L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

“Good.” Jeslek nodded. “You are making progress. I would like you to see what more you can discover in the next eight-day.” After a hesitation, the High Wizard asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Much better. I still get tired more easily than I used to, but in a few more days I hope…”

“You have at least an eight-day. If you can discern more before that, I would like to be informed.”

“Yes, ser.”

Jeslek stood. “Until later, Cerryl.”

Caught by surprise, Cerryl sat for a moment, then stood. “Yes, ser.”

His head seemed almost to spin as he walked out of Jeslek’s chambers. While the High Wizard had not been caustic or cruel, as he had seemed at times in the past, he had definitely been preoccupied. Were matters in Spidlar getting worse? Or was it Hydlen?

Cerryl walked slowly down the stone steps of the White Tower, still trying to figure out what had bothered him about the quick meeting. Jeslek almost hadn’t seemed to care, yet he had summoned Cerryl.

The first dinner bell rang, echoing through the front foyer. In a way, that amused the brown-haired mage, because few, if any, in the front Hall or the White Tower ever ate in the Meal Hall.

At the moment, the Meal Hall didn’t sound too bad, because his coins were limited and Leyladin had yet to return from Lydiar. His infrequent and quick looks with the glass had shown a healthier-looking boy with her, presumably Duke Estalin’s son. So Cerryl hoped it wouldn’t be too long before she returned. In the meantime, he would eat in the Halls and save his coins.

Heralt was already at the serving table when Cerryl reached the Meal Hall. Seeing the creamed mutton, Cerryl smiled, imagining Faltar’s choice words about the meat. After filling his plate and taking a healthy chunk of the rye-and-grain bread and a mug of the weak ale, Cerryl joined Heralt at one of the side tables.

Cerryl nodded as he sat, then took a mouthful of bread. He couldn’t face starting with the mutton, hungry as he was. Next he sipped the ale, followed at last by some of the creamed mutton, which gave off an orangish smell. Orange? He didn’t want to think about it. After several mouthfuls, he turned to Heralt. “How is guard duty going?”

Heralt looked blankly at Cerryl for a moment, then glanced around the as yet sparsely filled Meal Hall before speaking, his voice lowered. “Things are getting bad. They brought in a trader. Traders dress pretty much the same. Her hair was short, almost like a man’s, and she wore…you know. But she’s a woman, and the lancers brought her in through my gate. They had her bound. It…just didn’t feel right.”

“How did you know she was a trader?”

“I was guessing, but it bothered me.” Heralt shrugged. “So I asked Fydel why they were bringing in a trader.”

“And?” The fact that Fydel was bringing back a woman dressed as a trader bothered Cerryl…something he should be remembering.

“He told me to ask Jeslek.”

“That’s odd,” mused the gray-eyed mage. “If she owed road taxes, they didn’t need to bring her here. If she attacked a mage, she’d be ash already.” Female trader? He swallowed-was it the one tied up with the smith that Jeslek, Anya, and Fydel all worried about?

“You look like you know something-like you were hit in the face with a staff,” Heralt observed.

“I’m not sure, but…if…well…There’s a female trader that Anya was worried about.”

Heralt glanced around the Hall again, then at the line of five apprentices who had suddenly appeared at the serving table. “I wouldn’t want to be a woman Anya didn’t like, not one who wasn’t a mage.”

“Nor I. But I don’t know why she doesn’t like this one,” Cerryl admitted, “except that this woman trader, if she’s the same one, knows a Black smith.”

“I don’t like it.” Heralt grimaced. “The prefect of Gallos not quite defying the Guild, the old prefect killing Sverlik, the Duke of Hydlen killing the old duke-he was just a child-and trying to kill Gorsuch and then disappearing. Things are getting bad.”

Worse , Cerryl corrected mentally, much worse, even if you can’t prove it . “It looks that way.”

“Why?” asked Heralt. “There have been bad years for crops before. That’s not new. There have been viscounts and prefects and dukes who have disputed the road tariffs before. That’s not new. There have been traders here in Fairhaven that didn’t like the Guild, and that’s not new. Recluce has been there for something like twenty-five-score years, always an enemy. Yet we have more mages and more White highways than ever before, and most people in Candar are better off.” The dark-eyed mage spread his hands.

“I don’t know why.” Cerryl paused. He had been about to say that it seemed no one respected the Guild as much, but was that it? How could the other lands in Candar-and Recluce-not respect Fairhaven after the example of the enormous power demonstrated by Jeslek in creating the Little Easthorns? “I don’t know.”

Heralt stood. “I have to go.” He grinned. “I’ll see you later.”

“Who is she?”

Heralt just shook his head.

“You’re not saying? Wise man.”

Heralt grinned, then turned.

Cerryl finished the last of his dinner alone at the table, ignoring the chatter of the apprentices.

Instead of going back to his room after eating, Cerryl went back through the fountain courtyard, and the cold and windblown spray, and into the front Hall. He took the steps to the lowest level of the White Tower and eased around the corridor past the guards to Kinowin’s quarters, where he knocked.

“You can come in, Cerryl.”

Cerryl closed the door behind him.

Kinowin looked up. He was standing by the bookshelves and studying a volume half-open in his huge hand. “I hope this isn’t about that Patrol business. You have to talk to Isork about that, if you want to rejoin the Patrol. And it would have to be a year or more from now.”

“No, ser. It’s not about the Patrol. Not that I know of.”

Kinowin glanced at the pages before him, then closed the book. “Then sit down.”

Cerryl sat, his nose twitching. Was it the dust from the old volume Kinowin held? He rubbed his nose, and the itch subsided but did not go away totally.

Kinowin walked toward the window, his back to the purple and blue hanging, his eyes focused out through the thick glass of the window closed against the early-evening chill. “What is it?”

“Fydel and the lancers brought in a trader, a woman trader.”

“That bothers you?”

“Yes,” Cerryl answered directly. “I cannot see any reason for it, not even with all the problems that the Guild faces. Fydel could discipline a trader without using a full lancer detachment.”

“Strange, yes.” The overmage nodded without looking at Cerryl.

The younger mage waited.

“Overmage or not, Cerryl, I am not privy to all that is done for the High Wizard.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Why does a simple trader bother you?” asked Kinowin, finally turning from the window.

How much should he tell Kinowin? He cleared his throat. “Some time ago, I overheard a remark by Anya about a female trader who was linked to the smith in Spidlar-the Black one that Jeslek is following. The one called…Dorrin, I believe.”

Kinowin raised his bushy blonde eyebrows. “Yes?”

Cerryl shrugged. “It’s not my task. Yet it disturbs me, and I don’t know why.”

“Those who get involved in what is not their task…What happened with the Patrol, Cerryl?”

Cerryl winced inwardly at the implied reprimand. “Ser, I have done nothing, nor will I. I know that when something bothers me, such as this, there is a problem. I can do nothing. But I thought you should know, if you did not already. All I can do is bring it to your attention.”