L. Modesitt - The White Order

Splushh . . His right boot went into the sewer ditch. “Darkness. .”

His chaos-aided night vision helped as he stripped the smaller man and cut both purses and took a scabbard and blade he could scarcely use.

He kept looking around as he dusted the ragged trousers with chaos and then pulled them on over his own white trousers, but no one appeared. After belting the scabbard in place and sheathing the blade, careful not to touch the cold iron, he cleaned his boots as well as he could and remounted. Then, still scanning the area, he checked the purses. Three silvers and a handful of coppers.

That the two would have killed him was clear, but that he had profited from their deaths nagged at him-and such a little profit. Was a man worth more than a pair of silvers? Yet Jeslek had sent him off to certain death, one way or another, for less than that. And had sent Ludren as well.

Yet, was Cerryl any better? He’d used the lancers as a decoy. Still, they had a chance. He’d given them that, a better chance, he hoped, than Jeslek had given him.

He took a deep breath and resumed the ride down the larger street, trying to be more careful, until he reached the main road again, where he turned right and continued toward the middle of Fenard.

The main street had more traffic-men with guards and lamp bearers, a carriage with guards-but no one really scrutinized the thin cloaked figure. Cerryl finally found what he sought.

The signboard bore an image illuminated by a single torch-that of a yellow-colored bowl. Cerryl rode past the door and toward what looked to be an archway to a courtyard and a stable.

“Ser? Late you are.”

“Aye. .” Cerryl roughened his voice. “Late. . any man would be in this warren.”

The stable boy shrank back as Cerryl dismounted.

“There’s room here?”

“Was last time I heard, ser.”

“Good.” Cerryl flipped a copper to the lad. “That’s for you, if you take good care of him. If you do, there’s another. If you don’t. .”

“Thank you, ser. Thank you. I’ll call Prytyk.”

Cerryl unfastened the pack and bedroll.

The stable boy whistled, twice, and by the time Cerryl had his gear in hand, a squat figure in soiled gray had appeared under the lamp by the stable door.

“A room? This late?”

Cerryl’s eyes blazed.

The squat man backed away, his eyes going from Cerryl’s face to the blade at the young mage’s hip and back to his face. He swallowed. “Tonight?”

“Tonight and tomorrow. Alone.”

“A single-that be a silver a night.”

“And fare?”

“And fare, but no drink.”

Cerryl nodded and extended a silver. “The rest when I leave.”

The innkeeper’s eyes went to the blade again, then to Cerryl’s face. “Guess I can trust you.”

“That you can, innkeeper.” Cerryl forced confidence into his voice but kept it soft and low. “So long as you keep yours.”

“You. .”

Cerryl looked into the muddy brown eyes, raising chaos as he did.

“Yes, ser.”

Cerryl smiled. “Thank you.”

He followed the innkeeper through the side door.

“Public room be that way. Stairs here.”

He followed the squat man up the narrow steps.

The end room on the single upstairs corridor that was no more than two cubits wide had a battered gold oak door, and Prytyk pushed it open. “This be yours. Not much fare left this late, but you come down and I’ll have Foera get you the best we can.”

“I’ll be there shortly.”

“No bare iron in the public room.”

Cerryl nodded.

Once Prytyk had left, Cerryl glanced in the wall mirror. The face that looked back at him was drawn, lightly bearded, and blood-streaked. The crooked smile that greeted him seemed almost cruel.

“Well, without a razor. .” How would Leyladin have found The Golden Bowl? He didn’t doubt it was beneath her, well beneath her.

He used the washbasin to remove the blood, still wondering how he ended up with it on his face, and the worst of the grime, then slipped off the cloak, the white leather jacket, and the red-striped overtunic. A plain white shirt, travel-stained, and brownish trousers-and a blade-scarcely the picture of a mage. The jacket and tunic went in his pack. He left his borrowed cloak on the wall peg and eased the pack and bedroll against the wall on the far side of the bed, out of easy sight, not that there was much of value there, except the jacket, but wearing it close to people would cause too much notice.

The public room was smoky from a low fire in the small corner hearth, with grease in the air, and loud chatter. Twelve tables were situated haphazardly, and all but two were taken-a round one still bearing empty mugs and dirty platters, and a small square one against the wall. Cerryl took the small table, turning the chair so that he could watch the archway without seeming to do so.

“. . care where you get wool. .”

“. . you think she cares. . All she wants is silks from Naclos. . and a larder full of spices and a matched pair of milk cows. .”

“. . young fellow. . there. . just came in. . another bravo. . Prytyk said he’d like as kill. .”

“. . doesn’t look that bad. .”

“. . blood on his face. . some on his blade, Prytyk said. .”

“. . worry. . not here. If he be a real bravo. . safe enough. . don’t do their work where they stay. Now. . wouldn’t want to be down at The Black Kettle. .”

Cerryl glanced up as the serving girl, thin, harried, and wearing a stained apron, eased by the adjoining table.

“Ser. . you’re the one Prytyk said came in late?” Cerryl nodded.

“Best we have is the stew and a leg from the fowl. Bread, a course.”

“That’s fine. What to drink?”

“The good ale is two, the red swill one.”

“The ale.” Drinking anything called swill didn’t appeal to Cerryl.

The brown-haired serving girl was gone as quickly as she had come. He glanced at the corner table, the one where the conversation had been about him. Three older men sat around the battered and whitened circular table, nursing tall mugs. A single basket of bread sat in the middle.

Cerryl turned his glance to the table where a blond woman of indeterminate age, but not profession, sat with a gray-haired and heavy man in rich browns. He wished a certain blond mage had been sitting across from him. Since she wasn’t, his ears picked up the conversation from the corner.

“. . see what you mean. . looks right through you. .”

“. . coulda taken him. . years ago. .”

“It’s not years ago, Byum. Ha!”

A faint smile creased Cerryl’s lips.

“Here you be.” The bread and ale arrived with the thin server, a half-loaf of rye and a tall gray mug of dark ale, smelling strong enough to chew. Cerryl laid out two coppers and took a careful sip. At the prices in Fenard, he’d have to be careful-and quick.

The bread was moist, at least, moister than that in the Halls of the Mages, and by the time the platter that held a single fowl leg and a chipped brown crockery bowl of stew appeared, Cerryl had finished half the bread.

“Here you be.”

“Thank you.” Cerryl knew he needed to give her something. He fumbled out a copper.

“Thank you, ser.” She flashed a professional smile and slipped away.

The stew was peppery, hotter than burkha, and Cerryl didn’t care, but he listened as he ate.

“. . a lot of lancers going out the east gates these days. Don’t see so many coming back. .”

“. . know a good cabinet-maker? She says we need a dowry chest for Hirene. .”

“. . good riddance to him. . mages nothing but trouble. . ”

Cerryl’s ears burned, but he took another sip of ale, another mouthful of bread, and then more stew.