Cerryl glanced down at the road, its dust damped by the intermittent fall rains, then across the bridge. Dust meant a lot of riders, and a lot of riders meant lancers.
Cerryl glanced to his left, toward a low and rolling hill. Several horsemen appeared on the crest, their purple overtunics visible clearly in the sun. He almost sighed as he heard the fumbling and clanking behind him. As he had suspected, his escort did not contain those lancers most accomplished in arms.
“Ludren! Take your men and ride south-as fast as you can.”
“Ser?”
“Ride south as fast as you can,” Cerryl said. “If you hurry, you might outrun all those lancers.”
“But… we’re not to the gates.”
“If you don’t mind, neither do I. Otherwise, we’ll all look like Eliasar’s straw targets.”
“The overmage and Klybel said-”
“Ludren-you stay with me, and you’re dead. You may be anyway… Please just go.” Cerryl tried to keep the exasperation from his voice as he looked at the oncoming lancers and watched the archers on the hill begin to string their bows.
“Ah… yes, ser. Good luck, ser.” Ludren wheeled his mount. “The mage says we’re done, boys, and it’s time to go. Best we hurry.”
“Now he tells us…”
“Move!” Ludren gave a half-salute, then spurred his mount.
Within moments, Cerryl flung the cloak of light or darkness around himself and the chestnut. Using his feel of where order and chaos fell, he could sense his way slowly toward the scrubby tree at the edge of the unfenced meadow land.
‘Wheeee… whuffff…
“Easy… easy.” Cerryl patted the chestnut on the neck, trying to calm the gelding as he walked his mount slowly off the road, across the shoulder, and through the twisted and browning grass.
The ground vibrated with the hoofbeats of the Gallosian lancers approaching. He hoped that the faint wavering that appeared-as it had around Anya-with the light cloak would be masked by the wind and the fluttering gray winter leaves of the tree beside which he and the gelding waited.
There was no point at all in trying to use chaos-fire against the Gallosian horsemen. There were too many, and using flame would alert everyone to the fact that there was a white mage around. Better no one knows you’re here.
As the hoofbeats gradually faded out, Cerryl waited in his self-created blindness and darkness, hoping he could sense the approach of twilight, and worrying about Ludren and the other lancers. He’d needed the diversion, but he hadn’t liked using them. You didn’t hesitate there.
In all likelihood, many would have died in combat somewhere… Are you sure? Or did you choose what benefited you? He nodded. He’d chosen what helped him, and nothing was going to change that. He just hoped he didn’t end up like Jeslek and Sterol.
Although the road seemed silent, Cerryl waited a time longer, conscious of the sweat that oozed down his back. Finally, he released the shield and quickly studied the road and the cot.
The peasant had disappeared, and smoke rose from the earthen-brick chimney of the cot. The sun hung over the hills to the west, those low hills that led to the Westhorns.
The road was empty, except for a cart that creaked southward, already past Cerryl and heading toward Southbrook or Tellura or some other town that Cerryl and the lancers had skirted on their ride toward Fenard. No lancers waited on the hilltop.
Cerryl waited, sipping his water until the sun dropped behind the hills. Only then did he urge his mount toward the river to drink, and then he waited until the sky was nearly full dark before traveling the last kay or so toward Fenard, halting in the gloom several hundred cubits from the gates.
A half-squad of armsmen or lancers stood under the torches by the gates, waiting, their posture signifying boredom. “Someone’s out there…”
Cerryl eased the light shield around him and the chestnut. Did he dare try to walk through the gates-just shielded? Virtually half-blind? He sat on the gelding… waiting…
“Don’t see a thing. You get jumpy every time a rat climbs out of the sewer ditches.” One of the guard’s voices drifted through the darkness.
“I did see something.”
“Any of you others see anything?” Cerryl held his breath.
“See, Nubver… there’s no one out there. Overcaptain Gysto and his lancers even chased out the rats.” Laughter echoed from the walls.
