Cerryl looked at the floor.
“It’s always better to avoid problems than to solve them. Remember that, too.” Isork’s tone turned brisk. “Now… on your way. And don’t worry too much. Both Kinowin and I think you’ll be an asset to the Guild. You just need more seasoning. We were too eager because the Patrol is shorthanded. Now… go.”
“Yes, ser.”
“You can leave the door open.”
Cerryl gave what he hoped was a formal nod and left.
He’s almost as upset with himself as with me… because…he didn’t see enough? Despite his own fears, Cerryl wanted to shake his head.
LII
Cerryl stood on the topmost landing of the
White
Tower
, imperceptibly shifting his weight from one foot to the other and trying not to look at the closed white oak door or at Cerryl. “You may send in the mage Cerryl.”
Straightening his shoulders, Cerryl walked into the High Wizard’s chambers.
There was one empty chair at the table around which sat the High Wizard and the two overmages. Jeslek gestured to the empty place. Cerryl sat down gingerly. Absently, he realized that the black iron toy windmill had vanished. Because its order warped things too much even for Jeslek?
“We had thought of you to take Myral’s place in monitoring the sewers, for a time,” Jeslek began, “before you attempted to remake the rules for peacekeeping by yourself.”
Cerryl nodded impassively. There was no point in confessing he just hadn’t thought; that was probably considered worse than being too free with the rules. The less he tried to defend his stupidity the better, and he was only beginning to understand the enormity of that stupidity. “The Patrol is already short of mages,” Kinowin said, “and you do have various talents. The problem facing the Council is how to use those talents without giving the impression of rewarding you for stupidity. Extreme stupidity.”
Cerryl wanted to wince.
“I had thought of assigning you to one of the blockade ships, but ships are even more disciplined than the Patrol, and you would be too free to be… creative there,” added Jeslek.
Blockade ships? Cerryl tried to keep his mouth in place. Redark merely nodded, as if that were expected of him. “So you will be assigned to the west gate, for double duty, both duties, for the next two eight-days. That should reduce the time you have to offer creative solutions to problems we do not have. After that, the Council will consider how you might best serve the Guild.” Jeslek’s smile was not particularly cruel but almost dispassionate. “And you will keep a report of every single vehicle that enters and leaves the gates, with its general cargo, and you will not delay any wagon or cart.
You will also abide strictly by the rules of gatekeeping. Do you understand?“
“Yes, ser.” Cerryl almost wanted to sigh in relief.
“Also, you will receive no stipend for those two eight-days, and your stipend thereafter will be reduced to the minimum for a full mage.”
“Your golds for this past eight-day, and the minimum you would have received for the next two eight-days, will go to the family of the boy you branded,” Kinowin added. “If they cannot be found, then the coins will be used to purchase bread for the poor and distributed by the patrollers of the southeast section.”
Cerryl almost nodded in agreement.
“Do you find that equitable?” asked Redark.
“Yes, ser.”
“We thought you would,” said Jeslek. “Also, for the next two eight-days you are to remain within the Halls when you are not on duty or going to and from duty.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Finally, you are to write a fully reasoned statement on why exceeding the rules is dangerous to both the Guild and the individual mage, and you will present it to Overmage Kinowin for his review and for his later examination of you,” added Redark. “You have an eight-day to compose the argument. You will present yourself for the examination at his leisure after he has read your argument.”
Cerryl nodded.
“What your future may be in the Guild and whether you have a future depend entirely upon your conduct over the next eight-days,” added Jeslek.
That, that Cerryl had understood from Jeslek’s opening words. Cerryl also understood he had been fortunate to have any real chance at redeeming himself. Isork had made the rules clear enough at the beginning, and Cerryl had lived in
Fairhaven and in the Halls long enough to know that overtly breaking rules was scarcely wise and often not survived-as in Kesrik’s unfortunate case.
LIII
Cerryl shifted his weight on the stool and squinted into the setting sun, shading his eyes as he studied the White highway that headed west for perhaps five kays before it split, one branch going west-northwest to Weevett and on to Vergren while the main road proceeded westward through southern Certis toward the Easthorns.
