Snow kept building up on the collar of his jacket, seemingly faster than he could brush it away, and then melting and oozing down his back. Because you didn’t think to wear a hat.
One of the next problems was rope. “How could anyone dock a boat or barge without rope?” Jidro had asked. Even the chandlery had none, or so little—fifty cubits’ worth of light line—as to be worthless. And then there was the lack of firewood. With no real woodlots within a kay of Elparta and the snow getting deeper, stocks of seasoned wood were nearly gone. Fydel, of course, had merely insisted that it was Cerryl’s job to supply firewood—and everything else.
One supply barge had arrived from Gallos—surprisingly—but it had carried mainly barrels of flour and some excessively salted pork, and a half-dozen large rounds of cheese. The lancers might not starve, but they would complain, more than usual.
Cerryl swallowed the exasperation he felt, and his eyes flicked toward the last of the quarters’ houses on his left. Before long—another four hundred cubits or so—they would reach the street that led uphill toward the dwelling serving as his office and headquarters.
The faintest hint of a taper glimmered through cracks in the shutters of the dwelling ahead on the left—the house used by one of Senglat’s subofficers to house his company. Cerryl frowned, trying to recall the man’s name. No, it was a woman, one of the few subofficers who was. Jrynn, that was it.
“Ser…?” The voice was soft, gentle…feminine.
Cerryl turned his head, hesitating momentarily. He sensed not only a figure in the alleyway to his right blurred by the white curtain of snow and the all-too-early gloom of a winter’s eve but also a muted sense of chaos—and another form behind the first.
Thwunnnggg.
He threw himself sideways in the saddle even before the sound of the crossbow echoed off the walls and uneven stones of the narrow alleyway, then turned the gelding toward the figure—or figures. One reached for something—another crossbow?
Cerryl grasped for chaos, fighting the deadening effect of the snow, fighting the twisting in his guts, as the gelding quick-trotted toward the narrow passage between the ruined structures on the eastern side of the avenue.
Whhssstt! The muted, dampened firebolt seemed to crawl through the white curtain, and Cerryl struggled to gather more chaos, gasping as he did, almost as though he were underwater and fighting his way to the surface of a raging river.
He summoned more chaos, flinging it as well, silently, through the whiteness that seemed to retard and muffle his efforts.
Behind him, other mounts followed. “Ser? What is it! Ser?”
Cerryl reined up, abruptly, as the second figure toppled sideways, feet skidding sideways. Cerryl’s breathing was ragged, and he felt drained. The kind of effort he had raised should have destroyed an entire dwelling. It had not, only burned away part of the shoulder and chest of the woman who had called and the side of the man’s face and left a charred hole in his chest.
Cerryl tried to catch his breath. He looked at the two figures, almost sadly.
Once the woman had been beautiful, the man probably well built. The remnants of a uniform were visible under the ragged brown cloak.
“Do you recognize him, Buetyr?” Cerryl asked the lancer who had drawn his own mount up beside the gelding.
“No, ser. Not much left of his face.” The swallow was audible, despite the muffling effect of the snow.
Cerryl waited, letting his strength rebuild. A friend of one of the troublemakers? The troublemaker who had deserted? A local who had stolen a uniform? What about the woman? Who. knows? The only thing certain is that whatever you do will disturb someone.
“Now what, ser?” asked Buetyr.
“A moment,” Cerryl said tiredly. “A moment.” The snow sifted down past his collar again, and he shivered. Then he slowly, and gently, channeled more chaos toward the bodies lying on the thin blanket of whiteness.
Whhhstttttt…The last firebolt drifted across the bodies.
After the momentary flash of light and heat, white ashes mixed with the falling snow, both drifting in the gentle and cold wind that gusted along the street, sweeping ashes and snowflakes, lifting them, shifting them.
Cerryl flicked the reins and turned the gelding back toward his quarters, knowing that once more there would be speculations about his harshness and questions about what he had done to merit such an attack. No one wants justice…or fairness…just their own comfort.
