Colors of Chaos

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, 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.