L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“Oh…” Cerryl shook his head. “I heard something else. The trader who gave me a ride…he said that people were saying that Rystryr had raised the road tariffs and was keeping the increase but telling everyone that it was going to Fairhaven.” He shrugged. “He was telling what he thought was the truth.”

“I had heard some such along those lines from others.” The High Wizard nodded. “We will look into that. Now…you are weak and ill. Do not worry about gate-guard duty. We have a few new mages. Take the next eight-day to rest and recover. Come to me when you are well.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl managed to get to his feet and out of the High Wizard’s chambers without staggering.

Going down the stairs was also no problem, unlike climbing the last steps back up to his room, which left him panting and his vision filled with stars.

Leyladin was waiting when Cerryl trudged into his room.

“Oh…Cerryl…just lie down.”

Cerryl didn’t argue, just stretched out on his bed.

Leyladin pulled off his boots, shaking her head. He could feel her order senses probing him, ever so gently.

“Feels good to lie down.”

“It’s almost as though someone poisoned you.”

“Maybe they did,” he said hoarsely, explaining about the apples from Duke Ferobar’s fruit bowl.

“The poisoners weren’t very good. You can do that to apples, but the fluxes conflict, especially for a mage. If they’d put that in pastry, you wouldn’t be here.” Her hand was cool on his forehead. “Don’t talk now. You can tell me everything later.”

He lay back on the bed, just glad to be there, glad she was there.

CERRYL TOOK A long and slow sip of the ale, enjoying it as if he’d hadn’t expected to ever taste it again. That’s a bit of self-pity . With a wry smile, his eyes flicked toward the entry of The Golden Ram, where he could see Myredin and Bealtur leaving. He did not wave to the pair. “This tastes good.”

“You should not drink too much,” Leyladin said from where she sat at the circular table beside Cerryl.

“Always the healer,” added Heralt, his dark eyes smiling.

“Someone has to be.”

Cerryl finished the last of his stew, mopping it up with a chunk of bread, glad that both headaches and the poison-induced flux had faded away. He was still weak, he’d discovered, but was getting stronger.

“The words around the tower are that the Duke of Hydlen vanished,” Heralt offered. “Has anyone heard who might be the new duke?”

“No one stepped forward this time,” Lyasa pointed out.

“What do you think?” Cerryl turned to Leyladin. “You’ve spent more time in Hydolar than anyone.”

The blonde healer lifted her shoulders and smiled shyly. “No one talked to me that much.”

“I’ll bet you listened.” Cerryl grinned.

“Out with it, Leyladin,” demanded Lyasa, pushing a lock of jet-black hair off her forehead.

“No one wants to be duke,” the blonde finally said. “The traders control both Hydolar and Renklaar, and they don’t like our taxes. The High Wizard has demanded immediate payment of the tariffs and a thousand golds in damages. Whoever is duke will have to collect those taxes or face disappearing. He’ll also have to rebuild the Tower that Anya destroyed, and that will take more coins.”

Heralt pursed his lips, then took a swallow of ale. “I’d not like to be in his boots.”

“That’s because they don’t understand the order of chaos,” Cerryl said absently.

Leyladin’s face darkened momentarily, and she quickly added, “I don’t think anyone in Hydlen understands much of anything, except the traders, and all they want is more coins.”

“That’s what most people want,” pointed out Heralt.

Cerryl glanced across the table toward Heralt, reaching out under the table and squeezing Leyladin’s hand.

The four looked up as a blonde figure in white made his way past the other tables toward the corner.

Faltar pulled over another chair to join the group. “I’m sorry, but I had to pull extra duty. Fydel took Buar with him to Gallos.”

“Fydel went to Gallos?” asked Cerryl.

“Right after he and Anya brought Leyladin back,” Faltar confirmed. “Something’s going on. Eliasar’s back, and he’s training new lancers. A bunch of them. Some are mercenaries, I think.”

“Most are mercenaries,” Heralt added.

Faltar raised his arm to catch the attention of the serving girl. “The stew and some ale.”

She nodded and kept moving.

“Another ale,” said Heralt.

“Another here,” added Lyasa.

“Three ales and a stew. Be a moment.” The girl did turn toward the kitchen then.

“Don’t think Búar’s that good,” Faltar observed, looking toward the kitchen. “Hope she hurries with the ale. Buar, he’ll do whatever a senior mage wants, though.”

“Don’t we all, right now?” asked Cerryl.

Faltar laughed. “Right you are.”

“You know, Cerryl,” Heralt began slowly, “we don’t really know how you ended up here in such sorry condition.”

Cerryl took another swallow of ale before he began. “You know I went to Hydolar with Anya and Fydel to get Leyladin, and I was supposed to help Anya.”

“You said that before. You and Anya brought down one of the Towers.”

“Nobody told me that,” interjected Faltar.

“The east Tower,” Cerryl said. “The idea was to tell the duke that he was lucky-that the Guild could bring the whole city down. Jeslek also wanted me to do something in the city. But he didn’t realize that we wouldn’t even be allowed inside the walls. That’s never happened before.” Cerryl shrugged. “I did what I was supposed to do and stole a mount to get back. But somewhere I ate some bad food and got a terrible flux. Then, when I was trying to…well…anyway…” He flushed slightly. “The horse got away, and I had to walk back to the Great White Highway, and I managed to get a trader to give me a ride the rest of the way back. Very embarrassing to admit I lost my mount.”

Thump! Thump! Thump! “Three ales. That’s four each.”

“Four for an ale, hard to believe,” muttered Faltar as he eased out the coppers.

“Stew be ready next.” The server scooped up the coins and slipped off to deliver a mug to the adjoining table.

“Ah…that’s good,” said Faltar. “Good after a dusty day.”

Lyasa took a swallow from her second mug without commenting.

“So…you did whatever Jeslek told you and then you lost your mount?” Heralt shook his head. “That doesn’t seem like you.”

“He was sick,” Leyladin said. “Very sick. I don’t see how he managed it.”

“Wait a moment,” Faltar said. “Cerryl goes to Hydolar, and then…”

“Faltar, that’s all I can say. All right?” Cerryl’s eyes fixed the blonde mage’s.

“Oh…” Faltar swallowed, then nodded.

For a moment there was silence around the table.

“I’ve been gone,” Cerryl broke the silence. “What’s happened with Spidlar?”

“Three more ships on the blockade,” Lyasa said. “I overheard Redark saying that banditry was rising in Spidlar, and now that the ice has closed in, the winter will be even harder than usual.”

Cerryl frowned. For some reason, the red-haired smith flicked into his thoughts. Did Black smiths have the same problems as White mages? Somehow, he suspected the man had problems, but not the same ones.

“You sit there in your own thoughts, Cerryl. You’re so quiet,” Lyasa observed, “but you’re the only one in the Guild who’s been the target of an assassin, been advanced and then demoted, and had to escape from two unfriendly cities.”