Colors of Chaos

XLVI

CERRYL WAS TRUDGING the last few cubits toward his room when a blonde figure appeared in the corridor.

“I’m going to eat in. Do you want to join me?” asked Faltar.

“Eating in?” Cerryl raised his eyebrows. “Have I heard your words?”

“The Golden Ram-everywhere-the prices are higher, and my stipend is but a gold an eight-day. I had to get new boots, and I couldn’t believe how much more they cost this time…” Faltar shook his head.

Cerryl glanced down. “They look good. Where did you get them?”

“From Beykr, down on the Way of the Tanners.”

The smaller mage laughed. “I get mine from Miern. He’s a block farther east. The boot soles and heels are thicker and a good two silvers cheaper, maybe more. I’ve been told they fit better, too.”

“Now you tell me.”

“You didn’t ask.” Cerryl grinned. “I’ll go with you. Leyladin’s still in Hydolar, and my stipend doesn’t go so far, either. I wear out boots faster on Patrol duty.”

“You still walking the streets?”

“I don’t know the city well enough, not by far. I wasn’t born here, remember. Wait a moment, and let me wash up.”

Faltar leaned against the stone wall of the corridor. “Try to hurry. I’m hungry and I might lose the courage to face the Meal Hall.”

“Courage doesn’t matter if you have no coins to eat elsewhere. I’ll hurry.” Since his own gut was growling, Cerryl washed quickly.

Faltar was still leaning against the wall when Cerryl emerged from his room. “Good.”

The two walked down the steps to the main level and across the rear courtyard.

“How’s gate duty going?”

“Boring,” admitted Faltar. “Always the same. Most of the owners of the wagons and carts are honest, but there’s always someone who thinks we can’t find oils or spices or silver. I don’t understand. The cost of a full-trade medallion isn’t that high.”

“The problem’s not here, I think,” mused Cerryl. “Fairhaven isn’t the only land-or city-that levies taxes, and you can’t remove a medallion and then replace it. Not without the gate mages sensing it.”

“Oh…that means two wagons and a place to keep them?”

“More than that. The big factors do that all the time. Why do you think the wagons we see here are always so clean? The carpet merchants, on the other hand, they apply for a new medallion every time they come.”

Faltar nodded. “I knew that, but I hadn’t thought about why.”

“They only come once or twice a year, and an extra two golds is cheaper than two wagons.” Cerryl frowned. Do they wait when they remove the medallions, or does someone get hurt?

Faltar sniffed as they entered the Meal Hall. “It’s not lamb. I can smell that.”

“Stew-with dried beef.” Cerryl stepped toward the serving table.

“Sorry, ser.” An apprentice scuttled out of the way.

“Go ahead.” Cerryl laughed, gesturing to the table. “We’ve time.”

“Thank you, ser.” The apprentice scurried to ladle stew across the bread on his platter, then grabbed another chunk, before pouring a mug of ale from the battered gray pitcher.

“Not much better than sauced mutton.”

“I’d prefer the mutton,” Cerryl said, ladling the lumpy brownish mixture across a chunk of bread.

“Never,” said Faltar.

Cerryl half-smiled and poured a mug of the ale, then made his way to one of the smaller side tables. In the corner he saw Kochar and Kiella, both redheads eating slowly and talking. Before long, Kochar would be a full mage, Cerryl thought, if he didn’t do something at the last moment to upset Jeslek. He couldn’t say that he knew the handful of other student mages-there seemed to be fewer than when he and Faltar had been students.

“…say he’s a Patrol mage…”

“…don’t know the other one…”

The words drifted from one of the circular center tables. Cerryl smiled to himself. As a student, he’d never known by name the younger full mages. He wouldn’t be responsible for an apprentice for years, if ever, and he ate at the Meal Hall infrequently and quickly. It might be more often if the costs of food in Fairhaven kept increasing, though.

Faltar slid into the chair across from Cerryl and took a mouthful of stew. He frowned. “You might be right. I never thought lamb could be better than anything.”

“You see fewer traders through the gates now?” Cerryl took a mouthful of the tough rye bread, then finally tried the stew. His mouth puckered with the saltiness, and he reached for the ale.

“I don’t see as many as last year, even in the winter. There aren’t as many people on the roads, except for lancers. More are headed west.”

“Gallos?”

Faltar shook his head, his mouth full. After swallowing, he answered, “Certis.”

That made sense, in a way, because Jeslek had more control over Viscount Rystryr. “Jeslek saw me yesterday.”

