Colors of Chaos

CLIII

WITH SUZDYAL’S LANCERS behind him and Lyasa beside him, Cerryl rode slowly around the square, glancing at the handful of people who moved from shop to shop. Three or four buildings remained shuttered, but most were open, despite the air of sullenness, almost of shock.

The day was cooler than the hot late-summer days that had preceded it, with high hazy clouds and a warmish wind out of the south that brought a dryness to the city. Spidlaria wasn’t as bustling as it doubtless had been once, but people were going through the motions of buying and selling. Sooner or later, because sneaking around was exhausting, most would return to normal-except that there wasn’t enough trade.

“They’re doing what you wanted,” Lyasa said, her voice dry. “They don’t like it much.”

“They’ll get used to it,” answered Suzdyal. “They had to realize that Fairhaven was something different from Gallos or Certis.”

“Because they always used trade as a weapon before?”

The subofficer nodded, her eyes on three men at the corner of the square. “Those three. You might want to ask them a question or two, honored mages.”

Cerryl’s eyes flicked to the hard-muscled trio as he guided his mount toward them, flanked by lancers with drawn blades. Cerryl looked into the tall and bearded man’s flat brown eyes. “You wouldn’t be from Certis, would you?”

“No…ser.”

Cerryl knew even Lyasa could feel that lie.

“And you wouldn’t still be on the viscount’s payroll, would you?”

The man’s eyes flickered to the two lances centered on him. “No…ser. Don’t know no viscount.”

Cerryl smiled and looked to the second man, shorter and burly in stained gray battle leathers. “How about you? Did you come from Certis, too?”

“No, ser.”

Cerryl laughed. “You’re both lying. The viscount paid you to come here and help the old traders cause trouble. Most of them are dead. You keep this up, and you’ll be dead, too. Of course, if you want honest work, you could come to the headquarters and talk to Mage Lyasa. We’ll need some honest and experienced men as patrollers.”

Abruptly he could sense something wrong, and he turned to see the crossbowman on the roof. Whhst! As the first charred figure fell, Cerryl wheeled the gelding and surveyed the square.

Whhst! The second crossbowman tumbled from the side porch of the basket maker’s shop.

Cerryl continued to scan the area, as did Lyasa.

When Cerryl looked back at the two men, he had to concentrate to keep his legs from shaking. Both were pinned against the chandlery wall with lances against their chests. Several townspeople peered around the corner, watching, waiting for him to kill the disguised armsmen.

“If…if there is one more attempt on anyone from Fairhaven,” Cerryl said loudly, and coldly, “your lives, if you are seen again, are forfeit. We are trying to heal Spidlaria, to put the city back to work. You, and your friends from Certis, seem more interested in destroying it. Is that because Certis fears the folk of Spidlar? I wonder.”

Cerryl turned and nodded to Suzdyal. “Let them go. This time.”

He could feel the eyes on him as he, Lyasa, and the lancer column rode away from the chandlery and then toward the square on the way back to his headquarters.

“…White bastard…”

“…don’t cross him.”

“Fair in his own way…”

“Call destroying five factors fair…had to be him…”

“Certis-he was certain on that.”

“Lies…all lies…”

“…don’t know about that…don’t know at all.”

Cerryl cleared his throat and looked at Lyasa. “You think I was too easy?”

“Maybe.”

“No, begging your pardons, mages,” offered Suzdyal. “Killing the bowmen was fair. Killing a man on the square would have angered ’em so they’d not think.”

Cerryl hoped so, but he was hoping far too much. Among other things, he needed a trader, a good trader-like Layel. He pursed his lips. Well, Layel wouldn’t have much competition in Spidlaria.

“You have an odd look on your face,” Lyasa observed.

“I’m thinking about bringing in a trader-and giving him Reylerk’s establishment.”

“Layel?”

“Why not?”

“You are a dangerous mage,” Lyasa said, almost straight-faced.

“Can you think of anyone else?”

“Not that the Guild-and you-could trust.” Lyasa paused, then added, “If he will do it, your redheaded friend will not be pleased.”

“Because she’s Muneat’s niece, you mean?”

“She’s very close to some of the traders, one in particular.”

“And every other man with something to offer,” Cerryl added dryly.

The black-haired mage laughed.

Cerryl paused, realizing Lyasa knew more than he did. “Which one is she so close to?”

Lyasa raised her eyebrows. “It’s only been said…”

“I understand.”

“The one who is father to her sister’s consort.”

Cerryl nodded. Jiolt…again.

After dismounting in the headquarters courtyard, Cerryl hurried back to the study and began to write. He needed a good trader-and one he could trust. Will Layel see it that way? Will he consider it worth his while?

Who knew? All Cerryl could do was offer the opportunity.

When he was finished, he had one of the guards summon Hiser.

The blonde captain inclined his head as he entered the study. “Yes, ser? I understand you had some trouble earlier. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Cerryl shook his head. “Subofficer Suzdyal handled it well, and you can’t do everything.”

Hiser looked relieved.

“I do have a small task I’d like to entrust you with.” Cerryl extended the small sealed scroll. “I need this to go to the factor Layel in Fairhaven. I do not wish Kalesin to be troubled with it.”

“I imagine we could send it with our courier, ser.” Hiser grinned. “I can make sure it’s the last scroll he gets, as he’s leaving.”

“That would be good. I’m hoping that the trader Layel might be able to help us settle Spidlaria. It would be better if none knew this.” Cerryl shrugged. “He might not wish to do so, and that could cause problems. Or he might, and that would cause other problems.”

“I understand, ser.” Hiser paused. “I’m glad it was Suzdyal. Prytyr would have done well, also. The others…some I don’t know as well as I should.”

“Others you do,” replied Cerryl. “I’m glad I got a good one.” He paused. “And thank you.”

Hiser inclined his head, then turned.

Cerryl looked at the stacks of paper and scrolls, then stood and stretched. He was hungry, and the papers would be there later.