L. Modesitt - The White Order

Cerryl reminded himself to step lightly as he followed the dignitary. He walked carefully behind the guards who trailed the subprefect, trying to keep his steps in the same rhythm as theirs, hoping no one stopped too quickly.

The journey was surprisingly short, just into a foyer, and then down a corridor for perhaps fifty cubits, and then up three flights of steps, and back down another corridor for another fifty cubits or so. The entourage halted before a set of double doors guarded by a pair of armsmen.

Cerryl stopped as they did, amazed that no one had looked around, but, then, perhaps everyone felt watched or followed in a palace.

“Subprefect Syrma, at the prefect’s request.”

“We will inform him, ser.”

The doors opened and closed.

Cerryl eased up closer to the guards, standing to one side, wagering that they would not accompany Syrma into the study.

The study doors opened again. “The prefect will see you, ser.”

The guards stepped to the left, and Cerryl barely managed to slip around them to the right, and then inside. He swallowed and stepped wide around another set of guards, glad he was almost right behind the subprefect. One of the guards stiffened as his eyes flicked around, then slowly relaxed.

Cerryl edged along the bookcases to the left of the door before the guards closed them with a firm thump . He kept sliding along the bookcases and around a table to the left of the broad wooden desk behind which sat the prefect. At least he hoped the figure behind the desk was the prefect. That was the problem with navigating totally through chaos senses.

“You requested my presence, Prefect.”

“Syrma. . you have deigned to appear. How kind of you.” The voice was resonant and cruel. Lyam didn’t seem that much older than Cerryl, although Cerryl could not see him, properly speaking. “Why were you delayed?”

“There was a report of a white mage in the city last night.”

Cerryl’s heart seemed to contract as he waited in the dim corner behind the table.

“The fellow was drunk, but he swore he saw a man all in white on a horse, and the fellow disappeared and took his cloak.”

“You cannot be serious.” Lyam began to laugh. “You would bother me with such nonsense?”

“You asked to be told of all reports of what the whites might be doing. . sire.”

“I was talking about matters that were real-like those mountains, and those mages who slaughtered that idiot Jerost’s whole force, or that squad of white lancers south of here. What happened to them, anyway?”

“We killed them, as you instructed. They must have been scouts-just an undercaptain and ten armsmen.”

Cerryl winced but kept silent, standing in the corner formed by two of the ceiling-to-floor bookcases, hoping no one looked his way and noticed the slight wavering of the air that often accompanied the light shield.

“They weren’t any trouble, unlike the old mage.” The subprefect bowed, but only slightly.

“The mage wasn’t that much trouble-just heavy iron-tipped arrows from a distance. .”

“It took a dozen, sire, and we lost half the bowmen. He was casting fire even with all that cold iron in him. You underestimate the wrath and the ability of the mages.”

“Oh? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“So are six good bowmen, sire.”

“Nasty people, those whites. We’re better off without the mages. All of Candar would be.”

Cerryl frowned. So how was Lyam any different from Jeslek? Or did all those with power just think they were better than anyone else at ruling?

“What of the receipts from the Spidlarians?”

“Two hundred golds this season. . so far, and the tax levies on the merchants in the city are fifty golds higher.”

“That’s almost a thousand golds a year, plus what we saved from not paying Fairhaven. Scoundrels-every last one of the whites. Their precious road isn’t worth that.” Lyam laughed once more, the same cruel laugh.

“They think so, and it has been unwise to mock them in the past. Ask Viscount Mystyr.”

“He’s dead, Syrma. What riddle is this?”

“He died rather soon after he began to oppose the road duties. His brother pays the road duties most faithfully. Viscount Rystryr now receives support in terms of white lancers.”

“I don’t envy him for such support . Nor should you, Syrma.”

“As you wish, sire. I stand at your command.”

“Good. Inform me of any other developments with the whites. I’d also like to know when the next lancers will be ready to ride for Yryna.”

“You will be informed.”

“Leave me.”

“As you wish, sire.” The older man turned and stepped out of the room. The doors closed with a dull thud.

Two guards remained, flanking the inside of the doorway.

Cerryl studied the room with his senses. There was a railed balcony, but it was three stories up, and from what he could sense, there was no way off it-except for a twenty-odd-cubit fall.

That left nothing but the obvious.

Cerryl gathered chaos around him, then dropped the light shield and let the first bolt of lance fire take Lyam in the face and upper chest.

“Aeiii. .” The scream gurgled off into silence.

Cerryl turned. The second bolt got the first guard. The third bolt went wide as the second guard jumped aside, then flung the door open and ran out into the corridor yelling, “Chaos wizard! Chaos wizard! Frigging chaos wizard!”

Cerryl ran to the balcony door. Pushing back the hangings around the door, he threw it open and stepped out onto the balcony. There he struggled to get the light shield back around him, before easing back around the hangings and into the paneled study.

“He killed the prefect and ran for the balcony. .”

“Seal the courtyard! Close the gates. Let no one out.” A figure glittering slightly with random chaos burst into the study, followed by a half-dozen guards.

Recognizing the modulated voice of the subprefect, Cerryl used his senses to ease his way along the walls toward the double doors. He slipped out the still-open door and onto the polished marble of the corridor. Darkness, he was tired. He just wanted to rest, but that wouldn’t have been a very good idea. Syrma had too good an idea of what mages could do, and Cerryl wasn’t even a full mage.

He stayed next to the marble balustrade all the way down to the courtyard level, then hugged the wall as he retraced his steps, half by feel, half by chaos sense, all the way back to the second courtyard.

Guards milled around the courtyard, and the subprefect’s carriage remained where it had been. Slowly, carefully, managing to hang on to the light shield, Cerryl made his way along the walls, back through the archway and into the first courtyard.

Surprisingly, while the wrought-iron gates were closed, only a single pair of guards remained there.

Should he wait? No. . he was too tired. He edged along the wall on the north side, away from the guards, until he reached the gates. He could climb them, if he didn’t get too tired. He couldn’t afford to get too tired. He couldn’t.

The gates weren’t so high as the wall, and they were cross-barred. He took the first step up to the gate, and his hands tingled as they closed around the crossbars. Each time his fingers closed over the iron bars, the iron burned. Because he’d been using so much chaos? Because he wasn’t channeling it properly? He didn’t know, only that it hurt, and it was hard because each level up had to be silent and each bar burned.

Finally, he reached the curved top of the gate and swung himself over.

Clung! His boot slipped and struck one of the side bars.

“Who’s there?” Boots echoed on the courtyard stones.

“There’s no one there. One of the beggar kids-throwing stones at the gate again.”