The guards chatted, but no riders or wagons moved along the road. Finally, bit by bit, Cerryl eased the chestnut, now more at ease in the darkness of the light shield, forward along the road, moving more slowly, more deliberately, once the gelding’s hoofs clicked on the paving stones of the causeway that began a mere hundred cubits from the guards. He tried not to think about the madness of what he attempted. One of the guards turned. “You hear something? Like someone walking on the causeway?”
“I don’t see anything. You and Pulsat want to go check… go check. Probably a rat.”
Another wave of laughter followed. “Pulsat, come on.”
Cerryl swallowed, not knowing whether his shield would hold if the guards got too close. He concentrated, then arced a fireball at what felt to be a pile of rubbish to the west of the guards. Whhssttt! Light flared up. “See! There was something.”
Four of the guards pulled out blades and eased toward the flickering fire that remained near the base of the walls. “Looks like rubbish…”
“Maybe a rat set it on fire…”
A step at a time, Cerryl guided the chestnut by sense and feel toward the gates and past the remaining pair of guards, both of whom were more interested in the fire than the seemingly empty gates. “Nothing here.”
“Who set the fire?”
“… someone drop a torch from the walls?”
“Why?”
“Who knows? Report it to Delbur in the morning.”
With the sweat seeping down his back, Cerryl guided the gelding into the streets of Fenard, turning abruptly at the first corner into a narrower way. Another hundred cubits onward, he released the light shields and just sat on the chestnut, shivering. The street smelled like the sewers of Fairhaven, if not so strongly. The only light was that of the stars and a smoky torch perhaps fifty cubits farther along the street.
He was in Fenard, with no idea of where the palace or anything was. He wore white garments that would make him an instant target in daylight, and he had but two silvers and a handful of coppers in his purse.
Cerryl had few doubts that he would find any trace of Sverlik- dead or alive. He also had strong suspicions that Jeslek had already figured that out, well before the overmage had sent Cerryl on his “task.”
“Out! Out before you wreck it all…”
The junior mage glanced up where a tall figure staggered out into the street by the torch.
“A weighty man was he… was he… a weighty man was he…”
Thud… The sound of a door closing echoed down the street, followed by a brief rustling that Cerryl suspected signified rats.
“… and a weighty man… am I… am I…”
The shadowy figure waddled toward Cerryl, who could see that the drunkard was both tall and broad, twice his own bulk, and wearing a capacious cloak. Cerryl had no weapons to speak of, save the short white-bronze knife. Should he turn? But that might put him in view of the gate guards.
He sat on the chestnut and waited.
As the reveler staggered toward Cerryl, Cerryl drew the light shield around himself and the chestnut-then released it when the man was less than three cubits away.
“Weighty… man… am I-where did you come from, fellow?”
Cerryl recloaked himself and his mount, easing the chestnut sideways slightly, so that the reveler would walk by, rather than run into the horse. He drew out his knife. The heavy man stood there for a moment, then scratched his head. “If that’s how… you want it…” He started past the concealed mage.
As he passed, Cerryl reached down and grabbed the long cloak, s
licing the ties.
The heavy man turned, coming up with a truncheonlike club, but Cerryl and the cloak had vanished.
Cerryl rode slowly down the street, past the smoking torch, and turned left at the next, and broader, way where he stopped and fastened the long cloak over his white jacket. The long cloak covered his upper body and most of his trousers.
Then he urged the chestnut on. The buildings were mostly of two stories, with plaster and timber fronts, and the second stories protruded a cubit or two farther into the street than the ground-floor levels. A foggy mist swirled around the buildings, a mist that bore the odor of open sewers and fires.
Someone was ahead. Cerryl swallowed, and gathered chaos, hoping he did not have to use it.
The small figure scurried down a side alley, and Cerryl took a deep breath. The next block was not quite so dark, though there were no lamps or torches hung, because blotches of light fell into the street from the windows or shutters of the dwellings on the left.
The scrape of boots on the cobblestones brought his attention closer. Two figures darted from the shadows of the alley on the left that he had not really noticed.