The snow swallowed his deep breath, as it had swallowed much of the chaos he had flung, and buried the ashes of the two he had killed.
CXV
CERRYL SLIPPED INTO the high room that overlooked the river walls, the building that Fydel had declared as his headquarters as soon as Cerryl’s crafters had reinforced and repaired the frame timbers and replaced the shutters and the glass in shattered windows. Cerryl had to admit that the room and the two wide windows did provide a useful view of both the river walls and the southern gate. The middle trading gate was too far north to see.
The younger mage studied the river walls where the work crew still toiled in the late-afternoon shadows. Small as the crews were, they might be struggling with the stones as the weather permitted until close to spring. Although the past eight-day had been warmer, enough to melt away some of the snow in the midpart of the day, Cerryl could scarcely count on the semithaw lasting much longer.
“You asked for me to join you.” Cerryl turned toward Fydel, who had remained seated behind a table that had clearly come from some other dwelling, ornate and trimmed with brass as it was.
The square-bearded wizard studied the unfolded parchment on the table. Beside it lay fragments of blue wax from the seal that had closed it. Beyond him the smoke-smudged stones that might once have been white framed a large hearth in which burned a pile of ample logs. “The Spidlarian Traders’ Council sent a message.”
Cerryl nodded, waiting, feeling the draft around his trousers, a draft that showed how much his apprentice crafters did not know. Whistling outside the window, the wind still did not drown out the clink of masons’ trowels and stones. The candles in the three-branched candelabra flickered with the gusts that found their way around the ill-fitting window.
Fydel stood and walked to the cloudy glass of the window. Below, the conscripted village troublemakers and the lancer disciplinary cases toiled with the stones of the walls, slowly dragging them back into position for the masons. Dark clouds overhead promised more snow or possibly freezing rain, but neither yet fell.
Finally, Cerryl, hunched in a heavy white wool cloak that Hiser had presented him from somewhere, spoke. “What are they offering?”
“Just about everything to save their necks,” laughed Fydel. “They’ll turn over any of the ‘unfaithful’; effectively disband the guards by reducing them to a handful of squads; open the roads to our traders.”
“Why aren’t you taking their offer?” asked Cerryl.
“You assume too much.”
Cerryl laughed softly. “I’m assuming nothing. You won’t take the Spidlarian Council’s offer. I’d just like to know why.”
“Isn’t it obvious? Why hand it to Jeslek? He’s back in Fairhaven, enjoying fires, good food, and a few other pleasures.” A wide grin revealed large white teeth. “Who knows? We might get a better offer before spring.”
“We won’t. What you’re hoping is that Jeslek will have to face some mighty Black. Like this Brede? Or that the smith Dorrin will turn out to be greater than Jeslek thinks.” Or that I’ll make more mistakes. “That won’t happen.”
“It could. The smith has produced some nasty weapons.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No.” Fydel smiled. “But there’s no reason to make it easy for Jeslek, is there? No real reason to hand him an easy victory after he’s muddled through a year of doing nothing, is there?”
“What about the levies? Why kill them off unnecessarily?”
“You’re too soft, Cerryl. Wha
t are a few hundred peasants one way or the other? Especially peasants from Hydlen and Gallos.”
Cerryl shook his head but said nothing.
“Here. Read it. Tell me if I’m wrong.” Fydel reached down and picked up the scroll and handed it to the more slender White mage. After Cerryl took it and began to read, Fydel reseated himself at the table with his right side to the hearth.
The sunlight dimmed, and the room seemed to cool immediately as the first of the gray and white clouds from the north passed before the sun.
Fydel looked up only when Cerryl set the scroll back on the table before the older mage. “Is it not as I said?”
“It is.” Cerryl frowned.
“You seem disturbed.”
“Concerned. Concerned.” Cerryl stepped closer to the hearth, but not to Fydel. “The traders do not sound like men who have fought off another land for a year. They do not write as men who have mages and war leaders from Recluce fighting for them.”
