“Could be.” Cerryl shrugged. “That would be Anya’s style. Jeslek’s, too, I think.”
“Why are you telling me that?”
“Because I trust you.”
“Have you told Faltar that?”
“No.”
“He’s your friend.”
“You know why,” Cerryl said with a laugh.
“Alas…men.” Lyasa made a woeful face. “You are different. A little different.”
Cerryl made a bowing gesture with his right hand. “My deepest gratitude, lady mage. If you would but convey that to the absent lady who is your friend…”
Lyasa shook her head, then yawned and stood. “I need a nap or something.”
Cerryl rose and slipped toward the door.
“Whatever it is you do to keep her away, keep doing it.”
As if I’d ever dare to do anything else. “Your request is my command.” He put his hand on the door lever.
“Would that you had told me that before you met Leyladin.”
“That couldn’t happen. I’ve known her longer.” Cerryl smiled at Lyasa’s puzzlement as he opened the door. “Ask her.”
“I just might.”
As he closed the door, Cerryl glanced toward the bookcase, wondering if he would be able to read more than a page before being interrupted again. Finally, he sat and took out Colors of White, looking at the half-familiar words where the book opened:
…iron, being that which draws free chaos unto it, never should it be employed around those who employ chaos for good, for it will drain chaos as it can…
He smiled ruefully. There were times when he’d felt that—when he’d had to climb the iron gate in Fenard while he had been holding a light shield, but usually iron did not burn him the way he knew it would Jeslek or Anya. He flipped back to his place marker and resumed his search.
XXII
CERRYL STOOD IN the shadows by the columns at the back of the north side of the Council Chamber, not erecting a light shield exactly, but letting the light sift, or blur, around him, as though he were not quite there. People’s eyes shifted from him, and he could see them, if not clearly, unlike when he hid behind the total light shield, which rendered him invisible to all—except mages who looked for concentrations of order and chaos. That was one reason not to use the full light shield in the Halls, that and that it left him blind, except for his chaos-order senses. He couldn’t explain the reasons for the difference, but Leyladin had assured him that no concentrations of order or chaos accompanied the effort, and she could sense such better than most Whites. With the blur shield he was now using he could see colors and forms, enough with his order senses, to recognize those he knew.
Esaak waddled in, accompanied by Myral, whose wheezing reached even Cerryl. After them came a mage wearing a crimson and gold sash. Gorsuch? Were the sashes to signify in what lands they represented the Guild?
Shyren appeared, his shock of graying sandy hair standing out and wearing a green sash—green for Certis. Eliasar, the battle mage, walked with him but did not wear a sash.
Then came the slender red-haired figure of Anya, accompanied by Fydel. She paused at the back of the chamber and peered around.
Cerryl almost held his breath, wanting to clutch the white marble column that partly shielded him.
“He’s not here yet,” Fydel said in a whisper, barely audible to Cerryl.
“I thought I had made it clear to him.”
“That could be, but he still reports to Kinowin.”
“Kinowin and Myral won’t live forever,” Anya hissed. “He will deal with us.”
Cerryl shivered and waited. Once Anya, a puzzled expression on her face, finally walked down the aisle and seated herself beside Fydel, Cerryl let the light filter go and allowed himself to be cloaked only by shadows as the rest of the Guild entered the chamber.
“So you’re here?” Lyasa slipped up beside Cerryl. “I didn’t see you before.”
“I’ve been here. I just didn’t want to be seen at first.”
“Why are you back here?” she asked in a low voice, her eyes going around the chamber, which was almost full. “You can’t see everything from the back.”
“I have a feeling.”
“A feeling?”
“Just wait.”
“If you say so.”
For a time the two young mages stood in the shadows, watching. Then Cerryl smiled faintly as the sun-eyed and white-haired Jeslek strode into the chamber, marching up the center aisle, exuding the raw odor of chaos. “I thought so.”
“Thought what?”
