Cerryl moved to the next wing, the old wing, where he passed two guards, directly inside the entry arch, both of whom studied him and dismissed him as he started up the stone staircase that was roughly four cubits wide, not wide enough for an official staircase yet seemingly too wide for mere servitors to use.
Shyren’s apartments were on the second floor of the old wing of the palace. At least, Cerryl would have called it old from the sense of aged chaos exuding from the stones.
The young mage glanced up and down the narrow corridor, but there was no one around. The door was secured by a simple bronze lock, one Cenyl recognized. A sewer lock, for darkness’ sake! Just like all the locks that guarded the sewers of Fairhaven and, like them, filled with a knot of chaos. But the lock was not closed, just turned so that it appeared closed.
Cerryl frowned, then shuddered as his chaos senses discovered the less obvious line of chaos—a line of force strong enough to destroy even a strong mage, were such a mage caught unaware.
Cerryl wrapped the light-blurring screen around himself, then eased up to the trapped lock and slid away the two concentrations of chaos. He studied the door again before opening it and leaving it ajar.
Finally, he slipped inside, smiling wryly as he quickly surveyed the room—or rooms. The anteroom contained an inlaid desk with a matching wooden armchair and a thick red velvet cushion. On each side of the desktop was a polished bronze lamp. There were two matching onyx inkstands and a quill holder as well. Three golden oak bookshelves stretching nearly five cubits high and each one almost as wide were set against the rear stone wall, and all three were packed with leather-bound volumes.
His ears and senses alert for anyone approaching, Cerryl slipped into the second room—the bedchamber. A heavy and dark red velvet curtain blocked most of the light from the wide window, but even without the light, Cerryl could see the high bedstead that did not fill a fifth part of the room. The hangings on the high four-postered bed were red and golden satins, and filmy golden silks screened the bed itself. A diaphanous gown lay across the red velvet cushion that turned the long chest at the foot of the bed into a settee of sorts.
To the right of the man-high hearth opposite the bed was a small table, set for a dinner for two.
Cerryl stopped studying the furnishings and began to use his senses to survey the room. Even more chaos lay within the chest by the bed—chaos and metal. The young mage swallowed. The chest was literally filled with gold. He could sense that without even touching the ancient and polished white oak. He could also feel an even larger mass of chaos coiled under the lid of the chest.
With a nod, he turned. What he had discovered would have to do. He dared not linger longer.
Shyren’s quarters were far more opulent than the High Wizard’s, and no wonder, with all the gold the old mage possessed.
As Cerryl replaced the lock and the two chaos traps, he wanted to smile. Shyren had one problem. As a White mage, he had to keep at least some, if not all, of his gains near him. Who else dared he trust with such an amount of gold?
Clutching the light-blurring screen, Cerryl turned back down the corridor, descending the stairs and passing the guards on his way back out into the front courtyard.
Behind him, he could hear the low voices of the guards.
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know…looked like he belonged here. One of Dursus’s people, I guess.”
“Too many folk we don’t know these days.”
Cerryl nodded. He hoped so.
Back in his room, he took out the glass and laid it on the worn green braided rug and searched for Shyren, finding the mage in the viscount’s chambers. Almost before the mists had fully parted and revealed the image of Shyren in one of the council chambers with Dursus and the viscount, Cerryl let the screeing glass turn blank.
Then he put the glass away and stepped out into the hall.
“You’re as wet as a drowned cat.” Fydel stood by the door to his own chamber. “Where have you been?”
“Riding in Jellico, trying to learn the city.” Cerryl paused, but only momentarily, noting that Fydel appeared almost as wet as he did. “You’ve been out, too.”
“Making arrangements to ensure nothing disturbs our efforts against Spidlar.” Fydel shrugged. “I’m going to talk with Teras—in the rear courtyard by the building where the viscount meets with all his ministers. Do you want to come? You probably ought to. Someone ought to know about the provisions’ plans besides me. Neither Jeslek nor Anya will pay any attention.” Fydel’s tone was bitter, as it often seemed to be, reflected Cerryl.
