Colors of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  She turned and frowned, and he held his breath, standing less than two cubits behind her, in front of some sort of framed picture, holding his breath.

  “Thought someone was there…” she murmured.

  “Only the picture, Misty. Only the picture,” laughed one of the guards.

  The other rapped on the door. “Misty with some cider, sire. Do you wish-” He turned. “He wants the cider.” He reached for the heavy iron latch.

  Cerryl could hear a bolt being withdrawn on the inside.

  The guard on the right offered a half-bow to the serving woman. Cerryl waited until he straightened, then boldly stepped after the serving woman with the tray-barely slipping into the room before the heavy wooden door clunked shut behind him.

  At the end of the room to Cerryl’s right was a huge hearth, in which burned a low fire. Cerryl felt warmer, glad for the heat after his wait in the chill outer corridor. Before the fire, on a faded green settee, sat Ferobar, a volume of some sort in his hand. On the table to the duke’s right was a brass lamp, emitting less light than the fire. The table to the left held a bowl of fruit and little else Cerryl could sense. The wall opposite the door held four windows, each with a window seat beneath, each window seat covered with an upholstered cushion. All the windows were closed and shuttered.

  “Your cider be here, sire.” Her voice trembled, and the mug rattled against the pitcher on the tray.

  “Bring it here, Misty.” The man’s voice had an edge like the big blade of Dylert’s mill just before it was ready to crack.

  Cerryl could sense a figure, more than four cubits tall, and broad, standing to the right of the door. The young mage edged to the left, away from the huge guard, flattening himself against the paneled wall that adjoined the door, hoping his shields would suffice in the dim light.

  The server set the tray on the table beside the bowl of fruit, then straightened.

  The duke poured from the pitcher and took a sip. “Could you not have gotten it hotter?”

  “Near bubbling it was, ser, and I hurried, fast as I could.”

  “You may go, Misty.” A weariness filled Ferobar’s voice.

  The tall guard withdrew the bolt, only long enough for the server to depart, then slid it back in place.

  Cerryl used his order-chaos senses to study the room, trying to get a better impression. The ceiling was not that high, perhaps five cubits, and the chamber was no more than fifteen cubits long and ten wide The wall opposite the hearth held bookshelves, but less than half the wooden shelves held volumes. A musty odor filled the room, enough to make his nose itch.

  “They think I’m a tool of the merchants of Renklaar, you know?”

  Cerryl almost jumped at the words, seemingly addressed to him, before he realized that Ferobar had turned on the settee and was talking to the hulking guard who remained on the inside of the door.

  “I’m no man’s tool. I am the rightful Duke of Hydlen. I should have been all these years. It’s late, but I know what to do. Yes, I do. Merchants… all they think of is how to pile one coin upon another. Do they think of whether they will have coin if Fairhaven increases the levies?” There was a pause while the duke slurped some cider, then ate something from the table. A biscuit? Fruit?

  Cerryl couldn’t tell, not with the strain of holding the screens and his increasing headache. Yet he had the feeling that the sooner he acted, the better. The sooner you act in a way that will let you escape and survive.

  “It’s too bad you can’t speak, Girtol, but it’s not, because I couldn’t talk to you otherwise.” Ferobar laughed, with an edge that sent a chill down Cerryl’s back. “You’d be far less use to me were you able to speak. Nor I to you, my old friend. Fortunate it was that I saved you those years back, fortunate for us both, and more fortunate now that I am duke.” Another cackling laugh issued from the thin lips.

  Cerryl could sense that Ferobar was not that old, in fact probably not more than a half-score of years older than he was. Ferobar poured another mug of the cider, his face turned back to the low fire in the hearth.

  “Already my bones are chill, chill knowing that none are happy with their duke. The merchants will not be pleased, because we have not the vessels to break the blockade of the White demons. The demons are not pleased, even though I returned their healer, because Hydlen cannot pay what they demand in tariffs. The people are not pleased that I will not lower taxes. The armsmen are not pleased that I could not stop the destruction of the east tower…” Ferobar gulped a swallow of cider.