After only three days, his feet hurt, and his head ached from duty that lasted from before dawn until the midevening bell. His eyes went to the sheets of paper roughly bound in twine that served as his record of wagons and carts. He’d never realized how many went through the west gate even in slow times, not until he’d had to write down each one.
He glanced at the latest entries.
…Muneat and Sons, factors, blue wagon, bearing hard wheat flour from Certis to
Fairhaven, medallion in place…
Sekis, spice merchant, cart, from Hydlen, bearing spices and herbs, applied for medallion…
His face was salty from the sweat that had dried on his face, salt that mixed with continuing sweat in the late-afternoon heat. While the farmers might be glad of the dry and warm weather for their harvest, it made the second level of the guardhouse hot-far hotter than the second level at the north guardhouse, he’d decided. The area around
Fairhaven had been spared the devastating rains that had ruined so much of Hydlen’s crops, but the local crops couldn’t make up for the losses elsewhere in Candar. The year before had brought drought, but too much rain had followed the year and a half of dryness, with equally disastrous results.
His eyes turned west again. The road arrowed toward the guardhouse, a line of blinding pinkish white in the last of the full afternoon light.
Somewhere out on the road he could see a shape through the glare, another wagon, or cart, headed in toward the
White
City
. He strained eyes and perceptions, but all he could sense was something moving. After a time, he could hear the faint rumble of iron wheels, and that meant a heavy wagon.
Reluctantly Cerryl stood so that he had a better view, leaning forward and resting one hand on the stone wall of the rampart, waiting as the wagon rumbled northward toward the gate.
Two guards rode before the wagon, drawn by four horses. The wagon itself was of oiled wood, not painted, and filled with barrels roped in place behind the driver and a third guard who sat beside the teamster.
Cerryl extended his senses, but the barrels seemed to be filled with flour, or meal, and the chaos lock around the medallion remained tight, strong enough that it was less than a season old.
The driver flicked the leads, and the team slowed, rumbling to a halt before the guardhouse.
The lead guard stepped toward the driver.
“I be the trader Hytul, bound from Rytel, with flour for the factor Jiolt.”
The lead guard-Besolar-glanced toward the guardhouse rampart and Cerryl.
“Nothing but flour in the barrels,” Cerryl confirmed. “Nothing under the seat. The medallion is fine.”
The two guards beside Besolar looked into the wagon bed and underneath the seat, as if to confirm what Cerryl had said. They nodded at Besolar.
As the wagon rolled past and through the gate, Cerryl sat down on the stool and picked up his list, adding yet another entry:
…Hytul, trader, oiled wagon, four-horse team, bearing soft cake flour from Rytel (Certis) to
Fairhaven, for the factor Jiolt, medallion in place…
After he finished writing, he leaned back slightly, his eyes closing almost inadvertently. He jerked upright, stifling a yawn. Dark demons, he was tired, and he still had another bell to go before the gate closed to wagons and carts.
Afraid he’d fall asleep on the stool, he stood once more, wincing as he put weight on his feet, and walked to the edge of the rampart, looking out to where the sun had begun to drop below the low hills to the west of the White highway.
Three days, and you have more than an eight-day and a half to go. He turned and looked toward
Fairhaven. Darkness! How quickly life could change, and unpredictably. Except you could predict that stupidity does lead to problems. He stifled another yawn and began to walk back and forth across the short stretch of the guardhouse rampart.
LIV
Cerryl walked tiredly down the corridor and into his room, glancing around. One eight-day almost done-one more day-and one to go, but he still had to finish the written argument for Kinowin. His stomach growled.
There hadn’t been any food left out at the Meal Hall, and he hadn’t seen any street vendors or even an open chandlery on the way back from the south gate. That had been the way things had been going lately-ever since Myral’s death.
But you didn’t cause his death. How could there be any connection? Or was the connection that, with Myral’s death, there was no one to offer subtle advice to counterbalance the scheming that pervaded the Halls? He turned back and closed the open door. Wondering wasn’t going to get the last of his writing done. His stomach growled again.
