The White Order (43 page)

Cerryl peered through the cool fall drizzle, wishing he'd brought a true waterproof. The leather jacket was hot, and tended to soak up the misting rain after a time, but the rain was too cool to ride through in just his shirt and white tunic.

   Ahead, to the north, a narrow stone bridge arched over the river. Beyond the river, a wagon drawn by a single horse creaked past the browning grass of the roadside meadows toward still-distant Fenard.

   The student mage eased out the map and looked at it. “That's the River Gallos, I think.”

   “Is that close to Fenard?” asked Ludren.

   “Not that close,” Cerryl said. “We'd see more people on the road. Fenard is a big place.”

   Cerryl wasn't looking forward to reaching Fenard. He couldn't afford not to succeed because if he survived without carrying out Jeslek's charge to him, Sterol would say that Cerryl should have confronted Jeslek immediately. But Jeslek would have tried to destroy Cerryl, and Cerryl wasn't certain he was strong enough yet to hold off Jeslek's power.

   He laughed softly to himself. Who was he deceiving? Jeslek would have turned Cerryl into ashes if he'd refused to undertake the task-and then told everyone that Cerryl had attacked him, or some such. There was a reason Anya and Fydel weren't anywhere around when Cerryl left. Doubtless, Jeslek would claim that Cerryl had run away- or something. As for the lancers, they were the ones no one would miss-probably listed as lost on a scouting mission. Lost to hostile Gallosians, providing another reason for bringing the force of Fairhaven to bear on the prefect.

   “Ser? Begging your pardon ... ?”

   “What's so funny? Nothing, really, I guess.” Yet it was all absurd. Once he got close to Fenard, he'd have to rely on the invisibility trick to get into the city. He'd tried it at night, when the lancers weren't looking, and he thought he had it mastered, although he worried that the shield might cause the air to waver, like the one time when he had seen Anya use it. Yet... he had no other alternatives.

   If he could get inside Fenard, he'd need some kind of cloak to cover his whites ...

   Cerryl shook his head. At the moment, he wasn't certain how close he could even get to Fenard before the Gallosian lancers or armsmen or whatever showed up. He looked at the bridge, then at the map. From what he could determine, they were still a day and a half from Fenard.

   “Another two days, almost.” He rubbed his chin, conscious that he had a beard, but one all too scraggly-and no razor. No razor from a certain gray-black mage ... that might have been the last thing he ever received from her. He pushed away the thoughts.

   “Like as we'll never catch Klybel, then, on the return.” Ludren sounded discouraged.

   Cerryl wondered how the overpromoted undercaptain would feel if he knew he was never supposed to catch the rest of the white lancers. “So long as you get back to Fairhaven, it doesn't matter, does it?”

   “I suppose not, ser. And what about you, ser?”

   “I have a task to carry out. Then we'll see.” See what? How you can manage to get back to Fairhaven and manipulate Jeslek and Sterol into making you a full mage? Why? Because the alternatives were worse, at least over time. Fairhaven controlled or would control all the lands east of the Westhorns, and those to the west hated white mages, as did Recluce.

   Cerryl imagined he could live out a life somewhere as a peasant, but it would be a short and miserable life, and he'd seen enough of poverty.

   So ... you'll take on the Guild? And probably get killed in the effort?

   He laughed softly again.

   “Ser?”

   “Nothing. I'm not thinking too well, I guess.” Cerryl folded the map and replaced it inside his jacket. “We've a ways to go.”

The green-blue sky was clear, and the midday sun warm, but not too warm. A light wind, with a hint of chill, blew from the west, from the unseen Westhorns, ruffling the roadside grass, including the few tufts that grew out of the old road wall on the west side of the packed clay, a road wall little more than stacked gray and black stones.

   Something did not feel right, and Cerryl reined up abruptly. A small cot stood less than a kay to the west, and rows of cut stalks lined the field beyond the strip of meadow that bordered the road. A man gathered and bound the straw, not looking toward the road or the travelers.

