White Order
LXXVI
Cerryl trudged up the avenue in the midsummer heat, leading what amounted to his own procession, as he had for almost every late afternoon for more than two seasons. He still found himself struggling somewhat with keeping chaos out of his body, and he had to concentrate to make sure that he drew chaos from around him and did not store it within him the way Jeslek did.
He wasn't sure, but he thought he felt less tired. That also could have been because he had gotten more in the habit of trying to use the appropriate form of chaos for scouring-the golden yellow light lance for broad expanses where more power was needed, and shorter bursts of the tricolored light lance for corners and angled sections of the tunnels.
Once in a while, he still used firebolts, but those exacted more effort, if more spectacular looking.
A hot summer breeze blew at his back, out of the south, as he put one white-booted foot in front of the other, ignoring for a moment the rivulets of sweat oozing down his back under the too-heavy wool of the white trousers and tunic.
Cerryl glanced to his left, at the green sign outside an open door-a sign showing a white-bronzed ram with curling golden horns. He licked his lips, thinking how good a cool mug of ale would taste. The sounds of drinking and disjointed song from The Golden Ram swirled around him as he passed the doorway, and he frowned as the song called up a brief twinge, not quite a headache. Headaches from storms he understood, but from songs?
After Cerryl had finished fire-scouring the first secondary tunnel Myral had assigned him, the older mage had selected a second, east of the avenue, and to the south, south even of where Nivor the apothecary's shop was. While his new assignment was not as slime-covered as the first, it smelled even worse.
Behind Cerryl, Lilian's spear half-tapped, half-dragged on the granite paving stones of the avenue walkway.
“Hot, ser ... real hot,” observed Jyantyl. “Be much longer afore you finish this tunnel?”
“I don't know. This one turns ahead of where we've gotten. I'd say a few more days, maybe an eight-day. That depends on how bad the collectors that are coming up are.” Cerryl wiped his forehead. “There's also another secondary that joins-it must have been added later, because it's not on the map. I'll have to ask Myral about that.”
“Yes, ser.”
A covered wagon groaned past the group, and Cerryl's eyes followed it momentarily, noting that it held full barrels of something. Ale? Beer? Wine? The dampness at the edge of the wagon bed indicated some liquid that had spilled or overflowed within the wagon.
“Do I need to finish soon?” Cerryl asked.
“Some of us ... they be talking about sending us to Jellico or Rytel.”
“Rytel?”
“Only talk around the barracks, ser.” Jyantyl shrugged. “Some say Axalt is allowing all the free traders to cross into Spidlar that way. Maybe even traders' guild types.”
Cerryl nodded, not sure he understood but not wanting to confess his ignorance. “So the trouble there ...”
“I don't pretend to know, ser ... just that there be a storm rising in the north.” The older guard's eyes flicked toward the wizards' square, then toward the tower.
“I don't either, Jyantyl.” Cerryl nodded to the guard. “Until tomorrow.”
“Yes, ser.” Jyantyl and the four lancers marched past the front enhance and around the north side of the building.
Cerryl turned and climbed the steps, his legs aching.
So ... there were rumors about Axalt? Cerryl frowned. He knew nothing about Axalt, except its location. Then, there were so many places in the world about which he knew nothing. He laughed to himself. There was so much that he did not know about Fairhaven... Or women... or power.
Once inside the front Hall foyer, he started toward the rear courtyard, then stepped aside for a slim hurrying figure in white.
“Cerryl...” Anya glanced at Cerryl, almost as if puzzled, then abruptly made a face. “You need the attentions of the washroom, Cerryl.”
“Yes, ser. I know.”
“You don't have to address me like Sterol, Cerryl. Anya is fine.” Again, she offered the blazingly warm smile he distrusted.
“Yes, Anya.” He returned her smile with one he hoped was friendly and pleasant.
“Later,” she said enigmatically.
Cerryl kept from swallowing as she nodded and headed past him in the direction of the lower steps to the tower. He continued on to the washrooms, arriving as the first bells of evening rang.
