The ship was a faster way to get to Spidlaria, but not terribly comfortable, especially in the heavy swells.
“How ye be, mage?” The ship’s second stood at Cerryl’s elbow, standing there without holding onto anything.
“Fine.” Cerryl forced a grin. “Except I don’t seem to be able to walk anywhere without holding on.”
“Must be a storm to the northwest…a mite unseasonable this far north in summer. Hope the Black ones haven’t been calling their storm mages.” The second gestured off the starboard bow quarter, almost into the sun that beat down out of a green-blue sky that held but the faintest hint of high, hazy clouds. “Don’t ye worry. We’ll have ye ashore afore the worst reaches this far south.”
“Good.” Cerryl paused. “Did you see the Black ship—the one that needed no sails?”
The second’s face clouded. “Aye. Demon-driven it was, and the Black one skirted the reefs and left us near becalmed. The mages’ fire—it washed over the ship, scarce touching it. Evil as anything I ever saw upon the deep, that it was.”
“It’s anchored off Recluce,” Cerryl volunteered.
“I’d wish it were anchored twenty-score cubits deep.” The second laughed. “Not that chaos listens to a poor sailor.” With a nod, the man turned back aft.
If the Black ship worked, Cerryl knew, there would be more on the Eastern Ocean, just as there had been more chaos mages once the ancients had unleashed the White power, just as Recluce had become inevitable after the fall of Westwind.
He glanced to his left, in the general direction of Fairhaven. He hoped Leyladin would be all right. Once at sea, with the swirls of order and chaos, he couldn’t use his glass, even in the times when the ocean was calmer.
Kinowin would watch out for her, and Anya wouldn’t seek her harm, scheming as the redhead was, because Anya wouldn’t want to upset Cerryl, not while she still had uses for him.
The reluctant arms mage’s lips quirked. You’d almost rather deal with the Black smith than with Anya—except that you have no choice.
The White Serpent pitched again, and his fingers tightened on the railing.
CXLVIII
IN THE EARLY-AFTERNOON sun, Cerryl set the two packs down beside the railing where three crewmen wrestled the gangway into place. He inclined his head to the dark-bearded master of the White Serpent. “Thank you, Captain.”
“My duty, mage.”
“I appreciate it.” Cerryl offered a smile.
“You be one of the few who do.” A wintry smile crossed the man’s face. “These days.”
“We’ll try to change that.”
“You do, and we’ll all be pleased.”
Cerryl gave a nod and reclaimed his packs.
A stocky mage with sandy blonde hair—a man about Cerryl’s age or even slightly older—stood on the wharf. On the stone pavement at the foot of the wharf waited a detachment of White Lancers—mounted in formation. Cerryl thought he recognized Hiser as the subofficer leading them.
The mage stepped forward as Cerryl carried his two packs down the plank to the heavy-planked wharf.
“Mage Cerryl? I’m Kalesin. Are you here…?”
“The High Wizard sent me to replace Eliasar.”
A momentary expression of dismay crossed the other mage’s face.
Cerryl extended the scroll. “As sealed by Sterol.”
“The High Wizard commands.” Kalesin took the scroll.
“Inspect the seal and open it,” Cerryl said.
“Here?” Kalesin glanced to the White Serpent, then to Cerryl.
Cerryl began to muster both chaos and shields.
Kalesin swallowed and looked at the red seal. He fumbled open the scroll, and fragments of red wax sprayed across the planks of the wharf. His eyes went to the signature first, then to the words. He read the words twice. “You are the arms mage of Spidlar. But there is no mention of a mage adviser.”
“Right now, there is no one to advise,” Cerryl pointed out.
“The Traders’ Council…”
“Yes…I’ll need to see them. One at a time. Then the traders who have remained—and any who have come from Diev or Elparta or Kleth.” Cerryl gestured toward the lancers. “Shall we go?”
“Ah…yes, ser.”
Cerryl could tell the words were bitter in the other mage’s mouth and stopped. Kalesin took two steps, then turned and halted.
