“Greetings, Shyren!” called Fydel.
“Greetings,” answered the gray - and - sandy - haired wizard. “I’m glad you made it through the gates before nightfall.”
“So are we.” Fydel bent his head forward, as if stretching his neck. You and Cerryl-you’ll be in the guest barracks. You know where those are?“
Fydel nodded.
So did Cerryl, but the fact that Shyren knew his name made him wonder what other information had been conveyed to Shyren-and by whom and why. “I’ll show you which rooms are yours in a moment.” Shyren looked at Teras as the lancer captain reined up behind the two mages. “Take your mounts through the archway there and through the next one to the rear courtyard. There will be an undercaptain there to show you the quartering arrangements.”
“Yes, ser.” Captain Teras raised his arm. “Through the arch, by twos. After me!”
Shyren looked up at Fydel. “How was the trip?”
“Damp and cold.”
“Not so cold as Spidlar these days-or Sligo, either.” Shyren flashed a crooked smile that Cerryl distrusted almost as much as he did Anya’s. “Winter ice has been hard on Spidlar-that and the brigands that attack traders headed suchways.”
The two mages waited until the line of lancers had disappeared, then rode slowly across the still-damp stones of the courtyard and through the archway into a second courtyard, a square a good hundred cubits on a side, surrounded by window-studded stone walls rising a good five stories.
Fydel reined up before the guest stable, and he and Cerryl dismounted. Cerryl surveyed the courtyard, noting again how every building seemed to join every other one and how all looked about the same from outside-flat stone walls with small windows.
Shyren gave a perfunctory smile. “You’ve been here before. You both get captain’s rooms. The ostlers will take care of your mounts once you unload them.”
After he wearily unstrapped his bedroll and pack, Cerryl followed Fydel and Shyren across the courtyard and through a weathered bailey door. Then came the two flights of steps he remembered and another narrow stone corridor to a rounded corner of the building.
“You have the first two rooms. The first three are generally for mages. They’re a shade larger and fresher.” Shyren smiled again. “You’re expected for dinner with the viscount. Fydel, you’ll sit with me until Jeslek arrives, because you brought in the lancers.”
“And then I return to my proper place with the captains?” The sarcasm in the square-bearded mage’s voice was heavy and bitter.
“Of course. We all have but moments of glory.” Shyren’s response was light, but Cerryl could sense a deep bitterness behind the words. The Guild representative turned to Cerryl. “You are considered a senior captain, but the juniormost of those.”
Cerryl nodded.
“They could not do less, knowing you have been, as they put it, blooded in battle.” Shyren cleared his throat. “Dinner’s at the second bell. I will see you then.” With a nod, the heavy mage turned and waddled back around the corner.
Fydel looked at Cerryl; Cerryl offered an ironic smile.
Then Fydel laughed. “You see more than most, young Cerryl. You do indeed.” He turned toward the first door.
Cerryl walked to the second, lifted the latch, and stepped inside. There he lowered his bedroll and pack onto the stone floor inside the door and surveyed the place-smaller than his quarters in Fairhaven, with a single window, shuttered. The furniture consisted of a narrow pallet bed, a battered wardrobe, a washstand and pitcher, and a lamp on a brass bracket. Two heavy blankets were folded at the foot of the bed, and an oval braided rug lay on the floor by the bed. A chamber pot stood in the corner, while a heavy wooden bar leaned against the wall behind the door.
Apparently even captains needed to bar their rooms in Certis.
Cerryl closed the door and began to unpack. He had the feeling he would be in Jellico for more than just a few days-and he would be busy with his screeing glass all too often, unfortunately.
LXXX
At the second bell, Cerryl slipped out of his room to find Fydel waiting. Without a word, the two walked down the corridor and descended to the courtyard, crossing the lamp-illumined stones to the far side. There the pair of guards nodded.
At the top of the steps leading up from the courtyard, the two mages passed the first of the guards in green and gold. Above the pink marble wainscoting, the walls were finished in green silk fabric. Gilt-framed pictures spaced at five-cubit intervals held portraits of mounted viscounts in green uniforms.