   A small river meandered from the northwest, and another stone bridge crossed it perhaps three hundred cubits down the road from where Cerryl had stopped. On the far side, low-lying fields, almost like marshes, stretched nearly another a kay before reaching the reddish granite walls of Fenard. A long and low dust cloud rose from the road on the north side of the river, a dust cloud coming from the city.

   Cerryl glanced down at the road, its dust damped by the intermittent fall rains, then across the bridge. Dust meant a lot of riders, and a lot of riders meant lancers.

   Cerryl glanced to his left, toward a low and rolling hill. Several horsemen appeared on the crest, their purple overtunics visible clearly in the sun. He almost sighed as he heard the fumbling and clanking behind him. As he had suspected, his escort did not contain those lancers most accomplished in arms.

   “Ludren! Take your men and ride south-as fast as you can.”

   “Ser?”

   “Ride south as fast as you can,” Cerryl said. “If you hurry, you might outrun all those lancers.”

   “But... we're not to the gates.”

   “If you don't mind, neither do I. Otherwise, we'll all look like Eliasar's straw targets.”

   “The overmage and Klybel said-”

   “Ludren-you stay with me, and you're dead. You may be anyway... Please just go.” Cerryl tried to keep the exasperation from his voice as he looked at the oncoming lancers and watched the archers on the hill begin to string their bows.

   “Ah ... yes, ser. Good luck, ser.” Ludren wheeled his mount. “The mage says we're done, boys, and it's time to go. Best we hurry.”

   “Now he tells us ...”

   “Move!” Ludren gave a half-salute, then spurred his mount.

   Within moments, Cerryl flung the cloak of light or darkness around himself and the chestnut. Using his feel of where order and chaos fell, he could sense his way slowly toward the scrubby tree at the edge of the unfenced meadow land.

   'Wheeee... whuffff...

   “Easy... easy.” Cerryl patted the chestnut on the neck, trying to calm the gelding as he walked his mount slowly off the road, across the shoulder, and through the twisted and browning grass.

   The ground vibrated with the hoofbeats of the Gallosian lancers approaching. He hoped that the faint wavering that appeared-as it had around Anya-with the light cloak would be masked by the wind and the fluttering gray winter leaves of the tree beside which he and the gelding waited.

   There was no point at all in trying to use chaos-fire against the Gallosian horsemen. There were too many, and using flame would alert everyone to the fact that there was a white mage around. Better no one knows you're here.

   As the hoofbeats gradually faded out, Cerryl waited in his self-created blindness and darkness, hoping he could sense the approach of twilight, and worrying about Ludren and the other lancers. He'd needed the diversion, but he hadn't liked using them. You didn't hesitate there.

   In all likelihood, many would have died in combat somewhere ... Are you sure? Or did you choose what benefited you? He nodded. He'd chosen what helped him, and nothing was going to change that. He just hoped he didn't end up like Jeslek and Sterol.

   Although the road seemed silent, Cerryl waited a time longer, conscious of the sweat that oozed down his back. Finally, he released the shield and quickly studied the road and the cot.

   The peasant had disappeared, and smoke rose from the earthen-brick chimney of the cot. The sun hung over the hills to the west, those low hills that led to the Westhorns.

   The road was empty, except for a cart that creaked southward, already past Cerryl and heading toward Southbrook or Tellura or some other town that Cerryl and the lancers had skirted on their ride toward Fenard. No lancers waited on the hilltop.

   Cerryl waited, sipping his water until the sun dropped behind the hills. Only then did he urge his mount toward the river to drink, and then he waited until the sky was nearly full dark before traveling the last kay or so toward Fenard, halting in the gloom several hundred cubits from the gates.

   A half-squad of armsmen or lancers stood under the torches by the gates, waiting, their posture signifying boredom. “Someone's out there . ..”

   Cerryl eased the light shield around him and the chestnut. Did he dare try to walk through the gates-just shielded? Virtually half-blind? He sat on the gelding ... waiting ...