“Fellow… you’ll be surrendering that mount-and your purse.”
Cerryl glanced at the pair. Both wore tattered shirts and trousers, and wide belts with scabbards. Both bore midlength iron blades. No others were near them. “I’m sorry.”
“Not so sorry as you’re going to be.” The bigger man, nearly as tall as Kinowin, laughed.
Cerryl smiled sadly, gathering chaos.
Whsstt Whsst!
The big man toppled. The smaller man stood for a moment, his mouth opening
“White-!”
Whhhstt!.
Cerryl swayed in the saddle, then forced himself to dismount. He glanced up and down the alley, but the narrow way was dark and empty-with only a hint of a lamp or torch reflected on the corner of the building nearest the main way.
Splushh… His right boot went into the sewer ditch. “Darkness…”
His chaos-aided night vision helped as he stripped the smaller man and cut both purses and took a scabbard and blade he could scarcely use.
He kept looking around as he dusted the ragged trousers with chaos and then pulled them on over his own white trousers, but no one appeared. After belting the scabbard in place and sheathing the blade, careful not to touch the cold iron, he cleaned his boots as well as he could and remounted. Then, still scanning the area, he checked the purses. Three silvers and a handful of coppers.
That the two would have killed him was clear, but that he had profited from their deaths nagged at him-and such a little profit. Was a man worth more than a pair of silvers? Yet Jeslek had sent him off to certain death, one way or another, for less than that. And had sent Ludren as well.
Yet, was Cerryl any better? He’d used the lancers as a decoy. Still, they had a chance. He’d given them that, a better chance, he hoped, than Jeslek had given him.
He took a deep breath and resumed the ride down the larger street, trying to be more careful, until he reached the main road again, where he turned right and continued toward the middle of Fenard.
The main street had more traffic-men with guards and lamp bearers, a carriage with guards-but no one really scrutinized the thin cloaked figure. Cerryl finally found what he sought.
The signboard bore an image illuminated by a single torch-that of a yellow-colored bowl. Cerryl rode past the door and toward what looked to be an archway to a courtyard and a stable.
“Ser? Late you are.”
“Aye…” Cerryl roughened his voice. “Late… any man would be in this warren.”
The stable boy shrank back as Cerryl dismounted.
“There’s room here?”
“Was last time I heard, ser.”
“Good.” Cerryl flipped a copper to the lad. “That’s for you, if you take good care of him. If you do, there’s another. If you don’t…”
“Thank you, ser. Thank you. I’ll call Prytyk.”
Cerryl unfastened the pack and bedroll.
The stable boy whistled, twice, and by the time Cerryl had his gear in hand, a squat figure in soiled gray had appeared under the lamp by the stable door.
“A room? This late?”
Cerryl’s eyes blazed.
The squat man backed away, his eyes going from Cerryl’s face to the blade at the young mage’s hip and back to his face. He swallowed. “Tonight?”
“Tonight and tomorrow. Alone.”
“A single-that be a silver a night.”
“And fare?”
“And fare, but no drink.”
Cerryl nodded and extended a silver. “The rest when I leave.”
The innkeeper’s eyes went to the blade again, then to Cerryl’s face. “Guess I can trust you.”
“That you can, innkeeper.” Cerryl forced confidence into his voice but kept it soft and low. “So long as you keep yours.”
“You…” Cerryl looked into the muddy brown eyes, raising chaos as he did.
“Yes, ser.”
Cerryl smiled. “Thank you.”
He followed the innkeeper through the side door.
“Public room be that way. Stairs here.”
He followed the squat man up the narrow steps.
The end room on the single upstairs corridor that was now more than two cubits wide had a battered gold oak door, and Prytyk pushed it open. “This be yours. Not much fare left this late, but you come down and I’ll have Foera get you the best we can.”
“I’ll be there shortly.”
“No bare iron in the public room.”
Cerryl nodded.
