L. Modesitt - The White Order

“Like as they stole something,” said Kochar.

“Probably,” agreed Lyasa. “There’s more theft here.”

How would dogs know? Cerryl sniffed, noting the sour odor of Jellico, an odor compounded by the smells from the open sewers running next to the buildings on the right of the street, and by other odors, including burned grease and tanning acids, plus some Cerryl could not identify.

“Smells. .” murmured Kochar.

Cerryl nodded, wondering if every city in Candar but Fairhaven did. He tried to shift his weight in the saddle again, in a way that wouldn’t rub his legs, hoping that they didn’t have to ride that much farther.

The viscount’s palace stood at the west end of the city on a small hill. The granite walls were even smoother and more polished than those of the city, if not so high, and the gates were open. Only two pair of guards were stationed by the gates, but above them on a false rampart was a full squad of crossbowmen.

Hoofs echoed on the stones as the group rode slowly through the long archway that was almost a tunnel, and low enough that Cerryl could have reached up and touched the damp stones overhead.

Inside the courtyard, Eliasar waited, only a pair of guards in green beside him.

“Greetings, honored Eliasar.” Jeslek reined up.

Eliasar’s eyes ran over the group, pausing ever so slightly at Anya and then at Cerryl. “You brought quite an entourage, Jeslek. Three apprentices?”

“One for each full mage,” answered the white-haired wizard.

“Well. . we can get everyone settled in the guest barracks-except for you. You’ll have the guest quarters down the hall from me-and from Shyren.” He pointed to the west, at another archway, smaller, from the courtyard that barely held all the mounts of the lancers. “The guest stables are through that arch. Klybel, you’ll have to stable the lancer’s mounts in the stable beyond that. It’s closer to the barracks, anyway.”

“Yes, ser.” Klybel’s tone was formal.

Eliasar walked beside Jeslek’s mount, as if leading the white-haired mage to the stable. His voice was low enough that Cerryl could not hear what either man said.

“Who is the viscount?” Cerryl finally asked Lyasa in a low voice. “His name, I mean. I know his rank. .”

“I understood what you meant.” Lyasa grinned. “His name is Rystryr. He’s been viscount for ten years or so. His older brother and his consort and son-the brother’s consort-died of the bloody flux.” Lyasa raised her eyebrows.

Cerryl wondered what poison created the effects of the bloody flux. . or could some indirect application of chaos?

“That was right after Shyren became the mage to Certis, wasn’t it?” asked Kochar.

Cerryl mentally confirmed his thoughts about how Rystryr became viscount.

“I believe so.” Lyasa’s voice was flat. “I’ll be glad when I can get off this horse and get cleaned up.”

Once Jeslek reined up and dismounted in the second courtyard, a square a good hundred cubits on a side surrounded by window-studded stone walls rising a good five stories, Cerryl struggled out of the saddle, clinging to it for a moment as his legs threatened to buckle.

“Feels good to stand up,” said Kochar.

Cerryl nodded, flexing one leg and then the other. Behind him the lancers continued onward through another archway, leaving just Eliasar, Jeslek, Anya, Fydel, and the three student mages and their mounts in a rough semicircle around a dark opening a good ten cubits wide.

“This is the guest stable. .”

Cerryl hoped he wouldn’t get lost in the viscount’s keep or palace. Every building seemed to join every other one, and all looked about the same from outside-flat stone walls with small windows. He took a slightly deeper breath and decided that the keep didn’t smell any better than the city.

Eliasar turned from Jeslek. “Fydel and Anya, you two rate captain’s rooms, and the apprentices each get an undercaptain’s room.”

“Don’t get any overlarge ideas of your worth. Certis has a great number of captains,” added Jeslek with a broad smile. “Get your gear off your mounts. The ostlers will stall them.”

Mechanically, Cerryl unstrapped his bedroll and pack, then followed the others through a weathered bailey door and up two flights of steps, then along another narrow stone corridor and around a corner. Their boots echoed in the empty corridors.

“The first two rooms are yours.” Eliasar nodded to Anya and Fydel.

“Thank you for your kindness,” Anya offered graciously, her voice melodious and modulated. The tone sent shivers down Cerryl’s back, so much did he distrust it.

Fydel merely inclined his head.

Around yet another corner, Eliasar pointed out three more doors. “You all are expected for dinner at the second bell in the small dining hall. Take the stairs at the end to the first level and cross the third courtyard. Ask the guards.”

As Jeslek and Eliasar walked away, Cerryl stepped into the room between Kochar and Lyasa. He lowered his bedroll and pack onto the bare stone floor and studied the barracks room-several cubits larger than his cell in Fairhaven, with a single window, shuttered. The furniture consisted of a narrow pallet bed, a battered wardrobe, a washstand and pitcher, and a lamp on a brass bracket. A heavy door bar lay propped against the wall behind the door.

Were undercaptains so disliked they needed to bar their rooms? Or just in Certis?

After washing his hands and face and arms and everywhere he could easily reach, Cerryl again applied some of Myral’s ointment. It helped reduce the rawness and soreness, and his legs and thighs seemed to be getting tougher.

He shook his head. He couldn’t believe that in the rush to leave Fairhaven, he’d forgotten the white-bronze razor from Leyladin. He thought he’d put it in his pack, but it was nowhere to be found. The only real gift anyone had given him in years, and he’d forgotten it. And from Leyladin, no less. He wanted to bash his own head, but that would have only added another area of soreness.

Instead, he used a touch of chaos to clean his clothes before dressing, finishing as the bell rang.

Kochar was waiting in the corridor, somewhat stained and disheveled. His eyes widened as he saw Cerryl. “You. . your clothes. . you weren’t carrying that much in your pack.”

Cerryl smiled. “Something I learned in the sewers. I’m sure you will, too.”

Lyasa joined them, looking even more fresh than Cerryl. Kochar shook his head.

“Let us go,” said a fourth voice that echoed down the corridor-Anya’s. She and Fydel stood at the end of the corridor. “We should not keep the overmage or the viscount waiting.”

Cerryl noted the slightest of emphasis on the word “overmage” but walked quickly toward the steps where the two full mages waited.

“Have you seen anyone else?” Kochar asked in a low voice, glancing forward to Anya and Fydel.

“Seems rather empty,” Cerryl agreed blandly.

Anya turned her head. “Observations by junior mages are best made silently, especially in the keeps of other lords.”

Kochar flushed. Fydel grunted. Cerryl kept his face expressionless. Once Anya returned to her low conversation with Fydel, Lyasa offered a bemused smile.

“Better to be here now than in winter. . All this stone gets cold. .”

“Better sleeping here than on the road,” answered Fydel, “no matter what the season. .”

The guards on the far side of the next courtyard barely nodded as the group of mages passed, but as Anya led them up the steps, Cerryl strained to hear the few words that passed.

“All that white. . only means trouble. .”

At the top of the steps, the decor changed. Instead of bare stone corridors, the hallway was wainscotted in pink marble, and gilt frames held pictures of men in green uniforms on horseback. The brass lamps were polished and lit, and their glass mantels sparkled. Guards in green and gold were stationed every dozen cubits, and the scent of cooking meat and flowers mixed.