CIX
Cerryl stood at one end of the table, then stepped back, his eyes raking over Teras, Ferek, and Riser. Senglat was absent. Probably sneaking off to find Fydel. “I want that man tied to a post right in front of the gate outside and all the lancers mustered out, right on the street here, on foot.”
“Now?” asked Teras.
“Now. I’ll be out shortly, as soon as he’s tied to the post. You can all leave and prepare.” Sounding like Jeslek, you are. Cerryl concealed a wince, not moving until the small study was empty and he stood alone, alone with his thoughts and the faint odor of decay that would doubtless take years to dissipate totally.
The murmurs from the officer and subofficers were loud enough that he could hear they were talking, but not loud enough for him to pick up the words. It didn’t matter. The lancer had been caught right after he had murdered a local woman because she wouldn’t comply with his wishes. Then the fellow had bold-facedly lied to Cerryl, and denied the murder.
The slightly built mage shook his head. If he let the man off, his authority over the lancers would begin to erode until he’d have to do something drastic to regain it. Anya was right…in this situation.
When he saw the prisoner being marched from the makeshift cells in the cellar of the barracks house and the lancers forming up, Cerryl pulled on his jacket and stepped out into the cold and windy day, walking just outside the wrought-iron gate.
From where he was roped to a post wedged between two large cobble stones and braced with several other stones the lancer prisoner, a gag across his mouth, glared at Cerryl. The man probably could have loosened the post if he had struggled enough, but he still would have been fastened to what amounted to a heavy log.
“The men are here-all we could find quickly, ser,” announced Teras, his voice carrying over the slight whistle of the wind.
“Thank you.” Cerryl cleared his throat, then waited as he heard hoofs. A trace of a smile played across his lips as he sensed the chaos that accompanied the two riders.
Fydel galloped up, Senglat beside him. The square-bearded mage’s face was red, almost livid, as he dismounted and marched up to Cerryl. His voice was low, pitched at Cerryl and not to carry. “I’m the one in charge of the lancers and what they do.”
“I’m in charge of the city,” Cerryl answered quietly. “Your lancer broke the peace, and lancers answer to the Patrol, even in Fairhaven. It’s no different here.”
“Why are you doing this?” asked Fydel. “I won’t let you.” Cerryl raised shields and chaos before answering, his voice also low. “You won’t stop me, Fydel.” He smiled as the older man stepped back.
“Jeslek will hear of this.”
“I’m sure he will. He doesn’t care. All he wants are results. He wants Elparta rebuilt and the tariffs from its trade. If my way gets things done, your complaint doesn’t matter. If it doesn’t,” Cerryl smiled ironically, “then it’s minor compared to my failure.”
“You’re worse than Anya.”
“Perhaps. Now… will you stand back and let me finish? It would be better if you did not make a scene.”
“Jeslek will know of my displeasure.”
“I am certain he will… if you choose to let him know. If you think, upon reflection, that is wise.” Cerryl stepped forward, ignoring Fydel, his eyes beyond the lancer tied to the post. He raised his voice “I ordered that no man, woman, or child in this town be hurt unless they attacked one of you. This man not only beat and killed a woman, but he lied to me about it. She did not threaten him; she did not wish to be used by him. He disobeyed, and he lied. He will pay the price.” Cerryl nodded brusquely, then raised chaos.
For first time the lancer began to struggle, lunging against the ropes and the post-realizing that the slender mage meant his death.
Whhsttt! The firebolt engulfed the prisoner, flaring into a brief column of flame and greasy black smoke. Within instants, only white ashes drifted in the cold air.
Cerryl nodded to Teras. “You may dismiss them.” His eyes went to the still-mounted Senglat. “You are dismissed as well, Captain.”
Senglat’s eyes flickered from Cerryl to Fydel and then dropped. “Yes, ser.”
Cerryl remained almost rigid until the lancers had begun to move and until Senglat turned his mount down the street toward the makeshift stables.
“… means what he said.”
“… other mage looked like the little one kicked him silly.”
“… Hiser said he was tough.”
“… one they kicked out of the Patrol ‘cause he was too mean… that’s what Yurit heard.”
Cerryl looked at Fydel, whose color had gone from livid to near-white.
“I see why Isork wanted you off the Patrol.”
“Do you?” Cerryl turned. His head ached again, and he felt exhausted, more emotionally than physically.
Fydel opened his mouth, then closed it. After a long pause, he spoke. “You cannot accept things as they are. You want them to be as they should be. Men are not as they should be but as they are.”
“They won’t be any better by doing their worst,” Cerryl answered. “Neither will we.” But what is “better”? He wished he knew.
Leaving Fydel and his mount in the street, Cerryl walked slowly back into the quarters building, back past the immobile guards and into the silent structure.
Force… maybe Anya was right, but Cerryl didn’t have to like it. Not at all.
CX
Windswept piles of snow had drifted against the stone fence-wall on the eastern side of the road, flakes swirling and shifting across the surface of the drifts in the light winter wind. Behind the stones were trees, Mostly saplings, and the stumps where larger trees had once stood. The sound of a score of mounts’ hoofs echoed off the frozen clay of the road as Cerryl and the lancers rode north.
Downhill from the western side of the narrow road, a stream burbled, ice-fringed, but its dark water clear in the center. Splotches of snow dotted the narrow field beyond the streambed, and trees with winter-grayed leaves rose behind the field.
“The place is around the next bend,” Hiser announced.
