The White Order (45 page)

   “Yes, Subprefect, ser.” The officer's boots clicked on the stone.

   Cerryl reminded himself to step lightly as he followed the dignitary. He walked carefully behind the guards who trailed the subprefect, trying to keep his steps in the same rhythm as theirs, hoping no one stopped too quickly.

   The journey was surprisingly short, just into a foyer, and then down a corridor for perhaps fifty cubits, and then up three flights of steps, and back down another corridor for another fifty cubits or so. The entourage halted before a set of double doors guarded by a pair of arms-men.

   Cerryl stopped as they did, amazed that no one had looked around, but, then, perhaps everyone felt watched or followed in a palace.

   “Subprefect Syrma, at the prefect's request.”

   “We will inform him, ser.”

   The doors opened and closed.

   Cerryl eased up closer to the guards, standing to one side, wagering that they would not accompany Syrma into the study.

   The study doors opened again. “The prefect will see you, ser.”

   The guards stepped to the left, and Cerryl barely managed to slip around them to the right, and then inside. He swallowed and stepped wide around another set of guards, glad he was almost right behind the subprefect. One of the guards stiffened as his eyes flicked around, then slowly relaxed.

   Cerryl edged along the bookcases to the left of the door before the guards closed them with a firm thump. He kept sliding along the bookcases and around a table to the left of the broad wooden desk behind which sat the prefect. At least he hoped the figure behind the desk was the prefect. That was the problem with navigating totally through chaos senses.

   “You requested my presence, Prefect.”

   “Syrma... you have deigned to appear. How kind of you.” The voice was resonant and cruel. Lyam didn't seem that much older than Cerryl, although Cerryl could not see him, properly speaking. “Why were you delayed?”

   “There was a report of a white mage in the city last night.”

   Cerryl's heart seemed to contract as he waited in the dim corner behind the table.

   “The fellow was drunk, but he swore he saw a man all in white on a horse, and the fellow disappeared and took his cloak.”

   “You cannot be serious.” Lyam began to laugh. “You would bother me with such nonsense?”

   “You asked to be told of all reports of what the whites might be doing ... sire.”

   “I was talking about matters that were real-like those mountains, and those mages who slaughtered that idiot Jerost's whole force, or that squad of white lancers south of here. What happened to them, anyway?”

   “We killed them, as you instructed. They must have been scouts- just an undercaptain and ten armsmen.”

   Cerryl winced but kept silent, standing in the corner formed by two of the ceiling-to-floor bookcases, hoping no one looked his way and noticed the slight wavering of the air that often accompanied the light shield.

   “They weren't any trouble, unlike the old mage.” The subprefect bowed, but only slightly.

   “The mage wasn't that much trouble-just heavy iron-tipped arrows from a distance ...”

   “It took a dozen, sire, and we lost half the bowmen. He was casting fire even with all that cold iron in him. You underestimate the wrath and the ability of the mages.”

   “Oh? He's dead, isn't he?”

   “So are six good bowmen, sire.”

   “Nasty people, those whites. We're better off without the mages. All of Candar would be.”

   Cerryl frowned. So how was Lyam any different from Jeslek? Or did all those with power just think they were better than anyone else at ruling?

   “What of the receipts from the Spidlarians?”

   “Two hundred golds this season... so far, and the tax levies on the merchants in the city are fifty golds higher.”

   “That's almost a thousand golds a year, plus what we saved from not paying Fairhaven. Scoundrels-every last one of the whites. Their precious road isn't worth that.” Lyam laughed once more, the same cruel laugh.

   “They think so, and it has been unwise to mock them in the past. Ask Viscount Mystyr.”

   “He's dead, Syrma. What riddle is this?”

   “He died rather soon after he began to oppose the road duties. His brother pays the road duties most faithfully. Viscount Rystryr now receives support in terms of white lancers.”

   “I don't envy him for such support. Nor should you, Syrma.”

   “As you wish, sire. I stand at your command.”

   “Good. Inform me of any other developments with the whites. I'd also like to know when the next lancers will be ready to ride for Yryna.”

   “You will be informed.”

   “Leave me.”

   “As you wish, sire.” The older man turned and stepped out of the room. The doors closed with a dull thud.

   Two guards remained, flanking the inside of the doorway.

   Cerryl studied the room with his senses. There was a railed balcony, but it was three stories up, and from what he could sense, there was no way off it-except for a twenty-odd-cubit fall.

   That left nothing but the obvious.

   Cerryl gathered chaos around him, then dropped the light shield and let the first bolt of lance fire take Lyam in the face and upper chest.

   “Aeiii...” The scream gurgled off into silence.

   Cerryl turned. The second bolt got the first guard. The third bolt went wide as the second guard jumped aside, then flung the door open and ran out into the corridor yelling, “Chaos wizard! Chaos wizard! Frigging chaos wizard!”