Why not? That’s about where you want to go. “If I won’t be in the way.”
“No. You might as well hear what you’ll have to do sooner or later, anyway.” The square-bearded mage gave a faint smile and turned, as if expecting Cerryl to follow him.
Cerryl did. If Fydel’s errand didn’t lead him to where he could find Shyren, he’d find some other pretext. It couldn’t be that hard.
He didn’t have to invent another pretext, for as they crossed the second courtyard, on the side under the overhang that protected them from the rain, another figure in white appeared, heading in the opposite direction, but on the far side of the courtyard.
“Fydel…I need just a word with Shyren.”
“I’ll wait here—if you won’t be long.”
“Only a moment.” Cerryl turned and angled toward the heavy older mage through the rain that had turned to drizzle.
Shyren slowed, then stopped.
“Mage Shyren.” Cerryl inclined his head.
“Young Cerryl, you seemed to be headed toward me.” Shyren smiled falsely. “And how has your stay in Jellico been thus far?”
“Rather unsettling, I must admit. Some fellows let loose with crossbow quarrels—aimed at me, I fear.”
“You do not seem terribly injured. Are you certain that you were the target?”
Cerryl shrugged. “There was no one else upon the street, and the white jacket of a mage is difficult to mistake.” Cerryl shrugged. “Unless they might have been seeking another. You wouldn’t have any idea who else they might have sought?”
“It is to avoid such mishaps that I have made it a practice never to ride the streets. Carriages are much less prone to slings and arrows, as it were. Mages should stick to magery, not adventure, especially not adventure in unfamiliar cities.”
With his senses concentrated on Shyren, Cerryl could feel the twisting, the deception, not quite like a lie, and he wanted to nod. Instead, he inclined his head, blocking all of his own feelings and responding as if he were accepting in a heartfelt way Shyren’s words. “So you had told me, and while I had thought that I might make Jellico less unfamiliar, it appears that your advice was most correct. I intend to remain within both the walls of the palace and the exact dimensions of my assignment here as an assistant to Mage Fydel.” He inclined his head in the direction of the archway where Fydel stood. “Perhaps that will ensure less attention.”
“I can assure you that so long as you confine yourself to that charge any attention you receive will be far more to your benefit. Few appreciate mages extending their talents to where they are unnecessary and unwanted. Especially young mages.” A sympathetic smile, false as those that preceded it, filled the heavyset mage’s face.
“I do appreciate your advice, ser Shyren, and will follow it most scrupulously.” Cerryl bowed. “These recent events have made clear its value.”
“Ah…yes…I am glad you have found that. We all need to do that which we do best. I am most certain Jeslek will be pleased with this…” A last smile crossed the older mage’s lips. “Now, if you will excuse me, as I am tending to a difficulty facing the prefect…”
“Of course.” Cerryl bowed and scraped once more, obsequiously.
“What was that all about?” asked Fydel as Cerryl returned.
“I was conveying to Shyren the value of his advice.”
Fydel raised his eyebrows but di
d not speak. Then he turned, and Cerryl followed him, conscious that Shyren’s eyes followed him, for all that the older mage had spoken of needing to be excused.
LXXXIV
UNDER ANOTHER GRAY afternoon sky, Cerryl and Fydel stood in the second courtyard of the viscount’s palace, waiting as Jeslek and Anya rode through the archway, followed by the first of the White Lancers, headed by a captain unfamiliar to Cerryl.
Shyren, who stood a good thirty cubits to the left of the two younger mages, raised his arm. “Hail to the High Wizard.” His voice was friendly and loud, pitched to reach Jeslek.
Jeslek rode forward, seemingly toward Shyren, with Anya keeping her mount abreast of the white-haired and sun-eyed mage. Then Jeslek guided his mount aside, back toward Cerryl. As he reined up, Jeslek turned to Anya. “You know what to do.” He vaulted out of the saddle and strode up to Cerryl, flinging the reins in the direction of a lancer who followed. “Come over here.”
Anya rode across in front of Shyren and Fydel, raising chaos as she did. “A moment, Shyren. Jeslek has something to deal with.”
