Kinowin’s eyes twinkled. “There are still a few things I can tell you. Not many, but some.”
“More than you think.”
“Less than I think,” corrected the overmage. “Now… go.”
As Cerryl walked down the steps to the main foyer of the entrance Hall, his thoughts returned to the golds-near on three years’ pay in golds. That was hard to believe. Kinowin had also mentioned debts- forgotten debts-and Cerryl had a few of those. Ones you’d rather forget…
He kept walking, back toward his dusty room.
CXXXIX
The shadows of the fast-moving clouds cooled the air and brought a hint of fall to Fairhaven as Cerryl walked down the Avenue toward the main Patrol building. Debts to pay-even forgotten ones, and those that involved no coins-he had more than he’d thought, but Kinowin had never steered him onto a false course.
A single horse clopped along past The Golden Ram, pulling an empty farm wagon. It could have been his imagination or poor recollections, but the streets of Fairhaven seemed less busy than when he had left for Spidlar, and he still wasn’t quite sure whether he recalled more bustle than had been the case or whether the war and the trading from Recluce had, in fact, reduced the traffic.
He turned south and walked swiftly, enjoying the cooler breeze.
The Patrol building was unchanged, and Cerryl paused momentarily in the rectangular and spare entry hall, taking in the two halls angling from the corners farthest from the entry, the backless oak benches, and the closed double oak doors on the back wall. The featureless and time-polished granite floor was still dull gray, and the only light came from the windows that flanked the entry door.
One of the two guards glanced at Cerryl.
“Cerryl to see Patrol Chief Isork, if he’s in.”
“I’ll see, ser.”
The patroller walked down the short hall, spoke through the open door, and then returned. “He’ll see you, ser.”
“Thank you.” Cerryl made his way to the familiar small room, no larger than six cubits by ten.
Isork, pudgy-faced and muscular, glanced up from the flat table desk on which rested a stack of parchmentlike papers, an inkwell, and a quill holder, and a single volume. “What brings you here, Cerryl?”
“I just got back from Spidlar a few days ago.” Cerryl forced what he hoped was an easy-looking smile. “I had some time to think. So I came back to thank you.”
Isork frowned. “For what? Throwing you off the Patrol?”
“No. For giving me the chance in the first place and for only throwing me off the Patrol.” Cerryl grinned. “You were most generous under the circumstances.”
“Well… word is you did a good job of running Elparta. You must have learned something here.” Isork’s voice remained neutral.
“I learned a great deal. I just didn’t learn to apply it fast enough. I did want to let you know that.” He added quickly, “I’m not asking to be brought back. I think I could do the job now, but that would set a very bad example for the future.”
Isork smiled wryly. “You have learned. It shows all over you, and it’s a shame, but I hope the Patrol will be with you whatever you do for the Guild. Do you think you’ll stay an arms mage?”
Cerryl almost shook his head. Surprisingly, he’d really never thought of himself as an arms mage, though that was clearly what he’d become. “I don’t know. For now, I’ll do what the High Wizard and the Guild wish of me.” Especially since I have little real choice.
“None of us have that much choice in the colors of White we wear.” Isork stood. “I wish you well, and I hope you’ll come back from time to time.”
“I will.” As he left, Cerryl understood something else. Isork had not asked more because the Patrol chief was waiting to see if Cerryl would come back again. One done, and more than a few to do.
CXL
Cerryl sat at the freshly polished flat desk in his room, a room that seemed far smaller than when he had left it.
“After having a mansion as your headquarters in Elparta,” he murmured with a self-deprecating smile, “your perceptions might just change.” Quite a change from an orphan happy to have a closet to himself.
He looked at the glass, then concentrated until the image of a coach filled the glass, and from what he could tell, the coach was well past the turnoff for Howlett and not all that far from
Fairhaven.
Cerryl set aside the glass with a half-smile. Leyladin was indeed on her way back to
Fairhaven, and with the clear roads she should be at her father’s mansion before evening. Cerryl glanced out at the late mid-afternoon sun, then stood and stretched.