  “Should I sleep? How can I sleep? Sleep… what is sleep? A small death that claims us each night.” Ferobar slurped more cider, then turned to Girtol once more. “Seat yourself, dear Girtol. If my fate worries you, place that chair before the door.”

  Wordlessly the big guard pulled a massive oak chair in place before the door and sat down, his eyes not leaving the duke.

  “You can sleep, Girtol, unlike your master.”

  Cerryl thought. How could he remove the duke without alerting the mute guard? Even a mute guard could alert those outside. And if Cerryl removed the guard, surely the duke would seek aid.

  Cerryl stifled a yawn. He was tired, dead tired. His feet ached. His head throbbed, and he had to finish his task and get out of the duke’s palace.

  Ferobar poured yet another mug of cider, his eyes on the low fire that was slowly burning down.

  The young mage waited, hidden behind his light shields, fighting exhaustion, impatience, and a headache.

  Still, in time, Ferobar’s head eased forward, lolling on his shoulders.

  Cerryl straightened, turned toward the hulking guard, dropped his shields, and focused chaos into the tight light lance that he had developed in the sewers and used so sparingly in the years since. The light seared into the mute guard before he could even open his mouth, leaving nothing but ash atop the muscular torso that slumped into the wooden chair.

  Cerryl turned and threw a second bolt at the yet-dozing Ferobar. There was a dull and muted thump as the body pitched forward onto the carpet before the settee.

  The young mage held his breath, momentarily, but there was no sound from without the chamber. He padded toward the duke and, standing back but slightly, concentrated chaos on the body until nothing remained but drifting white ash and a belt knife. He left the belt knife where it lay and turned back to the unfortunate Girtol. Another burst of chaos, and another set of drifting ash resulted.

  Then, Cerryl took a moment to drink the remainder of the lukewarm cider from the pitcher and slip two apples from the bowl into his tunic before easing toward the door beside the hearth. He opened it gingerly, assuming that the next room was a bedchamber, nodding as his senses revealed the same.

  The bedchamber had no other doors, but there was a window. Cerryl eased to the window, then stood on the window seat. The window overlooked a roof, and the drop was less than three cubits. Cerryl eased the window open with a sigh and wiggled out into the darkness, dangling his feet, then letting go.

  His boots skidded as he hit, and he clutched at the still-warm roof tiles, somehow slowing his descent on the sloping roof.

  Now what?

  He listened, but everything around him sounded the same-no yells or screams or lamps or lanterns.

  He crawled slowly along the roof away from the duke’s window. After another forty cubits, the roof ended. He peered over the edge, seeing a drop of far too many cubits, then looked back up the slope of the roof toward the broad chimney.

  Even in the darkness, he could see the stepped design, and the intervals were not that great. He crept upward on the warm and dusty tiles until he reached the chimney, then lowered himself, dangling until his boot toes touched the bricks below. Then he undamped his fingers and let his feet take his weight. After resting a moment, he repeated the process with the next part of the chimney.

  The last drop, to a small unlit courtyard, was a good five cubits. He hit with a thud, and the shock ran from his boots to his thighs, wh
ich threatened to crumple. Wobbling for a moment, he staggered several steps, then looked around. He was on the back side of the palace and could sense the river beyond the wall ahead of him.

  He turned toward the west end of the courtyard, walking in the darker shadows, those areas untouched by the infrequent wall lamps. The courtyard seemed to go on and on.

  A yawn took him and he had to yawn again. As he leaned against the wall, breathing hard, from both fear and exhaustion, he could feel his eyes wanting to close. He took another breath and continued westward.

  How long he wound through courtyards with closed doors he wasn’t certain, but a different scent drifted through his nostrils, one of horses and hay. Stable?

  Stables usually had haylofts…

  He eased toward the stable and was gratified to see that the door was ajar.

