XLVII
Cerryl glanced across the Avenue at the main entrance to the Halls of the Mages, silhouetted against the late-afternoon sun, and then at the White Tower, his eyes studying the outside of the topmost floor, the apartment of the High Wizard. Was more chaos swirling around the tower, or was he just becoming increasingly sensitive to chaos?
He crossed the eastern section of the Avenue, ahead of a slow-moving and empty green-trimmed wagon drawn by a pair of matched grays, then continued across the south side of the square and across the empty western half of the Avenue.
Another day of being a Patrol mage, another day of dealing with petty theft of bread, a barrel of flour-and in neither case had the Patrol found the thief, or thieves. No one had seen anything, and by the time Fystl had gotten Cerryl to the shop, somehow all those who might have seen anything had vanished. That bothered Cerryl. So did the slight but slow increase in such peacebreaking.
He blotted his damp forehead as he entered the cool stone walls of the front foyer, glancing ahead to his left, toward the empty steps to the White Tower. Once through the foyer, he crossed the fountain courtyard, grateful for the cooling mist of the fountain, and made his way through the middle Hall, past two apprentice mages he did not know, and into the rear courtyard.
“Cerryl?” Anya stood in the shade by the arched entryway to the rear Hall.
“Anya… greetings.”
“How was your day, Cerryl? Do you remain as fond of being a Patrol mage as you were a year ago?”
“I do.” Cerryl paused, then added quickly, “You know, I’ve never asked exactly what you do. I mean, Faltar guards gates; I’m a Patrol mage; Esaak teaches mathematicks.” He shrugged. “You seem most talented and yet… mysterious.”
“I’m only mysterious because I’m a woman and no one asks a woman what she does. Right now, I’m an assistant to the High Wizard. I used to teach knife fighting to the lancer officers, and before that I was the assistant mage for the water aqueducts.” A bright smile crossed Anya’s creamy-complected face.
“Much more impressive than being a Patrol mage, I must admit.” Cerryl’s eyes went to the battered sheath at Anya’s waist. Somehow, the knife belonged there, unfortunately. “How might I be of service?”
“You really shouldn’t use that phrase, Cerryl.” Anya smiled crookedly. “Actually, I just wished to talk to you for a moment.”
Cerryl managed not to flush. “You always bear interesting views.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“I do.”
“Good.” The smile returned, the one Cerryl distrusted thoroughly. “I am sure you know how difficult matters in Spidlar and Gallos are getting.”
“I had heard that, but matters here in Fairhaven are not so good as they might be, either. Nor in Hydlen.”
“You are having difficulty in your Patrol section?” asked Anya.
“Less trouble than most.” But I spend more time working at it.
“That surprises me not, Cerryl, nor the High Wizard.” She paused. “You also know that Myral is ailing, and that Kinowin is not so young as he might appear.”
“I have heard such.”
“Fairhaven has not mustered all its lancers in generations, and those who have seen battle are either few or old.”
Cerryl nodded, not enjoying the implications. “Eliasar has experience, much experience.”
“Eliasar will offer all he has. It might not reflect well on those others who have even limited experience, should they avoid using that experience when it is needed.”
“I can see that.”
“Good. I hope you learn much more about peacekeeping in the few eight-days ahead. I trust I haven’t kept you.”
“Ah… no. Not at all.”
“Good afternoon, Cerryl.” Anya flashed a last deceitfully honest-looking smile, then inclined her head and slipped past Cerryl and toward the middle Hall, leaving behind the heavy scents of sandalwood and trilia.
Cerryl pursed his lips, then entered the rear Hall and made for the steps to the upper level. He had barely entered his room and seated himself on the edge of the bed when there was a thrap on the door.
“Yes?”
“It’s Lyasa. May I come in?”
“Come on in.” Cerryl rose to his feet to greet the black-haired mage.
“I see that Anya had something to say.”
“I see that you’re looking out for my interests.” Cerryl grinned and gestured to the chair.
“I don’t know about yours. Leyladin is my friend. What did Anya want this time?”
“To warn me without being obvious about it.”
“About what?”
“That Jeslek is going to ask me to go with him to take over Spidlar, perhaps reduce some of it to rubble, and that it would be bad for my future, and probably my health, to refuse.”
“I cannot imagine that going on a war campaign to Spidlar and Gallos would be very healthful.”
“They may ask you as well,” mused Cerryl. “Anya mentioned that few mages had any experience in battle, and you were with us in Gallos. You’re strong with chaos.”
“Not so strong as you or Anya.” A frown crossed Lyasa’s face, and darkness settled in the deep brown eyes. Then she smiled. “But I could definitely keep a watch on you that way.”
“You certainly could.”
“Nothing’s going to happen soon. If they aren’t bringing in wagons and extra mounts now, they can’t be ready before late fall or early winter. Jeslek would be a fool to mount a campaign before spring, and he’s no fool.”
“He’s not a fool, but he doesn’t always do what others expect.”
“Have you heard from Leyladin?”
Cerryl shook his head.
“You could scree her, you know?”
“I don’t know. That feels a bit like… peeping.”
A grin flashed across Lyasa’s face. “Good for you. But she wouldn’t mind a quick look in the day or afternoon, I suspect. It would show you care.” The black-haired woman rose from the chair. “I’m supposed to meet with Kinowin, something about aqueducts.”
“Better than sewers.”
“I’ll see.”
After Lyasa left; Cerryl stood and looked at the glass on his desk. Where should be begin? What was he looking for? And why? Because nothing’s quite right and you need the practice because you’ve been neglecting screeing.
Finally, he sat down and studied the glass.
Could he see Leyladin, as Lyasa had suggested?
He concentrated on finding order, the solid black order he equated with her. He felt two pulls, amid smaller pulses of order. He settled for the stronger sense of order and let his mind focus on order, solid black order.
The silver mists filling the glass before him parted, more easily than he recalled, showing a red-haired man with a hammer in his hands, working an anvil. Order seemed to well from the glass.
Was this the smith Jeslek had mentioned? Was he the same one Anya had talked to Fydel about? The one tied up with a woman trader? Cerryl doubted there could be any other embodying such order, yet the red-haired smith didn’t seem either much younger or older than Cerryl himself.
If possible, the smith embodied order as much as Jeslek did chaos.
Cerryl watched the even rhythm of the hammer for a time, then released the image, realizing belatedly that sweat poured down his face.
After a time, he tried the glass again and was rewarded with an image of a blonde healer sitting across a table from a brown-haired boy with a face too thin for his age and eyes sunken too deep below fine eyebrows.
Leyladin looked healthy, but Cerryl worried about her charge and what that could mean for Fairhaven-and Leyladin and him.
Slowly, he let the image slip away. He sat at the desk for a time, a long time.