Colors of Chaos

LIII

CERRYL SHIFTED HIS weight on the stool and squinted into the setting sun, shading his eyes as he studied the White highway that headed west for perhaps five kays before it split, one branch going west-northwest to Weevett and on to Vergren while the main road proceeded westward through southern Certis toward the Easthorns.

After only three days, his feet hurt, and his head ached from duty that lasted from before dawn until the midevening bell. His eyes went to the sheets of paper roughly bound in twine that served as his record of wagons and carts. He’d never realized how many went through the west gate even in slow times, not until he’d had to write down each one.

He glanced at the latest entries.

…Muneat and Sons, factors, blue wagon, bearing hard wheat flour from Certis to Fairhaven, medallion in place…

Sekis, spice merchant, cart, from Hydlen, bearing spices and herbs, applied for medallion…

His face was salty from the sweat that had dried on his face, salt that mixed with continuing sweat in the late-afternoon heat. While the farmers might be glad of the dry and warm weather for their harvest, it made the second level of the guardhouse hot-far hotter than the second level at the north guardhouse, he’d decided. The area around Fairhaven had been spared the devastating rains that had ruined so much of Hydlen’s crops, but the local crops couldn’t make up for the losses elsewhere in Candar. The year before had brought drought, but too much rain had followed the year and a half of dryness, with equally disastrous results.

His eyes turned west again. The road arrowed toward the guardhouse, a line of blinding pinkish white in the last of the full afternoon light.

Somewhere out on the road he could see a shape through the glare, another wagon, or cart, headed in toward the White City. He strained eyes and perceptions, but all he could sense was something moving. After a time, he could hear the faint rumble of iron wheels, and that meant a heavy wagon.

Reluctantly Cerryl stood so that he had a better view, leaning forward and resting one hand on the stone wall of the rampart, waiting as the wagon rumbled northward toward the gate.

Two guards rode before the wagon, drawn by four horses. The wagon itself was of oiled wood, not painted, and filled with barrels roped in place behind the driver and a third guard who sat beside the teamster.

Cerryl extended his senses, but the barrels seemed to be filled with flour, or meal, and the chaos lock around the medallion remained tight, strong enough that it was less than a season old.

The driver flicked the leads, and the team slowed, rumbling to a halt before the guardhouse.

The lead guard stepped toward the driver.

“I be the trader Hytul, bound from Rytel, with flour for the factor Jiolt.”

The lead guard-Besolar-glanced toward the guardhouse rampart and Cerryl.

“Nothing but flour in the barrels,” Cerryl confirmed. “Nothing under the seat. The medallion is fine.”

The two guards beside Besolar looked into the wagon bed and underneath the seat, as if to confirm what Cerryl had said. They nodded at Besolar.

As the wagon rolled past and through the gate, Cerryl sat down on the stool and picked up his list, adding yet another entry:

…Hytul, trader, oiled wagon, four-horse team, bearing soft cake flour from Rytel (Certis) to Fairhaven, for the factor Jiolt, medallion in place…

After he finished writing, he leaned back slightly, his eyes closing almost inadvertently. He jerked upright, stifling a yawn. Dark demons, he was tired, and he still had another bell to go before the gate closed to wagons and carts.

Afraid he’d fall asleep on the stool, he stood once more, wincing as he put weight on his feet, and walked to the edge of the rampart, looking out to where the sun had begun to drop below the low hills to the west of the White highway.

Three days, and you have more than an eight-day and a half to go. He turned and looked toward Fairhaven. Darkness! How quickly life could change, and unpredictably. Except you could predict that stupidity does lead to problems. He stifled another yawn and began to walk back and forth across the short stretch of the guardhouse rampart.