  Easing the light-blurring shield around him-he could not have held a full light shield-he stepped through the door, glancing around. Finally, he eased past the stable boy, dozing on a round bale of hay by the door, and past two rows of stalls until he came to a ladder. Hay around the ladder suggested a loft above. Slowly, he eased his way up to the top of the loft ladder and across the rough planks.

  In a dusty corner that felt as though it had been neglected for days, he sat down, rubbing his nose, trying to keep from sneezing. Slowly he ate one apple and then the other. The growling in his stomach lessened.

  He thought about taking off his boots but, too tired to make the effort to hold off sleep, lay back on the small bit of straw left in the loft.

  LXIV

  Cerryl bolted awake, his head aching, his nose stuffed up, and almost unable to breathe. Outside, the light was barely gray, so he hadn’t slept that long, or it felt like he hadn’t. He shivered inside his jacket.

  Below, he could hear voices, young voices.

  “… why leave so friggin‘ early?”

  “… don’t say anything…”

  The young mage rubbed his eyes, then eased toward the ladder. His stomach growled and he could feel a tightness, almost a cramping, in his guts below his stomach. His headache wasn’t the one that came with overuse of chaos, or rainstorms, but a leaden aching.

  Not going to get better while you’re in Hydolar… that’s for sure. He peered below into the gloom of the stable.

  The stable boys were saddling several mounts and, after each was saddled, leading it out into the courtyard. Cerryl didn’t hear voices in the courtyard.

  With a deep sigh, he summoned the light shield and then felt his way down the ladder onto the main level. His feet slipped on the greasy-feeling clay of the stable floor, and he had to grab the ladder to steady himself.

  The ladder squeaked as the wood slipped on the edge of the loft above.

  “What was that?” One of the stable boys looked from the stall where he saddled another mount.

  “Nothing. There’s no one here. None of ‘em get up this early, except for Pierdum.”

  “… dumb bastard.”

  “Careful, he’d beat you as soon as spit.”

  Cerryl walked carefully along the edge of the stalls, toward the open door, feeling his way step-by-step. The stable wasn’t clean, the way those in the Halls were, but almost rancid, and that didn’t help the cramps and churning in his gut.

  He couldn’t help but wonder… why hadn’t there been any outcry from the adjoining palace? Or did the duke habitually sleep late? Or did no one wish to break down the bolted door?

  The thoughts gave an urgency to Cerryl’s desire to escape the city.

  “Don’t forget the ration packs, and don’t eat anything. One biscuit missing and it’s a caning for sure.” The youth led another mount past Cerryl.

  Whuffff…

  “Better stuff in those than the lower table in the kitchen.”

  “Course… They’re officers.”

  “Something’s upsetting them. The horses,” said the boy leading the mount. “Like a wild dog or something.”

  “Haven’t seen none.”

  “Keep a look.” The shorter stable boy tied the mount to the long hitching rail outside the stable.

  Once he passed on returning to the interior, Cerryl stepped outside quickly and hurried to the corner of the building, where he lowered the full light shield into the vision-blurring screen. He studied the courtyard.

  After a moment, he nodded to himself. The gate in the courtyard wall looked unguarded, and beyond the gate was Hydolar. He watched as the other stable boy tied another mount at the end of the rail.

  “ ‘Mother to go.” The youth turned back toward the stable.

  “Better start mucking after that,” came from inside.

  Cerryl eased toward the end mount, a chestnut. Once he was certain both stable boys were completely inside the stable, Cerryl untied the reins and scrambled into the chestnut’s saddle.

  Wuuuffff… The horse seemed to back off.

  Cerryl patted his shoulder firmly. “Easy, fellow… easy…” Then he urged the mount toward the open gate from the stable yard. He couldn’t hold a full light shield, not with the growing sharp pains in his gut and the leaden headache, and even keeping his blurring efforts was hard. He only hoped that, if people saw him, their vision would show nothing out of the ordinary, just a blurred image of a rider on a lancer mount.

  Can’t afford to get sick…not in Hydolar…

  He rode quickly across the courtyard and toward the courtyard gate.

  “Who was that!”

