Colors of Chaos (74 page)

Three thousand Spidlarians had died, at least, and twice that many from the combined forces of Fairhaven under Eliasar. Unable to help or heal any more than the too many she had already saved, Leyladin had collapsed long before Cerryl had made his way back from the carnage, leaving Eliasar and Jeslek their triumph in entering the near-deserted streets of Kleth.

Cerryl sat by the end of the pallet and, with his eyes closed, massaged his forehead. Exhausted as he was, he found he could not sleep, unlike his poor healer. He could sense that sleep was beginning to restore her, but it might be days or weeks before she dared heal again.

Cerryl opened his eyes and stared into the darkness, ignoring the moans from the healer’s tent more than a hundred cubits away, hoping that he had moved Leyladin far enough that she would not be disturbed. He reached out and touched the covered pitcher of chaos-heated and purified water, just to make sure that he had it nearby should Leyladin wake.

Faltar… what have we done?

Sounds suffused the camp-the murmur of a sentry, the coughing of an armsman, the whuffing of a restless horse on the tie-lines to the west, the muted rush of the River Gallos as it flowed over the broken rocks above Kleth. Yet to Cerryl the sounds were as silence, compared to the clangor of the day-a clangor fueled by both chaos and order.

Chaos had held. The smith had fled back to Diev, and Jesleks mighty army would pour down the River Gallos to Spidlaria-and the presumed treasures it held-and Spidlar would fall under the shadow of the White City.

“Ohhh…”

Cerryl jerked upright, then patted Leyladin’s shoulder. “You re all right.”

“Thirsty…”

He offered her some of the water.

She swallowed, several times, then murmured, “Thank you,” before dropping back into sleep.

His eyes went toward the star of the south, bright, green-tinged, and unblinking, watching as the fast-moving clouds covered it, then passed, leaving its light unchanged.

Is that life, being a star, no matter what clouds your light? Cerryl chuckled, bitterly but softly so as not to wake Leyladin. A light like a star? Hardly. He was but a mage with ideas that were less than popular, a mage with power and reluctant to use it after seeing how all who employed power seemed more and more to misuse such.

And yet… without power… nothing will change.

He closed his eyes and massaged his neck with his left hand, ears alert should Leyladin wake again.

CXXXI

Great and mighty Spidlaria,“ snorted Fydel from the mount to Cerryl’s right as they neared the southern edge of the city. The city gates to Spidlaria were scarcely that-two featureless red-stone pillars less than five cubits high, without even brackets, set apart and not connected to any sort of walls. Unlike the river road from Elparta to Kleth, the road from Kleth to Spidlaria had been paved the entire way.

“They were great enough to cost us thousands.” Yet for all that, reflected Cerryl, perhaps Jeslek had been right. Nowhere on the ride northward to Spidlaria and the Northern Ocean had they seen another Spidlarian armsman or lancer. Cerryl’s efforts with his screeing glass had shown some scattered figures, but none gathered into a body, and the scouts had found none at all.

“Most were levies,” murmured Fydel. “No great loss. A gain, even, if we must fight those who supplied them.”

Faltar and Myredin weren’t just levies… and the levies were men as well So was Bealtur, even if he hadn’t exactly been a friend. Cerryl looked up several ranks to the head of the column, where, behind the vanguard, rode Jeslek, his whites gleaming in the full summer sun, seemingly cool. Anya and Eliasar flanked the High Wizard, Anya as cool-looking as Jeslek, while Eliasar’s whites were damp with sweat.

Cerryl blotted his brow with his sleeve. He wanted to look back-ward to see if he could find Leyladin, even though he knew she was probably a kay behind him at the end of the column with the wounded who could ride, and far out of sight.

Once through the gates, Cerryl glanced from one side of the avenue to the other. More than half the buildings were of plastered planks and thick timbers, structures with heavy shutters and narrow windows- windows narrow to keep out the cold winter winds that blew off the Northern Ocean. Despite the growing warmth of the day, the shutters were closed, as were the doors.

“No one to welcome us,” said Fydel with a laugh.

The shadow from a white and puffy cloud passed across the column, offering Cerryl but momentary relief from the early-summer sun. “They probably don’t feel welcoming.”

“No, but some of their women will be, one way or another.”

