L. Modesitt - Colors of Chaos

Cerryl inclined his head in response, then slipped through the doorway and up the steps toward his own room-still as stark and empty as ever. Where was Shyren’s room-and was the mage around? Again, Cerryl could offer many reasons for his suspicions of Shyren, but not a single featherweight of proof.

Cerryl wasn’t about to ask anyone, because everyone remembered a mage who asked questions. Rather, he decided to continue his explorations of the viscount’s palace.

The corridors of the wing that held the formal dining hall were deserted, except for a single guard, who barely looked up as Cerryl walked past briskly, his pace indicating he was in a hurry to reach a definite destination. While the dining wing held other chambers, including what seemed to have been a council space of sorts, all were empty.

Cerryl moved to the next wing, the old wing, where he passed two guards, directly inside the entry arch, both of whom studied him and dismissed him as he started up the stone staircase that was roughly four cubits wide, not wide enough for an official staircase yet seemingly too wide for mere servitors to use.

Shyren’s apartments were on the second floor of the old wing of the palace. At least, Cerryl would have called it old from the sense of aged chaos exuding from the stones.

The young mage glanced up and down the narrow corridor, but there was no one around. The door was secured by a simple bronze lock, one Cenyl recognized. A sewer lock, for darkness’ sake! Just like all the locks that guarded the sewers of Fairhaven and, like them, filled with a knot of chaos. But the lock was not closed, just turned so that it appeared closed.

Cerryl frowned, then shuddered as his chaos senses discovered the less obvious line of chaos-a line of force strong enough to destroy even a strong mage, were such a mage caught unaware.

Cerryl wrapped the light-blurring screen around himself, then eased up to the trapped lock and slid away the two concentrations of chaos. He studied the door again before opening it and leaving it ajar.

Finally, he slipped inside, smiling wryly as he quickly surveyed the room-or rooms. The anteroom contained an inlaid desk with a matching wooden armchair and a thick red velvet cushion. On each side of the desktop was a polished bronze lamp. There were two matching onyx inkstands and a quill holder as well. Three golden oak bookshelves stretching nearly five cubits high and each one almost as wide were set against the rear stone wall, and all three were packed with leather-bound volumes.

His ears and senses alert for anyone approaching, Cerryl slipped into the second room-the bedchamber. A heavy and dark red velvet curtain blocked most of the light from the wide window, but even without the light, Cerryl could see the high bedstead that did not fill a fifth part of the room. The hangings on the high four-postered bed were red and golden satins, and filmy golden silks screened the bed itself. A diaphanous gown lay across the red velvet cushion that turned the long chest at the foot of the bed into a settee of sorts.

To the right of the man-high hearth opposite the bed was a small table, set for a dinner for two.

Cerryl stopped studying the furnishings and began to use his senses to survey the room. Even more chaos lay within the chest by the bed-chaos and metal. The young mage swallowed. The chest was literally filled with gold. He could sense that without even touching the ancient and polished white oak. He could also feel an even larger mass of chaos coiled under the lid of the chest.

With a nod, he turned. What he had discovered would have to do. He dared not linger longer.

Shyren’s quarters were far more opulent than the High Wizard’s, and no wonder, with all the gold the old mage possessed.

As Cerryl replaced the lock and the two chaos traps, he wanted to smile. Shyren had one problem. As a White mage, he had to keep at least some, if not all, of his gains near him. Who else dared he trust with such an amount of gold?

Clutching the light-blurring screen, Cerryl turned back down the corridor, descending the stairs and passing the guards on his way back out into the front courtyard.

Behind him, he could hear the low voices of the guards.

“Who was that?”

“I don’t know…looked like he belonged here. One of Dursus’s people, I guess.”

“Too many folk we don’t know these days.”

Cerryl nodded. He hoped so.

Back in his room, he took out the glass and laid it on the worn green braided rug and searched for Shyren, finding the mage in the viscount’s chambers. Almost before the mists had fully parted and revealed the image of Shyren in one of the council chambers with Dursus and the viscount, Cerryl let the screeing glass turn blank.

Then he put the glass away and stepped out into the hall.

“You’re as wet as a drowned cat.” Fydel stood by the door to his own chamber. “Where have you been?”

“Riding in Jellico, trying to learn the city.” Cerryl paused, but only momentarily, noting that Fydel appeared almost as wet as he did. “You’ve been out, too.”

“Making arrangements to ensure nothing disturbs our efforts against Spidlar.” Fydel shrugged. “I’m going to talk with Teras-in the rear courtyard by the building where the viscount meets with all his ministers. Do you want to come? You probably ought to. Someone ought to know about the provisions’ plans besides me. Neither Jeslek nor Anya will pay any attention.” Fydel’s tone was bitter, as it often seemed to be, reflected Cerryl.

Why not? That’s about where you want to go . “If I won’t be in the way.”

“No. You might as well hear what you’ll have to do sooner or later, anyway.” The square-bearded mage gave a faint smile and turned, as if expecting Cerryl to follow him.

Cerryl did. If Fydel’s errand didn’t lead him to where he could find Shyren, he’d find some other pretext. It couldn’t be that hard.

He didn’t have to invent another pretext, for as they crossed the second courtyard, on the side under the overhang that protected them from the rain, another figure in white appeared, heading in the opposite direction, but on the far side of the courtyard.

“Fydel…I need just a word with Shyren.”

“I’ll wait here-if you won’t be long.”

“Only a moment.” Cerryl turned and angled toward the heavy older mage through the rain that had turned to drizzle.

Shyren slowed, then stopped.

“Mage Shyren.” Cerryl inclined his head.

“Young Cerryl, you seemed to be headed toward me.” Shyren smiled falsely. “And how has your stay in Jellico been thus far?”

“Rather unsettling, I must admit. Some fellows let loose with crossbow quarrels-aimed at me, I fear.”

“You do not seem terribly injured. Are you certain that you were the target?”

Cerryl shrugged. “There was no one else upon the street, and the white jacket of a mage is difficult to mistake.” Cerryl shrugged. “Unless they might have been seeking another. You wouldn’t have any idea who else they might have sought?”

“It is to avoid such mishaps that I have made it a practice never to ride the streets. Carriages are much less prone to slings and arrows, as it were. Mages should stick to magery, not adventure, especially not adventure in unfamiliar cities.”

With his senses concentrated on Shyren, Cerryl could feel the twisting, the deception, not quite like a lie, and he wanted to nod. Instead, he inclined his head, blocking all of his own feelings and responding as if he were accepting in a heartfelt way Shyren’s words. “So you had told me, and while I had thought that I might make Jellico less unfamiliar, it appears that your advice was most correct. I intend to remain within both the walls of the palace and the exact dimensions of my assignment here as an assistant to Mage Fydel.” He inclined his head in the direction of the archway where Fydel stood. “Perhaps that will ensure less attention.”