Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Comments still swirled from the lancers and armsmen by the gates, now arrayed in groups, as if waiting for some sort of orders.

  “White bastards…kill ’em all!”

  “…don’t mess with them wizards.”

  “…can’t tell us what to do.”

  “They just did, Muyt, and I’d wager that nothing happens.”

  A grim smile crossed Cerryl’s lips. That was certainly what Jeslek hoped for, but even Cerryl doubted the effect would last long. In Fairhaven, peacebreakers went to the road crew or were turned to ash. The next day or eight-day, there were more peacebreakers—not nearly so many as he’d seen elsewhere, but they were there, and he doubted that people in Hydlen were that different.

  Taking a last deep breath, beneath his full light shields, he stepped gingerly across the open space before the gate area and into the shadows on the west side of the street facing the gate. There Cerryl dropped the full shield and eased around himself the blurring or bending effect that seemed to cause others’ eyes to slide away from him, as if he were not there, and, incidentally, allowed him to see.

  He walked down what seemed to be the main street, old and reeking of raw sewage and far narrower than even the streets of Jellico or Fenard. The second stories of many houses or shops protruded another cubit more into the street than the street-level walls of the buildings, giving the street an even gloomier appearance. Most of the walls appeared to be timber or planks or woven withies roughly plastered over and once painted and now faded and peeling.

  “Spices…good spices for poor meat…”

  “Oils…oils here…” A wizened woman swung an aged and stained wicker basket as she chanted.

  Cerryl winced. He wouldn’t have wanted anything the woman sold.

  A small brown dog darted from one alleyway and past Cerryl before disappearing behind a hunchbacked peddler. Beyond the peddler two women stood on a narrow raised porch, though Cerryl couldn’t determine what the shop was.

  “Deris! The Whites brought down the east Tower—that’s what Gurold said—and then they rode off, just like that. Delivered some message to the new duke…”

  “Should I care? This is what? The third duke since winter? Bread still be too dear, and getting dearer.”

  “Dearer yet, if the duke must raise coins from us to rebuild his fine Tower.”

  Cerryl eased past the women and the porch, frowning at their words. The combination of the hubbub, the smells, and the confining nature of the street had already given him the beginning of a headache, and their words did not help. He was already tired after a long day of riding.

  Perhaps a block later, where the street widened fractionally, a small boy looked up, his eyes wide, clearly seeing the mage, then ran down the alleyway toward a woman.

  “Mama…mama…a demon…saw a demon…”

  Cerryl slipped the full light shield in place, tiring as it was. Relying on his chaos-order senses, he barely managed to keep from stepping into the open sewer, staggering back into the street, and almost careening against yet another hawker, who glanced one way, and then the other, before repeating his call. Cerryl hoped he wouldn’t have to continue too far without sight.

  “Roasted maize, roasted maize…”

  The woman took several steps toward the main street, holding tightly to her son’s hand. “Demons aren’t real, Kuriat. We don’t have demons in Hydlen, sweet.”

  Cerryl kept walking, going another block before switching back to the less tiring blur screen. He wished he had been able to enter the city to fetch Leyladin. His task would have been far easier. Already his feet ached, although the walking seemed to help the cramping in his thighs that the more than three days of riding had created.

  He’d thought about a disguise, but any stranger would have been marked in Hydolar. Besides, where would he have changed in the midst of the lancers, and how soon before rumors seeped out?

  Cerryl had no idea where he was headed, except that his limited screeing before he had left Fairhaven had shown that the larger buildings were almost next to the river, on a low bluff on the western side. The duke’s palace had to be one of them, but which one was something else he needed to know.

  Again, he didn’t know enough. He hadn’t even known enough to know what he needed to learn. A low snort escaped him, and he glanced around, but none of the people on the street paid any attention, wrapped as they were in their own doings.

  He frowned. Less than a half a kay from the collapsed Tower, and no one seemed to care. Then he shrugged. He’d had to ash one peacebreaker on the open streets in Fairhaven, and some people hadn’t even stopped doing business. People didn’t change that much from city to city, at least not in Candar. Do they anywhere?

  A block farther, he finally had to stop and slip down an alleyway to relieve himself—that would have been peacebreaking in Fairhaven. Many things would have been different in the White City.

  Ahead he could see an open-fronted shop, with loaves of bread. His mouth watered as he stepped toward the shop, noting some smaller loaves of a darker bread on the side.

  Again he eased the full light shield in place, ignoring the increased headache, and slipped his hand out for one of the loaves. It was warm to the touch, and he kept walking, as silently as possible.

  “Mora! There’s a loaf missing…”

  “Thief!”

  Cerryl continued onward, ignoring the bustle behind him but feeling slightly guilty for stealing the bread. Yet he was hungry, and he couldn’t afford to appear to anyone in Hydolar. You could have left a copper.

  He should have, but he decided against retracing his steps. You should have. He took a deep breath and kept walking. After another block, he broke off a piece. The small loaf was a heavy bread and almost too sweet, but he ate chunks slowly as he walked southward.

  “Watch where ye tread,” snapped a voice at knee-height.

  Cerryl glanced back, taking a breath of relief as he saw the beggar hunched against the wall was blind. He kept walking.

