L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“…stables went…lot of ’em…White demons!”

Cerryl edged around the still-warm wood of the singed gates and along the stones of the archway behind the gates. A dozen armsmen stood at the far end, glancing through the archway toward the lancers on the causeway and then to the east toward the fallen walls and Towers.

Step by unseen step, the young mage eased his way along the stones and toward the open inner gate.

Just short of the gates, he stopped and flattened himself against the wall stones as a clatter of hoofs echoed through the shadowed archway. Another squad of lancers rode past him, the last rider so close he could have touched the mount without stretching.

After another deep breath, he eased along the timbers of the open inner gate and then along the inside of the outer walls for another fifty cubits, where he slumped into a recess formed between two stone columns that provided some additional support to the gates or archway.

For a time he just sat there, unseen behind his light barriers and unseeing, wondering what he was doing in Hydolar. Wasn’t destroying a Tower and killing people enough of a warning?

He took a deep breath.

FINALLY, CERRYL STOOD, partly sheltered between the stone buttresses for the gate, wincing at his sore muscles, hoping he was ready to find Duke Ferobar.

Comments still swirled from the lancers and armsmen by the gates, now arrayed in groups, as if waiting for some sort of orders.

“White bastards…kill ’em all!”

“…don’t mess with them wizards.”

“…can’t tell us what to do.”

“They just did, Muyt, and I’d wager that nothing happens.”

A grim smile crossed Cerryl’s lips. That was certainly what Jeslek hoped for, but even Cerryl doubted the effect would last long. In Fairhaven, peacebreakers went to the road crew or were turned to ash. The next day or eight-day, there were more peacebreakers-not nearly so many as he’d seen elsewhere, but they were there, and he doubted that people in Hydlen were that different.

Taking a last deep breath, beneath his full light shields, he stepped gingerly across the open space before the gate area and into the shadows on the west side of the street facing the gate. There Cerryl dropped the full shield and eased around himself the blurring or bending effect that seemed to cause others’ eyes to slide away from him, as if he were not there, and, incidentally, allowed him to see.

He walked down what seemed to be the main street, old and reeking of raw sewage and far narrower than even the streets of Jellico or Fenard. The second stories of many houses or shops protruded another cubit more into the street than the street-level walls of the buildings, giving the street an even gloomier appearance. Most of the walls appeared to be timber or planks or woven withies roughly plastered over and once painted and now faded and peeling.

“Spices…good spices for poor meat…”

“Oils…oils here…” A wizened woman swung an aged and stained wicker basket as she chanted.

Cerryl winced. He wouldn’t have wanted anything the woman sold.

A small brown dog darted from one alleyway and past Cerryl before disappearing behind a hunchbacked peddler. Beyond the peddler two women stood on a narrow raised porch, though Cerryl couldn’t determine what the shop was.

“Deris! The Whites brought down the east Tower-that’s what Gurold said-and then they rode off, just like that. Delivered some message to the new duke…”

“Should I care? This is what? The third duke since winter? Bread still be too dear, and getting dearer.”

“Dearer yet, if the duke must raise coins from us to rebuild his fine Tower.”

Cerryl eased past the women and the porch, frowning at their words. The combination of the hubbub, the smells, and the confining nature of the street had already given him the beginning of a headache, and their words did not help. He was already tired after a long day of riding.

Perhaps a block later, where the street widened fractionally, a small boy looked up, his eyes wide, clearly seeing the mage, then ran down the alleyway toward a woman.

“Mama…mama…a demon…saw a demon…”

Cerryl slipped the full light shield in place, tiring as it was. Relying on his chaos-order senses, he barely managed to keep from stepping into the open sewer, staggering back into the street, and almost careening against yet another hawker, who glanced one way, and then the other, before repeating his call. Cerryl hoped he wouldn’t have to continue too far without sight.

“Roasted maize, roasted maize…”

The woman took several steps toward the main street, holding tightly to her son’s hand. “Demons aren’t real, Kuriat. We don’t have demons in Hydlen, sweet.”

Cerryl kept walking, going another block before switching back to the less tiring blur screen. He wished he had been able to enter the city to fetch Leyladin. His task would have been far easier. Already his feet ached, although the walking seemed to help the cramping in his thighs that the more than three days of riding had created.

He’d thought about a disguise, but any stranger would have been marked in Hydolar. Besides, where would he have changed in the midst of the lancers, and how soon before rumors seeped out?

Cerryl had no idea where he was headed, except that his limited screeing before he had left Fairhaven had shown that the larger buildings were almost next to the river, on a low bluff on the western side. The duke’s palace had to be one of them, but which one was something else he needed to know.

Again, he didn’t know enough. He hadn’t even known enough to know what he needed to learn. A low snort escaped him, and he glanced around, but none of the people on the street paid any attention, wrapped as they were in their own doings.

He frowned. Less than a half a kay from the collapsed Tower, and no one seemed to care. Then he shrugged. He’d had to ash one peacebreaker on the open streets in Fairhaven, and some people hadn’t even stopped doing business. People didn’t change that much from city to city, at least not in Candar. Do they anywhere?

A block farther, he finally had to stop and slip down an alleyway to relieve himself-that would have been peacebreaking in Fairhaven. Many things would have been different in the White City.

Ahead he could see an open-fronted shop, with loaves of bread. His mouth watered as he stepped toward the shop, noting some smaller loaves of a darker bread on the side.

Again he eased the full light shield in place, ignoring the increased headache, and slipped his hand out for one of the loaves. It was warm to the touch, and he kept walking, as silently as possible.

“Mora! There’s a loaf missing…”

“Thief!”

Cerryl continued onward, ignoring the bustle behind him but feeling slightly guilty for stealing the bread. Yet he was hungry, and he couldn’t afford to appear to anyone in Hydolar. You could have left a copper .

He should have, but he decided against retracing his steps. You should have . He took a deep breath and kept walking. After another block, he broke off a piece. The small loaf was a heavy bread and almost too sweet, but he ate chunks slowly as he walked southward.

“Watch where ye tread,” snapped a voice at knee-height.

Cerryl glanced back, taking a breath of relief as he saw the beggar hunched against the wall was blind. He kept walking.

After another kay or so, the street widened into an avenue with a square ahead. Beyond the square were three buildings, but the center building was the largest, fronted by a high brick wall, pierced with an iron gate, swung half-back. A guard in green stood on each side of the gate.