Cerryl caught the glimpse of a smile on the heavy mage’s face before Jeslek drew Cerryl aside, under the overhang of the courtyard across from the stable entrance and away from the other three mages. “Shyren has sent a scroll saying you are a danger to the Guild and that if you are not disgraced and removed, none of the traders will continue to pay tariffs to Fairhaven. What did you do?” asked Jeslek.
Cerryl smiled. “I discovered what happened to the tariff coins.”
“And what have you discovered about the coins?” asked the High Wizard with the lazy smile that concealed anger.
“I take it that coins are getting to be a difficulty.” Cerryl forced himself to keep his voice light while keeping his emotions shielded. He also stood ready to divert any chaos Jeslek might muster. “Even after collecting a thousand golds from Hydlen.”
“Two thousand,” Jeslek corrected, with a tight smile. “I raised the cost since I had to travel there. The new duke had to lose another Tower and the northern gates before he saw the wisdom of paying damages and raising the call for levies.”
“I see.” Cerryl paused, noting the further tightening in Jeslek’s jaw, then added, “Did you know that the prefect has been collecting a tariff laid at the Guild’s door?”
“We’ve never been able to stop that,” the High Wizard admitted with a half-rueful smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Is that all?”
“Of 15 percent,” Cerryl added. “Since Rystryr became viscount. Roughly, anyway.”
Jeslek’s smile faded. “And?”
“I haven’t found where it all went, but there is a rather large chest filled with golds and secured with the largest chaos lock I’ve ever seen.” Cerryl offered a smile. “It’s in Shyren’s bedchamber.”
Cerryl had walked by Shyren’s quarters, earlier in the day, behind his blur shield, but the chaos locks, and the chest, remained in place, from what he could tell. He only hoped that Shyren were not more devious than he appeared, or at least that Shyren believed Cerryl comparatively inexperienced, more like a younger version of Fydel.
“You think such is still there, now that he knows you know?” Jeslek’s eyes flicked sideways in the direction of where Anya engaged Shyren, though the High Wizard’s head did not move.
“It was this morning, and I believe he thinks I am a less adept version of Fydel. He did pay some crossbowmen to kill me. I can’t prove that, though.” Cerryl shrugged.
Jeslek’s crooked smile returned. “I think you should escort me to Shyren’s quarters. Now.”
Cerryl glanced back.
“Anya will ensure Shyren is occupied for a time. She is quite good at that. Shall we go?”
Cerryl led the way.
The bronze lock on Shyren’s door remained chaos-trapped, as it had been every time before when Cerryl had checked.
“The lock is never locked but always twined with chaos,” Cerryl said as he eased the chaos out of the bronze, letting it dissipate before opening the door.
“Rather luxurious,” said Jeslek, “more so in person than through a glass.”
Cerryl stepped toward the bedchamber, his own shields still in place.
“Shields, yet. You do not trust your own High Wizard, Cerryl?” asked Jeslek.
“I have no reason to trust anyone,” Cerryl pointed out. “Here is the chest.” He gestured to the white oak chest, then lifted the velvet cushion that covered the lid.
“Allow me,” Jeslek said dryly, stepping forward and bleeding away the chaos inside the chest. “A chest more than two cubits long and half as deep, all filled. This may be even more golds than we brought from Hydlen.”
Cerryl hoped so.
Abruptly the High Wizard stepped back behind the hangings of the four-poster bed as the door to the outer chamber snicked open. Cerryl found himself standing alone by the open chest as Shyren stood in the door to the bedchamber, breathing heavily, his face flushed.
Cerryl prepared himself.
“What are you doing here?” Shyren raised chaos as he spoke. “You’re just his tool, Cerryl. You don’t understand. No, you’re a meddler in things you don’t understand. You will not meddle longer, and I will not be swept aside by an arrogant upstart!”
Whhstt! Chaos flame sheeted around Cerryl’s shields. Behind him, the satin hangings of the big bed began to char, then to smolder.
“Oh…you actually know shields.” Shyren flung a larger firebolt that slammed toward Cerryl.
