Colors of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “We all need to get away from the walls.” The square-bearded mage glanced toward Anya. “You two had better prepare. We are not staying a moment, longer than we must. I would rather not rely on chaos fire against the lancers the duke could muster.”

  Recalling Fydel’s feeble attempts in Gallos two years earlier, Cerryl could understand the older mage’s concerns. Cerryl glanced at Anya.

  “She’s close enough now. Follow me.” Anya’s face seemed unreachable, her eyes glazed over.

  Cerryl swallowed and tried to send his own perceptions after Anya’s, following her line of chaos toward the large chunks of bedrock underlying the tower. How did she know?

  Somewhere, he could hear Fydel talking to Captain Reaz and then to the herald. He could also sense the growing order as Leyladin’s mount trotted swiftly toward the lancers.

  “Lancers, turn about!”

  “… turn about!… Turn about!”

  Cerryl could sense how Anya eased chaos in the lines between the rocks and how she concentrated chaos in one rock, shifting it from one to another, and he tried to replicate her actions.

  The ground shivered as one soft rock deep beneath the tower collapsed in upon itself.

  Seemingly in the distance, the herald bugled again as Leyladin reached Fydel.

  “Lady Leyladin, are you all right?” asked the bearded mage.

  “I’m tired and hungry, and worried, but I’m otherwise right.”

  After a second triplet, the herald called, his voice not quite shaking, “Remember the might of Fairhaven, and do not think to challenge it again, lest the full might of the High Wizard fall upon you. You have been warned!”

  Fydel glanced in Cerryl’s and Anya’s direction.

  Cerryl could feel the sweat pouring off his forehead as well as down the back of his neck, could feel the rocks shifting beneath the tower. Another section of the deeper rock collapsed, but the tower shivered.

  Cerryl thought of water…

  What about letting water meet chaos? Even as he channeled more chaos beneath the tower, he also sought a stream of water, easing it edging from the levels below the rock toward the chaos he built, forcing them together, more and more tightly.

  HSSSSttt!! Crumptt! A section of ground exploded out from beneath the base of the tower walls, and steam sprayed upward, the heat welling even toward the lancers.

  “Ride! Let us ride!” ordered Fydel. “Too close.”

  The ground shook more violently, then trembled several times more. With a rumble, more stones slid out from the bottom of the tower. Others seemed to crumble and fragment.

  Hot droplets of rain cascaded down around the mages.

  Screams that might have been were lost in the roar of falling and grinding stone.

  The ground shook yet again.

  “That’s enough!” snapped Anya, reeling in her saddle as she wheeled her mount.

  Cerryl shook his head.

  “Are you all right?” Leyladin eased her mount next to Cerryl’s.

  “We must ride!” snapped Fydel.

  Cerryl reached for Leyladin’s hand. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’m glad to see you.”

  “I have to go. I’ll catch up with you later.” If I can.

  “Fydel, catch his seeming!” ordered Anya.

  Confusion crossed Leyladin’s face as Cerryl thrust the gelding’s reins at the healer and slipped from the saddle.

  “Ride with them. You have to go.”

  “Healer!” snapped Fydel.

  Cerryl staggered to the side of the road, his sight cut off as he lifted his light shields to keep the Hydlenese from seeing him, though a part of his mind pointed out that they wouldn’t see much in all the dust.

  Behind him, the thrumming of hoofs faded as Leyladin and the White Lancers rode eastward and back toward Fairhaven.

  A few more patters of hot rain dropped around him, and he moistened his lips to try to keep from coughing. Why weren’t there any riders coming after the lancers?

  He cast his senses toward the massive gates, then smiled. Anya or he or something they had done had buckled the causeway enough that the gates could only open partway.

  The dusty and saddle-sore mage walked slowly toward the gates, placing his feet carefully and using his chaos-order senses to guide him.

  As the rumbling of displaced stone had stopped, he could hear screams and moans from the east-from his left. Was toppling the tower necessary?

  He tightened his lips and kept walking toward the gates.

  A half-dozen mounts trotted along the road, then reined up.

  “Bastards… gone…”

  “Not about to chase ‘em with half squad.”

  “No others… ?”

  Cerryl eased along the side of the causeway, trying to move silently, not to raise dust with his boots to undo the effect of the light shield, but the attention of the lancers was to the north.

  “… stables went… lot of ‘em… White demons!”

  Cerryl edged around the still-warm wood of the singed gates and along the stones of the archway behind the gates. A dozen armsmen stood at the far end, glancing through the archway toward the lancers on the causeway and then to the east toward the fallen walls and towers.

  Step by unseen step, the young mage eased his way along the stones and toward the open inner gate.

  Just short of the gates, he stopped and flattened himself against the wall stones as a clatter of hoofs echoed through the shadowed archway. Another squad of lancers rode past him, the last rider so close he could have touched the mount without stretching.

  After another deep breath, he eased along the timbers of the open inner gate and then along the inside of the outer walls for another fifty cubits, where he slumped into a recess formed between two stone columns that provided some additional support to the gates or archway.

  For a time he just sat there, unseen behind his light barriers and unseeing, wondering what he was doing in Hydolar. Wasn’t destroying a tower and killing people enough of a warning?

  He took a deep breath.

  LXIII

  Finally, Cerryl stood, partly sheltered between the stone buttresses for the gate, wincing at his sore muscles, hoping he was ready to find Duke Ferobar.

  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 a
nything 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 peace-breaker 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 as 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.

  “Moral 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 happened 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.