L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

The server set the tray on the table beside the bowl of fruit, then straightened.

The duke poured from the pitcher and took a sip. “Could you not have gotten it hotter?”

“Near bubbling it was, ser, and I hurried, fast as I could.”

“You may go, Misty.” A weariness filled Ferobar’s voice.

The tall guard withdrew the bolt, only long enough for the server to depart, then slid it back in place.

Cerryl used his order-chaos senses to study the room, trying to get a better impression. The ceiling was not that high, perhaps five cubits, and the chamber was no more than fifteen cubits long and ten wide. The wall opposite the hearth held bookshelves, but less than half the wooden shelves held volumes. A musty odor filled the room, enough to make his nose itch.

“They think I’m a tool of the merchants of Renklaar, you know?”

Cerryl almost jumped at the words, seemingly addressed to him, before he realized that Ferobar had turned on the settee and was talking to the hulking guard who remained on the inside of the door.

“I’m no man’s tool. I am the rightful Duke of Hydlen. I should have been all these years. It’s late, but I know what to do. Yes, I do. Merchants…all they think of is how to pile one coin upon another. Do they think of whether they will have coin if Fairhaven increases the levies?” There was a pause while the duke slurped some cider, then ate something from the table. A biscuit? Fruit?

Cerryl couldn’t tell, not with the strain of holding the screens and his increasing headache. Yet he had the feeling that the sooner he acted, the better. The sooner you act in a way that will let you escape and survive .

“It’s too bad you can’t speak, Girtol, but it’s not, because I couldn’t talk to you otherwise.” Ferobar laughed, with an edge that sent a chill down Cerryl’s back. “You’d be far less use to me were you able to speak. Nor I to you, my old friend. Fortunate it was that I saved you those years back, fortunate for us both, and more fortunate now that I am duke.” Another cackling laugh issued from the thin lips.

Cerryl could sense that Ferobar was not that old, in fact probably not more than a half-score of years older than he was. Ferobar poured another mug of the cider, his face turned back to the low fire in the hearth.

“Already my bones are chill, chill knowing that none are happy with their duke. The merchants will not be pleased, because we have not the vessels to break the blockade of the White demons. The demons are not pleased, even though I returned their healer, because Hydlen cannot pay what they demand in tariffs. The people are not pleased that I will not lower taxes. The armsmen are not pleased that I could not stop the destruction of the east Tower…” Ferobar gulped a swallow of cider.

“Should I sleep? How can I sleep? Sleep…what is sleep? A small death that claims us each night.” Ferobar slurped more cider, then turned to Girtol once more. “Seat yourself, dear Girtol. If my fate worries you, place that chair before the door.”

Wordlessly the big guard pulled a massive oak chair in place before the door and sat down, his eyes not leaving the duke.

“You can sleep, Girtol, unlike your master.”

Cerryl thought. How could he remove the duke without alerting the mute guard? Even a mute guard could alert those outside. And if Cerryl removed the guard, surely the duke would seek aid.

Cerryl stifled a yawn. He was tired, dead tired. His feet ached. His head throbbed, and he had to finish his task and get out of the duke’s palace.

Ferobar poured yet another mug of cider, his eyes on the low fire that was slowly burning down.

The young mage waited, hidden behind his light shields, fighting exhaustion, impatience, and a headache.

Still, in time, Ferobar’s head eased forward, lolling on his shoulders.

Cerryl straightened, turned toward the hulking guard, dropped his shields, and focused chaos into the tight light lance that he had developed in the sewers and used so sparingly in the years since. The light seared into the mute guard before he could even open his mouth, leaving nothing but ash atop the muscular torso that slumped into the wooden chair.

Cerryl turned and threw a second bolt at the yet-dozing Ferobar. There was a dull and muted thump as the body pitched forward onto the carpet before the settee.

The young mage held his breath, momentarily, but there was no sound from without the chamber. He padded toward the duke and, standing back but slightly, concentrated chaos on the body until nothing remained but drifting white ash and a belt knife. He left the belt knife where it lay and turned back to the unfortunate Girtol. Another burst of chaos, and another set of drifting ash resulted.

Then, Cerryl took a moment to drink the remainder of the lukewarm cider from the pitcher and slip two apples from the bowl into his tunic before easing toward the door beside the hearth. He opened it gingerly, assuming that the next room was a bedchamber, nodding as his senses revealed the same.

The bedchamber had no other doors, but there was a window. Cerryl eased to the window, then stood on the window seat. The window overlooked a roof, and the drop was less than three cubits. Cerryl eased the window open with a sigh and wiggled out into the darkness, dangling his feet, then letting go.

His boots skidded as he hit, and he clutched at the still-warm roof tiles, somehow slowing his descent on the sloping roof.

Now what?

He listened, but everything around him sounded the same-no yells or screams or lamps or lanterns.

He crawled slowly along the roof away from the duke’s window. After another forty cubits, the roof ended. He peered over the edge, seeing a drop of far too many cubits, then looked back up the slope of the roof toward the broad chimney.

Even in the darkness, he could see the stepped design, and the intervals were not that great. He crept upward on the warm and dusty tiles until he reached the chimney, then lowered himself, dangling until his boot toes touched the bricks below. Then he unclamped his fingers and let his feet take his weight. After resting a moment, he repeated the process with the next part of the chimney.

The last drop, to a small unlit courtyard, was a good five cubits. He bit with a thud, and the shock ran from his boots to his thighs, which threatened to crumple. Wobbling for a moment, he staggered several steps, then looked around. He was on the back side of the palace and could sense the river beyond the wall ahead of him.

He turned toward the west end of the courtyard, walking in the darker shadows, those areas untouched by the infrequent wall lamps. The courtyard seemed to go on and on.

A yawn took him and he had to yawn again. As he leaned against the wall, breathing hard, from both fear and exhaustion, he could feel his eyes wanting to close. He took another breath and continued westward.

How long he wound through courtyards with closed doors he wasn’t certain, but a different scent drifted through his nostrils, one of horses and hay. Stable?

Stables usually had haylofts…

He eased toward the stable and was gratified to see that the door was ajar.

Easing the light-blurring shield around him-he could not have held a full light shield-he stepped through the door, glancing around. Finally, he eased past the stable boy, dozing on a round bale of hay by the door, and past two rows of stalls until he came to a ladder. Hay around the ladder suggested a loft above. Slowly, he eased his way up to the top of the loft ladder and across the rough planks.

In a dusty corner that felt as though it had been neglected for days, he sat down, rubbing his nose, trying to keep from sneezing. Slowly he ate one apple and then the other. The growling in his stomach lessened.