He paced across the narrow confines of his quarters. Sterol had sent a messenger ordering Cerryl to stand ready to attend the High Wizard. He couldn’t very well leave the Halls, and he had to wonder what the High Wizard wanted, especially after Kinowin’s warning nearly an eight-day earlier. Yet, until now, nothing had happened, and he’d been left to himself.
The sharp knock echoed through the room.
“Yes.” He took two steps and opened the door.
The messenger in red peered up at him, almost fearfully.
“Mage… Cerryl, the High Wizard would see you now.”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
“Yes, ser.” The messenger looked decidedly unhappy with that phrase.
“Go on. I’ll be there.”
Without a word, the youth raced back toward the stairs and the White Tower. Cerryl walked quickly, but not enough to raise too much of a sweat in the muggy heat.
Still, Sterol glared as Cerryl entered the High Wizard’s chambers. “You took long enough.” Although the High Wizard was seated behind the conference table, he did not gesture for Cerryl to sit.
“I came immediately. I did not run because I wished to be ready to do your bidding.” Cerryl could smell the scent of trilia and sandalwood, but Anya was not in the chamber.
“You do little bidding but your own, Cerryl, from what I can tell.” Under the iron-gray hair, Sterol’s red-rimmed eyes were unblinking as they studied the younger mage. “So… what is the Guild to do with you? You are an arms mage who is hopeless with weapons. You are a Patrol mage who cannot return to the Patrol. You are yet too young to train apprentices in the sewers and too experienced to continue as a simple gate guard.”
Cerryl frowned, as if in thought. “I could assist one of the overmages. Or I could continue to follow what the smith does in Recluce and what he plans. Or I could help supervise the younger gate guards.”
Sterol smiled. “Perhaps you should do all three. Report to Kinowin and tell him that he is responsible for your accomplishing all three duties successfully. He is in charge of the gate details, in any case. Should the smith do something that merits my attention, you will first tell the overmage. You are not to disturb me without his approval. Do you understand?”
“Yes, honored Sterol.”
“Go find Kinowin and inform him.”
“Yes, ser.”
“I do not wish to see you, or hear of you, except as Kinowin sees fit. You are far too full of yourself for one so relatively inexperienced.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Don’t think you’re deceiving me with your politeness, either.”
“What do you wish?” Cerryl asked. “The High Wizard merits courtesy.”
“Just go.”
Cerryl nodded and turned, ready to lift his order/chaos shields at the slightest hint of chaos from Sterol, but he left the topmost level of the White Tower without either chaos or more words from the High Wizard.
Kinowin was in his quarters, much as Myral had been, as if he had been waiting for Cerryl and his orders from Sterol.
Cerryl immediately repeated his conversation with the High Wizard, concluding, “… so I am your charge.”
“The High Wizard wants you kept well away from him… well away. That is as much Anya’s doing as his.”
“She had been in his chamber before me.”
“She is there most often, far more than merely to pleasure Sterol or herself. Leave that aside. There is little either of us can do about that at the moment. In order to please Sterol, we will follow this pattern. Report to me either before noon or before the evening bell each day on what the smith has done. On the even days you are to visit and inspect, unseen, the gate guards in whatever order you see fit. At the evening bell, report anything that needs addressing. On the odd days, see me after breakfast for anything I may need help with. The evenings are yours, and I hope you spend little of them in the Halls.” Kinowin smiled. “Use what days you have; the life of a mage is short enough.”
“Ah… thank you.”
“Go. You can start tomorrow.” The older mage cocked his head and smiled. “She should almost be at her father’s, and you might wish to greet her. The flower sellers are still on the square.”
Cerryl stood. “By your leave?”
“By my command, if necessary.”
Cerryl fled, hiding the smile.
CXLI
Cerryl paused at the end of the walk, wondering if he looked like some fop or schoolboy, with the fragrant white roses wrapped in green ribbon.
The carved front door opened, and Layel stepped onto the stoop and gestured to the mage. “Cerryl… I take it from your presence that Leyladin is coming home.”
“That’s what the glass shows. Her coach was just beyond the north gates when I left the Halls.”
“Please join me. There’s little enough point in your standing out here in the heat, and I don’t want to have my daughter attacking my lack of courtesy.” The balding blond trader laughed.