Cerryl nodded sadly, recognizing the truth of Fydel’s statement, another inevitable result of war. All because the traders wanted to make more profit at the Guild’s expense. But was it? Even thinking about the complexities of trade and Recluce and the roads, he wanted to shake his head. No wonder everyone wants simple answers. But simple answers, he’d learned, were usually wrong, incomplete at best.

“They deserve it,” Fydel said, more loudly. “Don’t think they don’t.”

“Fydel! Cerryl!” Anya’s voice cut over the clatter of hoofs on the stone pavement of Spidlaria. “The High Wizard bids you join us.” Without overtly acknowledging the summons, Cerryl urged his mount past the two lines of lancers, the leather of his stirrups almost rubbing those of the lancers.

“The conies cower in their burrows, as if to ignore us.” A tight smile appeared on Jeslek’s pale face, and his eyes glittered. “Fairhaven will not be mocked.” The sun-gold eyes focused on Fydel. “Send forth the lancers to bid all the traders to gather in the square before the wharves. Say that any who do not answer the High Wizard will forfeit their lives.”

“Yes, ser.” Fydel inclined his head.

“They might feel their lives are forfeit already,” suggested Cerryl from where he rode behind Anya, wondering how Jeslek knew there was a square by the wharves. Then he realized that the High Wizard had doubtless viewed Spidlaria in his glass, perhaps many times.

“They might indeed. They thought they could flee if Kleth fell, but I knew that.” Jeslek laughed. “I had all the ships of the north sent to stop them. And now we will collect the golds that will repay the Guild for its trouble.”

Except golds won’t bring back Faltar and Myredin or the lancers or the thousands of levies who died. Cerryl said nothing, just letting his mount follow the column past silent and shuttered shops and dwellings until they reached the lower square above the wharves.

Jeslek reined up at the edge of the square, then turned in the saddle toward Anya. “Find a chair and an awning, whatever, to make it more comfortable.” His eyes went to the blocky Eliasar. “You make it safe for me to receive the merchants here.”

Eliasar nodded once, brusquely, then turned his mount away, riding to the harbor side of the square. “Captains-to me!”

Jeslek turned his eyes on Cerryl. “You assist Anya.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl eased his mount toward Anya’s.

Anya flashed the smile Cerryl detested. “You know shopkeepers, Cerryl. Perhaps you should find an appropriate chair and awning.” She turned away, as if there were no question that Cerryl would find both.

A cabinet maker and a chandlery-where would he find those? After a long deep breath, he turned the gelding and rode back to his lancers. “Hiser, Ferek, we’re searching for a cabinet maker’s shop.”

Hiser shook his head, and Ferek shrugged.

“We’ll just look for a sign-or a local.” A sign will be easier to find with everyone cowering behind barred doors. “Let’s head back south. I thought it looked like an artisans’ area back a half-kay or so.”

The subofficers flanked him, and the lancers fell in behind him as he turned the gelding. They rode on the left side of the main avenue, almost single file past the rest of the White Lancers still riding toward the harbor square.

Cerryl raised his hand to Leyladin as he and his lancers passed the last of the Fairhaven column headed toward the square.

“What now?” The healer flashed a sardonic smile.

“Searching for some things for the High Wizard,” he answered. “We’re setting up in the area around the harbor square. I’ll try to see you later.”

She nodded, and Cerryl continued.

After more than a half-kay of riding down the side streets, he reined up outside a shuttered building that displayed a small sign depicting a chest above a plane and a chisel.

“Hope his work is better than the sign,” said Ferek.

So did Cerryl. “Knock on the door.”

No one answered.

“Tell them that either they open the door or I’ll burn it open,” Cerryl said loudly.

A rasping from behind the door drew a smile from Ferek and a headshake from Hiser. The door slipped open, and a man peered out.

“Are you the cabinet maker?” asked Cerryl.

“Please, ser wizard… spare my consort…” The cabinet maker had short gray and ginger hair that clung to his scalp in tight curls and a short, curly beard more gray than ginger. He stared up at Cerryl.

“Are you the cabinet maker?” the mage asked again.

“Spare us… my consort,” stammered the man.

What have they been told? “I’m not interested in your consort,” Cerryl said tiredly. “I’m trying to find the best armchair I can-one for the High Wizard.”

“I cannot afford to keep what I make…”

“I know.” Cerryl turned to Hiser. “Guard his place. I don’t want his family or his consort touched.”

“Yes, ser.” Hiser nodded.