The younger mage smiled and let his shields catch the chaos energy before adding his own power, turning the force, and narrowing the fires into a bolt of concentrated chaos that drove through the older mage’s shields as if they did not exist.
“Ohhh…” The brief murmur of surprise was cut off as Shyren’s form flared in chaos flame, then fell in fine white dust. All that remained on the stone floor was a white-bronze dagger, glowing.
Anya stepped into the room. “He insisted. You did tell me not to destroy him.”
Cerryl turned, not lowering his shields, to see Jeslek’s reaction as the High Wizard stepped out from behind the bed.
“Cerryl managed well enough. Better than I would have thought, actually.”
“He has that habit,” returned the red-haired mage, almost as if Cerryl were not present. She moved easily toward the chest at the foot of the bedstead.
“I might ask what these are doing here,” said Jeslek, gesturing toward golds lying in the chest he had opened, “save I fear we all know. There must be three thousand golds there.” The High Wizard straightened and favored Cerryl with a smile. “We will proceed to the viscount. You will agree with everything I say. It will be better that way.” His eyes went to Anya. “You will remain here to ensure that no others succeed in lightening the Guild’s purses.”
“So long as I’m not blamed for this mess,” Cerryl agreed warily.
“No…poor Shyren. He forgot that gold is not power.” Jeslek glanced at the chest, ignoring Anya, then back at Cerryl. “Who else might have some more golds?”
“The finance minister, Dursus, and his assistant Pullid. Pullid actually collects the taxes. I found that out from a local trader. Shyren found I’d talked to the trader and killed him and burned part of his warehouse.” Cerryl had his doubts about who had killed Freidr, but it was clearly better to place the blame on Shyren than on the other suspect.
“You have been diligent,” observed Jeslek. “That is definitely one of your virtues.” He gave a brisk nod. “We should visit the viscount. Come, Cerryl.”
The two walked down the corridor from Shyren’s chambers, down another set of steps, then across a high-ceilinged vaulted circular hall and through a set of pillars past two guards in green and gold.
Another fifty cubits down the lamp-lit hall, Jeslek paused before a set of double doors, where two more guards blocked the way.
One of the guards took in the two mages in white and the amulet around Je
slek’s neck then offered, “His Mightiness requested he not be disturbed.”
“Tell him the High Wizard of Fairhaven would like to see him. Now.” Although Jeslek’s tone was mild, the words almost steamed with the power of chaos.
The guard inched back. “He did say…”
Jeslek smiled, and a tongue of flame leapt from the floor before the guard. “Tell him.”
The other guard, without speaking, turned and rapped on the heavy door. After a moment, he bellowed, “The High Wizard seeks the viscount immediately!”
After another pause, the guard opened the door.
As the two mages passed, Cerryl noticed the dampness on the foreheads of both guards. He would not have wanted to be in their boots.
The viscount rose from the gilt chair set behind a broad gilt table, setting down a scroll as he did. “My dear High Wizard, I had expected to see you at dinner. You and your red-haired assistant.”
Jeslek stepped forward while Cerryl closed the study door behind them, then eased up almost even with the High Wizard.
“My dear viscount, perhaps you have seen one of my mages. This is Cerryl. He was sent here not only to help prepare for the invasion of Spidlar, but to resolve some…irregularities…in the handling of road tariff golds.” Jeslek flashed his brilliant smile at the blonde and burly viscount.
At each corner of the table stood a guard with an iron blade, and both watched Jeslek.
“Irregularities, you say?” Rystryr’s voice was thoughtful, barely rumbling in the confines of the private study.
“Yes. Apparently, Shyren entered into an agreement with your finance minister, one Dursus, I believe, and perhaps his assistant.” Jeslek turned to Cerryl. “What was his name?”
“Pullid.” Cerryl kept his eyes on the guards and his order-chaos senses on the crossbowman hidden behind the lattice to the right.
“And what of Shyren? Should he not be here to address such…irregularities? I do not see him.” Rystryr raised his bushy eyebrows.
Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce) Page 42