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, nd 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 25-score lancers. Only 10-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, ready 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.
Behind Cerryl, the trading gates stood open. There was no reason to close them, given the state of the river wall, where the work crews still toiled, some two hundred cubits farther north, to rough-repair the city walls. Two squads of lancers waited, mounted, by the open trading gates. With them were a half-dozen spare mounts, since Cerryl had no idea how many might be accompanying Jeslek and who, if any, might need a mount.
According to Cerryl’s screeing at midmorning, the five barges should have already been nearing Elparta. He wished he could have gotten a better image in the glass, but all the water around the barges made screeing difficult, sometimes impossible, with the shifting blackness of order that running water seemed to create. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then glanced sideways at Fydel.
Fydel continued to look southward-upstream, ignoring Cerryl’s momentary scrutiny.
Cerryl turned and walked a few steps back toward the wall, then out to the end of the pier once more, passing Fydel.
“The High Wizard will arrive.” The square-bearded mage offered a smile closer to a smirk. “Jeslek wears best in his absence. Especially for those who would be clever. Do not be so eager for his return.”
It wasn’t Jeslek-but there had been something about the barges in the glass, something… and Cerryl had not been happy to discover that he still could not find Leyladin in the glass. An eight-day before she had been riding somewhere with her father’s traders, and now-now she had vanished. Did that mean she had taken a sea voyage? Cerryl turned and walked back toward the gates, then back to the end of the pier. Jeslek might know about Leyladin. The High Wizard had to know.
Cerryl paced the pier a dozen times or more before a call rang out from the lookout on the south tower: “Boat ho!”
The gray-eyed mage strained, watching the leaden water, squinting for some sign. Then the barge appeared. A thin green and gold banner flew below the ensign of Fairhaven-a trader’s banner. Cerryl smiled Had Leyladin managed to send something else? What ? He shrugged - it didn’t matter. That she had was what counted, because that meant she was all right.
You hope. He pushed away the thought as Fydel walked across the rough-sawn planks to stand beside him.
“Best we seem pleased,” said Fydel, almost dryly. The older mage gestured upriver at where yet another barge had appeared. “Perhaps we should be. The High Wizard has doubtless brought us more than flour and salted pork.”
Cerryl nodded. Although he enjoyed good food, he also remembered the lean years at the mines, and the past winter’s fare,
while plain, had been far better than that of the winters of his early youth.
On the upper level of the wide-beamed barge, above the mounts in tight stalls, above the bales and crates, stood the High Wizard. Cerryl swallowed. On Jeslek’s right stood Anya, but on his left, a pace removed, stood a figure in green. Leyladin’s short golden hair fluttered above her shoulders in the chill wind, and Cerryl felt his own pulse thundering in his ears, in his entire being. He edged forward on the pier, closer to the bollards.
As the rivermen jumped off the lead barge and snaked heavy hemp lines around the crude log bollards, Cerryl glanced at the second and third barges, packed with armed footmen, looking better than the levies of the summer before, if not as professional as the White Lancers. But his eyes went back to the blonde healer and the smile that made the cold day of late winter an early spring.
“A surprise for you, I see.” Fydel laughed. “Were there such for me.”
Cerryl couldn’t help feeling a touch of sadness for the square-bearded mage, foolish as Fydel was to be attracted to Anya. “It comes when you do not expect it.”
“For some.”
Cerryl stepped almost to the edge of the pier planks as the boatmen tied the barge in place.
Jeslek was the first onto the pier. Although ruddier than when he had left Elparta in early winter, he appeared thinner, if not quite gaunt, and some of the circles beneath his eyes remained. “Fydel, Cerryl-you have made much progress.” The sun-gold eyes merely sparkled, and he nodded as he surveyed the rebuilt piers and the river wall.
Leyladin vaulted over the gunwale of the gray-timbered barge, and Cerryl leaped forward to steady her. He caught her arm, and they stood there, on the heavy crude planks of the river pier, less than a cubit apart, as if neither could believe the other’s presence.
“I can’t believe…” Cerryl’s mouth felt dry.
“Neither can I.”
“How… ?” he stammered.
“Let us say that Kinowin’s tongue and Father’s golds were persuasive.” Leyladin’s hands reached out and took his.
He squeezed hers, wanting to draw her closer.
“Leyladin has already proved most useful.” Anya’s smile was tighter yet slightly less false than usual.
Cerryl turned, jarred by the redhead’s words. He hadn’t even sensed her approach, but close as she stood, the trilia and sandalwood were overpowering.
“I did what any good mage would do for others.” Leyladin’s gentle smile turned as hard and false as Anya’s, and her green eyes glittered like frozen emeralds.
“We are all appreciative, Leyladin dear, especially young Cerryl, I’m sure.” Anya turned to Jeslek even before finishing her words.
Leyladin’s lips tightened for a moment.
“Another reason for shields?” His fingers squeezed hers again.
The chill left the healer’s face and eyes. “I don’t need them now.” She slipped forward, disengaging his hands and wrapping her arms around him in a firm hug. “I missed you.”
“Missed you.”
For a time, they just held each other.
The pier shuddered as the second barge rebounded from it and then against the ropes. Even as he released Leyladin and turned toward where Jeslek and Anya stood talking to Fydel, Cerryl couldn’t help but feel some satisfaction as the barge was tied into place against the new solidity of the pier.
“… few more attacks, but we only lost a handful of lancers… Cerryl has been busy supporting us with all the rebuilding… good at support.”
Cerryl wanted to wince at the belittling comment but didn’t, forcing a smile as he and Leyladin, still holding hands, stepped toward the other three.
The pier shivered again as the third barge was moored downstream of the first two. Cerryl glanced out at the river, seeing that yet another barge made for the lower piers.
