CLXXIII
Cerryl looked at the weaver. The man’s lined face was haggard, and two children looked up from the corner beyond the floor loom. Despite the open shutters, little breeze flowed into the hot room.
“I’ve come to pay a debt,” the mage said.
“I do not recall, ser.” The man kept his eyes downcast, away from the mage’s whites and away from the golden amulet that hung around Cerryl’s neck.
“Are you the consort of Pattera?” asked Cerryl gently.
“She is dead, honored ser.”
“I had heard.” Cerryl extended the leather purse. “Once, when we were children,” he lied, “she gave me what coin she had, and those coins made all the difference. I’ve been away, and I would that I could have repaid her. These are for her children.”
The man looked up, warily, not taking the purse.
“I have not seen her in years,” said Cerryl, setting the purse on the edge of the worktable, “but a White mage must pay his debts, for better or worse. I would that I could have repaid this debt earlier. Much earlier.” And in person…
“Who might you be, honored ser?” asked the weaver, his voice barely audible.
“My name is Cerryl. I was once an apprentice to Tellis the scrivener, when Pattera and her sister lived off the Square of the Artisans.”
“You are among the mighty…”
“And I bother to repay a debt?” Cerryl shook his head. “This acknowledges the debt. I owed Pattera that debt, and that can never be repaid.” He paused, studying the single hanging on the wall, a small rug of red and green. “Did you do that?”
“Yes, ser.”
“Could you do one in white, purple, and some shades of blue and maroon? With the same type of design?”
“I could, ser.”
“How much?”
“I could not charge a high mage…”
“You cannot afford not to charge one.” Cerryl gave a short laugh. “What would you get for that one?”
“Two silvers, ser.”
Cerryl could sense the truth of the answer. “Fine.” He fumbled in his belt wallet before extracting a gold and extending it. “I would like a hanging like the one on the wall, with the finest wool you can obtain here in Fairhaven, in purple, maroon, white, and blue. The most striking color should be the purple.”
The weaver swallowed.
“It is to repay in small part another debt.” The High Wizard nodded. “In three eight-days?”
“Yes, ser… Your Mightiness. It will be ready. Yes, ser.”
“Thank you.” You still have to find a way to repay the debt to Brental and Dylert… somehow. After a nod, Cerryl walked out to the waiting lancers, his eyes and senses scanning the area. Will you ever be able to walk or ride the streets of Fairhaven openly without a guard?
He swallowed, wishing he had been able to find Pattera earlier, wishing… “What use is wishing?”
“Ser?” asked the lancer subofficer who held the reins to Cerryl’s mount.
“Nothing. Just the musings of a mage.” One who continues to find that not all dreams are quite what he dreamed they would be.
CLXXIV
Redark suggested that I should see you, Cerryl, dear, and here I am.“ Anya brushed back a strand of near-perfect red hair as she settled down across the round table. ”Would you pour me some of the wine?“
“I would be most happy to.” Cerryl filled her goblet half-full but set that pitcher down and refilled his own with water.
“You know, your wine does not turn so quickly as did Jeslek’s.” With her words drifted the heavy scent of sandalwood.
“I have less chaos to swirl about me.” Cerryl shrugged. “I suspect it makes a difference.”
“Almost a season has passed, and you have made no moves against the Blacks or against that smith who cost us so dearly.” Anya’s voice was level, not quite throaty, as she looked across the table at Cerryl. “And you sent a message through Redark, rather than to me.”
“I am sure you understand, Anya. Redark is one of the overmages. Would you like to be one?”
“Overmage… that does sound intriguing. I will have to keep that in mind, dear Cerryl. After you keep your promise to deal with the Black Isle.”
“What would you suggest?” Cerryl’s tone was mild, inquisitive. He looked toward the tower window that was but ajar, observing the painted wooden rose that did not move with the cool breeze that passed it.
“You cannot let such acts go unpunished, you know.”
“We razed Diev, and neither the city nor the harbor remains. The old cities of Kleth and Elparta are no more but rebuilt as we wished. Spidlaria does whatever we wish-willingly. In the last year, we have added another half-dozen ships to the trade blockade of Recluce.” The High Wizard smiled politely.
“Sterol did much for the blockade.”
“I have released ships from station off Spidlaria to assist those in the Eastern Ocean.”
“So you have, dear Cerryl.” Anya took a languid sip of wine. “So you have.”
“I take it you believe that more should be done?”
“You are so unfailingly polite and attentive, Cerryl. It’s one of your charms.”
“I am so glad you find it so. Are you suggesting that an expedition against the Black Isle or at least Southpoint is in order? A fleet, perhaps a firing of the new city being built by the smith?”
“It is so refreshing not to have to outline the details. Sterol was so dense about it.”
“I know.” Cerryl’s voice was dry. “Would you like me to propose this officially in the next Guild meeting and appoint you to develop the plan-under my direction, of course?”
“Of course.” Anya leaned forward and touched his cheek. “You are so understanding, Cerryl. So understanding.”
“We do try, Anya. We do try.”
“You will need a good commander.” Anya smiled again. “I would do it, but you know how sailors feel about women on board their ships. So I will have to do what I can from Fairhaven.”
“You have done a great deal already.” Cerryl temporized.
“The only thing… Cerryl…”
“Yes?”
“It would have been nice to tell me first.”
The High Wizard returned her smile with one equally false. “I did, Anya. Neither Redark nor Kinowin knows the details we have just discussed. After all, I had thought it would be something you would be most interested in, and I would not have wished to discuss details with another first.”
“You do so understand, Cerryl. My friends will be pleased.” She took another sip of the wine. “All my many friends in the Guild.”
“I would hope so. I would also hope that they-and your friends among the traders-understand such expeditions do require golds for their support.”
The flicker of a frown crossed Anya’s face at the mention of traders but vanished nearly instantly. “Golds-golds are gone tomorrow. No one will recall how you gathered the golds, Cerryl. They will remember but what you did with them.” Anya rose. “I will not trouble you longer.”
Not at the moment. Cerryl stood.
After the redhead had departed, he turned back to the window, studying the White City. Was it always that way? No one considered the cost laid on the laborer, the crafter, or the factor-or the men and women who died-just the great and glorious deeds, where all who took part were either great heroes or equally great villains. “Of course… people change but little.”
The heavy tower door opened, then closed after Leyladin slipped inside.
“I can smell your friend. I would have come earlier, but I wanted to retain what I’d eaten.”
“I’ve had only water,” Cerryl said.
“I can stand her less and less.” Leyladin’s lips were tight.
“I know.” Cerryl sighed. “I know. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Are you putting her on the flagship?”
“She’s made it clear that she won’t go and that her many friends support her in that. I’ll put Fydel there and a few supporters on the other ships. If I could put Disarj there as well, or…”
“It would have been better if she went,” Leyladin said, “but, as you always say, you can do what you can do and no more.”
“That doesn’t mean I do not hope for more.”
“Myral did, and much good it did him.” Her tight expression softened. “Though you have already done more than he had wished.”
“Less, I think.”
“You will… once you can deal with Anya.” The healer took Cerryl’s hands, squeezing them gently with cool fingers.
If I can deal with Anya and her many supporters…