“Anya told me that Jeslek wouldn’t be here and asked me to sit with her. She was looking for me earlier.”
“What did you do to her? Besides refuse her advances? And her charms?”
“Isn’t that enough?” he whispered dryly.
At the front of the chamber, Sterol stepped onto the dais, along with Kinowin and Jeslek.
“Let’s go farther up.” Cerryl slipped along the outer edge of the columns until he was within a dozen or so cubits of the gold-shot marble of the speaking dais.
“…we face most difficult times, even more difficult than I had predicted at the last meeting.” Sterol’s face could have been carved out of granite when he paused, so hard did it appear. “Guild revenues have dwindled. At the same time, we have been forced into sending more lancers into Certis.” He turned to Jeslek.
“The Great White Highway is now more protected than before, and by early fall we should have that protection completed.” Jeslek’s smile was dazzling. “Then we will bring in lancers to ensure that the prefect meets his obligations to Fairhaven.”
“Bringing the lancers to Gallos will likely cost another two thousand golds,” Sterol snapped. “Two thousand golds to enforce what we should not have to enforce.”
Kinowin and Jeslek nodded.
“Even raising mountains across the middle of Gallos has not fully convinced the prefect,” Sterol continued. “His scrolls are polite, but his golds are not forthcoming.”
“Because they are not forthcoming, the merchants and holders of Certis question why they should pay to maintain trade and highways,” Kinowin added.
“As does, in a most polite way, Duke Estalin of Lydiar,” inserted Jeslek smoothly, “though he is a longtime friend of the High Wizard. As did the late Duke Berofar, also a longtime friend of the High Wizard.”
Cerryl shifted his weight.
“Don’t say anything,” suggested the black-haired White mage.
Standing by the third column back from the speaking circle on the right side of the room, Cerryl nodded and murmured, “That is good advice, Lyasa.”
“With Sterol in the mood to incinerate anyone who disagrees, I’d wager it is.”
And with Any a watching closely for Jeslek’s interests…and her own, whatever they may be. “Unless one were to agree with the mighty High Wizard…and support him.”
“You’re too junior. They wouldn’t even recognize you.”
“It is better to be recognized.” Cerryl shrugged and added in a low voice, “Then one’s disappearance raises questions.” He eased out to the side of the pillars on the north side of the chamber toward the dais.
“That’s still dangerous.”
“Life is dangerous. Death more so.”
Kinowin raised a hand, then spoke. “Not all of us see the signs closer to Fairhaven itself, the very disturbing signs that are already appearing in our midst. You all know that I do not get around quite as I used to, but I do listen to those who do.” He gestured to Cerryl. “You may recall Cerryl. He has been serving as a gate guard, and serving observantly. He mentioned something the other day, and I’d like him to tell it in his own words.” Kinowin nodded. “Briefly, though, Cerryl.”
Cerryl swallowed. “Several eight-days ago, we started getting more farmers buying medallions. One farmer sought a medallion for his cart. The cart was older, but it had never had a medallion. That seemed odd. I checked the ledg
er. There have been more than a score of farmers just at the northeast guardhouse since midsummer. Last year there were five; the year before, seven.” He turned to Kinowin.
“Thank you, Cerryl.”
As Cerryl stepped down, Kinowin began to speak. “Cerryl got me thinking, and I went back over the records and ledgers. The most medallions given out from all guardhouses in a full year has been slightly over two score. This year, as of an eight-day ago, we have issued three score.”
“Farmers are getting smarter…”
“What’s the point?”
“The point, Isork, is simple. Farmers can pay five to ten coppers and make coins selling in the city. They couldn’t before. Why? Because food prices are higher—much higher. Crops will be poor this year, especially in Hydlen and Kyphros. Tariff and tax collections on trade are less, because of what the Black Isle and Spidlar are doing. With crop prices going up, people have fewer coins to buy things, and that means Guild revenues are going down—as they already have…”
Cerryl reclaimed his spot beside the column.