“What did he want? You’re not his favorite.”

“To make sure I wouldn’t cross him.”

“Why do you worry him?” asked Faltar, making a face at the mouthful of stew he swallowed. “Bitter…too salty.”

“He’s worried about Spidlar,” answered Cerryl, ignoring the thrust of Faltar’s question. “That’s what he told me. He as much as said that the viscount is raiding Spidlar and losing armsmen. He thinks Spidlar is getting support from Recluce.”

“That won’t set well with the Guild. It sounds like the viscount wants Spidlar for himself. What is our High Wizard going to do?”

“He didn’t say, except it didn’t matter for a Patrol mage. Not yet.”

“Good of him,” mumbled Faltar. “This isn’t stew. It’s swill.”

“It’s better than that. I know.”

“Don’t remind me. I’m glad I didn’t have to find the Guild the way you did.” Faltar spooned in another mouthful. “I’d be careful. That ‘not yet’ sounds like he’s thinking up something special for you. He’s never liked you since you forced Sterol to override him and let you become a full mage.”

“You’re in a hurry,” Cerryl observed. “You have plans for this evening?”

“Maybe.” Faltar flushed.

“A certain redheaded mage?”

“No more than you’re interested in a certain blonde healer.”

Cerryl laughed. “There may be more compatibility between two Whites.”

“Is that still a problem?”

“I understand it’s always been a problem, unless approached carefully. Leyladin is very careful, and I cannot say I fault her.”

“Cerryl the methodical.”

Cerryl shrugged.

Faltar swallowed the last of his stew, then chewed a final mouthful of bread, washing it down with a swig of ale. “You don’t mind if I go…?”

“Go. I’ve no one to get ready for, and I’d rather not gulp this down.”

With a nod, Faltar rose and slipped away.

Cerryl looked across the now mostly empty Meal Hall. He liked Faltar, but he was so besotted with Anya that what Cerryl could mention to him was limited. Cerryl took another small mouthful of bread, wondering how Leyladin was doing, hoping she had been successful in healing young Uulrac and that she would be back before too long. Somehow, he doubted it would be either simple or quick. Nothing seemed to be, not involving the Guild.

Finally, he stood and walked toward the corridor toward the front Hall of the Mages. He could walk up the Avenue in the twilight.

Cerryl paused at the edge of the fountain courtyard, where two figures stood in the shadows beyond the fountain in the far corner, shielded by darkness and spray. Their postures bothered him, and he cast forth his perceptions, as gently and dispersed as possible. At the same time, he used his skills to blur over his chaos-order image, so that unless another mage looked right at him with concentration, he wouldn’t even seem to be there.

“You sleep with whoever grants you power for the moment,” said the taller figure.

“You fawn over whoever grants you favor, Fydel. Tell me there’s a difference. You prefer to sleep with me, but you certainly don’t sleep alone much,” Anya replied.

“That’s different. You make Jeslek think he’s the only chaos focus since Cyador, and now every little thing in Spidlar has him feeling personally slighted. He almost killed me over that black toy.”

“You kept it from him for a season, and the letters from the smith to the lady trader. That was not wise, Fydel. Don’t blame me or Jeslek for your stupidity.”

“Do you want Jeslek spewing chaos all over Candar?”

“He already has, and he intends to bring all the lands of eastern Candar under Fairhaven. After the way they’re treating the Guild, do you blame him? Do you want your stipend cut?” Anya moved closer to Fydel. “I know this is a hard time.” She touched his face. “I won’t be owned, Fydel, but I will make it up to you. Not tonight. Later.”

Cerryl eased away before the two realized he had been using his chaos-order senses to spy.

Slowly, his thoughts swirling, he walked back to his empty room, all idea of walking up the Avenue discarded. What had he been missing in his efforts to become the best possible Patrol mage? What was really going on in the Guild and with Spidlar? Black iron so strong it warped the feeling in the High Wizard’s room? Made by a Black smith who wrote letters that Fydel had kept from Jeslek. No wonder Jeslek had let the smith’s name drop-Dorrin, was it? To see if Cerryl were plotting with Fydel?

Cerryl swallowed.

That didn’t even take into account that the Black smith was tied up with a lady trader-and there were lady traders? Were traders involved in everything? Blacks settling in Spidlar? Certan forces raiding Spidlar? And he’d seen none of it?

He shook his head. What could he do? What should he do? What could a junior Patrol mage do?

He wished Leyladin were back. He needed someone to talk to, someone who understood more than he did and someone whom he could trust.