“Kalesin.”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you should remember a few things. I am here with the blessing of the High Wizard and of the Council. I also have the support of Anya, the assistant to the High Wizard. I’m better with chaos and order than you are, and I’ve had more experience as an arms mage.” Cerryl softened his voice. “And I strongly doubt that I will remain here after I’ve returned Spidlar to prosperity. I suspect that is why the High Wizard wished you to remain.”
“Ah…yes, ser.”
Cerryl forced a smile. “I did not wish to come here, and you did not wish me here in this position. But I doubt it will be long, and it would be best that we work together so that I complete what needs to be done.”
“As you wish, ser.”
Cerryl wanted to blast the other but only smiled again. “We have much to do.” He resumed walking toward the waiting lancers.
After a moment, Kalesin scurried to catch up with Cerryl. When the two mages reached the stone seawall from which the wharf projected, Kalesin looked up at the lancer officer. “Captain Hiser, Mage Cerryl has returned as arms mage to continue the work of Eliasar.”
“Welcome back, ser.” Hiser’s smile was warm, almost one of relief.
That worried Cerryl. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you’re a captain now.”
“A mount for the arms mage.” Hiser gestured, and a young lancer guided a chestnut mare forward.
Cerryl fastened both packs in place before mounting, then swung into the saddle. “I presume Eliasar took over the mansion that Jeslek used.”
“That he did, ser,” answered Hiser quickly.
“Then I’ll follow his example.”
“Forward!” snapped Hiser.
Cerryl studied the harbor square as they passed along the east side—the shops bordering the square open, but only a few passersby visible. A sense of hush, of expectation, hung over the area. Cerryl liked that feeling not at all. “Has it been like this since Eliasar was killed?”
“Yes, ser. Too quiet, if you be asking me,” answered Hiser.
“I don’t want any of the men traveling anywhere in groups of less than four.”
“Yes, ser.” Hiser nodded grimly. “I’ll be letting the other captains know.”
“Teras? Senglat?”
“Teras be here. Senglat serves the mage Syandar in Kleth.”
“What about Ferek?”
“He be a subofficer under Senglat now.”
Cerryl kept the nod to himself. Eliasar had been smart. Then, the scarred arms mage had been smart about most things, and his death worried Cerryl. Worried him more than a little with the feel he was getting for Spidlaria.
A half-score of lancers guarded the walled mansion on the low hill that overlooked the harbor. A pair stood by the double doors as Cerryl dismounted and neared.
“Good day, ser,” said the one on the left.
“Good day to you—” Cerryl struggled and recalled the man’s name. “Natrey. Is Zoyst here, too?”
“Yes, ser. He be my replacement.”
“I know I’m in good hands. The High Wizard sent me back to carry on what Eliasar started.” Cerryl offered a smile and a nod, then stepped into the two-story entry hall, still half-amazed at the wealth of the traders outside Fairhaven.
“His study,” Cerryl suggested.
Kalesin turned down the hallway to the left of the marble staircase, stopping at a small door some fifteen cubits to the left of the double doors to the dining hall. “Eliasar used the dining hall for meetings but the study here for his own working space.”
Cerryl opened the door and stepped inside, noting the scrolls still stacked under a stone paperweight shaped like a mountain cat. The side walls were wooden shelves filled with leatherbound volumes, and a wide window behind the desk offered a view of the harbor. The study was so warm that Cerryl had begun to sweat, and he stepped past the desk and opened the paired windows. Then, turning, he studied the ancient desk, polished wood, adorned with various bronze protrusions—an elaborate and ugly piece of good workmanship. “Sit down.”
Kalesin took the single armless chair on the other side of the desk.
“Tell me exactly how Eliasar was killed. Exactly.”
“It wasn’t anything special.” Kalesin shrugged. “I mean the way it was set up. Eliasar inspected the barracks, the ones we took over from the blues, every six-day. He was riding over there, and someone put three iron bolts in him.”
Cerryl nodded, even as he again wanted to shake Kalesin. “Three bolts? Did they strike him all at once?”
