"L. E. Modesitt - Recluce 08 - Colors of Chaos" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

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.


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