“Perhaps the Black Isle has abandoned them. Recluce has done that before.”
“The smith remains in Diev, and he forges strange things out of black iron. I’ve seen that in the glass.” Cerryl turned. “Have you not told me that your patrols are still attacked, if by small numbers of blue lancers?”
“We’ve lost but a half-score since the turn of the year. Nothing.”
The younger mage shrugged. “Nothing, but the tactics remain as they were, and that would suggest that their Black warleader remains here in Spidlar.”
“What are you saying, Cerryl?”
“Nothing.” Cerryl shook his head. “Perhaps you should take their terms. Or make a counteroffer.”
“And let Jeslek…? No.”
“Then send him the terms. Ask for his advice.”
“Why should I do that?”
“So that you don’t give him another excuse to get angry at you.”
Fydel pursed his lips, then fingered his beard. “Perhaps I should, although it may take some time for their message to reach the High Wizard. The Easthorns are closed, except for the Great White Highway through Gallos, and it will take eight-days for a messenger to reach there.”
“As you see fit.” Cerryl nodded. “Might I be of other service?”
“Only if you can get the walls completely repaired, so that we don’t need so many patrols and sentries.”
“We’re working on that.”
“Good.”
“I will talk to you later.” Cerryl stepped away from the hearth and nodded to Fydel before departing. As he walked down the stairs and out into the chill where the gelding was tied, the wind whistled and the sound of stonework echoed through the window. Behind him, in the high room above, the candles flickered in the late afternoon.
CXVI
THE BRIGHT FIRST yellow-orange light reflected off the newly dropped snow, through the slits at the side of the shutters and into the sitting room, and then into the study—cascading across the glass and disrupting Cerryl’s concentration.
He blinked twice, then rubbed his forehead, letting the mists in the screeing glass dissipate. He looked straight down but saw only his own reflection—thin brown hair, narrow chin, straight nose, gray eyes with faint circles beneath them—his own image and the image of the dark-beamed ceiling above.
For the fourth day…he could not find Leyladin in his glass. There might be many reasons. She could be in a place where the glass was blocked, like on a ship or traveling a large river or somewhere amid hills filled with order and iron, or she could be shielding herself, as Cerryl could do if he worked at it. There were reasons, but her continued absence bothered him.
He walked to the sitting room window and closed the front shutters—slightly ajar—all the way. Ignoring the lancer guards in the front foyer and the chill that held the room, he returned to the polished wooden table and the blank glass. Was he losing his ability to seek out Blacks? Had he used chaos too much, careful as he had tried to be?
He concentrated once more.
The silver mists swirled, then dissipated to reveal the redheaded smith of Diev, tongs in hand, sliding a chunk of highly ordered iron from the forge onto an anvil. A striker stood in the background, extending a hammer to the smith.
A puzzled look appeared on Dorrin’s face, and Cerryl let the image lapse. Like Leyladin, the Black could sense a glass seeking his image.
But where was Cerryl’s blonde healer? Careful…she’s not yours. She’s not anyone’s.
He took a deep breath. Maybe tomorrow.
CXVII
WHY DID YOU want me here?” Fydel stepped from the foyer into the sitting room. He stopped short of the archway into the study where Cerryl stood beside the circular table, empty except for the screeing glass.
“I wanted you to see something before Jeslek arrives.”
“He won’t be here for another eight-day.”
“I would say less than five days.” Cerryl gestured for Fydel to study the glass in which he held an image. “Look.”
In the glass appeared the redheaded smith. Dorrin and an older man stood beside a cart. The contents of the cart could not be discerned, but the image rippled with the force of unseen and concentrated order.
“He’s a Black. He’s calling forth order. What else is new?” Fydel’s voice contained equal parts of boredom and scorn.
“He’s calling forth nothing,” corrected Cerryl. “That’s from the black iron in the cart.”
