White Order
C
Cerryl woke with the gray light that filled the room even before dawn. His head ached, and his back and legs were sore. One arm itched with several small red bites-despite his efforts of the night before with the vermin.
He swung his feet over the side of the bed and just sat there for a time, slowly massaging first his neck and then his forehead. Finally, he stood and walked to the basin, where he washed up as best he could. After that, he pulled on his boots and the sword belt. The tunic and jacket had to stay in his pack.
In the wavering image of the wall mirror, thin-faced and drawn, he looked like anything but a well-fed student mage-or a mage of any type. More like a brown-coated weasel or something, he decided, or even a bravo down on his luck-as if he could do more than hack with the blade at his belt.
He definitely missed the razor-and the lady who had given it to him. Would he see her again? Would she care?
Don't think about it... You have a task to finish.
He left his pack beside the bed and went downstairs to find something to eat. The hearth in the corner of the public room was cold, with the smell of ashes. The tabletops were covered in a thin film of whitish dust, and the only table taken was filled by the same three older men that had been there the night before. The three looked Cerryl over, nodded to themselves, and resumed their low conversation.
“... still looks like a bravo ...”
“... you figured out the materials, yet, Byum?”
“... get to it... You know that...”
“... figures out everything but the important stuff...”
A single serving girl-portly-stepped out from the kitchen and looked at Cerryl. “Breakfast don't come with the room.”
“How much for some bread and cheese and ale?”
“Three.”
Cerryl nodded and sat down at the same table where he'd eaten the night before.
A scrawny white-bearded man shuffled in and sat down at the round table in the corner, not looking at Cerryl or the other three. The older man waited, head down, until the heavyset blonde brought him a mug. He slurped it slowly, holding it with trembling hands.
Thump. “Bread and cheese, dark ale.” The blonde's voice was hard, as if she wished she didn't have to serve him.
Cerryl handed over the three coppers. The serving girl vanished through the door to the kitchen. The three men continued talking in their low voices as he ate a half-loaf of the day-old rye bread and some hard white cheese, washing both down with ale. When he had finished, more quickly than was polite, but in character for a bravo, the headache had begun to fade. Did using chaos too much take extra food?
He swallowed the last of the ale, rose, and headed back up to his room, where he used the chamber pot and set it by the door. Then he donned the too-large cloak before picking up his pack and bedroll.
The bed in the room adjoining his was creaking once more as he passed.
Exactly what type of inn had he chosen? He shrugged. At least it wasn't the kind where everyone looked cross-eyed at strangers. Maybe he'd been lucky in that respect.
Out in the dusty courtyard, the stable boy looked at Cerryl and his pack and bedroll. “You not coming back, ser?”
“Would you leave your gear there all day?”
The dark-haired boy grinned. “I'll get your mount. The chestnut, right?”
“That's the one.” Cerryl glanced back toward the inn but didn't see Prytyk, which was just as well. A thin line of smoke rose from the chimney, and the smell of something baking drifted into his nostrils, a scent far more pleasant than his stale breakfast or the smell of the streets. Overhead, puffy white clouds, with barely a touch of gray, dotted the green-blue sky.
The stable boy had brushed the chestnut. That was clear enough from the sheen of the horse's coat. “I gave him some grain. Not supposed to...” The boy glanced toward the stable, then over Cerryl's shoulder toward the inn door.
Cerryl smiled and slipped the youth another copper he couldn't afford.
“Thank you, ser.” A pause followed. “Some say you're a bravo ...”
“You wonder if that's true?” Cerryl smiled as he began to strap his pack and bedroll on the chestnut, unwilling to leave them behind, even for the day. “I can't give you an answer you'd believe. If I am, then I won't say I am, and if I'm not, I won't say I am.” He laughed, pleased at his answer.
“I don't think you are.”
“Probably not in the way you mean.” The mage swung up into the saddle, half-amazed that he'd finally gotten somewhat graceful at mounting the big horse. “Tonight.”
“Yes, ser.”
Cerryl hoped he didn't have to stay another night, but he had no idea of what to expect in Fenard-or if he could even get close to the prefect. Or if the prefect even happened to be in Fenard.
The Golden Bowl looked even more dingy in the morning light, yellow plaster walls grayed and chipped, roof tiles cracked, with some missing. One shutter beside the front door hung tilted from a single bracket. Cerryl held in a shiver, noting that it was probably a good thing he hadn't been able to see the place well the night before.
