White Order
LXXVII
Cerryl stepped into the tower room, glad that Myral had the shutters open and that a breeze blew in-except that the breeze stopped when he closed the heavy brass-bound door.
From his seat by the table, where he sipped cool cider, Myral studied Cerryl. “You've been working on not holding chaos within yourself, have you not?”
“I've tried to follow your instructions and suggestions,” Cerryl admitted. “It's hard.”
“Anything done well is often hard.” Myral smiled briefly. “Those to whom power comes naturally have difficulty understanding such until it is oft too late.”
Cerryl refrained from noting that parables weren't exactly going to help him, and eased into the chair across from the older mage.
“How is the cleaning on this one coming?”
“Not too bad,” Cerryl said, “but there's a place just ahead where another tunnel seems to join, and it's not on the map.”
Myral frowned, then rose and half-walked, half-waddled to the bookcase. Cerryl didn't recall the older mage being so ponderous before, but said nothing as Myral returned to the table and unrolled the map scroll.
“Where?”
Cerryl pointed. “About there, right before that turn when it joins the eastern main tunnel.”
Myral's eyebrows rose, and his face cleared immediately. “Oh... that. It's not a collector tunnel. Years and years ago, there was a group of ruffians-they called themselves traders, but they decided to use the sewers as a way out of the city to avoid the guards and the tariffs, and they built an entrance from the lower level of their building. That tunnel was never fully bricked up underground-just from the building side. If you followed it, you'd come to a brick wall. There was another bricked-up tunnel exit all the way out by the spillway, but that was filled in with rubble.” The older mage smiled. “They got away with it for almost a year.” He paused. “I told you how the sunlight striking the water on the spillways cleans the sewer water before it reaches the lake ... ?”
“Yes, ser. You took me out there and showed me how the sludge is trapped in the first basin, and then-”
Myral waved vaguely as he straightened up and rerolled the scroll. “No sense in telling you what I've told you. These days-maybe I always did-I repeat myself too much. Happens when you get old.”
“Old? You don't look old.”
“I'm old, Cerryl. Old, old, old for a mage. I have my vanities, and Leyladin helps me with them, but I'm an old man, good for telling about sewers and refuse and such, and little else.” Myral plopped back into his chair, breathing heavily. After a moment, he glared at Cerryl. “Go on. You go scour the sewer, and I'll sit here and look important to myself.”
Cerryl stood.
“When you get to the smugglers' tunnel, be careful. You'll have to clean that out, or it will mean the secondary will have to be scoured sooner. But there's no telling whether their workmanship was any good. You may have to get masons. Just let me know.” Myral laughed, then coughed. “It's not as though I'll be traveling far.”
The younger man nodded again, then left, meeting Jyantyl and the lancers outside the barracks at the rear of the halls as usual.
The morning went quickly enough, if not so swiftly as Cerryl had hoped, since he found another set of small collectors on the east side. One was nearly totally plugged, and he'd had to use firebolts and steam to bore through the sludgy mass.
Even after he and the lancers had taken a midday break, Cerryl still felt tired, but he again unlocked the bronze sewer grate and nodded to Ullan and Dientyr, then started down the steps. At least in summer the tunnels were somewhat cooler than the streets.
He tried not to breathe deeply at first, until his sense of smell was partly deadened. The odors were far worse in summer and would get even worse as the heat drew on toward harvest. Cerryl ignored the omnipresent stench and let his senses range up the sewage tunnel to his right. Somewhere ahead was the bricked-up smugglers' tunnel.
The wastewater flowed down the bottom of the sewer, below the slimy walkway ... but there was something about it... a hint of turbulence ... something.
Cerryl let a small lance of the golden chaos light flare along the top of the water. A line of fire flashed even beyond the limits of his light lance. Something in the sewage was burning-an oil? He tried to sniff but could smell nothing. Where would oil come from?
He loosed another bolt of chaos along the tunnel wall closest to him, but all that resulted were cleaner bricks and white ash. In the lingering flash he could see as well as sense the curve of the secondary tunnel.
A brief tapping on the bricks echoed down the tunnel. Cerryl turned.
