Colors of Chaos

LXXXIII

CERRYL BLINKED AND let the image in the glass fade. Still nothing of substance had come from his efforts to follow Pullid and Dursus in the screeing glass. He picked up the glass, warm to the touch in the cold barracks room, and replaced it in the wardrobe. He glanced toward the barred and shuttered window. He might as well ride out-despite the wind and rain-to see if he could talk to either Triok or Pastid. Neither trader had been around for the past two days-Triok’s consort had insisted she expected him any day, while Pastid’s building remained locked.

After reclaiming his jacket, Cerryl left his stark barracks room and made his way down the stone steps and across the rain-splashed stones of the courtyard. The ostler nodded as he walked up, then disappeared into the stable. Cerryl glanced around the courtyard and at the miniature pools of water between the paving stones, pools occasionally rippled by the light rain that still fell. While he waited, he cast his senses toward the walls but could discern only a guard and no chaos. Then he shifted his weight and glanced around again, as he had been ever since Shyren’s words about the dangers of Jellico. The real dangers of Jellico are within these walls.

“Here he be, ser mage.” The ostler led out the gelding, still with the definitely bedraggled white and red livery.

The streets of Jellico seemed fractionally less crowded as Cerryl rode slowly out of the gates and turned the gelding north and toward Pastid’s warehouse. Pastid remained absent, the building locked.

With a deep breath Cerryl eased his mount back west and toward the lower hill, the back side of which held Triok’s establishment. The rain continued to spit out of the low clouds, intermittently, but the dark gray clouds promised a heavier fall before long. Cerryl continued to scan the areas through which he rode north and west of the viscount’s palace, with both his eyes and his chaos senses, feeling, somehow, somewhere, a slight increase in chaos. Was Jeslek nearing? Or something else?

Triok’s building resembled what Cerryl would have thought a trader’s place to be, with a small and narrow two-story brick dwelling attached to a timbered warehouse with a tile roof. A muscular bearded man was standing at one end of the wagon before the loading doors, shifting bales of something from under the canvas covering the wagon bed to the open loading door of the warehouse.

Cerryl dismounted and led the gelding toward the man. “Trader Triok?”

“None other, ser mage,” grunted Triok as he moved another bale.

“Your consort may have told you that I’d been trying to see you for the past few days-”

“That she did. That she did.” Triok straightened after setting down the bale and frowned. “Don’t be knowing what you Whites be wanting of me. Pay my tariffs and taxes. Don’t go your way often, but better this way.” He gestured toward the medallion on the wagon.

Cerryl nodded. “I just wanted to ask a few questions. You only pay one set of taxes, except for the medallion, but they’re collected by the viscount’s men-Pullid’s men, actually.”

“Been that way for years. Afore Pullid was Zastor. Don’t remember the fellow afore him.”

“Do you remember when the rate was a tenth?”

Triok frowned. “Not been that long ago. Three, four years, ’cause that was the year the brigands got Siljir in the pass heading down to Passera.”

“Do you recall when the rate went from a twentieth to a tenth part?”

Triok laughed. “Not that old, young ser mage, not by a mighty bow shot.”

Cerryl nodded. “How do you find the White highways?”

“Like ’em. Don’t like the tariff, have to say.” Triok looked toward the gray sky and then the warehouse door, as if to indicate he had better matters to attend to than educating a young White mage, preferably before it began to rain even harder. “Be good if we had a road into Spidlar…once the troubles there are over,” he added quickly.

“I’ll convey that.” Cerryl smiled. “Thank you.” He led the gelding back from the wagon slightly before remounting.

“…what was that about?” Triok’s consort stood inside the loading door.

“Don’t know…care less…but didn’t take many moments, leastwise…”

Cerryl frowned. Myral had said the tariff for large outland merchants was a twentieth, but it had been collected as a tenth for years, and none in the Guild had known or cared. Somewhere over three years ago, the rate had been raised in Certis to 15 percent. Why? And why then? Wasn’t that when Rystryr became viscount? Or had that been afterward?

He kept riding, headed eastward until he reached a larger street to take him back to the viscount’s palace, still wondering, his gray eyes scanning the streets, the scattered shops, and the mostly shuttered windows.

Cerryl halted the gelding just before the corner of the larger street that led southward to the viscount’s palace. While he didn’t exactly sense chaos, what he did feel was unease, something he could not describe. As he studied the empty street ahead, he mustered chaos around him.

Empty? When has any street in Jellico been empty?

He glanced toward the top of the wall to his left, a good three cubits above his head, even mounted, not a house wall, but a wall enclosing a courtyard of some sort.

A dark figure peered over the wall, bearing something…

Cerryl swallowed and flung chaos, then turned to the other side and flung a second wall of chaos fire. Whhhstt!

Sprung! Sprung!

Crossbow bolts and chaos fire met. Both figures on the walls vanished.

Clunk! Clunk!

The crossbow bolts clattered along the damp paving stones. Belatedly Cerryl could feel the rain begin to mist down around him, so light as to barely cause a twinge in his skull.