“He’s wasted all that order, sinking it into that much black iron. What can he do with it? You can’t work black iron, not once it’s ordered.” Fydel straightened, as if to dismiss the image and the redheaded smith.
“Look at what’s behind him,” suggested Cerryl. He felt the sweat building on his forehead with the strain of holding the image against the twisting of the massive order displayed through the glass. How can Fydel be so blind?
“It’s an old scow on blocks.”
“It’s being refitted and all that black iron is going into it.”
“Some sort of order device?” Fydel laughed. “To use against us? What good would it do? That’s a ship, and he’s in Diev. We’re attacking down a totally different river. He’s wasting his time.”
“How many lancers did you lose last summer? To those hidden black iron traps? And to that Black armsleader?” Cerryl’s voice was pointed.
Fydel flushed above his wide beard. “He never fought. He just rode away except when he could kill defenseless lancers.”
“The glass says that they’re gathering more of their own lancers, and levies.” Cerryl released the image in the screeing glass and blotted his steaming forehead on the lower sleeve of his heavy white shirt. “How many lancers and armsmen do we have here?”
“Now? Not quite twenty-five-score lancers. Only ten-score footmen.”
“And Jeslek insists that we will have 250 score after the turn of spring?”
“More like 300.”
“If it’s like last summer, we’ll lose nearly half—and that’s without whatever that smith can do.”
“It won’t be like last summer. We’ll just burn everything, if that’s what it takes. We’ll march people in front of us again. Let them kill their own.” Fydel offered a mocking smile. “Was that what you wanted me to see?”
“Yes.” Cerryl returned the smile. “Before Jeslek returned. So that we both know you know what the smith is doing.”
Fydel’s smile faded. “You think you’re clever, Cerryl. So did Myral, and Kinowin. One’s dead, and the other’s dying. Clever doesn’t set well in the Guild. Sverlik thought he was clever, too, and the old prefect filled him with iron arrows. Jenred was another clever one. He was so clever that Recluce is around today and everyone calls him a traitor.”
Cerryl forced a smile. “I’m not clever, Fydel. If I were clever, you wouldn’t know what I did. Anya’s the clever one.”
“We aren’t talking about Anya, little mage.”
Cerryl raised his order shields, just slightly, rea
dy to divert any chaos that the dark-bearded mage might raise. “We were talking about clever, Fydel.”
Fydel turned his back to Cerryl, then looked over his shoulder and added, “Jeslek doesn’t like clever. I don’t either.” He turned and lumbered out, his white boots heavy on the wood floor of the front room and foyer.
Cerryl stood in the silence for a short time. Amazing how much less friendly Fydel has become as you’ve become more accomplished. He smiled ruefully and sadly, then blinked several times, before bending his head forward, trying to stretch all-too-tight neck muscles.
He glanced down at the polished wood of the table, smeared at the edge where Fydel had rested his big hands, and at the mirror glass upon it. He still hadn’t been able to find Leyladin in the glass, and his stomach turned at the thought that something might have happened to her.
With a deep breath he walked to the foyer and took his leather riding jacket off the polished walnut peg, pulling it on in quick movements. At least, he could ride down to the piers and the trading gates and check on the latest progress on the wall. You can do that. You can’t find the woman you love, but you can get walls and piers built. And kill people to keep others in line.
His lips tightened as he marched out to the small stable to groom and saddle the gelding.
CXVIII
COLD AND GRAY, leaden, the River Gallos swirled past and under the refurbished piers of Elparta, around the forward stone pillars sunk into the riverbed, half-rushing, half-almost-thudding against the stone groins that contained the water and supported the rear of the piers.
Cerryl stood on the southernmost of the refurbished piers, where the wind blew out of the west, nearly straight into his face, disarranging his thin brown hair and surrounding him with the metallic odor of river, mud, and the hint of rotten vegetation.
Already the fast-moving clouds from the west covered more than a quarter of the green-blue sky, and the air seemed more chilled than it had at dawn. Another storm.
Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce) Page 54