“Pretty much, it seemed. He was ashes before long, before I got there.”
Cerryl turned his eyes full on the sandy-haired mage. “Did you have any thought that something like this might happen?” He concentrated on applying his truth-reading skills to the other.
“No, ser. I mean…we knew the traders were not pleased with the edict that all sea trading had to be carried out here and inspected by me.”
“Three crossbow bolts—and they all hit at once. What does that tell you?”
“There were three crossbowmen.”
“How good were they?”
“They had to be good.”
“Doesn’t that seem strange in a land where most armsmen were killed or had fled?”
“Ah…when you put it that way, ser. Ah, yes.”
“Was there any reaction from the traders?”
“No one said anything.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“Not about Eliasar’s death, except to tell them that nothing had changed.”
But it had…From what Cerryl could tell, Kalesin was telling the truth, and that meant that whoever had planned Eliasar’s death had understood both the Guild and Kalesin’s obvious limitations. That meant Cerryl had to act immediately.
“Kalesin…I wish to see every factor in Spidlaria, and every trader. I also want a listing of the assistants to each of those traders. Not all the assistants, but the ones who are important, who might take over each factor’s house if the factor died. Oh, and I want to see them starting tomorrow. Make sure Reylerk is here, but not the first one I see.”
Kalesin swallowed. “They will not be pleased.”
“The High Wizard is not pleased. The Council is not pleased. The Guild is not pleased. You might suggest to those who wish to demur that Diev is no more because a mage died.” Cerryl smiled coldly. “And suggest to them that they would not like to suffer because one of their brother traders was unavailable to meet with the arms mage of Spidlar.”
“Yes, ser.” Kalesin’s words were resigned.
“You had best be going to arrange those meetings. Make sure that a full company of lancers is on duty outside here before they arrive.” Cerryl let the smile fade. You sound worse than Anya…He stood. “When you have all the arrangements made, come back and inform me. Bring a list that holds the names of all those I will see—and those you could not find. Best there not be many of the latter.”
“Yes, ser.” Kalesin backed out of the study.
Once the door closed, Cerryl sank into the armchair behind the too-ornate desk. You’re where you don’t want to really be, with an assistant who thinks he should be Eliasar’s successor and a bunch of local traders who hate Fairhaven and probably would pay to kill every mage in Spidlar if they could get away with it. And you’re supposed to come up with a way to improve trade and tariffs.
CXLIX
MORNING FOUND CERRYL in the study munching through cheese and hard biscuits and studying the stack of scrolls and papers Eliasar had left behind, many of them lists. Lists of shops, lists of existing provisions, lists of provisions needed, lists of names, some without even the sketchiest of explanations.
Abruptly he looked up. Lyasa! She was somewhere around, and he had yet to see her. He rang the handbell.
Kalesin peered in.
“Kalesin, where is Lyasa?”
“Ah…she’s been in charge of the patrols maintaining order in Spidlaria and on the roads.”
That made sense, from what Cerryl had seen of Kalesin so far. “Get a message to her. I’d like to see her at her convenience early this afternoon. How are we coming with the merchants?”
“The merchants and factors are waiting, ser.” Kalesin inclined his head, then handed Cerryl a sheet of rough brown paper. “Those are the ones who cannot be found.”
Cerryl glanced down the list. None of the names meant anything to him, and that would be another problem. He rolled the list and slipped it into his right hand. He stood and walked around the overornate desk. “You had the table moved? So that I can see them in the hall?”
“Yes, ser.”
Cerryl walked toward the former dining hall. Hiser and four lancers stood waiting outside the carved and polished double doors.
“Natrey and Jlen will stand by you inside, ser,” Hiser said. “Foyst and Lyant will guard the door.”
Kalesin glanced from Hiser to Cerryl, then back to the lancer captain. The mage assistant moistened his lips. “Four…?”
“I suggested six, ser, but the master arms mage convinced me four would be enough.” Hiser smiled. “With a full company outside.”