At the end of the corridor was an archway into a dining hall, a good fifty cubits long and half that in width. As they entered the hall, Cerryl found his mouth watering at the scent of cooking meat.
Near the head of the table stood Shyren, speaking quietly with Viscount Rystryr, a big and broad-shouldered man who wore a gaudy green and gold tunic. His ruddy cheeks seemed flushed, perhaps from riding in the chill, and he sported a bushy beard under thick blond hair. A fire roared in the marble fireplace at the foot of the table. There were gathered a half-score of Certan officers, who barely graced Fydel and Cerryl with a glance, occupied as they were in conversation with the White Lancer captain, Teras.
Shyren caught sight of Fydel and nudged the viscount.
A smile replaced Rystryr’s serious demeanor, and his hearty voice boomed out, “Welcome to Jellico, Mage Fydel! We welcome you and your lancers, and Captain Teras.”
“We thank you,” replied Fydel. “The hospitality of Certis is legend, and welcome.”
“Since all are here, let us eat.” Rystryr gestured toward the table.
Cerryl glanced along the table, looking for his name, and found it on a bronze-framed slate bearing a statuette of a captain-far nearer the head of the table than he had anticipated. His name was chalked in Old Tongue script, “Carrl,” the same spelling as on his last visit years before.
Fydel and Shyren sat on the right and left of the viscount, while an officer in green and gold sat beside Fydel. Beside Shyren sat a man clad in black and red and beside him a white-haired man in gray and gold. Below the officer beside Fydel sat the hulking Teras.
As a full mage, even a junior one, Cerryl apparently ranked near the top of the various captains, as he found his place only five spaces down from Fydel on the same side. According to the place slates, the name of the sandy-haired captain on his left was Setken and the younger black-haired captain to Cerryl’s right was Dierl.
With his mouth dry, Cerryl sat and waited for the wine to arrive, hoping it wouldn’t be long before the nearest pitcher made its way to him.
“What kind of mage are you, if I might inquire?” asked the dark-haired Dierl.
“We’re all White, except for a healer or two.”
“No, I meant… chaos or arms or earth or… that sort of thing.”
“Well… I’ve done all of those.”
“You’ve been in battle or you wouldn’t be this far up the table. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“Ever killed a man?”
Cerryl winced.
“You haven’t?” pursued Dierl, an edge to his voice.
Cerryl tried not to sigh or explain that he wasn’t exactly fond of killing. “Ah… I don’t know. Somewhere between two and three score.”
Dierl’s mouth shut abruptly.
“You had to ask, Dierl.” A smile crossed the face of the redhead across the table from Cerryl. “I’m Honsak.”
“I’m Cerryl,” the mage answered, realizing the other could not see his place slate.
“Is it fair to ask if you’ve faced off against an armsman in close combat or been wounded?”
“Both,” Cerryl answered, deciding not to elaborate more than necessary.
“Blade?”
“Arrow in the shoulder.”
“What about the men you faced? Did they use cold iron?”
“They did, and they’re dead.”
“Now that you’ve established his
background,” called a voice from down the table, “could you more senior captains pass the wine?”
Laughter followed the comment.
Honsak filled his goblet and then Cerryl’s and handed the wine down. Two serving platters followed the wine, one with slabs of beef covered in a brown gravy, one with potatoes. A basket of bread came next. Cerryl filled his plate, then began to eat as the others did.
“You were here years back, were you not?” asked one of the more junior captains across and down the table from Cerryl.
“Yes, over two years ago.”
“Wasn’t there a redheaded woman mage?”
“Anya-yes, she was here,” Cerryl admitted.
“Is she still a mage… or what… ?”
“Anya? She’s a very powerful mage,” Cerryl said dryly. “I understand she will be here before long. She’ll come with the High Wizard.”
“Slekyr said she had her own ideas about men.”
