L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

Cerryl stood beneath the wall, perhaps thirty cubits from the guards. Another man lounged against the wall less than a dozen cubits from Cerryl. For a time, the mage watched the street, finishing the warm loaf of bread as he did. He could feel the chill as the sun dropped below the walls and left the street in shadows.

Three riders approached the gate, all in gold and green, looking as if they would enter the courtyard beyond the wall. Cerryl shifted to the full light screen, noting that the bread had reduced his headache to a faint ache. After a moment, he stepped along the wall, trying to reach the gate in order to follow the riders through the archway.

He ended up almost running, but the sound of hoofs covered his scuffling enough, and the heavy breathing of the mounts was louder than his as he walked behind the three mounts and their uniformed riders-but not too closely-into the palace courtyard.

At the mounting block at the foot of the wide stone steps, a single rider dismounted, glancing back at the other two. “I know not how long I will be.”

“The duke will not be pleased, ser,” offered one of the men remaining mounted.

“No duke is ever totally pleased, Niarso.” The officer who dismounted turned toward the steps.

Cerryl eased around the mounts, trying to follow the officer up the steps and through the entrance to the palace. He kept the shield up as he edged along the edges of the square columns that flanked the main entrance. Inside, the building was darker and cooler, enough that Cerryl almost shivered.

Cerryl could sense a figure in some sort of uniform, a gold and green surcoat over armed-striped leathers, marching stiffly, as if he were headed somewhere important. With a shrug, Cerryl followed the officer-if that were what he happened to be.

At the top of the steps and along another corridor, Cerryl found himself standing in a shadowed corner of the Great Hall. The officer stepped out toward a group of figures on a dais at one end of the room.

Cerryl edged, as he could, along the side of the hall, slipping from column to column.

“Ser?” The officer Cerryl had followed bowed before Ferobar-or the man Cerryl suspected to be Ferobar.

Ferobar was scarcely taller than Cerryl; that the young mage could sense, even from the side of the room. The duke was silent as the officer straightened and remained silent for a bit longer before he addressed the officer. “You did not send lancers after them?”

“Half the mounts of the nearest lancers were destroyed by the collapse of the Tower. It would have taken a half-day to send for the Yeannotan horse. We had but four squads mounted, and I would not send four squads against tenscore White Lancers and three White wizards.” The officer bowed again. “Not so late in the day, either.”

Ferobar glared at the tall officer. “You are dismissed, Captain. I do not expect to see you in Hydolar by morning.”

Even from where he stood, Cerryl could sense the chaos of near-uncontrolled anger from the lancer officer.

Ferobar looked beyond the captain and raised his voice. “There will be no evening meal in the hall, not tonight, not after the disgrace of the lancers.” Ferobar turned and departed from the dais, leaving on the far side, but Cerryl could not have followed him, not without risking being discovered. So he let his senses follow the duke so long as he could, toward the staircase beyond the smaller east door of the Great Hall.

Slowly, the hall emptied until but a single guard stood in the archway from the main north corridor.

Cubit by cubit, Cerryl eased his way along the wall toward the open east door, then stepped into the small side hall. He could sense no one around. Standing in the dark shadows, he dropped the light screens and glanced up the stairs.

Breathing deeply, he rubbed his forehead, then raised his shields again and, by chaos senses and feel, made his way to the upper level and into a long and narrow corridor. Perhaps fifty cubits away, to his right, two guards were stationed outside a door.

Between them and him was a wide chest, almost a cabinet or sideboard of some sort, against the same side of the corridor as the door to what he believed was the duke’s chamber. Cerryl eased across the polished stone floor of the corridor and toward the cabinet, finally stopping next to it, where he felt slightly less exposed. He knew that most people couldn’t see through the full light shield, but it still bothered him to walk past people with only the sense in his own mind and feelings that he could not be seen. He could be heard and smelled-he knew that from his experiences in sniffing Anya’s sandalwood scent, except he doubted he smelled anywhere that pleasant at the moment. Then, all of Hydolar seemed to reek, so who would notice?

The two guards remained silent and the corridor empty.

Cerryl frowned. He could kill the guards, but that didn’t feel right. Even so, it was far too early in the evening. First, you must survive . Kinowin’s words slipped into his mind. But even if he could kill them, could he do it silently enough? Besides, he suspected there was a cold iron bolt behind the door.

Well, the duke had to eat, sooner or later. Cerryl sat down on the floor against the side of the wide cabinet or sideboard. He was tired, and he needed to rest.

“What have you there?” asked one of the guards, his voice echoing down the corridor.

Cerryl shook himself fully awake, wondering if he’d let his shields drop. Then he smiled. Despite the tapers on wall sconces, the corridor was so dark someone would have had to have fallen over him to see him.

“The duke’s evening cider, and hot it is. You be wanting to make it cold?”

Cerryl shivered. Either the woman hadn’t even seen him or she had come up another staircase. He swallowed and checked his shields. Then he eased to his feet and slipped along the stone floor next to the wall on the far side of the corridor until he was almost behind the serving woman.

She turned and frowned, and he held his breath, standing less than two cubits behind her, in front of some sort of framed picture, holding his breath.

“Thought someone was there…” she murmured.

“Only the picture, Misty. Only the picture,” laughed one of the guards.

The other rapped on the door. “Misty with some cider, sire. Do you wish-” He turned. “He wants the cider.” He reached for the heavy iron latch.

Cerryl could hear a bolt being withdrawn on the inside.

The guard on the right offered a half-bow to the serving woman. Cerryl waited until he straightened, then boldly stepped after the serving woman with the tray-barely slipping into the room before the heavy wooden door clunked shut behind him.

At the end of the room to Cerryl’s right was a huge hearth, in which burned a low fire. Cerryl felt warmer, glad for the heat after his wait in the chill outer corridor. Before the fire, on a faded green settee, sat Ferobar, a volume of some sort in his hand. On the table to the duke’s right was a brass lamp, emitting less light than the fire. The table to the left held a bowl of fruit and little else Cerryl could sense. The wall opposite the door held four windows, each with a window seat beneath, each window seat covered with an upholstered cushion. All the windows were closed sand shuttered.

“Your cider be here, sire.” Her voice trembled, and the mug rattled against the pitcher on the tray.

“Bring it here, Misty.” The man’s voice had an edge like the big blade of Dylert’s mill just before it was ready to crack.

Cerryl could sense a figure, more than four cubits tall, and broad, standing to the right of the door. The young mage edged to the left, away from the huge guard, flattening himself against the paneled wall that adjoined the door, hoping his shields would suffice in the dim light.