He hurried through his ablutions and started for the meal hall.
Even from the archway, he could see that dinner was plain roasted fowl and boiled potatoes and bread-bread baked earlier in the day and already partly stale.
Lyasa and Faltar sat at one of the round tables, and Kesrik, Kochar, and Bealtur at the one almost adjoining. Lyasa motioned to Cerryl, and he nodded in response as he loaded his platter. Plain food or not, he was hungry.
As Cerryl neared the table, Lyasa glanced at him, then toward Faltar, then back at Cerryl.
“What's the matter?” he asked.
“Are you all right? The sewers ...”
“You mean,” he asked wryly, “have they had a 'diminishing' impact? Probably, but I suppose that's the price you pay for control. Or the one I'm paying.”
Cerryl could sense Kesrik's eyes on his back-or perhaps Bealtur's.
Lyasa nodded tightly. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. Myral does fine.” Cerryl wanted to smile but kept his face as expressionless as he could as he set the platter on the table beside Lyasa.
After he seated himself, he could feel Lyasa's hand under the table, briefly touching and squeezing his upper leg, a gesture of reassurance and sadness, all in one. He wanted to tell her that it was all right, but steeled himself and murmured, “It's hard, but it happens.” In a way, the words were true, just not in the way Lyasa would take them.
Faltar looked up from his fowl, a puzzled look crossing his face.
“You'll understand later,” murmured Lyasa. “How long have you been in the sewers? One eight-day?”
“Almost two. I'm not moving very fast.” Faltar shook his head and pulled a long face.
“Most don't,” said Lyasa. “Not at first.”
“... can say that...” mumbled Faltar.
“Have you heard anything new about Gallos or Spidlar?” Cerryl asked quickly.
Lyasa glanced back over her shoulder, toward the table that Kesrik and Kochar had just vacated. Her face clouded momentarily. “Ah... no. I mean... nothing's changed.” She lifted her mug and winced.
“What's the matter?” Cerryl asked, his eyes following Kesrik, wondering what Lyasa had seen-or heard.
“Kinowin has taken over showing students about arms. He stuffed me into full armor and then beat me around some.”
“To show you what guardsmen and lancers go through,” said Cerryl. “Eliasar did that to me.”
“I certainly don't want to be a lancer.” Lyasa laughed. “The black angels were crazy in more ways than one.”
“The ones from Westwind?” asked Faltar. “They supposedly knocked everyone else around. I can't believe it, though.”
“You don't think women are tough enough?” Lyasa's eyebrows rose.
“I didn't say that,” answered Faltar quickly.
“You didn't have to say it.”
Cerryl held back a grin.
“You know a good number of the blades on Recluce are still women. So are some of the white lancers.”
“I shouldn't have said anything.”
“So you did say something?” Lyasa kept a straight face.
Faltar sighed, despondently, almost in the exaggerated fashion of a traveling minstrel. “Go ahead, flame me. Beat me ... anything you wish...for I am in pain and misery ...”
“Next time .. .” Lyasa laughed.
“There won't be a next time,” Faltar promised.
Cerryl laughed at his plaintive tone.
“Why did you ask about things?” Lyasa turned back toward Cerryl.
“Jyantyl-he's the head guard for my sewer work-he said there were rumors about more guards and lancers being sent to Certis, and something about Axalt.” He paused. “What do you know about Axalt?”
“It's an old walled city. It used to be on the main trade road from Jellico to Spidlar-until the Great White Road was completed through the Easthorns. It's not quite a land, but it owes no allegiance to any other ruler.”
“Maybe we'll all be mages before it comes to war,” suggested Faltar.
“Maybe.” Cerryl wasn't sure that was good. He broke off a chunk of bread.
“War doesn't make sense,” said Lyasa.
“Many things don't make sense,” pointed out Faltar, mumbling through his food again. “Why should war?”
Thinking about Anya's reaction when he'd entered the Hall, and so much that had occurred, Cerryl had to agree with Faltar. But there wasn't much he could do, and he lifted his mug and enjoyed a swallow of cool ale.