Jeslek followed his eyes. “Just the first. A mere fifteen score. Prefect Syrma has committed to sending a hundred score within the next three eight-days. We vet have another fifteen-score lancers two days south of here.”
How did he do it? How? I suggested that he would not want the fate of Elparta to befall Fenard. I also told him that there were a dozen mages that could do so and that the Guild would put up with no more nonsense.“
“He also turned the subprefect into ashes at dinner-and the arms commander and about ten enraged captains,” said Anya dryly.
“Anya offered some assistance.” Jeslek smiled. “Prefect Syrma decided that cooperation was preferable to annihilation.”
Both Cerryl and Leyladin continued to smile faintly, but Cerryl could tell she felt the same emptiness as he did.
For all that Fairhaven offered, was the only way to force its prosperity on the other lands of Candar? Lands that unceasingly wanted the benefits of prosperity and good roads without contributing to them.
Seeing a lancer captain Cerryl did not recognize, Jeslek gestured abruptly. “Get the mounts off first.”
“Aye, ser.” The captain turned and called back to a figure in purple standing on the bow, “The mounts be first!”
“The mounts, aye. Up with the ramp.”
Two rivermen slid a wooden ramp into place between the barge and the pier.
“The walls are new,” Leyladin said.
“Look to the north, at the end there. That’s the way it all was,” Cerryl said.
A shadow fell across the piers, accompanied by a gust of wind, cold and foretelling yet more snow before the turn of spring.
“Your mount, High Wizard,” said a lancer, leading forward a bay with crimson and white livery, although some of the white trim was almost yellow. “Been watered, but I’d not ride far.”
“Only to my quarters.” Jeslek eased himself into the saddle, and Anya had to hurry to mount and ride alongside him. Behind the two rode a good score of lancers who had been on the barge.
Fydel stood back, a sardonic smile on his face.
As he turned to watch the High Wizard depart, by the left gate Cerryl glimpsed the spritely white-haired Jidro, a smile on his face as he looked at the piers and barges.
Another lancer appeared with a black mare. “Lady Leyladin, our thanks.”
“I am glad I could make things easier.” The healer smiled, then mounted.
Cerryl walked alongside Leyladin as she rode the several dozen cubits to where his gelding was tethered next to the squad of lancers headed by Hiser.
As Cerryl swung up into the saddle, Hiser eased his own chestnut forward. “Ser? You be heading back to quarters?”
“Yes. The healer will be coming with me.” Was he being too abrupt? But where else would she stay? He turned. “If that’s all right?”
“I’d say that would be best.” Her lips almost curled into a smile, and her eyes did smile. “…don’t think she’d be with anyone else,” murmured Fydel in the background.
Cerryl guided the gelding through the open trade gates toward the main avenue, and Riser and his squad fell in behind them. Leyladin rode so closely that their legs almost brushed. Cerryl found his eyes wandering to her. “What did you do for the lancers?”
“Brought some dried fruit, nuts, some good travel bread, and cheese.” Her voice faded out as they rode past the refurbished quarters’ dwellings and turned onto the avenue, where most of the damage from Jeslek’s attack remained untouched. One house stood gaping like a skull, shutters gone, door vanished. “Is it all like that?”
“More than half of Elparta. It’s been hard enough to get the piers rebuilt and the gates and walls-and enough houses to quarter everyone.” Cerryl coughed. “With another thirty score coming in… I don’t know. The winter’s long here, and it’s not over yet.”
“Most will not linger here that long,” prophesied Leyladin.
“If the Spidlarians do not hold them back.”
“There is yet another duke in Hydlen, and this one will send levies.”
“Jeslek and Anya paid a visit to Hydolar?”
“No.
Eliasar seized Renklaar. The port belongs to Fairhaven now.”
Cerryl nodded. That made sense. If the Hydlenese valued coins more than loyalty, then take that which controlled their coins. Should Fairhaven take Lydiar? And Ruzor-after Spidlaria?
“That was Sterol’s idea. I don’t think he thought Jeslek would heed it, but he did.” Leyladin laughed, softly, bitterly.
A flurry of white flakes shivered from the clouds, and the wind picked up until it whistled intermittently.
“I’m glad you got here before the storm.”
“You didn’t know I was coming, remember?” she teased.
“I can still be glad.” Cerryl gestured. “This way-up the long, narrow street there.”
“Is it far?”
“Less than a kay.”
Whuff! Leyladin’s mare sidestepped as the wind blew a scrap of gray cloth across the way before them. “It’s so… empty.”
“Jeslek’s terms were hard. Most of the people fled. A few have returned.”
“Your terms aren’t so hard?”
“I try to apply the Patrol rules here, even to lancers. Sometimes I haven’t been that popular.”
“Why? The rules are fair.”
“I’ve executed three or four lancers and several locals. One lancer raped and killed a local woman-a harlot, and she shouldn’t have stayed, but that didn’t mean she could be killed.”
“Still trying…” She turned in the saddle and smiled sadly. “Even if you became High Wizard, you’d be disappointed.”
“Probably more so. Things wouldn’t work out, and I couldn’t blame Jeslek.”
They turned onto the short hilltop lane that held the quarters’ dwelling.
“There, at the end.”
“I like it better up here,” Leyladin affirmed.
“Jeslek’s is the big mansion-over there to the north. There’s a back lane, and it’s about two hundred cubits.”
“Don’t tell him. Make him ride the long way.”
“I’m the one who goes to him.” Cerryl’s mouth quirked “Remember?”
Leyladin giggled as they reined up by the carriage gate. They groomed both the mare and the gelding and put them in the two adjoining stalls in the small stable of Cerryl’s quarters, then made their way through the light snow into the front foyer, stepping past the two lancer guards.
Colors of Chaos Page 54
