L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“Proud words, Myral…”

“…not the one to go with the lancers…”

“Silence!” snapped Sterol. “If you wish to speak, then stand forth and speak. Do not hide your words in murmurs and mumbles.”

Cerryl smiled wryly, then stepped back onto the dais.

Kinowin opened his mouth, then shut it.

The trace of a smile crossed Jeslek’s thin lips.

“I am most junior,” Cerryl said. “And have been counseled to keep silent. So I will be brief. I stand with Myral.” Cerryl kept his words level, almost soft, but loud enough to carry. “The renowned Jeslek and the noble Sterol have done their best to improve the lot of our people. Unlike many, I came from outside Fairhaven, and I know what great good Fairhaven represents. I have lived elsewhere. Can we do any less than support the work of the High Wizard and the overmages?”

“What’s in it for you, Cerryl?” called Fydel.

Cerryl smiled softly, letting the clamor and snickers die down before speaking. “With such imposing figures as Jeslek and our High Wizard Sterol already expressing their concern…how about survival?” He grinned.

A patter of nervous laughter circled the chamber as he stepped off the low speaking stage and edged back toward his position by the third column.

“While I would not be so direct as gentle Cerryl…” began the next speaker, a man with white hair but an unlined and almost cherubic face.

Cerryl slowed as he neared the side of the chamber. Lyasa had slipped away, and a redheaded figure waited in the comparative dimness behind the post.

“Most effective, Cerryl.” The voice was affectedly throaty.

“Thank you, Anya. I presume the effect was as you and the noble Sterol wanted.” He smiled softly. “Or as you wanted, should I say.”

“You flatter me.” She returned the smile momentarily.

“Hardly. We do what we can. With your ability…” He shrugged. “Perhaps you will someday be High Wizard.”

“Being High Wizard in these times might require rather…unique skills.”

“That is certainly true, a point which Jeslek is certainly not adverse to making-repeatedly. I would prefer your approach, I suspect. That is why you would make a better High Wizard than the mighty Jeslek.”

“A woman as High Wizard?” Anya’s tone was almost mocking. “You do me high honor, indeed.”

“I recognize your talent, dear lady.” His smile was bland. “Your considerable talent.”

“You are…sweet…Cerryl.” She tilted her head. “Would you like to join me for a late supper-tomorrow evening?”

“Your wish is my desire.”

“You are so obliging, Cerryl.”

“When one is limited in sheer power of chaos, one must be of great service, Anya.”

“I am so glad you understand that.” She turned and stepped toward the broader Fydel, who waited, his hand touching his squared-off beard.

Cerryl smiled faintly, nodding to the square-bearded Fydel. As Fydel and Anya turned away, he shrugged and continued along the side aisle toward the back of the chamber, wondering how he could handle the dinner invitation he did not wish and feared greatly.

"THE UPPER ROOM.” Anya smiled brightly at Westcort, the owner of The Golden Ram.

“As you wish.” Westcort bowed and lifted the braided golden silk rope that barred the staircase on the left side of the entry foyer to The Golden Ram.

Cerryl followed Westcort and Anya up the narrow stairs.

“Your request is our command.” Westcort bowed again. “Would you like the wine now?”

“Please.” Anya smiled.

The upper room was small, paneled in polished white oak and with its two windows hung in blue velvet. A deep blue cloth covered the single table, graced by a pair of crystal goblets and a full set of cutlery for each place. Two wall lamps lent a soft light to the room, and through the open window came a light breeze and the soft points of light shining through the evening along the southern part of the Avenue. The breeze carried the usual bitter-clean odor of chaos and stone, mixed with various other city scents-cooking, lamp oil, and greenery.

Anya seated herself, and Cerryl took the seat across from the red-haired mage.

“You were kind to join me.” Anya smiled.

“You were most kind to invite me. I am a very inexperienced mage.”

“What you did in the Council meeting was not inexperienced.”

Cerryl smiled guilelessly. “What I did was because I am , dear lady. An experienced mage would not have needed to call attention to his powerlessness.”

“Having less power than Jeslek does not mean you are without power,” she pointed out, pausing as Westcort returned with a bottle of wine.

“This is the best of Telsen.” He bowed.

“You may pour it, Westcort,” Anya purred.

Westcort inclined his head and filled each of the goblets half-full of the dark red wine, leaving the bottle on the table. “You had requested the special cutlets with pearapple glaze…They will be here shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Westcort bowed again before retreating down the stairs.

Cerryl wasn’t sure he wanted to know what favors or leverage Anya had used to make the proprietor so subservient, but his own experiences with her maneuvering, maneuvering that had resulted in Kesrik’s death at Sterol’s hands, left no doubt that Westcort knew her power.

“As I was saying, Cerryl, you are not without power. You merely cannot stand up to Jeslek.”

Cerryl nodded, careful not to give away that he already had once, and survived.

“So you need friends and notice. You made yourself visible at a time when most young mages wait in the shadows. Why?” The bright smile followed. “You know that Jeslek is not fond of you and Kinowin is not fond of Jeslek. You support Kinowin and old Myral. They cannot stand up to Jeslek, either, but both are respected, and Jeslek would not dare remove them. So, while they live, he dare not remove you, now that both have quietly but clearly supported you.” The redhead raised her goblet and sipped. “It was most cleverly done.”

“I cannot say that I thought out anything that clearly.” Cerryl shrugged, taking a sip of the wine, but not until after he had studied it with his chaos senses.

“Oh…you probably didn’t, but you sensed it, and that is even more admirable, in many ways.” Anya took another sip of wine. “This is very good. Enjoy it while you can.”

Cerryl raised his eyebrows.

Anya laughed, not quite harshly. “That was not what I meant. The true chaos masters, like Sterol and Jeslek, are fortunate if they can enjoy more than a few swallows of good wine before the chaos in and around them begins to turn it to vinegar. Often very good vinegar, but vinegar nonetheless.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It is not something any would mention widely. But it’s true.”

“You must have a bit of that problem,” Cerryl hazarded. “You are far more powerful than you reveal.”

“Yes…and no.” Anya shrugged, the goblet held momentarily in both hands. “Chaos power is not seen quite the same when held by women.”

“Yet the Guild uses women-you, Lyasa, Shenan…”

A frown crossed Anya’s face at the mention of Shenan, the Guild representative in Ruzor and supposedly Myral’s younger sister. “Some of us…”

A discreet cough announced someone coming up the steps.

Westcort appeared with two plates, still so warm that Cerryl could sense the heat rising from them. The proprietor levered the white china onto the table, plates costlier than the heavy brown platters used in the main room below but far from the elegance of those Cerryl had seen in the back dining room at Furenk’s. “The special cutlets…with the rice and mushrooms.”