L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

Cerryl stepped back, almost involuntarily. “It’s past time for games, Anya. Sterol should have the amulet returned to him. Especially now.” How can she just ignore Jeslek’s death? Did he mean that little? Is she that cold?

“Don’t tell me that you two brave and strong White brethren are afraid of a poor Black smith and healer who must stoop to stealth and murder?”

Fydel looked away.

Cerryl did not, instead meeting Anya’s eyes. “He was rather effective, wouldn’t you say?” His arm gestured at the pile of dust that had been Jeslek, the two bodies, and the missing side of the tent ringed with charred patches. “There were three of them-just three, according to Jeslek. Between them, they’ve destroyed more than half our forces, a half-dozen of the White brethren, and the High Wizard. Just what would happen if they had decided to have sent a few more-perhaps older and more experienced order masters and Black warriors?” Cerryl’s smile was crooked. “For such reasons, I would prefer to defer to one of great experience, such as Sterol.”

“Do we wait for him…to finish this rabble?” snapped Anya. “No! Cerryl, you need to lead the pursuit of the smith. Now!”

“No. I think not. I think we can proceed-but slowly.” Jeslek…gone? Like that? Cerryl felt his thoughts were running in circles.

“You are always so cautious, Cerryl,” Anya said brightly, her voice tight. “Do you think that the Council-or even Sterol-would let the blues get away with this? The High Wizard has been killed, and you wish to proceed slowly. Oh, so slowly.”

“When one cannot rely on sheer force of chaos, dear lady,” Cerryl forced out the deliberate words, “one must needs be cautious.”

“Bah…let’s get the troops moving.” Fydel blotted the blood from his forehead and stepped through the space where the tent wall had been. Then he paused and pointed toward the remaining two bodies on the ground-those of the guards who had stood outside the tent. Fire flared, and only ashes remained. With another snort, Fydel marched toward the hut where the march captains waited, not even looking back at the other two mages.

Anya and Cerryl raised their eyebrows simultaneously, even as Cerryl turned toward Anya.

“Well, Cerryl?” asked the redhead. “Are you with us, or will you remain here and be cautious?”

“I’ll be ready to lead the vanguard shortly. As the High Wizard’s most trusted and valued assistant, you should draft the scroll to the Council-and Sterol-and then direct Fydel, as you have already been doing. Perhaps you should also inform the armsmen that Jeslek is dead. It might be a good idea, you know?” Cerryl turned and walked heavily across the damp and matted grass toward the tie-lines where Hiser and Ferek and his lancers waited.

Beyond the first tie-line, Fydel had mounted and was talking to the march captains.

Is this wise? Cerryl glanced back toward the ruined tent, then up at the dark clouds that had already begun to disperse. He kept walking.

“Ser? What happened?” asked Hiser as Cerryl neared his detachment.

“The Black wizard killed the High Wizard. He got away in the storm and the chaos.”

“Killed the High Wizard?”

“He killed the High Wizard…”

“…High Wizard’s dead.”

“…can’t believe that…”

“…light help us now.”

“Enough!” snapped Cerryl. “It wasn’t his order powers. He used an order-based crossbow or something. Then he ran away and hid in the storm.” Cerryl stepped up to the gelding and fumbled for the glass packed in his saddlebags. You’re not about to go charging off after that smith until you know what he’s doing, Anya or not .

He found his hands shaking ever so slightly as the impact of Jeslek’s death began to settle on him. Jeslek dead? What had the smith done-and how? How could they just march into Diev? Then, how could they not-if the Guild were to be respected? The Guild had to be bigger than the High Wizard.

Cerryl pulled out the glass and set it on the clay, concentrating and ignoring the headache he hadn’t even realized that he had.

When the silver mists cleared, Cerryl took in the scene-an unmounted horse circling in the water behind the strange craft that was the smith’s, the fighting on the deck of the smith’s ship, and the smith dropping a blue armsman with a staff, then dropping another before taking a slash and staggering. As the White mage watched, the last figure in blue pitched forward, and the smith sagged onto the deck. Sails furled, impossibly propelled by something churning the water beneath the stern, the ship edged out the channel toward the breakwater.

“What the darkness is it?” demanded Ferek.

“A dark creation.”

“Cerryl?” called a voice from a mounted figure riding toward him.

Recognizing Anya’s voice, Cerryl released the image. “I was checking where the smith was. He’s on his ship, leaving the harbor at Diev.”

“No matter,” snapped the redhead. “The blockade ships will take care of him and his ship.”

I wonder . A faint smile creased Cerryl’s mouth, an expression that faded as he recalled the dead Spidlarian armsmen on the ship. The smith is far more ruthless than even Jeslek-or Anya . “We can’t. Not now that he’s at sea.”

“Then get on with it.”

Cerryl nodded, packed the glass, and then swung clumsily into the saddle. His head throbbed. “Hiser, Ferek…”

“Yes, ser.”

Cerryl ignored their doubtful tones, his headache, and Anya’s eyes upon his back as he rode to the head of the column. Jeslek…dead? He forced his concentration on the task ahead.

THE THREE MAGES stood on the edge of the quay, looking out into the empty harbor of Diev. The cool breeze off the water cooled them but carried the odor of dead fish and other decay-possibly bodies washed under the piers.

“We need supplies,” said Anya. “Cerryl, send out a force to gather what we need.”

“We can’t pillage everything,” the younger mage noted.

“Why not?” Fydel asked. “They killed half our men. They don’t deserve any better.”

Cerryl refrained from noting that earlier Fydel hadn’t much worried about how many levies had died in taking Spidlar. “If we keep taking things, we’ll never govern this place. We wouldn’t keep seizing things from the farmers around Fairhaven.”

“This isn’t Fairhaven,” said Fydel. “Never will be.”

“Maybe we’d better think about making it so,” answered Cerryl quietly. “The other way hasn’t been working all that well lately.”

“That will be the noble Sterol’s decision, as you keep reminding me, dear Cerryl,” answered Anya in an overly sweet voice. “I do not care how you obtain provisions, but provisions we must have. You seem best fitted for it, and Fydel must organize patrols to keep order.”

“I’ll take care of it.” All Fydel knows about peacekeeping is how to kill peacebreakers .

“I am so sure you will, Cerryl. You always do.” Anya flashed her bright smile. “You always do.”

“Just do it,” added Fydel.

“We’ll need some of the golds we took from the traders in Spidlar.”

“You wouldn’t if you just took them,” pointed out Fydel.

“Where would we get provisions next eight-day?” asked Cerryl. “Or the one after that?”

“You can have some golds,” conceded the redhead.

“Thank you, Anya.” Cerryl nodded, then walked back along the quay toward the spot where Ferek and Hiser and their lancers waited. His eyes drifted to the harbor, where but a day before a ship had moved to the sea without sail, under the power of some device, some engine, developed by the smith.