Lyasa leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Don’t say any more. Junior mages should be heard only on request.”
Cerryl nodded, but his nod was of acknowledgment, not of agreement.
“You’re going to get in trouble,” she predicted.
“I’ve been in trouble my whole life,” he whispered back, watching as Sterol resumed speaking.
“Recluce may have even tampered with the winds…to weaken us, and now with crops becoming scarce, they are shipping more and more goods into Spidlaria to evade the surtax. Lydiar is almost deserted at times, and so is Tyrhavven.”
“While Spidlaria and Fenard prosper,” Jeslek declaimed theatrically.
“Let them…” came a murmur from the back of the hall.
“…don’t need another war…not with the Blacks…”
Kinowin nodded.
The heavyset Myral heaved himself onto the dais, glancing around. “Those are fine words…but prosperity is not paid for with cowardice and ease. Most of you know me as the sewer mage, but we have less flux and raging fever than any city in Candar. Our people are healthy. Yet we cannot maintain sewers without masons and mages, and none of you would forgo your stipends. All that takes coins.” Myral’s eyes raked the chamber, and he coughed once, twice, clearing his throat before continuing.
“No sooner do we take action against Recluce than traitors here in Candar steal the livelihoods and the coppers from our people.” The words of the heavyset and black-haired wizard garbed in white rumbled across the chamber.
“Proud words, Myral…”
“…not the one to go with the lancers…”
“Silence!” snapped Sterol. “If you wish to speak, then stand forth and speak. Do not hide your words in murmurs and mumbles.”
Cerryl smiled wryly, then stepped back onto the dais.
Kinowin opened his mouth, then shut it.
The trace of a smile crossed Jeslek’s thin lips.
“I am most junior,” Cerryl said. “And have been counseled to keep silent. So I will be brief. I stand with Myral.” Cerryl kept his words level, almost soft, but loud enough to carry. “The renowned Jeslek and the noble Sterol have done their best to improve the lot of our people. Unlike many, I came from outside Fairhaven, and I know what great good Fairhaven represents. I have lived elsewhere. Can we do any less than support the work of the High Wizard and the overmages?”
“What’s in it for you, Cerryl?” called Fydel.
Cerryl smiled softly, letting the clamor and snickers die down before speaking. “With such imposing figures as Jeslek and our High Wizard Sterol already expressing their concern…how about survival?” He grinned.
A patter of nervous laughter circled the chamber as he stepped off the low speaking stage and edged back toward his position by the third column.
“While I would not be so direct as gentle Cerryl…” began the next speaker, a man with white hair but an unlined and almost cherubic face.
Cerryl slowed as he neared the side of the chamber. Lyasa had slipped away, and a redheaded figure waited in the comparative dimness behind the post.
“Most effective, Cerryl.” The voice was affectedly throaty.
“Thank you, Anya. I presume the effect was as you and the noble Sterol wanted.” He smiled softly. “Or as you wanted, should I say.”
“You flatter me.” She returned the smile momentarily.
“Hardly. We do what we can. With your ability…” He shrugged. “Perhaps you will someday be High Wizard.”
“Being High Wizard in these times might require rather…unique skills.”
“That is certainly true, a point which Jeslek is certainly not adverse to making—repeatedly. I would prefer your approach, I suspect. That is why you would make a better High Wizard than the mighty Jeslek.”
“A woman as High Wizard?” Anya’s tone was almost mocking. “You do me high honor, indeed.”
“I recognize your talent, dear lady.” His smile was bland. “Your considerable talent.”
“You are…sweet…Cerryl.” She tilted her head. “Would you like to join me for a late supper—tomorrow evening?”
“Your wish is my desire.”
“You are so obliging, Cerryl.”
“When one is limited in sheer power of chaos, one must be of great service, Anya.”
“I am so glad you understand that.” She turned and stepped toward the broader Fydel, who waited, his hand touching his squared-off beard.