He guided the chestnut out onto the narrow street and west, toward the main avenue, through the sour odors of a city with too many open sewers. There, even in the early morning, a line of carts trundled to his right, north, in the direction he hoped led to the central square or what passed for such.
He'd only ridden a block or so when he had to guide the chestnut around a cart that had collapsed, one wheel snapped in half, the cart tilted, and baskets of potatoes half-emptied into the cart bed-and into the street, and even the open sewer ditch.
A half-dozen urchins were scooping up the tubers into their ragged shirts, then scuttling down the alley. Cerryl swallowed as he watched one scoop two potatoes out of the filth.
“Out! Leave a poor farmer alone!” The carter lifted a staff, and the urchins suddenly vanished.
Cerryl kept riding, his eyes never stopping their study of the surroundings, even when he passed a set of ancient rock pillars and looked into the central square-just a cobblestoned and open expanse filled with carts and wagons and hawkers. Most of the wagons were of bare wood, brown or gray, not like the painted carts in the market square in Fairhaven.
To his right, standing on an empty mounting block, an urchin with cold eyes studied Cerryl, then looked away.
“You!” snapped the mage.
“Ser? I didn't do nothing. I didn't.”
“Which way to the prefect's?”
“You? They won't let you in the gate.” The urchin gave a diffident sneer.
“My cousin's in the guard there.”
“Up the hill past Gyldn's. The goldsmith.”
“Thank you.”
“Frig you, bravo.” The urchin spat.
Cerryl urged the chestnut into the square, eyes traveling across the carts, the women with baskets, and the two wagons tied on the other side, opposite what looked to be a warehouse. Two men lugged bundles wrapped in gray cloth from the wagon through the open door.
“Spices! Best winterseed this side of the Gulf...”
“Ser! Flowers for your lady!”
Cerryl shook his head.
“Then she be no lady!”
The young mage half-grinned, looking for the goldsmith's as the chestnut carried him around the square. A signboard with a golden chain against a green background caught his eye, and he made for the place, and the street that seemed to slope gently up past three-story buildings that bore shops on the main level and dwellings above.
“Scents and oils . .. scents and oils ...”
“... harvest-fresh roots .. . fresh roots ...”
Once out of the square and on the cobblestones of the upsloping side street, he could make out the walls ahead on his right. The prefect's palace was indeed walled, and the walls were a good ten cubits high. Two hundred cubits uphill on the paved street was a gate-or the first gate. While the two wrought-iron gates were open, the four guards were alert, one studying Cerryl as he rode by. Cerryl ignored the scrutiny and continued past the gate, a gate made up of interlocking iron bars forming rectangles that afforded a view of an empty paved courtyard.
Should he be cautious?
He shook his head. There was a time to be bold and a time to be cautious. Mostly, in the past, he'd had to be cautious, and that had to be what Jeslek was counting on. Despite Sterol's advice about there being no old bold mages, if he weren't bold, he'd never have the chance to get old. The sooner he removed the prefect-if he could-and returned to Fairhaven, the better ... before Jeslek's stories could get out of hand.
On the cross street, at the top of the hill was another gate, but it was locked, and chained, and looked not to have been used in some time. On the north side of the walls was a third gate, where several wagons were lined up-the tradesmen's gate, Cerryl guessed as he rode by. The bottom gate, less than a block from the square but north of the street he'd taken first, offered entry, from what Cerryl could tell, only to the guards' barracks, and but a single guard lounged by the guardhouse.
That meant that the southern gate was the one that led where he needed to go. He rode slowly down another side street, trying to find an avenue that angled back toward the gate he wanted. The simplest thing would be to cloak himself in the light shield and follow someone, or someone's carriage, into the palace-but what would he do with the chestnut?
He smiled-why not just tie the horse somewhere? No one was going to kill a horse. His rider perhaps, but not the mount. They might steal the mount, but the chances were less if he tied the gelding somewhere fairly prosperous looking. He shrugged. If someone stole the gelding, he could find a way to steal another horse. After what he had to do, horse theft couldn't make it any worse if he were caught.
He rode down several streets and had to retrace his way several times before he finally found what he was looking for-several well-kept shops in a row-not more than a block and a half from the palace walls. The first shop was that of a silversmith-attested by the painted silver candlestick and pitcher that adorned the purple-bordered signboard by the door. The second was some sort of weaver's or cloth merchant, with bolts of cloth shown behind real glass windows. The third was a cooper's, with a small half barrel set on a bracket on the left porch post.
