The White Order (31 page)

Cerryl woke almost clutching at his throat, feeling, sensing chaos everywhere. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and he had a hard time swallowing for a moment.

   His eyes traversed the darkness of his small cell, but it remained as always - the desk with the books, the stool, the table, the unlit lamp, and the cold stone floor - all empty.

   He swallowed again, then eased from under his blanket toward the door, standing with his hand on the latch, shivering in his smallclothes. After a moment of thought, he decided against opening the door but just listened.

   Had he heard the whisper of footsteps on the polished stone of the corridor? Or was that the wind outside the halls?

   He sniffed. Even through the door he could smell the faint odor of sandalwood and flowers, and his senses told him that someone in the corridor had warped or twisted light somehow.

   The faintest snick of a lifted latch-had he heard that, or was it his overactive imagination?

   Anya? Visiting Faltar again?

   Briefly, the corners of his mouth lifted in the darkness as he thought how he would react if someone slipped into his room. Say someone like Leyladin...

   He swallowed and pushed that thought away as he sensed, almost like a white shadow, a looming but partly shielded chaos presence, farther away-where, he couldn't sense, but not too far. And that chaos presence was definitely watching.

   Cerryl swallowed. Anya was visiting Faltar, and Cerryl had no doubts about what kind of visits the redhead was making, and someone was watching Anya, and both were hiding their presence.

   The thin-faced-and cold-footed-young man slipped back from his door to his bed, easing his blanket back around him, trying to let his feet warm up as his thoughts swirled in his head.

   What did Anya want of Faltar-a mere student? Mere sexual pleasure? Somehow, recalling Anya's smile and the coolness beneath it, Cerryl doubted that.

   Should he tell Faltar? How much should he say? Or should he just wait? What else can you do but wait. Wait and learn ... and hope.

   He turned over, wrapping the blanket tighter about him, but sleep was long in returning.

“How did those mathematicks problems go with Esaak?” asked Faltar, taking a swig of ale from his mug, then following it with a mouthful of the crusty hot bread. “I managed to figure out most of them.” Cerryl sipped the mug of water. Ale was something he couldn't swallow in the morning. Cheese and bread were bad enough, but trying to handle chaos fire on an empty stomach was worse. He broke off another chunk of bread and ate it slowly, his eyes on the oiled and polished white oak table that had turned a burnished gold over the years.

   “Esaak wants everyone to know how much water the sewers can carry and how you determine how strong a wall or bridge is.”

   “Walls and bridges?” blurted Cerryl.

   “Those are next,” affirmed Faltar, attacking another chunk of hard yellow cheese. “He says being a mage isn't just wielding chaos-force. Oh, and Derka says I'll start doing sewers pretty soon, maybe before you finish. He has to talk to Myral.”

   “It's not exactly fun,” demurred Cerryl.

   “That's what he says.”

   As he chewed the fresh bread, Cerryl looked at Kesrik, not so much with his eyes as with his senses. The stocky blond sat at the corner table with the red-haired Kochar and the goateed Bealtur, and at that moment, none were looking toward Cerryl or Faltar. Then Cerryl turned his scrutiny to Kinowin, who stood over the table where Esaak had been eating alone.

   Cerryl blinked, then looked more at Esaak. Clearly, a far greater chaos power surrounded Kinowin-although far less than Cerryl would have guessed-than the other two, and even the aging Esaak blazed with power compared to Kesrik. Cerryl glanced at Faltar the same way.

   “What's the matter? You have a funny look,” mumbled Faltar.

   “Just thinking.”

   “About what?”

   About chaos power and who shows it. “All sorts of things. Esaak, Kinowin, Kesrik.”

   “Sometimes you think too much.” Faltar swallowed the last of the ale in his mug.

   Cerryl tried not to wince at the thought of starting the day with ale, glancing at Lyasa, who walked into the meal hall with Leyladin. Lyasa, like Faltar, showed a modicum of chaos. The red-golden-haired Leyladin flickered with what Cerryl sensed as flecks or streaks of white that seemed to swirl in and through an unseen black mist that enshrouded the blonde. Was that what a black mage looked, felt like? Black mists? Cerryl quickly looked down at his platter as Leyladin's eyes swept toward him.

   “Too bad she's a black,” murmured Faltar.

   “I thought you were more interested in Anya,” countered Cerryl in a low tone.

   Faltar flushed.

   “She's beautiful,” agreed Cerryl. But so are lances and daggers. “Anya, I meant.”

   “I got who you meant.”

   “Even if I were a full mage, I think I'd walk carefully with her ” Cerryl murmured.

   “I didn't ask...” Faltar looked hard at Cerryl. “You aren't a full mage.”

   “You're right.” Cerryl forced a smile. “Anyway ... different women appeal to different men.” He paused. “It's your choice. When the time comes, Faltar, the best of luck to you.”