“Sorry, ser,” squeaked Ullan.
Cerryl returned to scrutinizing the tunnel ahead, frowning not only because of the smell of burned oil but because of something else.
Ullan clicked or tapped the lance again.
Cerryl ignored the tapping, trying to press his senses into the darkness of the tunnel.
A scraping rose over the burbling of the drainage way.
Suddenly, Cerryl could sense someone-something around the corner-waiting in the supposedly bricked-up tunnel. He began to gather chaos to him as he heard boots on stone.
A faint light oozed out from the side tunnel, and two men appeared, dim shapes, shapes not clear even in his senses, let alone to his eyes. Cerryl blinked in spite of himself.
One hung a bronze lamp from a hook on the wall, a hook Cerryl hadn't noticed. Both men carried shields-large and dark glowing iron shields. They also bore dark iron blades that glowed with the reddened black of order, and moved silently and slowly toward Cerryl.
Behind him, Cerryl could hear the two white lancers easing backward, almost silently.
Myral had said the guards might not be much help. He'd also said that firing chaos against iron would jolt Cerryl.
Cerryl stepped back slowly, trying to think. What could he do?
The armed men moved toward him, shields forward.
Whhhstt!
Cerryl released a golden firebolt-not aimed at the leading man's shield, where it would do little good, but at the sewer water directly before and beside the man.
A second firebolt followed the first, and a third and a fourth.
Cerryl held his shields against the chaos steam, keeping it confined, trying to direct it toward the armed men even as he backed away from them, but they continued to advance.
He angled a gold lance light low-toward the leading man's legs. It missed, but the second man jumped and crashed into the tunnel wall, staggering there for a moment, his shield low.
Whhhhsttt! Cerryl flared another lance of the golden light into the man's exposed face.
“Aeei-” The choked scream died as the armsman clutched at his charred face and throat, then toppled slowly forward.
As he cast another firebolt at the sewer water, the young mage backed away from the first armsman.
The armsman rushed forward, then half-flung, half-pushed the iron shield at Cerryl, lifting the iron blade and scrambling the few remaining cubits between them.
With a calmness he did not feel, even as the heavy shield crashed into him, Cerryl loosed another firebolt.
The man plummeted forward, his body a charred mass.
Cerryl pushed away the heavy shield, conscious that he would have burns on his hands. In several places, his white tunic was charred from the impact of the iron.
He had to reach out and steady himself on the wall. His head ached, and his stomach churned, and he stood there, gasping, the darkness seeming to recede and flash toward him.
Finally, he straightened and began to walk toward the steps. Dientyr stood there.
“Ser?” The white lancer looked at the walkway.
“Where's Ullan?”
“Ah ... I don't know, ser.”
Cerryl kept walking until he reached the steps, where he sat down in the pool of light cast from the grate opening above. He didn't care if his whites were filthy. He needed to rest.
“Dientyr? Have someone get word to Myral... brigands in the sewer. They're dead, but I'm supposed to let him know.”
“Yes, ser.”
Cerryl ignored the relief in the guard's voice and the rapid scramble up the steps. He just kept trying to catch his breath. Was it that he'd thrown so much chaos in such a short time?
When he finally felt less shaky, he eased his way back up the tunnel slowly, looking through the darkness. But there was nothing left-ex-cecpt two partly charred figures, two iron shields and blades, and the smell of burned oil-and slime and sewage. Of Ullan there was no sign, either.
He turned back to the steps to wait for Myral.
Dientyr and another lancer preceded Myral down the steps. A messenger in blue followed.
“Cerryl?”
“I'm here. There's nothing here except me-and the bodies.”
“Bodies?”
“Two armed men-I don't know why.”
“Best we see.” With the guard leading the way, and the messenger trailing, the two walked the few dozen cubits to the scene of the attack.
“Two of them.” Myral studied the two forms-the mostly charred one and the partly uncharred one. His face hardened as he used the white-bronze knife in his hand to lift one of the shields, but his breath rasped heavily as he straightened.
Cerryl tensed. What had he done wrong?
“It is not you.” The rotund mage turned to the messenger in blue. “I would have the honored Sterol meet me here.”