He should have saved some of the cheese he’d bought at the chandlery two days earlier. He’d been lucky to catch the owner leaving a closed shop, but he couldn’t count on that often. Should have… should have… should haves don’t matter.
He took a deep breath and sank into the chair to take the weight off his aching feet. The blank screeing glass reflected nothing, not in the darkness of the room.
Almost as soon as Cerryl slumped into the chair, Faltar peered in the door, and dim light from the corridor gave the room a gloomy cast.
“Hungry?” asked the blond mage.
Beside Faltar, Lyasa held the door but did not speak.
“I can’t leave the Halls,” Cerryl said tiredly. “You know that.”
“We know.” Faltar stepped into the room, followed by Lyasa. He had a full loaf of bread in one hand, the other behind his back. Lyasa carried something wrapped in cloth.
“A half-wedge of white cheese,” she announced, setting it on the desk beside the bread Faltar deposited. Then she lit the bronze lamp with a spark of chaos. “We need a little light to get rid of the gloom.”
Faltar set the bread beside the cheese one-handed.
Cerryl looked at the bread and cheese, feeling his mouth water.
Faltar grinned and produced a mug from behind his back. “And ale! Warm and a little flat, but we do what we can.”
“Thank you. You didn’t have to do this,” Cerryl protested, smiling even as he did. “You didn’t.”
“We did if we didn’t want you to starve. Jeslek’s been telling the serving boys not to leave anything out after dinner, and it’s hard to find any street vendors in the middle of the evening.” Faltar’s mouth twisted. “I know. I’ve had enough evening duty.”
“They were hard on you,” said Faltar, perching on the side of one end of the bed. “After all, the boy was a peacebreaker, wasn’t he? He’d have lost a hand or his life in Certis.”
Lyasa sat on the other end while Cerryl used his belt knife to slice a sliver of the cheese-still cool-and eat it with a chunk of bread.
“No.” Cerryl shook his head after swallowing. “Not so hard as they could have been. I wasn’t thinking. Besides, Fairhaven isn’t Certis.” He took a sip of the ale. “Even this tastes good.”
Faltar glanced at the stack of papers on the corner of the desk. “Surely you’re still not writing Patrol reports?”
“No. Part of my punishment. I have to write an argument on why transgressions on the part of the individual mage are bad for the mage and the Guild.”
Lyasa grimaced. “Jeslek’s treating you like an apprentice.”
“Probably. But I made a mistake even an apprentice shouldn’t have made. How can I complain about the punishment?”
“I hate to be so blunt,” Faltar said. “But if what you did was so bad, why are you still around?”
Cerryl swallowed more of the bread and cheese before laughing harshly. “I don’t know, but I can guess. First, I only hurt and did not injure permanently a poor boy who was already a peacebreaker. Second, the Guild can blame me and give the family of a proven peacebreaker four golds as recompense-and that’s more than they probably see in years. Third, the trading situation and the problems with Spidlar, Hydlen, and Gallos are getting worse, and Jeslek is going to need every mage he can find. If I get through this, I’ll probably be going with the lancers somewhere. That will get me out of Fairhaven for long enough for everyone to forget-if I even survive.” Cerryl shrugged, then took another sip of the warm ale. “Thank you both again. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through tonight.” It’s hard enough to write something when you feel good; it’s near impossible when you’re tired and hungry.
“You have to finish that tonight?” asked Lyasa, pointing toward the stack of papers.
“I’ve been working on it for the last five days. I have to give it to Kinowin in the morning-or leave it for him.”
“As soon as you eat, we’re leaving, then.”
Faltar looked at Cerryl, then at the papers. “I still say it’s not fair.”
“I wasn’t really fair to the boy,” Cerryl said. “And he’ll hate the Guild forever.”
“It won’t matter on the road crew,” Faltar answered.
“You never know,” Cerryl temporized, not wanting to reveal Isork’s planned “adjustment.” He added after a moment, “Besides, I’ll know.”