L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“Couldn’t the High Wizard order some here?”

“How? The prefect of Gallos or the viscount will find some way to avoid doing it or send us people who are worse than our lancers and cost the Guild coins we don’t have. If we bring crafters from Fairhaven, how could we not pay them? If we don’t, they’ll disappear, and they won’t flee back to Fairhaven, and then we won’t have crafters, and neither will the folk at home.”

Hiser gave Cerryl a strange look but only nodded.

Cerryl understood the expression. The subofficer wondered why the High Wizard had even started the war.

“That’s why the High Wizard didn’t want to use chaos on Elparta,” Cerryl offered. And why you’re stuck trying to put it back together. Maybe Anya was right. Maybe it was better to use a lot of force quickly . He forced a long, slow breath. And maybe there’s never any good answer .

More of the fallen stone, timbers, and bricks had been cleared from the main route westward toward the river, but the streets remained mostly deserted. Cerryl saw but one dog, a brown mutt that slunk down an alleyway as the riders passed, tail nearly between its legs.

The middle river gates were on their heavy iron supports-or had never left them-and were open to the piers. The stench from the piers was strong, despite the increasing rain-a mixture of rotting foliage, fish, and other decaying matter, mixed with the smell of mud. Mud was piled everywhere, over the splintered and broken planks that had once formed the deck of the piers and been cast against the rabbled river walls, up almost to the top of the tilted and shortened stone pillars that had comprised the base of the piers. Beneath the pillars, and under the mud, Cerryl could sense that most of the pier bases were solid.

Jeslek’s flood or whatever it had been had piled so much mud against the solid stone bases of the piers that the river was now flowing more than ten cubits from the ruins of the piers.

Cerryl studied the jumbled mass of planks, stone, and mud. Could he use chaos-or loosen order enough-the way he had in the road battle, so that the river would carry away the mud?

“Be hard to put them back together,” murmured Hiser.

Cerryl dismounted and handed the gelding’s reins to the subofficer. The mage walked forward, then back to the pile of huge stones that had been the river wall. There he concentrated, working on loosening the bounds of order, shifting them beneath the pier bases and to the river walls, leaching order out of the mud heaped against the remaining stone pillars.

Unnnnnhhhh …The mud shifted, ever so slightly, and then seemed to slump. Bubbles frothed up through the gray-brown soupy mess.

For a time he just sat down on one of the larger stones from the wall, holding his head in his hands, while stars flashed across his vision.

The rain began to fall more heavily from clouds that had darkened, unnoticed by Cerryl, and mixed with the droplets were ice pellets that bounced off the oiled leather of his jacket.

At last, Cerryl stood and made his way along the edge of the fallen river wall to where Hiser and the squad waited. Hiser’s eyes were on the mud and on the river water, which seemed darker than before.

Cerryl remounted and followed the subofficer’s eyes with his own, noting that the fizzing and bubbling continued and that the river was eating away the slumping mess from around the pier pillars and bases. He nodded, then massaged his forehead. Should have eaten before you came out here .

“The mud’s going…”

“Don’t believe that…”

Cerryl blinked, then turned to Hiser. “We still need planks to refinish the top of the piers and some logs for the round posts…”

“Bollards,” supplied a voice.

“Bollards,” agreed Cerryl, turning.

A wiry man in tattered gray stood on the mud-smeared river wall, a good ten cubits to Cerryl’s right. A sabre leaped into Hiser’s hand.

“Greetin’, ser mage. You want to put the piers right again?”

Cerryl nodded.

“Best you use your tricks to shift that bar upstream some, then, or ’fore long you be having the same mud back around the pier columns.”

Bar? Cerryl’s eyes flicked upstream, finally catching sight of a mud bar or sandbar slightly to the west of midstream.

“Water comes off the bend and splits…Slow stuff drifts to the east,” added the spritely old figure, as if everyone should have understood his words.

“Did you used to run the piers?”

“Me? Not a lead copper’s wager. Jidro, at your service. Few years back was lead boatman for Virot’s barges.”

Cerryl let his order-chaos senses range across the man, then nodded. “You want a job? Being in charge of rebuilding and running the piers?”

“Aye, and you’d turn me into ashes first time I displeased you.”

“I don’t do that unless people lie to me or attack me.”

Jidro grinned. “Won’t live forever, and I’d like to see ’em run right. But need one of your lancer subs to give orders. No one listens to an old fart like me.”

Cerryl grinned, then glanced toward Hiser. Ferek was too stiff. “Hiser…let’s see what Jidro can do for us.”

“Ah…yes, ser.” An expression between horror and relief flitted across the eyes of the blonde subofficer.

Again Cerryl hoped he’d read things right. More hope…never quite knowing .

CERRYL STOOD AT one end of the table, then stepped back, his eyes raking over Teras, Ferek, and Hiser. Senglat was absent. Probably sneaking off to find Fydel . “I want that man tied to a post right in front of the gate outside and all the lancers mustered out, right on the street here, on foot.”

“Now?” asked Teras.

“Now. I’ll be out shortly, as soon as he’s tied to the post. You can all leave and prepare.” Sounding like Jeslek, you are . Cerryl concealed a wince, not moving until the small study was empty and he stood alone, alone with his thoughts and the faint odor of decay that would doubtless take years to dissipate totally.

The murmurs from the officer and subofficers were loud enough that he could hear they were talking, but not loud enough for him to pick up the words. It didn’t matter. The lancer had been caught right after he had murdered a local woman because she wouldn’t comply with his wishes. Then the fellow had bold-facedly lied to Cerryl, and denied the murder.

The slightly built mage shook his head. If he let the man off, his authority over the lancers would begin to erode until he’d have to do something drastic to regain it. Anya was right…in this situation .

When he saw the prisoner being marched from the makeshift cells in the cellar of the barracks house and the lancers forming up, Cerryl pulled on his jacket and stepped out into the cold and windy day, walking just outside the wrought-iron gate.

From where he was roped to a post wedged between two large cobble stones and braced with several other stones the lancer prisoner, a gag across his mouth, glared at Cerryl. The man probably could have loosened the post if he had struggled enough, but he still would have been fastened to what amounted to a heavy log.

“The men are here-all we could find quickly, ser,” announced Teras, his voice carrying over the slight whistle of the wind.

“Thank you.” Cerryl cleared his throat, then waited as he heard hoofs. A trace of a smile played across his lips as he sensed the chaos that accompanied the two riders.

Fydel galloped up, Senglat beside him. The square-bearded mage’s face was red, almost livid, as he dismounted and marched up to Cerryl. His voice was low, pitched at Cerryl and not to carry. “I’m the one in charge of the lancers and what they do.”