“Have one of your men lend a mount to the cabinet maker.” Cerryl focused on the artisan. “Who has your best chair, the one most suitable for the High Wizard of Fairhaven?”

“Reylerk, the trader, ser wizard.”

“Fine. Get on that mount and lead us there.”

“Ser?” The artisan’s eyes went from the closed door of the shop to the mount from which a lancer Cerryl did not know dismounted. “Get onto that mount,” ordered Hiser.

Cerryl wiped his damp forehead and waited for the man to mount. “Now… where does this Reylerk live? Show us.”

“Ah… to the north, ser.”

“Fine. Lead the way.”

As they rode along the narrow lane and then back out alone the wider avenue, Cerryl studied the shuttered dwellings and shops. Clearly, the folk of Spidlaria-those who remained-feared the worst. Reylerk’s dwelling was on the hilly section of Spidlaria north of the wharves, up a winding but paved lane. The gates were closed. “Behind the gates…” stammered the cabinet maker. Cerryl nodded at Ferek. “Open the gates!” demanded the subofficer. No words answered the order.

Cerryl shrugged and mustered chaos, focusing it into a tight beam at the point where the two gates joined.

Eeeeee-wwhsssst! When the flash cleared, the gates slowly shivered apart, a half-cubit missing from each edge, and sagged to the stones.

After a moment two lancers used their mounts’ shoulders to edge the timbered gates open, and Cerryl and Ferek rode into the courtyard, a courtyard paved with large red oblong stones, smooth as a table. Opposite the gates rose a dwelling, the lower floor of the same red stone, the upper of plaster and timber. As in every other dwelling in Spidlaria, the shutters were closed-except for one on the upper level that appeared to be cracked. Thrung!

An arrow buried itself in the shoulder of Ferek’s mount, and the lancer subofficer struggled to control the horse.

The closing of the once-cracked shutter told Cerryl from where the arrow had come, and he responded with a second chaos bolt. Eeee! Whssst! A man-sized hole appeared in the second story of the dwelling, and a charred figure tumbled onto the courtyard stones.

“Another arrow and you’re all dead!” roared Ferek. Somehow he’d managed to work the shaft from his mount’s shoulder. Silence greeted his statement. “Open the front door!”

The carved lower door swung open, but no figure showed.

“Out! All of you!” boomed Ferek.

A heavy, red-faced, and bearded figure in green silks waddled out from behind the door and stood on the portico outside the doorway. An equally rotund and white-haired woman followed, and shortly two older serving women cowered behind them. None looked at the ashes or at the charred figure that had once held a bow.

“Ser wizard… spare us. Please spare us,” begged the man, presumably Reylerk.

“Why?” Cerryl asked with a snort.

The trader gulped. “We have done nothing except defend our land.”

Cerryl urged the gelding forward, then reined up a few cubits short of the short shadow cast by the house. “You took advantage of the roads Fairhaven built, but you refused to help pay for those roads. You traded with our enemy and used the roads we built to sell the goods you bought to others. You sent men out to kill us and to die, and now you wish to be spared.”

The fat and bearded man looked down.

“And you remain here because you would not be safe among those who fled because you brought the war to Spidlar out of your own greed.”

Reylerk did not look up, confirming Cerryl’s suspicions.

“I’m not here to pass judgment.” Cerryl motioned to the woodworker. Except that you just did. “Go find the chair of which you spoke.” He turned to the trader. “If this man is even scratched, I will reduce your dwelling and all in it to ashes.” The mage smiled coldly. “Including the daughters and sons you have hidden within.”

“Let Besimn take whatever he wants… Let him do it!” screamed the trader. “Do not harm anyone!”

Cerryl gestured for the cabinet maker to enter the dwelling. Besimn trembled as he dismounted and walked toward the open door.

“It’s not for Besimn,” Cerryl said. “It’s for the High Wizard. Might you have some red silk or velvet hangings?”

“Ah…”

“I see you do. Please have your consort and the serving women fetch them for us.”

The three women scurried into the house, as if they feared the lancers would follow, the oldest looking back over her shoulder so fearfully that her shoulder rammed into the door frame.

“They’ve got much hidden in there.” Ferek laughed. “Young girls, too. Pretty girls.”

“That might be,” Cerryl grudged, “but Jeslek wants the chair and the hangings, and the girls weren’t the ones who shot the arrow.”