“Yes, ser.” The messenger left, almost as though fleeing.
“Maker's marks... on the shields.” Myral continued to breathe heavily. “They're from Gallos ... only one trader in arms licensed to Gallos ... shouldn't be too hard to find who brought in iron weapons.”
“I didn't think iron weapons were allowed here.”
“A few uses only ...” Myral panted.
“Ser ... the steps back there. They're clean. You could sit there.”
“Not... a bad idea.”
Cerryl led Myral back to the steps up to the grate.
Even without Myral's orders, the lancers stood guard over the charred shapes sprawled on the walkway. Another group had joined Jyantyl on the street above in guarding the grate.
“Does this happen often?” Cerryl finally asked.
“Every once in a while. That's why we provide guards.” Myral took another deep breath. “People think the sewers are out of our sight-Sometimes, they're right. We can't watch everything. The locks help, but some people tunnel in, like those smugglers.” After a moment, he added, “After Sterol comes, we'll check that old tunnel they built. I would gather that your attackers unbricked part of it. What happened to Ullan?”
“I don't know. He was gone by the time I finished with-” Cerryl gestured up the tunnel.
“Most interesting. A missing guard, and an attack late in the day.”
Late in the day? When someone knew a young mage would be tired? Cerryl hadn't thought about that.
Myral stood slowly. “The mighty Sterol is taking his time. While we wait, we might as well check that tunnel. You can clean some more if it's too slimy.”
Cerryl felt like groaning but didn't. His left shoulder ached where the edge of the shield had struck him, and he felt exhausted.
They walked slowly over the bodies to where Cerryl had reached in scouring the walkway, trying not to touch either corpse, but the walkway was too narrow to walk around the dead brigands. Myral turned to Cerryl, eyebrows lifting.
Whhhst!
Cerryl used as little of the golden lance flame as possible in clearing the fifty cubits of walkway that curved to the rough aperture of the smugglers' tunnel, a rough archs lightly less than four cubits high.
Cerryl stepped into the side runnel gingerly, feeling the clay underfoot give slightly. Less than twenty cubits farther on, the tunnel ended in a wall-except in the middle of the wall was an open doorway.
Myral stepped up and closed the door.
Cerryl took a deep breath. The back side of the door had been painted to resemble bricks.
“Someone has been using this again. Clever of them.” Myral turned. “No one is around now, and I'd rather leave this to Sterol. You don't want to know where that door leads, not until you're a mage, anyway.” The heavyset older mage puffed slowly back along the secondary until he reached the stairs to the street, where he carefully settled himself on the second step.
How long they waited, Cerryl wasn't sure, except that the sound of more armsmen and weapons echoed down the steps even before a handful of guards appeared, followed by the High Wizard.
Sterol appeared out of the dimness, a glowing presence of chaos, with a squad of guards before him and with Kinowin flanking him. “Your summons was not precisely convenient, Myral.”
Myral heaved himself to his feet. “Yes, High Wizard.” Myral gestured into the darkness toward the two bodies. “Young Cerryl dispatched these two malefactors. I would request that you examine the bodies for yourself.”
Sterol nodded. Kinowin's face was blank.
“You might also note the side tunnel beyond the bodies. There is a door painted to look like bricks.”
Sterol stepped past the two, and followed by Kinowin, he marched down the tunnel. Cerryl noted that while Sterol did not blaze chaos energy the way Jeslek did, he definitely radiated chaos-as did the rug-ged Kinowin, if to a lesser degree.
The High Wizard stopped by the bodies and bent over. After a moment, Sterol straightened. “I see what you mean.” With a gesture, he pointed toward the figures, and the tunnel filled with blinding light.
Cerryl blinked. When the stars cleared from his eyes, all that remained were white dust, two iron shields, and two blades.
Wearing heavy white gloves he had pulled from somewhere, Kinowin lifted both shields and handed them to one of the lancers. Then he lifted the blades and carried them toward the steps with the lancers leaving Sterol with Cerryl and Myral.
“Also,” said Myral, “one of the lancers guarding young Cerryl fled somewhere into the runnels.” The older mage glanced to Cerryl.
