L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“I came immediately. I did not run because I wished to be ready to do your bidding.” Cerryl could smell the scent of trilia and sandalwood, but Anya was not in the chamber.

“You do little bidding but your own, Cerryl, from what I can tell.” Under the iron-gray hair, Sterol’s red-rimmed eyes were unblinking as they studied the younger mage. “So…what is the Guild to do with you? You are an arms mage who is hopeless with weapons. You are a Patrol mage who cannot return to the Patrol. You are yet too young to train apprentices in the sewers and too experienced to continue as a simple gate guard.”

Cerryl frowned, as if in thought. “I could assist one of the overmages. Or I could continue to follow what the smith does in Recluce and what he plans. Or I could help supervise the younger gate guards.”

Sterol smiled. “Perhaps you should do all three. Report to Kinowin and tell him that he is responsible for your accomplishing all three duties successfully. He is in charge of the gate details, in any case. Should the smith do something that merits my attention, you will first tell the overmage. You are not to disturb me without his approval. Do you understand?”

“Yes, honored Sterol.”

“Go find Kinowin and inform him.”

“Yes, ser.”

“I do not wish to see you, or hear of you, except as Kinowin sees fit. You are far too full of yourself for one so relatively inexperienced.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Don’t think you’re deceiving me with your politeness, either.”

“What do you wish?” Cerryl asked. “The High Wizard merits courtesy.”

“Just go.”

Cerryl nodded and turned, ready to lift his order/chaos shields at the slightest hint of chaos from Sterol, but he left the topmost level of the White Tower without either chaos or more words from the High Wizard.

Kinowin was in his quarters, much as Myral had been, as if he had been waiting for Cerryl and his orders from Sterol.

Cerryl immediately repeated his conversation with the High Wizard, concluding, “…so I am your charge.”

“The High Wizard wants you kept well away from him…well away. That is as much Anya’s doing as his.”

“She had been in his chamber before me.”

“She is there most often, far more than merely to pleasure Sterol or herself. Leave that aside. There is little either of us can do about that at the moment. In order to please Sterol, we will follow this pattern. Report to me either before noon or before the evening bell each day on what the smith has done. On the even days you are to visit and inspect, unseen, the gate guards in whatever order you see fit. At the evening bell, report anything that needs addressing. On the odd days, see me after breakfast for anything I may need help with. The evenings are yours, and I hope you spend little of them in the Halls.” Kinowin smiled. “Use what days you have; the life of a mage is short enough.”

“Ah…thank you.”

“Go. You can start tomorrow.” The older mage cocked his head and smiled. “She should almost be at her father’s, and you might wish to greet her. The flower sellers are still on the square.”

Cerryl stood. “By your leave?”

“By my command, if necessary.”

Cerryl fled, hiding the smile.

CERRYL PAUSED AT the end of the walk, wondering if he looked like some fop or schoolboy, with the fragrant white roses wrapped in green ribbon.

The carved front door opened, and Layel stepped onto the stoop and gestured to the mage. “Cerryl…I take it from your presence that Leyladin is coming home.”

“That’s what the glass shows. Her coach was just beyond the north gates when I left the Halls.”

“Please join me. There’s little enough point in your standing out here in the heat, and I don’t want to have my daughter attacking my lack of courtesy.” The balding blonde trader laughed.

Cerryl stepped out of the heat, past the silent houseman Soaris, who nodded, and into the comparative cool, following the older man to the front sitting room-the one graced by the portrait of Leyladin’s mother. After laying the flowers on the side table, Cerryl took the settee.

“How long have you been back?” asked Layel, settling into an upholstered armchair.

“A little less than an eight-day.”

“I imagine you’re finding that Fairhaven is not quite the city you left, though it has changed but little.” A slight smile creased the factor’s lips.

“More that some folk I left are not quite as I recalled,” Cerryl admitted guardedly. “I don’t find that Fairhaven itself has changed, and it compares most favorably with what I have seen elsewhere.”

“People often make the city-or a person.”

“You mean Leyladin? I was looking for her before I even knew who she was.”

“She told me. Can’t say as I understand, but she has always been the one who followed the shaded path. Wertel-he would have been a factor had he been born a cobbler-and Aliaria and Nierlia…well, they’ve enjoyed having their own households.”

Cerryl tried to place the names. Wertel had to be Leyladin’s older brother. She had mentioned her two sisters, but he hadn’t recalled either’s name until Layel had mentioned them.

“You two are in a difficult position,” Layel said.

“A Black and a White in love, you mean?” Cerryl frowned. “I suppose it’s also created problems for you.”

The factor leaned forward in the big chair, eyes more firmly on Cerryl. “More here than elsewhere. Wertel trades on the impression of connections, and you are not unknown-or unrespected-but he runs things in Lydiar and not in Fairhaven. Duke Estalin depends on mages, and Sedelos favors trade.” Layel glanced toward the door. “Did you hear a coach?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Cerryl paused, considering the other’s words. “You seem to be saying that the Guild is not so favorable to traders as it should be.”

“We pay higher tariffs than those who trade from other lands, yet they use the same roads and are free to enter the city on payment of a mere pittance. We can enter any city, but our costs are higher, as our tariffs are.” Layel blotted his forehead with a blue cotton cloth. “Then, there are those factors who appear more favored than others, if you take my meaning.”

“I’d heard such,” Cerryl said carefully, “but never seen it.” He paused, thinking of how Sterol had used Kesrik’s purported attack on Cerryl as an excuse to exile Kesrik’s trader father. “Or perhaps I saw such and did not recognize it.”

“It is there, if observed carefully.”

Cerryl could suddenly sense a gathering presence, a bright darkness, and he stood, gathering the roses to him. “She’s almost here.”

The slightest of frowns appeared on the trader’s face. “I’d not heard the coach.”

Cerryl picked up the flowers, eased toward the door, and was at the foyer when the sound of hoofs on stone came through the window.

“Not even a glass.” Layel stood more slowly.

Cerryl hurried down the walk and then to the side courtyard where the coach had pulled to a stop. The door flew open, even before he had quite reached the mounting block.

Standing on the whitened granite block, Leyladin looked down at Cerryl, then at the roses. “Flowers…you never brought flowers before.”

“I missed you.” He felt himself flushing, looking into the dark green eyes, seeing the reddish blonde hair, the fair skin, and, most of all, the order and the understanding behind the fine features.

“You’re sweet.” The healer looked at her father, who stood a pace or so behind the mage. “He is, you know.”

“He’s also got some wit. We were talking while we waited for you.” Layel looked at Cerryl. “Go ahead. Embrace her. Kiss her. You’re as much consorted as you can be.”