Cerryl raised the light-blurring screen and simultaneously urged his mount ahead and around the corner, raising yet more chaos, but the street remained empty for almost a block. He was breathing heavily as he rode carefully southward for a block. The street ahead, across the way that he knew led eastward to the market, was also empty, and he turned eastward to find a less direct-and more crowded-way back to the palace.

After another few hundred cubits, with the main square in sight, he reined up, leaving the light-blurring screens up. He remained on the gelding, trying to catch his breath.

He sniffed, smelling something beyond the sewage and filth and roasting fowl, something burning. Two wagons, each pulled by a single horse, careened down the street into the Market Square and then eastward. A building was burning to the northeast of the square, down the street where the trader Freidr had his establishment. Cerryl swallowed, then eased his mount in the direction of the wagons, reining up once more well back of the building where flames flickered from a single window.

A group of men in gray threw buckets of water on the roofs of the surrounding buildings, then, as the fire did not seem to grow, began to dump buckets on the warehouse itself. The rain began to fall even more heavily, and cold water seeped down the back of Cerryl’s neck. He shivered in the saddle but did not urge the gelding any nearer to the dying fire or the men who fought it. The thin blonde woman sobbed under the overhang of the cooper’s shop, holding an infant while Cerryl watched.

To Cerryl’s surprise, the fire guttered out, but he realized part of that was because the fire had apparently started in the office and the office walls were stone. The combination of the rain and the bucket brigade had managed to quench the flames before they spread.

Cerryl nodded to himself-chaos fire.

Still keeping the blur screen up, he turned his mount and headed back toward the viscount’s palace. Once inside the second courtyard, he reined up outside the stable and dismounted.

“Ser?” asked an ostler he did not know or recognize.

“I’m Cerryl, returning my mount for grooming and stabling.” He offered a polite smile.

“Oh…you be one of the mages. Yes, ser. I’ll be taking him, then, and Firkflat will be back shortly.”

Cerryl could sense the confused groom was telling the truth and handed over the reins. “Thank you.”

“Our duty, ser. Our duty.” The groom bowed.

Cerryl inclined his head in response, then slipped through the doorway and up the steps toward his own room-still as stark and empty as ever. Where was Shyren’s room-and was the mage around? Again, Cerryl could offer many reasons for his suspicions of Shyren, but not a single featherweight of proof.

Cerryl wasn’t about to ask anyone, because everyone remembered a mage who asked questions. Rather, he decided to continue his explorations of the viscount’s palace.

The corridors of the wing that held the formal dining hall were deserted, except for a single guard, who barely looked up as Cerryl walked past briskly, his pace indicating he was in a hurry to reach a definite destination. While the dining wing held other chambers, including what seemed to have been a council space of sorts, all were empty.

Cerryl moved to the next wing, the old wing, where he passed two guards, directly inside the entry arch, both of whom studied him and dismissed him as he started up the stone staircase that was roughly four cubits wide, not wide enough for an official staircase yet seemingly too wide for mere servitors to use.

Shyren’s apartments were on the second floor of the old wing of the palace. At least, Cerryl would have called it old from the sense of aged chaos exuding from the stones.

The young mage glanced up and down the narrow corridor, but there was no one around. The door was secured by a simple bronze lock, one Cenyl recognized. A sewer lock, for darkness’ sake! Just like all the locks that guarded the sewers of Fairhaven and, like them, filled with a knot of chaos. But the lock was not closed, just turned so that it appeared closed.

Cerryl frowned, then shuddered as his chaos senses discovered the less obvious line of chaos-a line of force strong enough to destroy even a strong mage, were such a mage caught unaware.

Cerryl wrapped the light-blurring screen around himself, then eased up to the trapped lock and slid away the two concentrations of chaos. He studied the door again before opening it and leaving it ajar.

Finally, he slipped inside, smiling wryly as he quickly surveyed the room-or rooms. The anteroom contained an inlaid desk with a matching wooden armchair and a thick red velvet cushion. On each side of the desktop was a polished bronze lamp. There were two matching onyx inkstands and a quill holder as well. Three golden oak bookshelves stretching nearly five cubits high and each one almost as wide were set against the rear stone wall, and all three were packed with leather-bound volumes.

His ears and senses alert for anyone approaching, Cerryl slipped into the second room-the bedchamber. A heavy and dark red velvet curtain blocked most of the light from the wide window, but even without the light, Cerryl could see the high bedstead that did not fill a fifth part of the room. The hangings on the high four-postered bed were red and golden satins, and filmy golden silks screened the bed itself. A diaphanous gown lay across the red velvet cushion that turned the long chest at the foot of the bed into a settee of sorts.

To the right of the man-high hearth opposite the bed was a small table, set for a dinner for two.

Cerryl stopped studying the furnishings and began to use his senses to survey the room. Even more chaos lay within the chest by the bed-chaos and metal. The young mage swallowed. The chest was literally filled with gold. He could sense that without even touching the ancient and polished white oak. He could also feel an even larger mass of chaos coiled under the lid of the chest.

