CV
If he had to take over as city commander or council chief or whatever like it or not, Cerryl needed some building that could serve as his quarters and as a place where lancers and others could meet with him-one separate from Jeslek’s building and where he wouldn’t freeze once the ice and snow came. He needed such a place soon, since Jeslek was already readying his departure-with a goodly portion of the White Lancers who had taken Elparta.
Cerryl had found Hiser and given him the task of locating possible dwellings, ones where adjoining or attached dwellings could be used to house Riser’s and Ferek’s companies-and ones close to Jeslek’s putative headquarters, even if Jeslek would not be in Elparta.
Now, as the fall rain misted down around him, Cerryl leaned forward in the saddle and looked down a wide avenue-for Elparta-just on the north side of the slope that held the High Wizard’s quarters toward a large, but comparatively more modest, dwelling set behind a low wall.
“This one… well, it be the best Ferek or me could find.” Hiser coughed. “Better than those leaking inns by the river. Smells, though. Everything does.”
Cerryl rode slowly the last hundred cubits, stopping short of the wall. The house was sturdy enough, despite the red roof tiles that had cracked in the upheavals that had rumbled the city walls. The front stone wall rose nearly six cubits. On one side the carriage gate had ripped off the iron brackets, although the smaller wrought-iron foot access gate remained locked in place. Behind the carriage gate was a stable separated from the main house by a courtyard.
After easing the gelding through the carriage gate, Cerryl tied his mount to a hitching post under the overhanging front eaves of the stable and dismounted. Hiser and two lancers quickly did the same and then led the way through the light rain to the front door.
One of the lancers turned the bronze door lever and pushed the door open. The odor welling out immediately turned Cerryl’s guts, and he stepped back for a moment to see if the light breeze would help clear the stench. While the worst did dissipate, Cerryl found himself breathing through his mouth as he stepped into the green-tiled and walnut-paneled front foyer of the dwelling. The four drawers of the oak chest set against the right wall hung out, except for the third, which rested on the floor, various colored linens strewn around it.
The single floor chest in the sitting room had also been ransacked, with shards of pottery sprayed across the green tiles and the braided gold rug in the center of the floor.
Cerryl repressed a retching gag as he stepped past the settee and through the squared archway into the small study adjoining the sitting room. Three bodies, already putrefying, lay on the pale green ceramic tiles between the corner table-desk and the circular table.
One had been-he thought-a young woman. The others might have been her parents. He tried not to swallow as he gathered chaos.
“Darkness,” whispered Hiser.
One of the young lancers ran for the front door, and Cerryl could hear retching outside.
Whhtsttt! The firebolt removed the putrefying corpses and the worst of the odor.
“Open the shutters, and the windows.” Cerryl walked to the nearest window, opening the shutters and then the glass. Unlike most dwellings in Elparta, the house did have blown-glass windows, with shutters both inside and outside the sliding glass.
For a time he stood before the open shutters, letting the cold and damp air flow around him and into the rear study. The study would serve as a conference room-it had a circular table and even a corner desk.
He turned and crossed the sitting room, going past the carved balustrade of the narrow staircase to the second floor. The dining area was to the right of the kitchen and partly to the rear.
“Who do we have that can cook?” Cerryl shook his head, his thoughts going back to the three bodies. Had the young woman/girl been raped and killed? Or had the three killed themselves? The doors did not appear to have been forced, and the limited looting could have come later, but Cerryl wasn’t sure that meant anything.
Maybe they thought their wealth would protect them?
Cerryl frowned as he stepped through the kitchen with its neat worktables and peered into the pantry-also undisturbed. Whoever had lived in the house had been well-off, wealthy even. And innocent of everything but ignorance. Despite Jeslek’s cruel “terms,” they had chosen to stay. How many others had, preferring near-certain death to exile?
The more he saw, Cerryl was convinced, the less certain he was about the wisdom of anything.
The dining area was untouched, as were the three bedchambers upstairs, with the exception of a single small chest, less than a cubit square, that lay smashed on the landing upstairs. A single silver that had rolled against the top of the balustrade indicated what the chest had once held.
Yet clothes had not been taken, nor any of the silver dishes in the sideboard in the dining area. Was that because there were so many empty houses and so comparatively few lancers and levies? Or because coins were easier to carry and hide?
Cerryl turned and studied the largest bedchamber from the small upper hall landing-four-poster bed, with solid dark wood posts at each corner, a silk-covered chair in one corner, two matching wardrobes with a full-length wall mirror between them, two windows, each shuttered and framed with maroon silks, and a door to a bathing chamber.
And three bodies…
Cerryl walked down into the front foyer. Riser followed him. Both lancers waited by the still-open front door. A faint green tinge suffused the face of the younger blond lancer.
“This looks good. We need to keep airing it out for a while. What about the houses on each side?” Cerryl looked at the blond subofficer.
“The dwellings on each side be not quite so good,” confessed Hiser. “Better than those below, mayhap.”
Cerryl smiled grimly. The work required might keep the lancers’ thoughts off other matters. Maybe.
His eyes drifted in the direction of the study, and he hoped that the odor would fade before too long. He tried not to think about how many more bodies there had been-or might be.
