“Like you,” suggested Lyasa. “They say you’re the youngest Patrol mage in generations.”
Probably all waiting for me to fail… could that be it? Could Jeslek have agreed to it to see if I’d fail? Cerryl wanted to shiver. It certainly fit the way Jeslek operated. The new High Wizard set impossible tasks for mages he didn’t like and then punished them when they failed, if they didn’t die at the task. All the while, he quietly supported those less able who backed him. Seldom was there overt fighting among the White Order, just positioning to cause others to fail or to be killed in ways not traceable to any mage. “That’s only talk,” Cerryl protested. “Besides, I have to stay a Patrol mage.” That’s going to be the hard part.
“You’ll do fine on the Patrol,” said Lyasa.
Cerryl hoped so. He stood.
“Where are you going?” asked Lyasa, grinning. “To a certain trader’s home?”
“No. I have some reports to write and some things to read.”
“Work, work, work…” Faltar’s tone was light.
“Sometimes,” Cerryl admitted. “Sometimes.” He didn’t look forward to reading more of On Peacekeeping, but he needed to finish it and learn it before real trouble arrived. With Jeslek back in
Fairhaven, that could happen any time. Any time.
XXXII
With ships from Recluce in every ocean and every gulf, each accompanied by a Black weather mage, the lands of Candar and their traders had no choices but to agree to trading with the Black Isle on terms most favorable to Creslin.
First to accede were the western lands, those where the Legend of the dark angels was held in higher regard; from Rulyarth the Tyrant of Sarronnyn sent a half-score of ships, laden with all manner of goods, and these the Tyrant bestowed upon Megaera as a consort gift, and prevailed with those gifts that Recluce grant more favor unto Sarronnyn.
From Southwind also came tribute, and copper, and scented oils like those that graced the consorts of the Emperor of Hamor, and hardy steeds bred in the pitiless sun of the Stone Hills.
Even the silver-haired druids of Naclos, they sent silksheen and the dark lorken wood prized by the Black crafters, prized though it could not be used by those of the way of prosperity and light, and the precious stones found nowhere but in the hidden depths of the
Accursed
Forest
.
So began the alliance of the dark isle with the lands beyond the Westhorns, for even unto this day those whom the Black Isle has exiled in disfavor are not sent beyond the Westhorns, but unto those lands in less favor of the Blacks who fear to reject them lest the mages of Recluce turn the very seas and skies once more against Candar.
Over the generations has Recluce sent its questers and pilgrims to Candar, and some, even most, have found Candar pleasant and peaceful and to their liking, and they have remained and adopted the path to light and prosperity.
Thus, those who leave Recluce prove by their very value to Candar how admirable qualities are disparaged by the Black Isle and how little those who follow the twisted path of the dark order know of light and the true guide to understanding the world, and even what lies beyond our heavens…
Colors of White
(Manual of the Guild at
Fairhaven)
Preface
XXXIII
A large fly buzzed slowly around the open doorway of the duty room, then settled through the grayness of dawn onto the dull-polished stone of the wall in the corner of the room by the single high and barred window. The faint breeze from the open window bore a chill that hinted at the approaching winter.
Cerryl stood and looked down at the flat desk-table, then at the unlit lamp, before calling, “Zubal!”
The thin messenger boy in red appeared in the doorway and bowed. “Yes, ser?”
“If anything comes up, I’ll be spending the early part of the morning with Kesal’s patrol. You know the area they’ll be patrolling the next two eight-days?” According to Patrol rules, no patrol could spend more than three eight-days in a patrol area or return to that area until it had been rotated through the other nine areas in the section. Each year half the patrols in each section were rotated into another of the four geographical sectors of the city.
“Yes, ser. That’s the potters and the tanneries and the masons.”
“Good. You’ll know where to find me if any of the other patrols need me.”
Zubal’s dark brown eyes dropped to the floor as he bowed. “Yes, ser. He eased out into the corridor to wait by the messenger’s stool.
Cerryl stepped from behind the table, his eyes taking in the wooden document boxes, the stacks of paper, and the quill holder. Then he headed for the assembly room, passing the silent Zubal, who stood by his stool in the corridor.