   Cerryl ran to the balcony door. Pushing back the hangings around the door, he threw it open and stepped out onto the balcony. There he struggled to get the light shield back around him, before easing back around the hangings and into the paneled study.

   “He killed the prefect and ran for the balcony...”

   “Seal the courtyard! Close the gates. Let no one out.” A figure glittering slightly with random chaos burst into the study, followed by a half-dozen guards.

   Recognizing the modulated voice of the subprefect, Cerryl used his senses to ease his way along the walls toward the double doors. He slipped out the still-open door and onto the polished marble of the corridor. Darkness, he was tired. He just wanted to rest, but that wouldn't have been a very good idea. Syrma had too good an idea of what mages could do, and Cerryl wasn't even a full mage.

   He stayed next to the marble balustrade all the way down to the courtyard level, then hugged the wall as he retraced his steps, half by feel, half by chaos sense, all the way back to the second courtyard.

   Guards milled around the courtyard, and the subprefect's carriage remained where it had been. Slowly, carefully, managing to hang on to the light shield, Cerryl made his way along the walls, back through the archway and into the first courtyard.

   Surprisingly, while the wrought-iron gates were closed, only a single pair of guards remained there.

   Should he wait? No... he was too tired. He edged along the wall on the north side, away from the guards, until he reached the gates. He could climb them, if he didn't get too tired. He couldn't afford to get too tired. He couldn't.

   The gates weren't so high as the wall, and they were crossbarred. He took the first step up to the gate, and his hands tingled as they closed around the crossbars. Each time his fingers closed over the iron bars, the iron burned. Because he'd been using so much chaos? Because he wasn't channeling it properly? He didn't know, only that it hurt, and it was hard because each level up had to be silent and each bar burned. Finally, he reached the curved top of the gate and swung himself over.

   Clung! His boot slipped and struck one of the side bars. “Who's there?” Boots echoed on the courtyard stones. “There's no one there. One of the beggar kids-throwing stones at the gate again.”

   “Enough troubles without them. Wish I'd get my hands on one of them. Teach them a lesson.”

   The steps receded. Cerryl waited, his hands burning, his lungs rasping, before he began to lever himself down. His entire body was aching and trembling before his boots touched the street outside the walls. He forced himself to cross the street with care and slip into the side street, behind the rain barrel, listening until he could hear no one.

   He released the light shield, and the afternoon sun struck him like a blow, and he staggered, putting a hand out to the wall. He just leaned against the wall, panting, aware that his hands burned and his head ached. Finally, he straightened and walked slowly down the narrow street, the sun at his back, toward the cooper's.

   A woman stepped out of a door, saw him, and stepped back inside quickly.

 
  Wonder of wonders, the chestnut was still tied there. He began to untie the reins.

   “That your mount, fellow?”

   Cerryl continued to unfasten the reins as he turned. “Yes.”

   A heavyset man with a leather apron stood under the overhanging eaves that formed a porch of sorts. “Those hitching rings are for customers.”

   “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause you any trouble.” Cerryl fumbled in his wallet. “I don't have much. Would a copper help?”

   “Wouldn't help me. I gave your mount some water. You shouldn't have left him so long.”

   Cerryl looked down. The cooper was right, but Cerryl wasn't sure he'd had that much choice. His head still ached, but he looked at the gray-bearded man. “I'm sorry. Are you sure I couldn't give you something?”

   “No.” The bearded man laughed generously. “You don't look as you'd need a barrel or even a hogshead. Keep your copper; spend it on grain for your beast. Just remember that Mydyr is the best cooper in Fenard-and when you do need barrels, I'd like to see you.”

   “Mydyr-I'll remember.”

   “What's your name?”

   “Cerryl.” Cerryl knew no one in Fenard knew his name, and there was no reason to lie about it. “Thank you. I've got to get going.” He mounted quickly.

   “Don't forget, now.”

   “I won't, ser.” His knees were trembling, and he hoped the cooper didn't see that, or his reddened and burning hands. “I won't.”

   He mounted and rode slowly down the side street, and then around the square, hoping he didn't get lost, and managed to find the main avenue again. It was beginning to fill with carts departing Fenard, and he rode slowly behind a cart with mostly empty baskets, except for one half-filled with maize.

   His legs hurt; his vision kept blurring, and his head throbbed. His hands still burned, feeling both hot and as though they had been bruised. But trying to ride faster would only call more attention to him, and he wasn't sure he could handle any more attention.

   As he neared the gate, he wondered whether he should try to use the light shield to get out of the gate. He shook his head. That would slow him down, and the sooner he was outside the walls the better. If the guards challenged him .. . then ... then he would do what was necessary. As you have all along... no matter the cost to others ...

 
 He swallowed and kept riding.

   The guard waved the maize cart and driver through, then looked at Cerryl lazily. “Where to, fellow?”