   “Oh... thank you. I'm sorry. I must have ... never mind.”

   “It is one of those mornings, I think. Have you heard about any more lancers going places?”

   “No one's saying, but there aren't many left in the barracks out back.” Faltar mumbled through a mouthful of bread. “I overheard Kinowin talking about some armsmen from Hydlen. I thought he said twenty score.”

   “Twenty score? That's a lot. It seems like a lot to me.”

   Faltar laughed. “You know Eliasar took twice that with him? And that doesn't count the lancers in the south barracks outside Fairhaven. There are ten times as many there as here.”

   “A good number.” Something like four thousand white lancers? No wonder Fairhaven needed the road tariffs.

   “That's why we need the tariffs. Fairhaven is what holds Candar together, and the Guild holds Fairhaven together.” Faltar nodded sagely, blond hair flopping onto his forehead and spoiling the effect. He stood. “I have to meet with Broka. Bones and more bones.”

   Cerryl stood more slowly, his eyes drifting toward the table where Lyasa and Leyladin sat. Neither glanced toward him as he left the meal hall.

   As he walked across the courtyard, past the fountain and the spray that seemed chill with the wind, despite the bright spring sun, he had the feeling that every time he learned more about Fairhaven, there was more to learn, and so much no one talked about. So much wasn't in the books, either, like the amount of chaos that surrounded some people.

   Lyasa and even Faltar-even the new student Kochar-showed far more chaos power than Kesrik. Yet Jeslek seemed to favor Kesrik.

   Cerryl made his way through the front hall, past the closed doors to the meeting hall, across the foyer to the tower steps and past the pair of guards. Hertyl gave him a faint smile, and Cerryl smiled back.

   At the second landing, Cerryl rapped on Myral's door.

   “Come in.”

   Cerryl opened the heavy door, smelled the spiced cider, and close the door behind him.

   Myral sipped his usual steaming cider, though the room was comfortable, at least to Cerryl, and the shutters were half-open, showing a sunlit view of Fairhaven to the north of the tower.

   Cerryl glanced from the window to the wall of bookshelves and then to the older mage, seated at the table.

   “Have some cider.”

   “Thank you.” Cerryl slipped into the chair across from Myral, pouring cider into the spare mug and taking a sip. Cider was far better than plain water or ale in the morning.

   “How are you coming?”

   “Another few days, and I'll have finished the secondary to where it joins the western branch of the main runnel.”

   Myral's eyebrows lifted. “You're moving faster.”

   “Yes, ser. It's been hard work.”

   Myral nodded to himself, sipped his cider, coughed, and cleared his throat. “Have you found anything else interesting?”

   “Besides branches near the grates, a few soggy chunks of vellum scraped clean ... no.”

   “No bodies ... weapons, or scrap iron?”

   “No, ser.” Cerryl frowned. “Scrap iron?”

   “Sometimes it happens. Don't use chaos-fire on it. You're not ready for that.” Myral set down the mug and stretched. “These old bones get stiff. I'll be glad when summer comes. I might even want to go to Ruzor-for a visit-or somewhere warm.”

   “Ruzor?”

   “Everywhere east of the Westhorns where there's a port, there's a member of the brotherhood and a detachment of lancers. Ruzor gets a great deal of trade from Southport and Summerdock, even from Recluce. Especially from Recluce.” Myral's eyebrows waggled.

   “Ser ... everyone talks around Recluce. Why? I mean, Eliasar laughs about Recluce. He says they have no warships, and they haven't ever-I mean, according to the histories-they haven't tried to send armsmen to take things here, not since Creslin the Black raided Lydiar, and that was a long time ago ...”

   “Two hundred eighty-seven years ago at the first turn of summer, according to the records.”

   “Oh.”

   “It's in the Guild records, the sealed ones, but you can figure it out from the histories.” Myral's eyes hardened and focused on the younger mage. “Cerryl... power is measured not solely by warships and arms-men.” Myral coughed again, almost rackingly, cleared his throat, and sipped more of the hot cider. “Fairhaven maintains armsmen and lancers, and they are paid in part by the trade duties on all the roads Fairhaven has built, but especially on the Great White Highways, and in part from the levies on the trades here in Fairhaven itself. Have you asked what happens if Recluce sends cheaper wool-or better wool for the same coinage for a stone's bundle of wool-to Tyrhavven or Spidlaria? What if the traders of Gallos or Spidlar buy their wool from Recluce instead of Montgren? Or pearapples or oilseeds from Recluce instead of from Certis or Hydlen?”

   “Not so many traders use the roads?”

   “Exactly.” Myral set the mug on the table with a thump. “Less traders on the Great White Roads means fewer road tariffs and fewer coins to pay our lancers.”