One patrol-the one headed by the wide-mustached Fystl-was already filing out of the assembly room. “Good day, ser,” Fystl said with a nod. “Good day, Fystl.” Cerryl stepped into the assembly room, where the conversations-or briefings-dropped off, and glanced toward the patrol standing by the speaking stones. “Kesal? Might I have a word with you?”
“Yes, ser.” The wiry patrol leader crossed the room and joined Cerryl in the corridor, his brown eyes meeting Cerryl’s, questioning.
Cerryl took in the clean and smooth white uniform, the crimson patroller’s belt, the brown hair sprinkled with gray, the carefully trimmed beard, and the rectangular and honest-looking face. “I’ll be accompanying you for a time this morning. Zubal’s the messenger, and he knows that.”
“Accompanying us, ser?”
Behind Kesal, the other patrol leaders and their patrols filed out into the dawn.
Cerryl shrugged. “I can’t learn the section sitting in the building, and the people can’t learn about me, either.”
“Ah… yes, ser.”
“Kesal, I’m not here to do your job. I’m not here to look over your shoulder and tell you what to do. I am here to support you, and to let people know that I do.” He nodded toward the assembly room. “Introduce me to your patrol.”
Kesal nodded, clearly uncertain about a young Patrol mage who wanted to accompany a working patrol, then turned and walked through the open double doors of the assembly room toward the four men who remained in the room.
“Mage Cerryl will be accompanying us this morning,” Kesal said blandly. “This is Chulk.” The brown-haired and young-faced patroller nodded. Cerryl noted the wide red scar across the back of his large left hand.
“Bleren.” Bleren was squat and white-skinned, with wispy strawberry blond hair and a gap-toothed smile.
“Olbel.” The swarthy, olive-skinned patroller nodded, the curly black mustache waxed firmly in place, black eyes sparkling under coarse black hair.
“Pikek.” The last man in the patrol-short-cut mahogany hair and square sideburns-favored Cerryl with an unvarying smile that did not include his pale gray-green eyes.
Cerryl didn’t know quite what to say. He’d met all the patrollers in his duty section once, but briefly, and he’d learned the names from the duty rosters, but only a handful of faces fit with names, and none were in Kesal’s patrol. After a moment, he said, “On and off, I’ll be going with every patrol for a time.” Then he nodded to Kesal, deciding against any more explanation.
“Let’s go.” Kesal stood aside.
So did Cerryl.
The four patrollers filed out of the room and the building, followed by Kesal. Then Cerryl walked beside Kesal as the patrol turned eastward, along the south side of the cross street from the avenue-the Way of the Tanners, a street Cerryl had traveled more than a few times as an apprentice to Tellis the scrivener. Although Arkos had been the only tanner Tellis had used, Arkos had competitors-Murkad, Viot, and Sieck-as well as others farther out the street to the east where Cerryl had not gone back then.
Chulk walked down the north side of the street while Olbel trailed Kesal and Cerryl. Pikek and Bleren were out of sight, checking the alley to the south of the street, mainly to ensure it was clean and clear of rubbish.
“How did you get to be patroller?” Cerryl asked.
“I was a lancer, but I got tired of riding all over Candar. That’s a young man’s game. I heard that the Patrol needed men, and I walked in on my home leave and asked. Mage Huroan said I could try, and I’ve been with the Patrol ever since. I know I’ll get fed. Get to sleep in my own bed and sure live longer.”
“Do all the patrollers come from the lancers?” Cerryl crossed the next side street, glancing southward along the row of still-closed doors as the orange glow of dawn sifted out of the east and over the city. The next block of the Way of the Tanners held various leatherworking shops-that much he recalled, although his memory was prompted by the faint scents of leather and tanning reagents.
Kesal rubbed his nose before answering. “No. They have to have had some duty, though. Infantry, gate guard, that sort of thing. We’ve even got a couple of meres. The hard thing is learning the city. That’s always hard, ser, at first, for the younger patrollers.” Kesal smiled. “After ten years, now, doesn’t matter where I patrol, I know people. Not all of them, but enough know me. That’s good because when they rotate patrol leaders people with problems can still come to me.”