   “Tellura ... then maybe Quessa, depending on...”

   “Go... better you be there than here.” The bored-looking fellow waved Cerryl on.

   Was that all there was to it? Was there a chance he would get back to Fairhaven and Leyladin? Would she even care?

   Once past the low-lying fields and over the bridge, he looked back, but the gates remained open, almost as though the city were oblivious to the death of its prefect.

   Although his head felt as though it were being ripped apart by Dylert's big mill saw, he kept riding as the sun dropped behind the western hills, and the sounds of insects rose above the whisper of the wind at his back, a wind that carried the scents of damp autumn earth and molding grasses, and the chill of the winter yet to come.

Cerryl glanced at the still~steaming heights ahead-the hills that Jeslek had raised into mountains. He patted the chestnut on the neck and glanced along the empty Great White Highway.

   After more than five long days, he was back on the Great Highway, and back in the whites of a student mage. He hadn't changed out of his “bravo” disguise until he'd finally been on the Great White Highway for more than a day, but he kept the darker cloak strapped on top of his pack-just in case he ran into some Gallosian armsmen.

   The clouds that moved slowly out of the northeast were thickening, and darkening. He looked up, judging that rain would not fall until midafternoon, and hoping it would not be heavy.

   His hands still hadn't healed totally, and his headache, while it had faded, had not disappeared, and a rainstorm would just make that worse. His thighs threatened to cramp, but hadn't, perhaps because he was getting more used to riding. His neck was stiff-probably from looking over his shoulder to see who might be pursuing him.

   Better think some about what's ahead ...

   His stomach growled, reminding him that he needed to stop and eat something, not that he had all that much to eat. He'd spent most of the remaining coins on travel food at a small town just short of the Great Highway-hoping that the hard cheese and road biscuits would last until he returned to Fairhaven.

   On the road to Tellura, he'd encountered some travelers, but the highway had been vacant, totally vacant. Was that because traders loyal to Fairhaven couldn't sell their goods at a low enough price to compete in Gallos? And because the disloyal ones hadn't paid road tariffs and feared using the roads after Jeslek's destruction of the Gallosian lancers? Or did they fear the prefect's wrath?

   Cerryl held the reins loosely-very loosely. His hands remained tender, especially across the palms, where he'd gripped the gate bars tightly.

   Touching iron didn't usually burn him. Was that because he'd been using chaos energies? Would that bar him from Leyladin? He winced at that thought. Something else you really don't know ... He sighed. There was so much he didn't know, and he wondered if he would ever learn all that he needed.

   His eyes went to the empty road ahead, stretching like a white ribbon into the ugly darkness raised by Jeslek.

   Some things just didn't seem to make sense. How had he been able to kill Lyam so easily? Why hadn't anyone even looked for him? The sometime wavering of the light shield was a giveaway. If anyone knew what it meant...

   He nodded. Was that why the Guild sought out all those with chaos or order talent? To keep the rest of Candar from knowing exactly what the white mages could do? Or had the secrecy just happened and been discovered to be beneficial?

   About the only thing most people knew was that mages could use the screeing glasses to see things and that they could throw chaos-fire- and that black mages could sometimes heal.

   Cerryl laughed. Now they knew that mages could raise mountains. But that was so rare and improbable that in generations to come no one would remember. Cerryl couldn't imagine that the world produced many Jesleks, or very often.

   Again ... the rules of the Guild made sense, although he didn't have to like the way some, like Jeslek, used them to their personal advantage.

   Could you do better?

   Cerryl laughed at the thought. He'd like to try, but the chances of an orphaned scrivener's apprentice becoming an overmage, or especially High Wizard, weren't exactly overwhelming.

   The chestnut whuffed, and Cerryl patted his neck again. “We'll stop for water before long. You can have the last of the grain.”

   The gelding didn't look that thin, but Cerryl wondered. He'd managed to stop where there had been some lush grass, but he doubted that grazing was enough, and he'd not been able to afford as much grain as he'd have liked. He'd tried not to push the pace, letting the gelding carry him easily, knowing that he didn't really know enough about horses, either.

   He held in a sigh, then took a deep breath.

   Jeslek had wanted him to fail. Why? Had Myral been right? That Cerryl was a threat? But Cerryl didn't really want to be High Wizard. He just wanted people to stop trying to get rid of him or push him around, is that so much to ask?

   For some people, apparently it was.

   Cerryl frowned. What had saved him was what Jeslek had not known-like Cerryl's awareness of the light shield or his own mastery of targeted fire lances. Jeslek was far more powerful... but he didn't know everything. Knowledge was a form of power. Not the only kind of power, as witness the mountains that the overmage had raised, but the kind of power Cerryl could master. Would have to master-for many reasons, one of them who wore green and whose green eyes danced in his thoughts and memories.