Cerryl stepped out of the heat, past the silent houseman Soaris, who nodded, and into the comparative cool, following the older man to the front sitting room-the one graced by the portrait of Leyladin’s mother. After laying the flowers on the side table, Cerryl took the settee.
“How long have you been back?” asked Layel, settling into an upholstered armchair.
“A little less than an eight-day.”
“I imagine you’re finding that Fairhaven is not quite the city you left, though it has changed but little.” A slight smile creased the factor’s lips.
“More that some folk I left are not quite as I recalled,” Cerryl admitted guardedly. “I don’t find that Fairhaven itself has changed, and it compares most favorably with what I have seen elsewhere.”
“People often make the city-or a person.”
“You mean Leyladin? I was looking for her before I even knew who she was.”
“She told me. Can’t say as I understand, but she has always been the one who followed the shaded path. Wertel-he would have been a factor had he been born a cobbler-and Aliaria and Nierlia… well, they’ve enjoyed having their own households.”
Cerryl tried to place the names. Wertel had to be Leyladin’s older brother. She had mentioned her two sisters, but he hadn’t recalled cither’s name until Layel had mentioned them.
“You two are in a difficult position,” Layel said.
“A Black and a White in love, you mean?” Cerryl frowned. “I suppose it’s also created problems for you.”
The factor leaned forward in the big chair, eyes more firmly on Cerryl. “More here than elsewhere. Wertel trades on the impression of connections, and you are not unknown-or unrespected-but he runs things in Lydiar and not in Fairhaven. Duke Estalin depends on mages, and Sedelos favors trade.” Layel glanced toward the door. “Did you hear a coach?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Cerryl paused, considering the other’s Words. “You seem to be saying that the Guild is not so favorable to traders as it should be.”
“We pay higher tariffs than those who trade from other lands, yet they use the same roads and are free to enter the city on payment of a mere pittance. We can enter any city, but our costs are higher, as our tariffs are.” Layel blotted his forehead with a blue cotton cloth. “Then, there are those factors who appear more favored than others, if you take my meaning.”
“I’d heard such,” Cerryl said carefully, “but never seen it.” He paused, thinking of how Sterol had used Kesrik’s purported attack on Cerryl as an excuse to exile Kesrik’s trader father. “Or perhaps I saw such and did not recognize it.”
“It is there, if observed carefully.”
Cerryl could suddenly sense a gathering presence, a bright darkness, and he stood, gathering the roses to him. “She’s almost here.”
The slightest of frowns appeared on the trader’s face. “I’d not heard the coach.”
Cerryl picked up the flowers, eased toward the door, and was at the foyer when the sound of hoofs on stone came through the window.
“Not even a glass.” Layel stood more slowly.
Cerryl hurried down the walk and then to the side courtyard where the coach had pulled to a stop. The door flew open, even before he had quite reached the mounting block.
Standing on the whitened granite block, Leyladin looked down at Cerryl, then at the roses. “Flowers… you never brought flowers before.”
“I missed you.” He felt himself flushing, looking into the dark green eyes, seeing the reddish blonde hair, the fair skin, and, most of all, the order and the understanding behind the fine features.
“You’re sweet.” The healer looked at her father, who stood a pace or so behind the mage. “He is, you know.”
“He’s also got some wit. We were talking while we waited for you.” Layel looked at Cerryl. “Go ahead. Embrace her. Kiss her. You’re as much consorted as you can be.”
This time, Leyladin flushed. “Father, I can’t believe you.”
“Too old to deceive myself, or let you do it.” The trader grinned.
Cerryl stepped toward the mounting block, and she stepped down into his arms, and they did embrace, ignoring the late-afternoon heat.
How long Cerryl wasn’t sure, except he heard Layel clearing his throat.
“Now that you two have greeted each other, I’m for eating. Meridis has doubtless scraped something together.”
“Give me a moment to wash off the worst of the road dust,” Leyladin offered as she and Cerryl separated. “I’m hungry, too. I won’t be long.”
“Not with your mage waiting, I’d wager.”