L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“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 along 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. Eeeee! 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.”