With a nod, he turned. What he had discovered would have to do. He dared not linger longer.

Shyren’s quarters were far more opulent than the High Wizard’s, and no wonder, with all the gold the old mage possessed.

As Cerryl replaced the lock and the two chaos traps, he wanted to smile. Shyren had one problem. As a White mage, he had to keep at least some, if not all, of his gains near him. Who else dared he trust with such an amount of gold?

Clutching the light-blurring screen, Cerryl turned back down the corridor, descending the stairs and passing the guards on his way back out into the front courtyard.

Behind him, he could hear the low voices of the guards.

“Who was that?”

“I don’t know…looked like he belonged here. One of Dursus’s people, I guess.”

“Too many folk we don’t know these days.”

Cerryl nodded. He hoped so.

Back in his room, he took out the glass and laid it on the worn green braided rug and searched for Shyren, finding the mage in the viscount’s chambers. Almost before the mists had fully parted and revealed the image of Shyren in one of the council chambers with Dursus and the viscount, Cerryl let the screeing glass turn blank.

Then he put the glass away and stepped out into the hall.

“You’re as wet as a drowned cat.” Fydel stood by the door to his own chamber. “Where have you been?”

“Riding in Jellico, trying to learn the city.” Cerryl paused, but only momentarily, noting that Fydel appeared almost as wet as he did. “You’ve been out, too.”

“Making arrangements to ensure nothing disturbs our efforts against Spidlar.” Fydel shrugged. “I’m going to talk with Teras-in the rear courtyard by the building where the viscount meets with all his ministers. Do you want to come? You probably ought to. Someone ought to know about the provisions’ plans besides me. Neither Jeslek nor Anya will pay any attention.” Fydel’s tone was bitter, as it often seemed to be, reflected Cerryl.

Why not? That’s about where you want to go. “If I won’t be in the way.”

“No. You might as well hear what you’ll have to do sooner or later, anyway.” The square-bearded mage gave a faint smile and turned, as if expecting Cerryl to follow him.

Cerryl did. If Fydel’s errand didn’t lead him to where he could find Shyren, he’d find some other pretext. It couldn’t be that hard.

He didn’t have to invent another pretext, for as they crossed the second courtyard, on the side under the overhang that protected them from the rain, another figure in white appeared, heading in the opposite direction, but on the far side of the courtyard.

“Fydel…I need just a word with Shyren.”

“I’ll wait here-if you won’t be long.”

“Only a moment.” Cerryl turned and angled toward the heavy older mage through the rain that had turned to drizzle.

Shyren slowed, then stopped.

“Mage Shyren.” Cerryl inclined his head.

“Young Cerryl, you seemed to be headed toward me.” Shyren smiled falsely. “And how has your stay in Jellico been thus far?”

“Rather unsettling, I must admit. Some fellows let loose with crossbow quarrels-aimed at me, I fear.”

“You do not seem terribly injured. Are you certain that you were the target?”

Cerryl shrugged. “There was no one else upon the street, and the white jacket of a mage is difficult to mistake.” Cerryl shrugged. “Unless they might have been seeking another. You wouldn’t have any idea who else they might have sought?”

“It is to avoid such mishaps that I have made it a practice never to ride the streets. Carriages are much less prone to slings and arrows, as it were. Mages should stick to magery, not adventure, especially not adventure in unfamiliar cities.”

With his senses concentrated on Shyren, Cerryl could feel the twisting, the deception, not quite like a lie, and he wanted to nod. Instead, he inclined his head, blocking all of his own feelings and responding as if he were accepting in a heartfelt way Shyren’s words. “So you had told me, and while I had thought that I might make Jellico less unfamiliar, it appears that your advice was most correct. I intend to remain within both the walls of the palace and the exact dimensions of my assignment here as an assistant to Mage Fydel.” He inclined his head in the direction of the archway where Fydel stood. “Perhaps that will ensure less attention.”

“I can assure you that so long as you confine yourself to that charge any attention you receive will be far more to your benefit. Few appreciate mages extending their talents to where they are unnecessary and unwanted. Especially young mages.” A sympathetic smile, false as those that preceded it, filled the heavyset mage’s face.

“I do appreciate your advice, ser Shyren, and will follow it most scrupulously.” Cerryl bowed. “These recent events have made clear its value.”

“Ah…yes…I am glad you have found that. We all need to do that which we do best. I am most certain Jeslek will be pleased with this…” A last smile crossed the older mage’s lips. “Now, if you will excuse me, as I am tending to a difficulty facing the prefect…”

“Of course.” Cerryl bowed and scraped once more, obsequiously.

“What was that all about?” asked Fydel as Cerryl returned.

“I was conveying to Shyren the value of his advice.”

Fydel raised his eyebrows but did not speak. Then he turned, and Cerryl followed him, conscious that Shyren’s eyes followed him, for all that the older mage had spoken of needing to be excused.