Two stone hitching posts with iron rings were set against the cooper's open wooden porch. Cerryl glanced around, but the cooper's door was shut, although he could hear muffled hammering within.
He dismounted quickly, tied the gelding, and slipped around the corner of the building and down the short alley to the side street that led to the perimeter street that flanked the southern gate to the prefect's palace.
Don't run... Don't hurry.., Just look as though you have business to take care of... The side street curved slightly, and Cerryl stopped at the corner, just back of a large rain barrel that was held to the timber walls of the dwelling with an iron strap. His hand brushed the iron, and he felt a tingling, but the iron didn't burn. Not yet...
Leaning against the wall, in the morning shadows and out of sight of the gate guards, Cerryl watched the street running up from the main square.
After a while, after a cart and two men bearing something wrapped in cloth on a long pole between them had passed, an officer with a single gold slash on his sleeve made his way up the street, his mount's hoofs clicking on the cobbled paving stones, so much rougher than the smooth blocks of Fairhaven's avenues. The officer barely paused as he rode through the gate. Cerryl strained to hear the exchange between guards and officer.
“Good day, Undercaptain. Here to see Captain Yurak?”
“If he's in.”
“He's there.”
As the sorrel carried the captain across the courtyard, one guard turned to the other, but from behind the corner, Cerryl could not catch the words.
He waited. The sun got warmer, and the sky clearer. Another officer, a full captain, rode through the gate, but the guards did not speak.
Cerrly continued to wait as scattered riders and a cart, then a wagon, passed. Three women bearing laundry walked out of the side street, right past Cerryl, ignoring him, and down toward the square.
“... Elva ... too good to do her own laundry...”
“Would I had her coins, and I wouldn't either.”
Cerryl drew himself up. A carriage-a dark carriage-had started up the street, and both guards had stepped forward, stiffening into positions of attention. Whoever it might be, the guards expected the carriage, and it might be his only chance for some while.
Cerryl slipped the light cloak around him and eased across the street. Despite his care, since he could only sense things in rough terms, he almost tripped on the uneven stones. He stopped against the wall on the north side of the gates, where he could slip behind the coach and walk in after it. The coach slowed as it approached and turned through the wrought-iron-gate-flanked entry. Cerryl walked quickly, almost abreast of and between the back of the rear wheels, glad that the coach was not the kind with footmen.
“Good day, ser.”
There was no answer from the carriage to the guard's pleasantry, and the coach continued to roll slowly through the courtyard and then under another archway. Cerryl found he was panting when the coach creaked to a halt, and he forced himself to breathe more deeply and slowly.
Which side should he take? Cerryl eased up next to the right rear wheel, listening as the coach door opened and a man stepped out onto the mounting block.
An officer, perhaps the same undercaptain who had entered the palace earlier, stood in the archway above the steps. “The prefect is waiting in his study, ser.”
“Very well.” The voice was modulated, and bored. “I will see him before I deal with Overcaptain Taynet. Would you inform the over-captain that I will be there presently, and that I expect him to await my arrival.”
“Yes, Subprefect, ser.” The officer's boots clicked on the stone.
Cerryl reminded himself to step lightly as he followed the dignitary. He walked carefully behind the guards who trailed the subprefect, trying to keep his steps in the same rhythm as theirs, hoping no one stopped too quickly.
The journey was surprisingly short, just into a foyer, and then down a corridor for perhaps fifty cubits, and then up three flights of steps, and back down another corridor for another fifty cubits or so. The entourage halted before a set of double doors guarded by a pair of arms-men.
Cerryl stopped as they did, amazed that no one had looked around, but, then, perhaps everyone felt watched or followed in a palace.
“Subprefect Syrma, at the prefect's request.”
“We will inform him, ser.”
The doors opened and closed.
Cerryl eased up closer to the guards, standing to one side, wagering that they would not accompany Syrma into the study.
The study doors opened again. “The prefect will see you, ser.”
The guards stepped to the left, and Cerryl barely managed to slip around them to the right, and then inside. He swallowed and stepped wide around another set of guards, glad he was almost right behind the subprefect. One of the guards stiffened as his eyes flicked around, then slowly relaxed.
Cerryl edged along the bookcases to the left of the door before the guards closed them with a firm thump. He kept sliding along the bookcases and around a table to the left of the broad wooden desk behind which sat the prefect. At least he hoped the figure behind the desk was the prefect. That was the problem with navigating totally through chaos senses.
