and out of his body.

 

Could he manage that? As a Patrol mage? As any kind of White mage? Without verging on the gray that the Guild-and Recluce-abhorred?

 

 

 

 

 

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