“These people…they…” Kalesin’s words trailed off.
“We’ve lost enough mages in Spidlar,” Cerryl said. “And I’m going to put a stop to it.” Just like Jeslek was going to conquer the place and like Eliasar was going to put it in order? He pushed open one of the double doors and stepped into the former dining hall, glancing at the big chair, standing alone in the long room. “I’ll need a small table here, to the side where I can write.” He could feel and sense the repressed sigh and anger from his reluctant assistant mage. “I think I mentioned that earlier, Kalesin. I would appreciate it if you would take care of it now.” You sound like Sterol—or Jeslek. Does power do that? Or is it the frustration that comes with trying to do more than you have time for or knowledge about?
Kalesin bowed and left.
After the door closed, Hiser glanced from the closed door to Cerryl.
Cerryl nodded. “I know.” He smiled wryly. “I’m guessing that you have concerns about our assistant mage.”
“Begging your pardon, ser…and it not be a captain’s place…”
“Go ahead. You’re more interested in my health than he is.”
“He is most wroth that you were picked to succeed Eliasar. The lancers are not.”
“Let us hope they continue to feel that way.” Especially since you have no real idea how to fix the mess that Spidlar has become.
Kalesin returned, followed by two lancers, one bearing a side table and the other paper and an inkwell, quill, and stand.
“Did you get that message off to Mage Lyasa?”
“Yes, ser.”
“I hope so. We’re old friends.” Cerryl offered a cold smile that he hoped showed Kalesin that Cerryl was well aware the message had not been dispatched. “I’m ready to see the first of the traders.”
Flanked by two lancers with bared blades, Cerryl sat in the chair he had once claimed for Jeslek, looking down at the thin black-haired and bearded trader who had walked in and stood a good five paces back from Cerryl. The man bowed his head deferentially, although Cerryl could sense the defiance.
“Your name?”
“Joseffal.”
“You factor what?”
“Today, ser, I factor nothing. There are no ships, and the people have no coins.”
Cerryl could sense the lies. “You mean that you report no factoring and you try to keep it hidden?”
Joseffal di
d not raise his eyes. “The great White wizard took the most part of what all of us had.”
“What did you factor?”
“Cloth, ser. Wools, linens, silks, velvets.”
“You didn’t factor…say…crossbows?”
The bewilderment from within the trader was clear. “No, ser.”
“Do you know any armsmen who have been in Spidlaria recently?” Cerryl persisted.
“No, ser. Except those in white.” The sweat dribbled down the side of the man’s face, but his words remained true.
Cerryl unrolled the paper Kalesin had given him. “What do you know about Yerakal?” He’d picked the name at random.
“Yerakal?” Another puzzled expression crossed Joseffal’s face. “He left long before even Kleth fell.”
“What did he factor?”
“He was a wool factor, ser. Just wools, from everywhere in the world.”
“What about Hieraltal?”
Joseffal swallowed. “Ah…he left also.”
Cerryl could sense the man’s apprehension, but his words came across as true. “And he was one of the ones who factored arms for Spidlar? Like crossbows and blades?”
“Ah…I’d be only guessing, ser, but some said he made golds on blades and bolts.”
“And he’s never returned?”
“No, ser.”
Cerryl asked about another three factors on Kalesin’s list before nodding. “We will have another talk about what you’re really factoring later, Joseffal. You may go.”
As the trader bowed and turned, Cerryl glanced at Kalesin. “A moment before the next.”
“Yes, ser.”
Cerryl dipped the quill in the inkstand and began to jot down notes about Joseffal and the “missing” factors. Then he nodded.
The second trader was burly, but he, too, kept his eyes averted as he stepped into the converted dining hall.
“Your name?” Cerryl asked.
“Aliaskar, ser wizard.” Aliaskar had a high, thin voice, surprising for such a big man.
“What do you factor?”
“Clay, ser.”
Cerryl wanted to laugh. Of course, with the need for pottery, china, and storage urns, someone had to factor clay.
Colors of Chaos (Saga of Recluce) Page 68