“You requested my presence, Prefect.”
“Syrma... you have deigned to appear. How kind of you.” The voice was resonant and cruel. Lyam didn't seem that much older than Cerryl, although Cerryl could not see him, properly speaking. “Why were you delayed?”
“There was a report of a white mage in the city last night.”
Cerryl's heart seemed to contract as he waited in the dim corner behind the table.
“The fellow was drunk, but he swore he saw a man all in white on a horse, and the fellow disappeared and took his cloak.”
“You cannot be serious.” Lyam began to laugh. “You would bother me with such nonsense?”
“You asked to be told of all reports of what the whites might be doing ... sire.”
“I was talking about matters that were real-like those mountains, and those mages who slaughtered that idiot Jerost's whole force, or that squad of white lancers south of here. What happened to them, anyway?”
“We killed them, as you instructed. They must have been scouts- just an undercaptain and ten armsmen.”
Cerryl winced but kept silent, standing in the corner formed by two of the ceiling-to-floor bookcases, hoping no one looked his way and noticed the slight wavering of the air that often accompanied the light shield.
“They weren't any trouble, unlike the old mage.” The subprefect bowed, but only slightly.
“The mage wasn't that much trouble-just heavy iron-tipped arrows from a distance ...”
“It took a dozen, sire, and we lost half the bowmen. He was casting fire even with all that cold iron in him. You underestimate the wrath and the ability of the mages.”
“Oh? He's dead, isn't he?”
“So are six good bowmen, sire.”
“Nasty people, those whites. We're better off without the mages. All of Candar would be.”
Cerryl frowned. So how was Lyam any different from Jeslek? Or did all those with power just think they were better than anyone else at ruling?
“What of the receipts from the Spidlarians?”
“Two hundred golds this season... so far, and the tax levies on the merchants in the city are fifty golds higher.”
“That's almost a thousand golds a year, plus what we saved from not paying Fairhaven. Scoundrels-every last one of the whites. Their precious road isn't worth that.” Lyam laughed once more, the same cruel laugh.
“They think so, and it has been unwise to mock them in the past. Ask Viscount Mystyr.”
“He's dead, Syrma. What riddle is this?”
“He died rather soon after he began to oppose the road duties. His brother pays the road duties most faithfully. Viscount Rystryr now receives support in terms of white lancers.”
“I don't envy him for such support. Nor should you, Syrma.”
“As you wish, sire. I stand at your command.”
“Good. Inform me of any other developments with the whites. I'd also like to know when the next lancers will be ready to ride for Yryna.”
“You will be informed.”
“Leave me.”
“As you wish, sire.” The older man turned and stepped out of the room. The doors closed with a dull thud.
Two guards remained, flanking the inside of the doorway.
Cerryl studied the room with his senses. There was a railed balcony, but it was three stories up, and from what he could sense, there was no way off it-except for a twenty-odd-cubit fall.
That left nothing but the obvious.
Cerryl gathered chaos around him, then dropped the light shield and let the first bolt of lance fire take Lyam in the face and upper chest.
“Aeiii...” The scream gurgled off into silence.
Cerryl turned. The second bolt got the first guard. The third bolt went wide as the second guard jumped aside, then flung the door open and ran out into the corridor yelling, “Chaos wizard! Chaos wizard! Frigging chaos wizard!”
Cerryl ran to the balcony door. Pushing back the hangings around the door, he threw it open and stepped out onto the balcony. There he struggled to get the light shield back around him, before easing back around the hangings and into the paneled study.
“He killed the prefect and ran for the balcony...”
“Seal the courtyard! Close the gates. Let no one out.” A figure glittering slightly with random chaos burst into the study, followed by a half-dozen guards.
Recognizing the modulated voice of the subprefect, Cerryl used his senses to ease his way along the walls toward the double doors. He slipped out the still-open door and onto the polished marble of the corridor. Darkness, he was tired. He just wanted to rest, but that wouldn't have been a very good idea. Syrma had too good an idea of what mages could do, and Cerryl wasn't even a full mage.
He stayed next to the marble balustrade all the way down to the courtyard level, then hugged the wall as he retraced his steps, half by feel, half by chaos sense, all the way back to the second courtyard.