As he passed the midpoint of the gentle curve in the road, Cerryl leaned forward in the saddle. A narrower road curved eastward rising beside the stream. Both road and stream cut through the middle of the field. The wide berm of stone-faced earth and the rough-planked building beside it were the first signs of the mill. A single large timber barn stood to the left of the mill and an unpainted house uphill of both, with a thin line of smoke rising from the chimney.
The arrangement of the mill and the outbuildings looked little like Dylert’s, where Cerryl had spent his years after leaving the mines and Uncle Syodar and Aunt Nail, yet the feel was similar.
While there were recent tracks on the road to the mill and house, all the plank-sided buildings were shuttered, all the doors fastened tight. A dog’s tracks crossed a patch of windblown snow before the low one-story house, but no dog was in sight. The plank walls of the house were water-stained, and the roof sagged.
Cerryl wanted to shake his head as he mentally compared Dylert’s null and the house before him. “Let’s see if anyone’s here.”
At Hiser’s nod, one of the lancers dismounted and, hand on sabre, used his free hand to pound on the door. Cerryl waited, but there was no answer.
“Try again. Say who ser Cerryl is,” ordered Hiser.
The lancer pounded on the door. “Ser Cerryl, the city commander of Elparta.”
Again the door remained closed.
Cerryl could sense no chaos, but he felt exposed. Then, he was always feeling exposed anymore. “I’m Cerryl, and I’m a White mage, and I don’t mean any harm-unless you won’t meet with me.”
The door opened but a span. Cerryl could see the heavy chains.
“Yes, ser?”
“Come on out. If I wanted to, I could burn down the door, but it wouldn’t do either of us much good.”
Hiser smothered a grin.
Slowly, the bearded man eased out into the chill wind, and the door shut firmly behind him. “Mill’s closed. No way to get logs down till spring.”
Cerryl glanced at the bearded millmaster, then nodded at Hiser, before dismounting and stepping up to the taller man. Disliking it, but knowing the necessity, he raised equal order and chaos from the area around, letting it smolder around him. His gray eyes fixed the mill-master’s pale green ones.
The miller’s eyes widened, and he looked at the rut-frozen ground.
“Let’s take a look at your mill.”
The miller glanced at the score of lancers and at Riser’s hard blue eyes. “Ah… as you wish, ser mage.”
Two lancers, sabres out, led the way as the stocky man walked ponderously along the frozen red clay to the planked door in the middle of the building. He opened the door and paused. “Dark inside. But one lantern and no striker.”
“Hold up the lantern,” Cerryl said dryly, waiting until the miller did before focusing a touch of chaos on the wick.
The lantern flared into light. The millmaster swallowed.
“Inside,” Cerryl suggested.
One of the lancers took the lantern from the miller and stepped into the mill. The millmaster followed, and then came Cerryl.
Cerryl studied the mill floor, covered with sawdust that had to have been there since fall-or even summer. The few racks flanking the blade, wrapped in oiled cloth, were empty.
“Now the storage barn there.” Cerryl gestured in the general direction of what he knew had to be the curing and storage barn.
With a deep breath the millmaster turned, and the four walked from the mill across the road and to the sliding door. The bearded man’s hands fumbled as he unlatched the big door and pushed it sideways.
Perhaps a third of the racks contained planks, mostly smaller cuts, though Cerryl noted perhaps two dozen heavy oak planks that might work for refurbishing the piers. After walking to that rack and checking the planks, he turned and left the barn, then waited for the millmaster to slide shut the heavy door. The wind whistled more loudly as the four walked back toward the house and the still-mounted lancers and their subofficer.
Before the house, Cerryl turned once more to the bearded man. “We need timber. More than what you have here. You need your mill. You have no logs to cut, but there is enough water in the river to run the blade. The ice isn’t that thick, and the mill is undershot anyway. It was designed to work in the winter.”
“Ah… yes.” The miller glanced at Cerryl.
“I once worked in a mill. Do you have a wagon and a team?”
“Yes, ser.” The millmaster’s eyes darted toward the outbuilding to the west of the long house.
“Then you will turn that wagon into a sledge. Remove the wheels. I will send a half-score of able men to help you fell and move the logs. If we get timbers and planks from those logs, you will get golds. Not many, but more than if I have to burn the mill. The choice is yours.” Cerryl forced a smile like Anya’s-hard and bright.
“You drive a hard bargain, ser mage.”
“No. There are many who lost everything. You get to keep what you have and work hard for a few golds. Most would envy you.”
The bearded man’s eyes did not meet Cerryl’s.
“Best you prepare,” Cerryl said firmly. “You will have workers tomorrow or the next day.”
“Yes, ser.” The resigned tone was barely audible.
Cerryl ignored it and remounted the gelding.
As they rode back down the narrow road, Hiser glanced at Cerryl. “You promised men.”
“The troublemakers… Bring them out here tomorrow. The first one that makes more trouble, bring him back to me.”
“Ah…”
“I’ll kill him with chaos,” Cerryl said flatly. “In front of all the lancers. Don’t think I won’t. And any others who lay a hand on the locals, except to defend themselves.”
“Ah… after the last one… you won’t have trouble, ser.” Hiser grinned raggedly. “What will you do when the troublemakers reform?”
“I’ll think of something.” Cerryl shrugged. “Or maybe we’ll have enough planks, or maybe the locals will want planks, and the miller can pay some of them.” He flicked the reins.
Planks and timber will be the least of your problems. Of that he was certain.