XVI
The sun had barely cleared the low hills to the east of Fairhaven when the heavy wagon rumbled through the north gates and onto the highway. Cerryl watched. The entire wagon bed was filled with brass fittings, ship parts of various sorts, headed for Lydiar.
Fittings for the warships Sterol had mentioned? No… those were being built somewhere in Sligo. But could there be others being built on the Great North Bay?
He shook his head. Again, he didn’t even know enough to conjecture. How could he find out? Without asking anyone directly?
Leyladin had offered one suggestion-become friendly with more of the other younger mages. Some of them had to know things he didn’t, and most people would talk, he’d discovered, with a slight bit of encouragement. That hadn’t been his style, but… the more he saw, the more he understood the danger of being alone and aloof.
He glanced down at the white stones of the highway, arcing out to the north and then east, seeing the fine white dust that was everywhere in Fairhaven slowly settle back onto the stone. Then he walked across into the sunlight to warm up, knowing that before midmorning he’d be seeking the shade to cool off.
Below, Diborl watched as the prisoners from the city patrol swept the stones clean. Then another guard escorted them back to the holding room where they were kept between cleanup duties.
Not for the first time, Cerryl wondered exactly what the pair had done. Smuggling, disturbing the peace?
The creaking of another set of wheels alerted him.
Coming down the road from the direction of Hrisbarg were two farm carts and, farther behind them, yet another-the beginning of the line of produce vendors that would fill the markets before many folk were fully up and about.
He stood on the rampart and waited.
XVII
Lyasa, Faltar, and Cerryl stood in the front foyer of the main Hall. Cerryl glanced toward the steps up to the White Tower, his eyes drifting momentarily to the upper ledge and the life-size statues of past great mages-most of whom he still did not recognize.
“Here he comes.” Cerryl nodded to Faltar. “Let’s ask him.”
Heralt walked slowly down the steps from the White Tower into the front foyer of the Hall.
“Heralt?” called Cerryl. “We’re going over to The Golden Ram. Why don’t you join us?”
The dark-haired young mage lifted his head. “I’m tired. I thought I’d just eat in the Halls.”
“All you get in the Meal Hall this late is stale bread and old cheese,” Cerryl pointed out. “You don’t have to stay with us long, and it won’t be that late. I have morning duty, remember?”
Heralt offered a shy smile. “The Ram does sound better than bread and cheese or dried lamb.”
“Dried lamb.” Beside Cerryl, Faltar shook his head. “Any form of lamb…”
“Your feelings about mutton are well-known,” said Lyasa. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”
“Well…” Heralt shrugged and turned toward the other three.
The Golden Ram was half-empty by the time the four young mages settled around a circular table in one corner. Broka and another mage- both on their way out together-nodded.
“Good evening.” Cerryl returned the nod and smiled.
Almost as soon as the three were seated, the serving woman was at Faltar’s elbow, looking toward Cerryl and asking, “Drinks?”
“Ale,” said Cerryl.
“Ale,” agreed Faltar.
“Make that three.”
“Four,” added Lyasa.
“Fare’s on the board. Ribs, fowl breast, or stew. Ribs and stew are two. Fowl’s three.”