Cerryl smiled faintly, nodding to the square-bearded Fydel. As Fydel and Anya turned away, he shrugged and continued along the side aisle toward the back of the chamber, wondering how he could handle the dinner invitation he did not wish and feared greatly.
XXIII
THE UPPER ROOM.” Anya smiled brightly at Westcort, the owner of The Golden Ram.
“As you wish.” Westcort bowed and lifted the braided golden silk rope that barred the staircase on the left side of the entry foyer to The Golden Ram.
Cerryl followed Westcort and Anya up the narrow stairs.
“Your request is our command.” Westcort bowed again. “Would you like the wine now?”
“Please.” Anya smiled.
The upper room was small, paneled in polished white oak and with its two windows hung in blue velvet. A deep blue cloth covered the single table, graced by a pair of crystal goblets and a full set of cutlery for each place. Two wall lamps lent a soft light to the room, and through the open window came a light breeze and the soft points of light shining through the evening along the southern part of the Avenue. The breeze carried the usual bitter-clean odor of chaos and stone, mixed with various other city scents—cooking, lamp oil, and greenery.
Anya seated herself, and Cerryl took the seat across from the red-haired mage.
“You were kind to join me.” Anya smiled.
“You were most kind to invite me. I am a very inexperienced mage.”
“What you did in the Council meeting was not inexperienced.”
Cerryl smiled guilelessly. “What I did was because I am, dear lady. An experienced mage would not have needed to call attention to his powerlessness.”
“Having less power than Jeslek does not mean you are without power,” she pointed out, pausing as Westcort returned with a bottle of wine.
“This is the best of Telsen.” He bowed.
“You may pour it, Westcort,” Anya purred.
Westcort inclined his head and filled each of the goblets half-full of the dark red wine, leaving the bottle on the table. “You had requested the special cutlets with pearapple glaze…They will be here shortly.”
“Thank you.”
Westcort bowed again before retreating down the stairs.
Cerryl wasn’t sure he wanted to know what favors or leverage Anya had used to make the proprietor so subservient, but his own experiences with her maneuvering, maneuvering that had resulted in Kesrik’s death at Sterol’s hands, left
no doubt that Westcort knew her power.
“As I was saying, Cerryl, you are not without power. You merely cannot stand up to Jeslek.”
Cerryl nodded, careful not to give away that he already had once, and survived.
“So you need friends and notice. You made yourself visible at a time when most young mages wait in the shadows. Why?” The bright smile followed. “You know that Jeslek is not fond of you and Kinowin is not fond of Jeslek. You support Kinowin and old Myral. They cannot stand up to Jeslek, either, but both are respected, and Jeslek would not dare remove them. So, while they live, he dare not remove you, now that both have quietly but clearly supported you.” The redhead raised her goblet and sipped. “It was most cleverly done.”
“I cannot say that I thought out anything that clearly.” Cerryl shrugged, taking a sip of the wine, but not until after he had studied it with his chaos senses.
“Oh…you probably didn’t, but you sensed it, and that is even more admirable, in many ways.” Anya took another sip of wine. “This is very good. Enjoy it while you can.”
Cerryl raised his eyebrows.
Anya laughed, not quite harshly. “That was not what I meant. The true chaos masters, like Sterol and Jeslek, are fortunate if they can enjoy more than a few swallows of good wine before the chaos in and around them begins to turn it to vinegar. Often very good vinegar, but vinegar nonetheless.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It is not something any would mention widely. But it’s true.”
“You must have a bit of that problem,” Cerryl hazarded. “You are far more powerful than you reveal.”
“Yes…and no.” Anya shrugged, the goblet held momentarily in both hands. “Chaos power is not seen quite the same when held by women.”
“Yet the Guild uses women—you, Lyasa, Shenan…”
A frown crossed Anya’s face at the mention of Shenan, the Guild representative in Ruzor and supposedly Myral’s younger sister. “Some of us…”
A discreet cough announced someone coming up the steps.
Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce) Page 12