   “Don't see a thing. You get jumpy every time a rat climbs out of the sewer ditches.” One of the guard's voices drifted through the darkness.

   “I did see something.”

   “Any of you others see anything?” Cerryl held his breath.

   “See, Nubver... there's no one out there. Overcaptain Gysto and his lancers even chased out the rats.” Laughter echoed from the walls.

   The guards chatted, but no riders or wagons moved along the road. Finally, bit by bit, Cerryl eased the chestnut, now more at ease in the darkness of the light shield, forward along the road, moving more slowly, more deliberately, once the gelding's hoofs clicked on the paving stones of the causeway that began a mere hundred cubits from the guards. He tried not to think about the madness of what he attempted. One of the guards turned. “You hear something? Like someone walking on the causeway?”

   “I don't see anything. You and Pulsat want to go check ... go check. Probably a rat.”

   Another wave of laughter followed. “Pulsat, come on.”

   Cerryl swallowed, not knowing whether his shield would hold if the guards got too close. He concentrated, then arced a fireball at what felt to be a pile of rubbish to the west of the guards. Whhssttt! Light flared up. “See! There was something.”

   Four of the guards pulled out blades and eased toward the flickering fire that remained near the base of the walls. “Looks like rubbish ...”

   “Maybe a rat set it on fire ...”

   A step at a time, Cerryl guided the chestnut by sense and feel toward the gates and past the remaining pair of guards, both of whom were more interested in the fire than the seemingly empty gates. “Nothing here.”

   “Who set the fire?”

   “... someone drop a torch from the walls?”

   “Why?”

   “Who knows? Report it to Delbur in the morning.”

   With the sweat seeping down his back, Cerryl guided the gelding into the streets of Fenard, turning abruptly at the first corner into a narrower way. Another hundred cubits onward, he released the light shields and just sat on the chestnut, shivering. The street smelled like the sewers of Fairhaven, if not so strongly. The only light was that of the stars and a smoky torch perhaps fifty cubits farther along the street.

   He was in Fenard, with no idea of where the palace or anything was. He wore white garments that would make him an instant target in daylight, and he had but two silvers and a handful of coppers in his purse.

   Cerryl had few doubts that he would find any trace of Sverlik- dead or alive. He also had strong suspicions that Jeslek had already figured that out, well before the overmage had sent Cerryl on his “task.”

   “Out! Out before you wreck it all...”

   The junior mage glanced up where a tall figure staggered out into the street by the torch.

   “A weighty man was he ... was he ... a weighty man was he ...”

   Thud... The sound of a door closing echoed down the street, followed by a brief rustling that Cerryl suspected signified rats.

   “... and a weighty man ... am I... am I...”

   The shadowy figure waddled toward Cerryl, who could see that the drunkard was both tall and broad, twice his own bulk, and wearing a capacious cloak. Cerryl had no weapons to speak of, save the short white-bronze knife. Should he turn? But that might put him in view of the gate guards.

   He sat on the chestnut and waited.

   As the reveler staggered toward Cerryl, Cerryl drew the light shield around himself and the chestnut-then released it when the man was less than three cubits away.

   “Weighty ... man... am I-where did you come from, fellow?”

   Cerryl recloaked himself and his mount, easing the chestnut sideways slightly, so that the reveler would walk by, rather than run into the horse. He drew out his knife. The heavy man stood there for a moment, then scratched his head. “If that's how ... you want it...” He started past the concealed mage.

   As he passed, Cerryl reached down and grabbed the long cloak, slicing the ties.

   The heavy man turned, coming up with a truncheonlike club, but Cerryl and the cloak had vanished.

   Cerryl rode slowly down the street, past the smoking torch, and turned left at the next, and broader, way where he stopped and fastened the long cloak over his white jacket. The long cloak covered his upper body and most of his trousers.

   Then he urged the chestnut on. The buildings were mostly of two stories, with plaster and timber fronts, and the second stories protruded a cubit or two farther into the street than the ground-floor levels. A foggy mist swirled around the buildings, a mist that bore the odor of open sewers and fires.

