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

sent out on road duty.
Cerryl was glad they hadn't raised weapons. Killing the driver had been bad enough, and he
wished the man had not raised the blade, but raising weapons against gate guards or mages was
strictly forbidden, and rules were rules-even for mages.
Two other guards began to inspect the wagon, then pulled open a door.
"Good screeing, ser. Almost a score of scented oils-Hamorian, I'd say!" Diborl called up to the
young mage.
Cerryl managed a nod. His head ached, throbbed. Myral had warned him about the backlash of
using chaos against cold iron, but he'd not had that much choice if he wanted to ensure none of
the guards were hurt. Absently, he had to wonder about his ability to sense the oils. No smuggler
expected to get caught, and the hidden wagon compartment had been prepared well in advance,
perhaps even used before. Did that mean other gate guards were less able, or lazy? Or looked the
other way?


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He pursed his lips, disliking all of the possibilities and understanding that he knew too
little to determine which, if any, might be the most likely answer.
Below, the guards carried the jars of oil, probably glazed with a lead pigment, into the
storage room. The confiscated goods were auctioned every eight-day, with the high bidder required
to pay the taxes and tariffs-on top of the final bid. The golds raised went into road building and
maintenance, or so Kinowin had told Cerryl.
Even if some smuggling succeeded, Cerryl still didn't understand why people tried to smuggle
things past the gates-at least things made of metal. Cerryl knew his senses couldn't always
distinguish spices from a wagon's wood or cloth. Leyladin, the blonde gray/Black mage who was the
Hall's healer, might have been able to do that, but most White mages couldn't. But even the least
talented White mage could sense metal through a cubit of solid wood.
He shook his head, fearing he knew the answer. The Guild kept its secrets, kept them well.
Cerryl still recalled the fugitive who'd been turned to ashes by a Guild mage when Cerryl had been
a mill boy for Dylert, watching through a slit in a closed lumber barn door.
As Diborl supervised, another guard brought out the two prisoners on cleanup detail to sweep
away the ashes that remained of the wagon. Every morning one of the duty patrols brought out
prisoners for cleanup detail, usually men who'd broken the peace somehow, but not enough to
warrant road duty.
Cerryl rubbed his forehead, then turned and glanced at the western horizon. The sun was well
above the low hills, well above, and the gates didn't close until full dark. Luckily, it was
winter, and sunset came earlier. He couldn't imagine how long the duty day must be in the summer,
and he wasn't looking forward to it.
The overmage Kinowin had told him that he would do gate duty, on and off, for a season or two
every year for the first several years he was a full mage, perhaps longer-unless the Guild had
another need for him. But what other need might the Guild have? Or what other skills could he
develop? He definitely had no skills with arms or with the depths of the earth, as did Kinowin and
Eliasar and Jeslek. And he wasn't a chaos healer, like Broka. The Guild didn't need mage
scriveners, his only real skill.
So he could look forward to two or three years of watching wagons, to see who was trying to
avoid paying road duties? Or trying to smuggle iron weapons or fine cloth or spices into the city?
He turned and paced back across the walkway, then returned, hoping the sun would set sooner
than was likely. His eyes flickered toward the empty and cold highway, a highway that would have