CVI
The High Wizard is expecting you.“ The lancer subofficer opened the door as Cerryl walked toward the guards stationed at the end of the short hallway. The candles in the smudged wall sconces were unlit, leaving the corridor dim and smelling faintly of burned wax.
Cerryl stepped through the door into the private library of the mansion that Jeslek had appropriated and eased into the chair across the circular table from the High Wizard, glad for the warmth from the. hearth. The books remaining on the shelves behind Jeslek had been rearranged and no longer appeared randomly piled on their sides.
Anya and Fydel were already seated, Anya to Cerryl’s left, Fydel to his right. A decanter of wine sat on a silver tray, with a single empty goblet beside it. Anya, Fydel, and Jeslek all had partly filled before them.
Fydel’s fingers tapped the polished wood of the conference table, once, before Anya raised her eyebrows. “We can begin.” Jeslek smiled.
“I am at your command.” Cerryl returned the smile, then reached for the decanter and half-filled the remaining goblet. While he did not need the wine, the gesture was important, and he took a sip of the wine, an amber vintage, unlike that he had been offered when he had first arrived, but one also verging on turning to vinegar. Too much chaos around Jeslek.
The slightest hint of a smile touched the corners of Anya’s mouth, while Fydel tapped the table once more.
“You will do your own commanding soon.” Jeslek glanced from Fydel to Cerryl, then back at Fydel.
Anya kept her eyes averted from both Cerryl and the square-bearded mage.
“I’ve written it down and sent it to Kinowin and Redark,” Jeslek said with a smile. “Fydel, you are to defend Elparta and to take the fight to the Spidlarians, as necessary. Cerryl, you are to work at rebuilding Elparta, and you are to keep the peace. You may conscript locals as necessary for building and rebuilding.”
Cerryl nodded. That was an option he didn’t like, but he also doubted that he would find all that many carpenters and masons in the lancers-and fewer still who would admit to such skills.
“If it appears that the renegade Black commander-this Brede-is preparing for a massive attack, Fydel, you will summon me immediately.” Jeslek’s eyes flashed. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, High Wizard.” The timbre of Fydel’s voice verged on that of boredom.
“In like terms, Cerryl, you are to rebuild Elparta so that it can serve as our staging base for next year’s attack. The river piers must be rebuilt, and enough housing for 50-score lancers and 250-score levies.”
Cerryl nodded. Two hundred fifty score? “What about supplies? And coins?”
“You will have 1,000 golds, as will Fydel. You will have to raise provisions and supplies locally. The Guild will continue to pay the lancers, but their pay will be held, as normal, until they return to Fairhaven.”
Cerryl held in a wince. The held pay was not going to go over well with the lancers, and that would mean trouble with peacekeeping and the locals.
“The men need some coins,” Fydel finally said in a low voice. “Use your golds as you wish.” Jeslek shrugged. “I am releasing all the levies except the levied lancers from Hydlen. I will be taking ten score with me. That leaves you with twenty-five score.” His eyes fixed on Fydel and hardened.
They lost fifteen score lancers in taking Elparta? Cerryl pursed his lips. Fifteen score? This Brede is better than anyone will admit.
“As you command, High Wizard,” Fydel responded politely.
“I am going to raise the coins and the armsmen necessary to take the rest of Spidlar in the spring. Personally.” Jeslek’s sun-gold eyes did not glitter but seemed cold and flat, like a serpent’s. “Anya will be assisting me in this winter’s preparations.”
Anya still refrained from looking directly at either Fydel or Cerryl.
“You may all go.” With a lazy smile, Jeslek stood. “You each have much to accomplish in the days before Anya and I depart.”
Cerryl took a last small swallow of the wine he had barely tasted, then stood quickly, before the other two.
Jeslek remained standing by the table. The lancer subofficer closed the door after the three left the library.
Outside, Anya stepped up beside Cerryl as he walked along the hall and into the foyer. The scent of trilia and sandalwood accompanied her, as always. “You’re no longer ‘young Cerryl.’ ”
Were you ever? “Why do you say that?” Cerryl took his stained white jacket from the peg on the coat holder and slipped it on.
“The bit with the wine goblet. You didn’t even hesitate. Or the blunt question about supplies.” Anya smiled. “You intrigue me more than ever, Cerryl.”
Cerryl returned Anya’s smile with one equally bright and false. “You flatter me. You are the intriguing one.”
“Oh, stop flattering each other.” Fydel snorted. “You’re both false as tin trinkets. And as useful.”
“Cerryl will be very useful to you, Fydel,” Anya answered with a softer smile. “You’ll be free to pursue any blues you can find while he’s worried about masons, and bricks, and planks-and piers and peacekeeping.”
Cerryl wished it were going to be that simple, but he had his doubts, strong ones.
Fydel snorted a second time. “The winter will be long, even with what must be done.”
“You two will manage.” Anya offered a last smile.
Cerryl inclined his head to the redhead, then to Fydel, before lead-ing the way out into the clear and cold afternoon. Despite the brisk wind, the miasma of death still hung over the city.
Cerryl swung into the gelding’s saddle, wondering how he could accomplish all that Jeslek had laid upon him. Does he want you to fail? Again? The brown-haired mage nodded, his eyes somewhere beyond the street as he rode back toward his quarters.