Guards milled around the courtyard, and the subprefect's carriage remained where it had been. Slowly, carefully, managing to hang on to the light shield, Cerryl made his way along the walls, back through the archway and into the first courtyard.
Surprisingly, while the wrought-iron gates were closed, only a single pair of guards remained there.
Should he wait? No... he was too tired. He edged along the wall on the north side, away from the guards, until he reached the gates. He could climb them, if he didn't get too tired. He couldn't afford to get too tired. He couldn't.
The gates weren't so high as the wall, and they were crossbarred. He took the first step up to the gate, and his hands tingled as they closed around the crossbars. Each time his fingers closed over the iron bars, the iron burned. Because he'd been using so much chaos? Because he wasn't channeling it properly? He didn't know, only that it hurt, and it was hard because each level up had to be silent and each bar burned. Finally, he reached the curved top of the gate and swung himself over.
Clung! His boot slipped and struck one of the side bars. “Who's there?” Boots echoed on the courtyard stones. “There's no one there. One of the beggar kids-throwing stones at the gate again.”
“Enough troubles without them. Wish I'd get my hands on one of them. Teach them a lesson.”
The steps receded. Cerryl waited, his hands burning, his lungs rasping, before he began to lever himself down. His entire body was aching and trembling before his boots touched the street outside the walls. He forced himself to cross the street with care and slip into the side street, behind the rain barrel, listening until he could hear no one.
He released the light shield, and the afternoon sun struck him like a blow, and he staggered, putting a hand out to the wall. He just leaned against the wall, panting, aware that his hands burned and his head ached. Finally, he straightened and walked slowly down the narrow street, the sun at his back, toward the cooper's.
A woman stepped out of a door, saw him, and stepped back inside quickly.
Wonder of wonders, the chestnut was still tied there. He began to untie the reins.
“That your mount, fellow?”
Cerryl continued to unfasten the reins as he turned. “Yes.”
A heavyset man with a leather apron stood under the overhanging eaves that formed a porch of sorts. “Those hitching rings are for customers.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause you any trouble.” Cerryl fumbled in his wallet. “I don't have much. Would a copper help?”
“Wouldn't help me. I gave your mount some water. You shouldn't have left him so long.”
Cerryl looked down. The cooper was right, but Cerryl wasn't sure he'd had that much choice. His head still ached, but he looked at the gray-bearded man. “I'm sorry. Are you sure I couldn't give you something?”
“No.” The bearded man laughed generously. “You don't look as you'd need a barrel or even a hogshead. Keep your copper; spend it on grain for your beast. Just remember that Mydyr is the best cooper in Fenard-and when you do need barrels, I'd like to see you.”
“Mydyr-I'll remember.”
“What's your name?”
“Cerryl.” Cerryl knew no one in Fenard knew his name, and there was no reason to lie about it. “Thank you. I've got to get going.” He mounted quickly.
“Don't forget, now.”
“I won't, ser.” His knees were trembling, and he hoped the cooper didn't see that, or his reddened and burning hands. “I won't.”
He mounted and rode slowly down the side street, and then around the square, hoping he didn't get lost, and managed to find the main avenue again. It was beginning to fill with carts departing Fenard, and he rode slowly behind a cart with mostly empty baskets, except for one half-filled with maize.
His legs hurt; his vision kept blurring, and his head throbbed. His hands still burned, feeling both hot and as though they had been bruised. But trying to ride faster would only call more attention to him, and he wasn't sure he could handle any more attention.
As he neared the gate, he wondered whether he should try to use the light shield to get out of the gate. He shook his head. That would slow him down, and the sooner he was outside the walls the better. If the guards challenged him .. . then ... then he would do what was necessary. As you have all along... no matter the cost to others ...
He swallowed and kept riding.
The guard waved the maize cart and driver through, then looked at Cerryl lazily. “Where to, fellow?”
“Tellura ... then maybe Quessa, depending on...”
“Go... better you be there than here.” The bored-looking fellow waved Cerryl on.
Was that all there was to it? Was there a chance he would get back to Fairhaven and Leyladin? Would she even care?
Once past the low-lying fields and over the bridge, he looked back, but the gates remained open, almost as though the city were oblivious to the death of its prefect.
Although his head felt as though it were being ripped apart by Dylert's big mill saw, he kept riding as the sun dropped behind the western hills, and the sounds of insects rose above the whisper of the wind at his back, a wind that carried the scents of damp autumn earth and molding grasses, and the chill of the winter yet to come.