Cerryl couldn’t help but smile. “She’s been known to like handsome captains, I’m told, but I’d be careful. She brought down one of the big towers of Hydolar.”
“Ah… does she throw chaos fire?”
Cerryl grinned. “She has done much of that-but only against enemies, and Certis is certainly filled with friends.”
“Best stay on her good side, Deltry,” said another captain.
Another round of laughter filled the middle of the table, and Deltry flushed.
“I’m new to this sort of thing…” Cerryl began as the laughter died away, looking at Honsak.
“You mean, staff type work?” asked the redhead.
Cerryl nodded, hoping he wasn’t stretching things too much. “And I haven’t really worked with other lands’ captains. I was curious. For example, how often do you pay people, and who holds the coins?”
“Everyone but us,” came from somewhere.
A general guffaw, if muted, followed the remark.
“All the coins are held in the strong rooms in the palace, and the viscount’s finance minister provides them every two eight-days to Overcaptain Levior-he’s the arms purser-the fellow up there in uniform beside your mage.”
“What if you’re away from your barracks?”
“They love that. You get all the pay you’ve earned when you get back, but no one gets the pay of those who don’t come back. Well… half goes to a consort, if there is one, but few consort with armsmen or lancers.”
“Is the finance minister one of those up there with the viscount?”
“I don’t know,” answered Honsak. “Issel, is the finance minister the fellow in gray?”
Issel, who sat across and one place up the table from Cerryl, turned in the direction of the viscount and frowned, but for a moment. “That’s him, old Dursus himself.”
Cerryl fixed the name and face. “Does the finance minister have much to do with you?”
“As little as he can, and us with him. He doesn’t collect enough coins, and they say we don’t get paid. Hasn’t happened yet.”
“He must have a lot of assistants,” ventured Cerryl, looking at Issel.
“Only one I know of is Pullid. He’s the fellow in gray and scarlet farther down toward us.”
Pullid and Dursus… “What sort of field rations do you usually get?” Cerryl continued, deciding to steer the conversation away from finances.
“If we’re out more than an eight-day, whatever we can find,” said Setken from Cerryl’s left. “Less ‘n that, it’s hard biscuits, yellow cheese, and a few strips of dried beef. Plus anything you can stuff into your saddlebags, if you get enough warning and every other officer hasn’t been out scrounging for his men. What about you Whites?”
“Pretty much the same, except the cheese is hard white, and we usually get some dried fruits. Hard as darkness to chew, but it helps.”
“Dried fruits. Maybe we could-”
“Don’t even think about it, Honsak,” interrupted the sandy-haired Setken. “Dursus would have you sent to garrison duty in Quend before you could even find Overcaptain Gised. ‘Dried fruit for armsmen? Ridiculous. Far too many coins.’ ”
At Setken’s impersonation of Dursus even Cerryl found himself smiling.
“Coins, always the coins,” muttered Honsak.
“That’s true everywhere, I think,” Cerryl agreed, after finishing the last of his wine and glancing around for the pitcher. “There are never enough coins.”
“Even for you Whites?”
“Especially for us Whites,” Cerryl said, noting the mix of surprised and frankly incredulous looks. “We only get road taxes and tariffs on the merchants in Fairhaven. We don’t have any peasants to tax, and we have no ports and only one city.”
“But the road taxes… ?”
“It costs a good many coins to build and maintain the roads,” Cerryl pointed out, adding, “All of the Halls of the Mages would fit within one portion of the viscount’s palace.”
“Have you seen other great cities besides Jellico and Fairhaven?” asked Setken smoothly, clearly wishing to steer the conversation in another direction.
“I’ve seen Fenard and Hydolar,” Cerryl admitted.
“And how did you find them?”
Resigning himself to a continued discussion of pleasantries, Cerryl replied, “I would say that the walls of Jellico are among the more impressive…”
As he spoke, Cerryl’s eyes wandered to the head of the table, where the Viscount Rystryr leaned toward Fydel, apparently making some sort of point with his fist. Cerryl kept talking, suspecting that he would need many more innocuous subjects and humorous comments to see himself through his days in Jellico. Many, many more.