  “Took the chestnut. Not Mierkal… always late…”

  “Shit!… What’ll we tell him?”

  As he passed through the gate, Cerryl felt badly for the stable boys, but not badly enough to remain in Hydolar any longer than he had to, not at all.

  The street leading back to the north gate of the city was far less crowded, and, thankfully, his blurring effort was working enough that not a soul of the handful of people he passed in the orange light of dawn even seemed to look in his direction. The faint mist that lay over the city, perhaps from the river, might have helped as well.

  The cramping in his gut was worse, and so was the headache as he rode out through the city gates.

  “… know that lancer?” came from the gatehouse.

  “… can’t see him well… wants to ride out alone… that’s the duke’s problem…”

  “… still.”

  “… what lancer, Jiut? Didn’t see no lancer, did you?”

  A tight smile crossed Cerryl’s face as the chestnut carried him down the gentle slope of the causeway to the road that would carry him back to Fairhaven. He was out of Hydolar. With two long, long days’ ride to go…or three…

  He rubbed his forehead, but it helped the headache not at all. Nor the growling in his stomach and lower gut. Perhaps if he ate something from the ration pack? He turned in the saddle and fumbled out a hard biscuit, hoping some food would reduce his shivering as well.

  LXV

  Cerryl yawned. Twilight had passed into full evening, and every span of his body ached, starting with the crown of his head all the way to toes that threatened to cramp within his boots. The night was still, cool, but not yet cold, and with the stillness he could hear a few scattered insects in the dry fields flanking the road. Insects? In winter? More likely rodents.

  He’d hoped to make the Great White Highway before long, but the stretch of road he traveled had no kay markers and no towns, just dark humps in the fields that were the cots and houses of peasants and herders. He wished he’d been able to ask for a detachment of lancers to wait for him, but that would have alerted the Hydlenese, and the lancers wouldn’t have kept quiet about it, either-and it was clear that Jeslek wanted mystery.

  Cerryl patted the stolen horse on the shoulder. He needed to find another place somewhere to deal with his bodily necessities-again! He preferred a spot not exactly on the open road, although he had yet to see all that many travelers.

  He hoped his vision-blurring skills had been good enough to ensure that t
hose few who had seen a rider would not remember any details, except that the mount was that of a lancer of Hydlen. A disappearing duke wasn’t much good to the Guild-or Jeslek-if people noticed a White mage traveling back from Hydlen. Once he was close to the Great White Highway, it wouldn’t matter, but… until then… few should see him.

  His guts twisted again-violently-and he shivered.

  He glanced around. Was that a clump of bushes ahead, where he could tie the mount? Already the big beast had tried to leave him twice, and once he’d had to lunge for the reins. Clearly, the animal belonged to someone and Cerryl wasn’t that someone.

  Cerryl dismounted and led the beast toward the bushes. His guts contracted, sending a wave of pain through his torso, and his fingers fumbled with the leather reins. He reached for them, and his boot caught on a root, and he sprawled on the ground, dust welling up around him, his fingers losing the leathers.

  He stumbled to his feet, but the horse was trotting down the road.

  “Here, fellow…” Cerryl rasped. “Here, fellow.”

  The horse did not turn but kept moving back southward.

  Cerryl walked more quickly. So did the horse.

  Cerryl tried to trot, but the chestnut picked up his feet even more quickly.

  After a time, Cerryl stood, panting, in the darkness of an empty road, watching the dark blur that was a horse moving southward, in the direction of Hydolar.

  Cerryl shook his head. He faced a long and hungry walk back to Fairhaven, with little more than a handful of silvers and coppers in his wallet.

  Not only that, but he could hear the rumbling in his lower gut and sense the continuing pain. The bread he had stolen? Or the strain of the whole effort on little sleep and less food? Or the apples from the duke’s fruit bowl? Had they been poisoned? He laughed harshly. Indeed, that would be an irony.

  His guts twisted again, and he looked for a more promising and private place, stumbling off the road and toward another clump of bushes beyond the shoulder of the road by perhaps a dozen cubits or more.