Colors of Chaos

XCVIII

CERRYL LOOKED DOWN at the glass on the trestle table, a table narrower than the table he had used in the last cot he had appropriated. Both table and cot were newer as well-but not much-and equally battered. The glass had turned up blank, as had every other attempt he had made for more than an eight-day.

He massaged his forehead, then closed his eyes, becoming more aware of the mixed odors of manure and cook-fire smoke drifting in through the open cot doorway on the warm early-morning breeze. With the smoke came the odor of cooked mutton-always cooked mutton. Cerryl even missed the hard cheese, now that the last of that had been eaten.

No sign of any more Spidlarians…why? After nearly a season of chasing the blue lancers, there were no more to be found. One battle-and that wiped out all that they could send to southeast Spidlar? Or were they mustering a far larger force? It couldn’t be Cerryl’s failure to scree, not when he could still call up Leyladin’s image or that of the red-haired smith Dorrin in Diev.

Cerryl opened his eyes, trying to ignore the faint headache that never seemed to fade completely anymore. Then he stood and stretched.

A message to Jeslek, that was what he needed to write and send off, stating the apparent situation and asking if the High Wizard needed Cerryl and his lancers. He walked slowly to the cot doorway and then across the hoof-packed clay toward the cook fires. The hard biscuits he had eaten at dawn weren’t enough, and he needed more to eat. He would have to choke down the strong-tasting mutton, like it or not.

“Some mutton, ser?” asked the lancer cook.

“Yes, thank you.” Cerryl took the fat-dripping chunk, leaning forward as he chewed off a tough mouthful to keep the grease from his whites.

“Any sign of more Spidlarians?” The broad-shouldered Hiser stepped toward the slender White mage.

Ferek turned from where he stood on the far side of the cook-fire ring, gnawing on a chunk of the dark meat, waiting for Cerryl’s answer.

“There aren’t any close. They’re all around Elparta, or downriver at Kleth.”

“Don’t make sense,” mumbled Ferek. “We’re easier pickings than the High Wizard and all those Certan levies.”

“There aren’t that many around Elparta,” Cerryl said.

“Beats me, then, why it be that the High Wizard hasn’t taken the place.”

“He’s trying not to level it, I’d guess,” Cerryl said.

“Didn’t stop him none at Axalt,” pointed out Ferek, with a hoarse laugh that cracked.

“Mayhap that be why,” answered Hiser. “Having the river and the piers’d make our task the easier.”

Cerryl took another bite of the mutton, wondering whether that were the entire reason. Or had the Black armsleader been more difficult to find and subdue than Jeslek had initially calculated?

“He don’t take Elparta soon, and we’ll be here like all winter and then a fair piece.” Ferek’s voice was dry. “We be not getting many of the lancers and levies from Hydlen, either.”

“Those in Hydolar care only for their own lands and coins,” Hiser said, adding after a laugh, “and everyone else’s women.”

“Sons of clipped-coined cutpurses, every one,” Ferek declared, “’cept those who like their sows better than their women.”

Cerryl shook his head, if minutely. A long and hot summer going nowhere was leading to a long fall and winter, with short supplies and shorter tempers among the lancers.