Once Prytyk had left, Cerryl glanced in the wall mirror. The face that looked back at him was drawn, lightly bearded, and blood-streaked. The crooked smile that greeted him seemed almost cruel.
“Well, without a razor…” How would Leyladin have found The Golden Bowl? He didn’t doubt it was beneath her, well.beneath her.
He used the washbasin to remove the blood, still wondering how he ended up with it on his face, and the worst of the grime, then slipped off the cloak, the white leather jacket, and the red-striped overtunic. A plain white shirt, travel-stained, and brownish trousers-and a blade- scarcely the picture of a mage. The jacket and tunic went in his pack. He left his borrowed cloak on the wall peg and eased the pack and bedroll against the wall on the far side of the bed, out of easy sight, not that there was much of value there, except the jacket, but wearing it close to people would cause too much notice.
The public room was smoky from a low fire in the small corner hearth, with grease in the air, and loud chatter. Twelve tables were situated haphazardly, and all but two were taken-a round one still bearing empty mugs and dirty platters, and a small square one against the wall. Cerryl took the small table, turning the chair so that he could watch the archway without seeming to do so. “… care where you get wool…”
“… you think she cares… All she wants is silks from Naclos… and a larder full of spices and a matched pair of milk cows…”
“… young fellow… there… just came in… another bravo… Prytyk said he’d like as kill…”
“… doesn’t look that bad…”
“… blood on his face… some on his blade, Prytyk said…”
“… worry… not here. If he be a real bravo… safe enough… don’t do their work where they stay. Now… wouldn’t want to be down at The Black Kettle…”
Cerryl glanced up as the serving girl, thin, harried, and wearing a stained apron, eased by the adjoining table.
“Ser… you’re the one Prytyk said came in late?”
Cerryl nodded.
“Best we have is the stew and a leg from the fowl. Bread, a course.”
“That’s fine. What to drink?”
“The good ale is two, the red swill one.”
“The ale.” Drinking anything called swill didn’t appeal to Cerryl.
The brown-haired serving girl was gone as qui
ckly as she had come. He glanced at the corner table, the one where the conversation had been about him. Three older men sat around the battered and whitened circular table, nursing tall mugs. A single basket of bread sat in the middle.
Cerryl turned his glance to the table where a blonde woman of indeterminate age, but not profession, sat with a gray-haired and heavy man in rich browns. He wished a certain blonde mage had been sitting across from him. Since she wasn’t, his ears picked up the conversation from the corner.
“… see what you mean… looks right through you…”
“… coulda taken him… years ago…”
“It’s not years ago, Byum. Ha!”
A faint smile creased Cerryl’s lips.
“Here you be.” The bread and ale arrived with the thin server, a half-loaf of rye and a tall gray mug of dark ale, smelling strong enough to chew. Cerryl laid out two coppers and took a careful sip. At the prices in Fenard, he’d have to be careful-and quick.
The bread was moist, at least, moister than that in the Halls of the Mages, and by the time the platter that held a single fowl leg and a chipped brown crockery bowl of stew appeared, Cerryl had finished half the bread.
“Here you be.”
“Thank you.” Cerryl knew he needed to give her something. He fumbled out a copper.
“Thank you, ser.” She flashed a professional smile and slipped away.
The stew was peppery, hotter than burkha, and Cerryl didn’t care, but he listened as he ate.
“… a lot of lancers going out the east gates these days. Don’t see so many coming back…”
“… know a good cabinet-maker? She says we need a dowry chest for Hirene…”
“… good riddance to him… mages nothing but trouble…” Cerryl’s ears burned, but he took another sip of ale, another mouthful of bread, and then more stew.
“… say the white devils are raising mountains to the east…”
“Ha! Even they can’t do that… more stories… Like as not, next they’ll be talking of the black angels returning to Westwind. Or the great white birds landing on the plains of Kyphros… Don’t believe all you hear.”
“Don’t hear much about the black isle these days.”
“Good that we don’t. Got any ideas of whether Frysr do a better job on that chest than Donleb?”
The White Order Page 43