L. Modesitt - The White Order

As the hoofbeats gradually faded out, Cerryl waited in his self-created blindness and darkness, hoping he could sense the approach of twilight, and worrying about Ludren and the other lancers. He’d needed the diversion, but he hadn’t liked using them. You didn’t hesitate there .

In all likelihood, many would have died in combat somewhere. . Are you sure? Or did you choose what benefited you? He nodded. He’d chosen what helped him, and nothing was going to change that. He just hoped he didn’t end up like Jeslek and Sterol.

Although the road seemed silent, Cerryl waited a time longer, conscious of the sweat that oozed down his back. Finally, he released the shield and quickly studied the road and the cot.

The peasant had disappeared, and smoke rose from the earthen-brick chimney of the cot. The sun hung over the hills to the west, those low hills that led to the Westhorns.

The road was empty, except for a cart that creaked southward, already past Cerryl and heading toward Southbrook or Tellura or some other town that Cerryl and the lancers had skirted on their ride toward Fenard. No lancers waited on the hilltop.

Cerryl waited, sipping his water until the sun dropped behind the hills. Only then did he urge his mount toward the river to drink, and then he waited until the sky was nearly full dark before traveling the last kay or so toward Fenard, halting in the gloom several hundred cubits from the gates.

A half-squad of armsmen or lancers stood under the torches by the gates, waiting, their posture signifying boredom.

“Someone’s out there. .”

Cerryl eased the light shield around him and the chestnut. Did he dare try to walk through the gates-just shielded? Virtually half-blind?

He sat on the gelding. . waiting. .

“Don’t see a thing. You get jumpy every time a rat climbs out of the sewer ditches.” One of the guard’s voices drifted through the darkness.

“I did see something.”

“Any of you others see anything?”

Cerryl held his breath.

“See, Nubver. . there’s no one out there. Overcaptain Gysto and his lancers even chased out the rats.”

Laughter echoed from the walls.

The guards chatted, but no riders or wagons moved along the road. Finally, bit by bit, Cerryl eased the chestnut, now more at ease in the darkness of the light shield, forward along the road, moving more slowly, more deliberately, once the gelding’s hoofs clicked on the paving stones of the causeway that began a mere hundred cubits from the guards. He tried not to think about the madness of what he attempted.

One of the guards turned. “You hear something? Like someone walking on the causeway?”

“I don’t see anything. You and Pulsat want to go check. . go check. Probably a rat.”

Another wave of laughter followed.

“Pulsat, come on.”

Cerryl swallowed, not knowing whether his shield would hold if the guards got too close. He concentrated, then arced a fireball at what felt to be a pile of rubbish to the west of the guards.

Whhssttt! Light flared up.

“See! There was something.”

Four of the guards pulled out blades and eased toward the flickering fire that remained near the base of the walls.

“Looks like rubbish. .”

“Maybe a rat set it on fire. .”

A step at a time, Cerryl guided the chestnut by sense and feel toward the gates and past the remaining pair of guards, both of whom were more interested in the fire than the seemingly empty gates.

“Nothing here.”

“Who set the fire?”

“. . someone drop a torch from the walls?”

“Why?”

“Who knows? Report it to Delbur in the morning.”

With the sweat seeping down his back, Cerryl guided the gelding into the streets of Fenard, turning abruptly at the first corner into a narrower way. Another hundred cubits onward, he released the light shields and just sat on the chestnut, shivering. The street smelled like the sewers of Fairhaven, if not so strongly. The only light was that of the stars and a smoky torch perhaps fifty cubits farther along the street.

He was in Fenard, with no idea of where the palace or anything was. He wore white garments that would make him an instant target in daylight, and he had but two silvers and a handful of coppers in his purse.

Cerryl had few doubts that he would find any trace of Sverlik-dead or alive. He also had strong suspicions that Jeslek had already figured that out, well before the overmage had sent Cerryl on his “task.”

“Out! Out before you wreck it all. .”

The junior mage glanced up where a tall figure staggered out into the street by the torch.

“A weighty man was he. . was he. . a weighty man was he. .”

Thud . . The sound of a door closing echoed down the street, followed by a brief rustling that Cerryl suspected signified rats.

“. . and a weighty man. . am I. . am I. .”

The shadowy figure waddled toward Cerryl, who could see that the drunkard was both tall and broad, twice his own bulk, and wearing a capacious cloak. Cerryl had no weapons to speak of, save the short white-bronze knife. Should he turn? But that might put him in view of the gate guards.

He sat on the chestnut and waited.

As the reveler staggered toward Cerryl, Cerryl drew the light shield around himself and the chestnut-then released it when the man was less than three cubits away.

“Weighty. . man. . am I-where did you come from, fellow?”

Cerryl recloaked himself and his mount, easing the chestnut sideways slightly, so that the reveler would walk by, rather than run into the horse. He drew out his knife. The heavy man stood there for a moment, then scratched his head. “If that’s how. . you want it. .” He started past the concealed mage.

As he passed, Cerryl reached down and grabbed the long cloak, slicing the ties.

The heavy man turned, coming up with a truncheonlike club, but Cerryl and the cloak had vanished.

Cerryl rode slowly down the street, past the smoking torch, and turned left at the next, and broader, way where he stopped and fastened the long cloak over his white jacket. The long cloak covered his upper body and most of his trousers.

Then he urged the chestnut on. The buildings were mostly of two stories, with plaster and timber fronts, and the second stories protruded a cubit or two farther into the street than the ground-floor levels. A foggy mist swirled around the buildings, a mist that bore the odor of open sewers and fires.

Someone was ahead. Cerryl swallowed, and gathered chaos, hoping he did not have to use it.

The small figure scurried down a side alley, and Cerryl took a deep breath. The next block was not quite so dark, though there were no lamps or torches hung, because blotches of light fell into the street from the windows or shutters of the dwellings on the left.

The scrape of boots on the cobblestones brought his attention closer. Two figures darted from the shadows of the alley on the left that he had not really noticed.

“Fellow. . you’ll be surrendering that mount-and your purse.”

Cerryl glanced at the pair. Both wore tattered shirts and trousers, and wide belts with scabbards. Both bore midlength iron blades. No others were near them. “I’m sorry.”

“Not so sorry as you’re going to be.” The bigger man, nearly as tall as Kinowin, laughed.

Cerryl smiled sadly, gathering chaos.

Whsst! Whsst!

The big man toppled. The smaller man stood for a moment, his mouth opening

“White-!”

Whhhstt!

Cerryl swayed in the saddle, then forced himself to dismount. He glanced up and down the alley, but the narrow way was dark and empty-with only a hint of a lamp or torch reflected on the corner of the building nearest the main way.