“Ullan,” Cerryl supplied.
“Ullan is doubtless hiding somewhere in the sewer. You have leave to destroy him.” Sterol's eyes flashed as he looked at Cerryl. “In fact, you are to destroy him immediately-without mercy. You have the power to do so.” Sterol glanced around the tunnel. “Do you understand?”
Cerryl nodded.
“Good.” The High Wizard turned to Myral. “We have some work to do.” Then he turned back to Cerryl. “Continue to seek Ullan and carry out my orders. We will not expect to see you before the evening meal. If you find him, do what else you can here. If you cannot find him-or if you do-see me after you eat.”
“Yes, ser.”
“You had only two guards, did you not, young Cerryl? Down here with you?”
“Yes, honored Sterol. I sent Dientyr to fetch Myral; Ullan disappeared when I was struggling with the ... malefactors.”
“You remained here?”
“Yes, ser.”
“Good. Better and better.” Sterol gestured. “Luyar, pick enough guards to watch all the grates on the secondary and the western main tunnel. If they catch Ullan, have them hold him for Cerryl.”
The lancer leader nodded and walked back up the steps to the street above.
“If the lancers find him first... you will be notified, and your task will be to execute the deserter with chaos-fire-right where he stands when you find him.”
“Yes, ser.”
Sterol nodded in a peremptory fashion, turned, and started up the sewer steps. Myral puffed up behind the High Wizard.
Cerryl looked down the tunnel, past the stairs and away from where the bodies had been, then shrugged. Ullan had gone away from where Cerryl had fought the armsmen, and the entrance, and the lancer hadn't gone up the steps.
After a moment, Cerryl started down the tunnel slowly, heading back through the area he had scoured earlier, watching his feet nonetheless.
Behind him followed the pair of lancers. Were they watching him as much as guarding him?
He passed one set of steps, dappled with light from the grate overhead, then a second, and finally a third. The tunnel was silent except for the muted gurgle of sewer water in the drainage way and the sound of boots on damp brick.
Close to the fourth access steps, Cerryl paused, listening, looking into the darkness, letting his senses pick up something ... someone ... hiding in the darkness behind the stairs.
He turned to the guard with the light, whispering, “I think he's up ahead. Stay back here a bit. I can't follow him and worry about you.”
Surprisingly, the guard nodded.
Cerryl eased along the edge of the tunnel, knowing that the back and upper sleeve of his tunic were hopelessly stained with slime.
A set of boots scraped on the bricks ... as did a spear.
Cerryl waited, gathering chaos energy from around him. “Ullan ...”
Only the sewer water in the drainage way burbled.
“There's nowhere to go.”
The indistinct figure of the lancer slid along the side of the steps, lifting the white-bronze spear.
Cerryl focused the chaos energy-the white-golden lance.
Whhsttt! The chaos bolt shivered the spear and turned it into flame. Ullan dropped it... his hand and lower arm also a mass of flame.
The lancer reached for the shortsword at his belt.
With almost a sigh, Cerryl loosed another targeted firebolt, one that caught Ullan in the midsection. The lancer staggered, seeming to fold before sliding onto the bricks.
Cerryl stepped forward. “Who set it up?”
Ullan lay sprawled on the slimed bricks, his midsection blackened, eyes avoiding Cerryl.
Cerryl focused another chaos bolt on the lancer's foot, then let it fly. The odor of burning flesh rose over the smells of sewage and mold.
“Aeeei... no ... no .. i”
“Who told you to keep tapping that spear?”
“Don't know, ser... swear I don't... Someone in white ... short never saw his face ... soft voice ... slim... wore scent.”
Cerryl let a blaze of fire glimmer from his fingertips.
“Honest... honest... ser ... threatened to kill me if I told ...”
Cerryl could sense the truth, and the despair. For a moment, he hesitated, then let the fire flare across Ullan.
He swallowed, trying to hold in the nausea-and succeeding, barely.
After a time, he turned away from the white ash that sifted across the walkway.
The two lancers waited, their lamp a puddle of light in the darkness. Cerryl walked past them silently, back toward the unfinished cleaning of the secondary tunnel.