   Someone was ahead. Cerryl swallowed, and gathered chaos, hoping he did not have to use it.

   The small figure scurried down a side alley, and Cerryl took a deep breath. The next block was not quite so dark, though there were no lamps or torches hung, because blotches of light fell into the street from the windows or shutters of the dwellings on the left.

   The scrape of boots on the cobblestones brought his attention closer. Two figures darted from the shadows of the alley on the left that he had not really noticed.

   “Fellow ... you'll be surrendering that mount-and your purse.”

   Cerryl glanced at the pair. Both wore tattered shirts and trousers, and wide belts with scabbards. Both bore midlength iron blades. No others were near them. “I'm sorry.”

   “Not so sorry as you're going to be.” The bigger man, nearly as tall as Kinowin, laughed.

   Cerryl smiled sadly, gathering chaos.

   Whsstt Whsst!

   The big man toppled. The smaller man stood for a moment, his mouth opening

   “White-!”

   Whhhstt!.

   Cerryl swayed in the saddle, then forced himself to dismount. He glanced up and down the alley, but the narrow way was dark and empty-with only a hint of a lamp or torch reflected on the corner of the building nearest the main way.

   Splushh ... His right boot went into the sewer ditch. “Darkness ...”

   His chaos-aided night vision helped as he stripped the smaller man and cut both purses and took a scabbard and blade he could scarcely use.

   He kept looking around as he dusted the ragged trousers with chaos and then pulled them on over his own white trousers, but no one appeared. After belting the scabbard in place and sheathing the blade, careful not to touch the cold iron, he cleaned his boots as well as he could and remounted. Then, still scanning the area, he checked the purses. Three silvers and a handful of coppers.

   That the two would have killed him was clear, but that he had profited from their deaths nagged at him-and such a little profit. Was a man worth more than a pair of silvers? Yet Jeslek had sent him off to certain death, one way or another, for less than that. And had sent Ludren as well.

   Yet, was Cerryl any better? He'd used the lancers as a decoy. Still, they had a chance. He'd given them that, a better chance, he hoped, than Jeslek had given him.

   He took a deep breath and resumed the ride down the larger street, trying to be more careful, until he reached the main road again, where he turned right and continued toward the middle of Fenard.

   The main street had more traffic-men with guards and lamp bearers, a carriage with guards-but no one really scrutinized the thin cloaked figure. Cerryl finally found what he sought.

   The signboard bore an image illuminated by a single torch-that of a yellow-colored bowl. Cerryl rode past the door and toward what looked to be an archway to a courtyard and a stable.

   “Ser? Late you are.”

   “Aye ...” Cerryl roughened his voice. “Late ... any man would be in this warren.”

   The stable boy shrank back as Cerryl dismounted.

   “There's room here?”

   “Was last time I heard, ser.”

   “Good.” Cerryl flipped a copper to the lad. “That's for you, if you take good care of him. If you do, there's another. If you don't...”

   “Thank you, ser. Thank you. I'll call Prytyk.”

   Cerryl unfastened the pack and bedroll.

   The stable boy whistled, twice, and by the time Cerryl had his gear in hand, a squat figure in soiled gray had appeared under the lamp by the stable door.

   “A room? This late?”

   Cerryl's eyes blazed.

   The squat man backed away, his eyes going from Cerryl's face to the blade at the young mage's hip and back to his face. He swallowed. “Tonight?”

   “Tonight and tomorrow. Alone.”

   “A single-that be a silver a night.”

   “And fare?”

   “And fare, but no drink.”

   Cerryl nodded and extended a silver. “The rest when I leave.”

   The innkeeper's eyes went to the blade again, then to Cerryl's face. “Guess I can trust you.”

   “That you can, innkeeper.” Cerryl forced confidence into his voice but kept it soft and low. “So long as you keep yours.”

   “You...” Cerryl looked into the muddy brown eyes, raising chaos as he did.

   “Yes, ser.”