   “Could we not tariff the cargoes from Recluce?”

   “Ah...” Myral smiled. “Someone could ... but the port of Spidlaria does not owe allegiance to Fairhaven. Lydiar and Renklaar do, and we could insist on tariffs there. But... say you are a trading captain, and the taxes raise the price of your cargo in Lydiar but not in Spidlaria, would you not increase your price less than the tariff and-”

   “Port it in Spidlaria?” asked Cerryl.

   The older mage nodded. “It is more complex than that, young Cerryl, and something you need not worry about yet, but that was exactly why Creslin the Black raided Lydiar those long years ago. He needed ships and freedom to trade. Now ... Recluce has both.” Myral smiled sadly. “Sterol is talking about how we may need to place mages aboard our ships-and those of our friends and allies-to protect them. I hope it does not come to that, but it may.”

   “Eliasar said we were building warships,” Cerryl prompted.

   “We have always had warships. A land that cannot protect its traders upon the seas soon has no traders. Now ... enough of that. You need to get to work if you are to complete your duties as you plan.”

   “Which sewer tunnels did Kesrik clean?” Cerryl asked after a moment of silence.

   “Does it matter?” A soft smile crossed Myral's lips, one that bothered Cerryl. “You all clean secondaries.”

   “I was curious.” Cerryl forced a shrug. “Did he-I guess it doesn't matter.”

 
 “It matters to you, or you wouldn't have asked.” Myral's tone was dry.

   “Yes, ser.”

   “You know, Cerryl... you blaze too much.”

   Cerryl's mouth started to open, and he swallowed, almost choking on the bit of cider he hadn't swallowed.

   “This should come later, but, if I don't tell you now, you may not be around later.” Myral took a deep breath and glanced toward the tower door. “Jeslek has gone to Gallos, and Sterol and Anya are otherwise occupied-for the moment.”

   “When a mage feels strongly or is about to gather chaos and does not shield himself, the chaos around him flares-or blazes. That's one reason why Jeslek always seems so powerful. Chaos almost radiates from him. Sterol is almost as powerful, yet he seems mild, withdrawn. He shields his power, much as you shield yourself from chaos in the sewer-or maybe it's better described as ordering chaos so that it is held rather than dispersed.” Myral shrugged. “Right now, you're like a young Jeslek, spraying power everywhere. If you hadn't been an orphan or a scrivener's apprentice, where no one thought to look, Sterol would have slapped you into the creche years ago-or had you suffocated.”

   Cerryl waited.

   “Sterol's worried about Recluce-again, and for the reasons I just told you. You can thank the blacks and the new prefect of Gallos for your survival, I suspect. But... you're a possible rival to Jeslek. Once Sterol goes, Jeslek won't want you around.”

   “Me, ser?”

   “I said possible. Right now, Jeslek would snuff you out like a candle. You have no shields to speak of, and you still haven't figured out how to use your power. It's not easy, as you're finding out. Some mages finish sewer duty almost burned out; they exhaust themselves rather than learn. In any case, why do you think Sterol wanted you in the sewers? It was Sterol's idea, not Jeslek's, no matter what the great Jeslek said.” Myral wiped his suddenly damp forehead.

   “So I could learn?”

   “So you would have to learn.” Myral's tone turned dry again. “Let us hope you have. And, by the way.” Myral stood and walked to the bookshelves, where he extracted a rolled scroll. He carried the scroll back to the table where he unrolled the sewer map. “Here are the two collectors that Kesrik was told to scour the last time.” The rotund mage leaned over the unrolled map and pointed.

   Cerryl fixed the locations in his mind.

   “I didn't tell you. And I can lie convincingly, even to Jeslek. It's one of my few strong abilities.” Myral smiled bitterly. “Now... on your way. And work upon shielding just how much power you have-if you want to keep it.”

   “Yes, ser.” Cerryl stood, almost in a daze.

   The entire walk to the secondary collector was like another dream, though he remembered talking to Jyantyl and feeling the cool wind that blew down the avenue out of the north.

   He barely recalled unlocking the bronze grate and descending into the all-too-familiar odors of the tunnel.

   Cerryl looked into the darkness of the collector tunnel. In a way, it seemed like no matter what he discovered, he was still always looking into the darkness. Was life looking into the darkness?

   He blazed too much... and it was important enough that Myral had told him-told him while being most nervous. He blazed too much, and Jeslek would snuff him out like a candle. He blazed too much.

   If he blazed, as Myral put it, was that because he was still holding too much chaos within and around himself? Could he do otherwise? Could he not do otherwise ... if he wished to survive?

   Cerryl took a deep breath and looked once more into the darkness of the tunnel... a darkness that stretched well beyond where the secondary tunnel met the main tunnel.