Cerryl wasn’t sure that Kesal’s familiarity was necessarily that good. Then, how could any patrol system be perfect? If the patrollers became too attached to a patrol area, then they’d probably excuse too much because they liked people and wanted to be liked. If they weren’t familiar enough with an area, then while little would happen in view of the patrollers, they’d also never find out the worst of the peacebreaking that happened in alleys and behind blank stone walls. “You can’t be too friendly, and you can’t be too distant?”
Kesal nodded. “When they get to know you, folks’ll tell you things that they don’t want happening around their dwellings. That’s if you don’t try to be their friend. Don’t want the Patrol knowing too much, you, know.”
Cerryl could understand that. Yes, he could. He’d certainly avoided the patrols even as an apprentice. Then, as a chaos wielder who was the son of a renegade killed by the Guild, he’d had good reason. He suppressed a smile, one of rue and pain. It almost makes no sense, that you are a White mage, when they killed your father… except those who did had no choice… except that you never knew him… except that he wanted to be a White mage… except that the only way to survive was to become a mage. And now you understand why what you feared must be. After a moment, he added to himself, Mostly.
“Morning, Beykr.” Kesal nodded to the stooped white-haired man who had propped open the door to a small shop graced with a wooden boot above the doorway. The walls beside the door were windowless.
“A good morning it is, Patroller Kesal.” Beykr paused, then added, “And to you, too, ser mage.”
“Thank you,” Cerryl answered. “I hope it brings coins to you as well.”
Beykr nodded politely before reentering the apparently dark shop.
“Makes good boots, I hear tell, but too rich for me.” Kesal gestured eastward. “Miern-he’s in the next block-makes mine. Sturdy, with heavy heels and thick soles. Fits me, too. One thing you don’t go too cheap on is boots. Tell all the new men to set aside a few coppers every payday, more if they can, for boots.”
After another block of closed doors, including Miern’s, they paused as Pikek and Bleren approached from the south side street.
“Yes?” Kesal’s voice was neutral.
“Ah… ser, there’s a cart, and a dead horse.” Bleren’s voice was raspy. “Don’t know why it was left there, not the cart anyway.”
Kesal grinned. “Lucky we are that the section mage be with us, then.”
Cerryl nodded wryly. He’d probably have to destroy the dead animal. There was no telling what sort of chaos it harbored.
“Chulk, Olbel… wait here.”
Chulk crossed the empty street to wait at the corner with the dark-skinned Olbel while Cerryl and Kesal followed the other two patrollers.
Halfway up the alleyway, a horse lay tangled in the leather harness and across the left cart lead, just as the gap-toothed and squat Bleren had said. Cerryl frowned, letting his senses range over the horse. No real sense of chaos beyond that of a dead animal, but there was a residual sense of chaos on the cart seat. He stepped closer to the cart, its sides painted bright purple, with yellow trim. Dark reddish stains covered the wooden seat. Cerryl glanced at Kesal.
“Doesn’t belong to anyone here. Brigands left it. Happens sometimes.” Kesal glanced into the cart bed. “It’s clean. Peddler.”
Cerryl walked to the other side of the cart, where he found a blackened patch just below the seat and a gouge in the wood. The two brass rivets had been ripped out of the wood.
“They use a long iron bar, ser,” Kesal said. “Rip off the medallion. That way we can’t tell who it belonged to, not unless someone comes to us, and if it’s a trader who travels around… could be a season or more.”
“There’s no flux or chaos in the horse. Looks like they just flogged it until it foundered and died.”
“A waste… had to be city brigands,” suggested Kesal.
Cerryl looked at the dead horse. Was that salt and sweat on its coat? Why would anyone push a horse that hard? Especially given what horses were worth? And how… within the confines of
Fairhaven? After a moment, as the early-morning sunlight spilled into the alleyway, he let his senses range over the cart, trying to see if he could feel anything.
Something? The faintest sliver of order? Under the rear of the cart seat was a small fragment of cloth, not even so large as his thumbnail, that he eased from where it had lodged in a small split in the wood. Or had it been placed there? He studied the fragment, not just cloth- silksheen from Naclos. He’d only seen scarves of silksheen once, but they cost as much as a blade or a mount, some did.