  After another kay or so, the street widened into an avenue with a square ahead. Beyond the square were three buildings, but the center building was the largest, fronted by a high brick wall, pierced with an iron gate, swung half-back. A guard in green stood on each side of the gate.

  Cerryl stood beneath the wall, perhaps thirty cubits from the guards. Another man lounged against the wall less than a dozen cubits from Cerryl. For a time, the mage watched the street, finishing the warm loaf of bread as he did. He could feel the chill as the sun dropped below the walls and left the street in shadows.

  Three riders approached the gate, all in gold and green, looking as if they would enter the courtyard beyond the wall. Cerryl shifted to the full light screen, noting that the bread had reduced his headache to a faint ache. After a moment, he stepped along the wall, trying to reach the gate in order to follow the riders through the archway.

  He ended up almost running, but the sound of hoofs covered his scuffling enough, and the heavy breathing of the mounts was louder than his as he walked behind the three mounts and their uniformed riders—but not too closely—into the palace courtyard.

  At the mounting block at the foot of the wide stone steps, a single rider dismounted, glancing back at the other two. “I know not how long I will be.”

  “The duke will not be pleased, ser,” offered one of the men remaining mounted.

  “No duke is ever totally pleased, Niarso.” The officer who dismounted turned toward the steps.

  Cerryl eased around the mounts, trying to follow the officer up the steps and through the entrance to the palace. He kept the shield up as he edged along the edges of the square columns that flanked the main entrance. Inside, the building was darker and cooler, enough that Cerryl almost shivered.

  Cerryl could sense a figure in some sort of uniform, a gold and green surcoat over armed-striped leathers, marching stiffly, as if he were headed somewhere important. With a shrug, Cerryl followed the officer—if that were what he hap
pened to be.

  At the top of the steps and along another corridor, Cerryl found himself standing in a shadowed corner of the Great Hall. The officer stepped out toward a group of figures on a dais at one end of the room.

  Cerryl edged, as he could, along the side of the hall, slipping from column to column.

  “Ser?” The officer Cerryl had followed bowed before Ferobar—or the man Cerryl suspected to be Ferobar.

  Ferobar was scarcely taller than Cerryl; that the young mage could sense, even from the side of the room. The duke was silent as the officer straightened and remained silent for a bit longer before he addressed the officer. “You did not send lancers after them?”

  “Half the mounts of the nearest lancers were destroyed by the collapse of the Tower. It would have taken a half-day to send for the Yeannotan horse. We had but four squads mounted, and I would not send four squads against tenscore White Lancers and three White wizards.” The officer bowed again. “Not so late in the day, either.”

  Ferobar glared at the tall officer. “You are dismissed, Captain. I do not expect to see you in Hydolar by morning.”

  Even from where he stood, Cerryl could sense the chaos of near-uncontrolled anger from the lancer officer.

  Ferobar looked beyond the captain and raised his voice. “There will be no evening meal in the hall, not tonight, not after the disgrace of the lancers.” Ferobar turned and departed from the dais, leaving on the far side, but Cerryl could not have followed him, not without risking being discovered. So he let his senses follow the duke so long as he could, toward the staircase beyond the smaller east door of the Great Hall.

  Slowly, the hall emptied until but a single guard stood in the archway from the main north corridor.

  Cubit by cubit, Cerryl eased his way along the wall toward the open east door, then stepped into the small side hall. He could sense no one around. Standing in the dark shadows, he dropped the light screens and glanced up the stairs.

  Breathing deeply, he rubbed his forehead, then raised his shields again and, by chaos senses and feel, made his way to the upper level and into a long and narrow corridor. Perhaps fifty cubits away, to his right, two guards were stationed outside a door.

  Between them and him was a wide chest, almost a cabinet or sideboard of some sort, against the same side of the corridor as the door to what he believed was the duke’s chamber. Cerryl eased across the polished stone floor of the corridor and toward the cabinet, finally stopping next to it, where he felt slightly less exposed. He knew that most people couldn’t see through the full light shield, but it still bothered him to walk past people with only the sense in his own mind and feelings that he could not be seen. He could be heard and smelled—he knew that from his experiences in sniffing Anya’s sandalwood scent, except he doubted he smelled anywhere that pleasant at the moment. Then, all of Hydolar seemed to reek, so who would notice?

  The two guards remained silent and the corridor empty.

  Cerryl frowned. He could kill the guards, but that didn’t feel right. Even so, it was far too early in the evening. First, you must survive. Kinowin’s words slipped into his mind. But even if he could kill them, could he do it silently enough? Besides, he suspected there was a cold iron bolt behind the door.

  Well, the duke had to eat, sooner or later. Cerryl sat down on the floor against the side of the wide cabinet or sideboard. He was tired, and he needed to rest.

  “What have you there?” asked one of the guards, his voice echoing down the corridor.

  Cerryl shook himself fully awake, wondering if he’d let his shields drop. Then he smiled. Despite the tapers on wall sconces, the corridor was so dark someone would have had to have fallen over him to see him.

  “The duke’s evening cider, and hot it is. You be wanting to make it cold?”

  Cerryl shivered. Either the woman hadn’t even seen him or she had come up another staircase. He swallowed and checked his shields. Then he eased to his feet and slipped along the stone floor next to the wall on the far side of the corridor until he was almost behind the serving woman.

  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 sand 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, i
n 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.