LXXXI
Cerryl glanced down at the glass on the oval braided rug, watching the mists clear, showing a blonde healer in green sitting at a desk, her head cocked to one side, a sheet of paper before her. A broad smile crossed her face, and she lifted her fingers to her lips and then blew the kiss outward.
Cerryl smiled and let the image fade, knowing she had sensed his presence.
After a time, he looked down at the glass again, concentrating until the silver mists formed and then spread, showing a figure in scarlet and gray. The man sat in a carriage, but Cerryl could not tell where the carriage was bound.
A time later, he tried again, concentrating on a more distant view of Pullid, but the glass merely showed the carriage nearing the viscount’s palace, the image blurred by the intermittent spring snow flurries fluttering down.
Cerryl pulled on his white jacket with a shrug and made his way trough the corridors toward the front courtyard where he had seen the mounting block for carriages. There he waited with the two pair of armsmen who guarded what appeared to be the entrance to the viscount’s part of the sprawling warren of buildings.
Cerryl stepped forward as Pullid eased out of the carriage. “Ser Pullid?”
The bulky man in gray and scarlet turned. “I do not believe I know you ser mage. Young ser mage.” Cerryl ignored the condescending tone. “I was hoping you might ring your vast knowledge of finance to my aid.” He offered what he hoped was a warm smile.
Pullid merely scowled. “What would a mage need to know of finance?”
“Well… we do raise some coins, through the assistance of rulers like the viscount, of course, in order to build and maintain the great White highways. All say you are the one who is most important in assisting Finance Minister Dursus and that you know the best ways to ensure the collection of tariffs and such. We have had some difficulty in Montgren,” Cerryl lied, “and I thought I might ask for your advice.”
Pullid continued to frown without responding.
Cerryl could read the man’s thoughts from his face. He didn’t want to offend a mage, particularly one brought on a war campaign, since that meant one able to turn him to ash. But Pullid clearly did not wish to talk to Cerryl.
“I wondered… obviously the viscount has roads of his own to maintain. Is that a separate tariff, or do you collect them
both together?”
“We would not dare to collect taxes more than once.” Pullid offered a slightly off-key laugh. “Even once is difficult enough.”
Cerryl nodded as he gained a definite feel for the man.
“Now… if you will excuse me…”
“Of course.” Cerryl bowed, if but slightly.
Back in his guest quarters, he took out the glass. Perhaps he had stirred Pullid into action. The next image was that of Pullid talking to the finance minister, but from what Cerryl could tell, Dursus seemed unmoved, talking easily, before finally motioning Pullid out of the paneled study or office. Pullid walked until he reached a smaller, a much smaller, paneled room, where he sat behind a table for a long time, long enough that Cerryl finally had to let the image lapse before his head threatened to burst.
His problem still remained. How could he prove the viscount was diverting coins? Everything Cerryl felt told him that it was happening, but he had not one single vision or item even remotely close to proof. Most likely, his efforts had only made everyone nervous and unhappy with one mage named Cerryl. Yet if he didn’t push, how would he find anything in a city where he knew no one?
He sat on the bed and massaged his neck and forehead, trying to massage away the headache.
Perhaps later.
LXXXII
Cerryl sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at the glass that rested on the braided oval rug-a rug that might once have been green but now appeared gray. The silver mists vanished, and he was left with a blank glass reflecting the timbered ceiling. He was getting nowhere through screeing.
His brief interchange with Pullid had led nowhere, nor had his repeated attempts to track the man with the screeing glass. Finance Minister Dursus never seemed to leave the palace, except to be driven to and from his luxurious home on the hill south of the one on which the prefect’s palace perched. While Pullid traveled to meet a number of people, even armsmen and those who appeared to be tax collectors, Cerryl could never see any trace of coins, let alone anything other than conversations, usually brief. He wished he could hear what he watched, but the glass did not allow such.
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