“That’s Fydel,” murmured Leyladin.
“He can’t even stop one Black,” protested Redark.
“That’s the Black mage who built the ship,” Cerryl said. “Jeslek couldn’t stop him, either.”
Several firebolts arched from the two nearest White ships, one falling short, a second splattering on the black iron ship, and a third burning through the sagging bowsprit rigging of the White Serpent.
“They can’t get close enough,” mumbled Redark.
Not with that much black iron there, reflected Cerryl silently.
What exactly happened none could see in the glass, save that in the end the Black mage struck Fydel with a staff and turned the White mage into ashes. Then the Blacks abandoned the sinking White Serpent, and the Black vessel swung toward a second White ship.
Another volley of whatever weapons the Black mage had developed turned the second war schooner into a flaming pyre upon the waters of the Gulf of Candar.
As the flames rose, more than half the White fleet turned from the Black vessel.
Cerryl continued to watch as the black iron ship approached the third vessel. Parley flags rose on a short staff on the Black craft and on the White ship. Something was passed to the White ship, and the Black craft turned and headed back toward the harbor at Southpoint.
“Ser?” Ultyr stood pale and trembling, shaking like a gray winter leaf in a storm.
“You can let the image go,” Cerryl said, feeling guilty. “Sit down.” He poured a glass of wine and extended it. “Here. You need this.”
The glass blanked.
“Thank you, ser.” The young mage took the goblet, sank onto the stool, and drank slowly.
“We can fight them again,” Redark said. “Then… perhaps we should not.” He shook his head.
Cerryl glanced at Kinowin.
“The firebolts were useless against that ship,” noted the older overmage. “They could have destroyed every one of our ships-with one vessel.”
“They didn’t,” said Leyladin.
“I don’t think the smith wanted to,” Cerryl said slowly.
“Didn’t want to destroy us? He cannot be that charitable, not after what they tried to do with their traders,” objected Redark.
“I’ve been thinking,” Cerryl mused. “It wasn’t charity. How many White mages have died in the past few years? Almost a score and a half, maybe more, and we’ve only found a bit over a third that many apprentices who have become full mages. That ship of his, and everything he makes, concentrates order. There has to be a balance. We know that. What if he did destroy another half-score of our mages?”
Kinowin nodded slowly. “He might create a truly great White mage-or several more.”
Redark frowned but did not speak.
“No, it wasn’t charity. The Blacks are not charitable.” Nor are you. After a moment, Cerryl stood. “There’s not much more we can do at the moment, is there?”
“Not at the moment,” agreed Kinowin. “The Guild will need a report.”
“And reasons, High Wizard,” suggested Redark.
Reasons? How about Anya’s scheming? “You might ask Anya how she might better have planned the attack,” suggested Cerryl blandly.
Redark frowned as both he and Kinowin rose.
Kinowin nodded and said, “The attack was indeed her idea-and Jeslek’s, I suspect, though we will not ever know that.”
“It was the will of many,” suggested Cerryl, standing and ushering them toward the door, “but not necessarily for the best of many-or
Fairhaven. I will be reconsidering many things.” He smiled.
Once the heavy door had closed after the departing overmages and Ultyr, Cerryl turned to Leyladin. “Now I have to deal with Rystryr. He’s begun to mass lancers and foot. This will make matters worse because he will take the sea battle against the Blacks as an indication of weakness.”
“You haven’t let his acts be known,” Leyladin pointed out.
“No. Kinowin knows. For the others, I had to wait until the Recluce matter was settled.”
“Is it settled?”
Cerryl shrugged. “For all but Anya and a handful. Dealing with her and her followers comes next. Then I will have to alert Redark and the Guild about the dangers of Certis. We will use some of Esaak’s calculations…”
“Do you really think Rystryr will try to take Sligo?”
“If he can get away with it-or thinks he can.” Cerryl rubbed his forehead. “And eventually, that will mean more meetings and efforts to persuade others of the danger.”
Leyladin stood and stretched. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how many meetings I’ll be able to observe. My lips will be bloodied.”
“It’s hard for you not to speak.”
“Only when people are being stupid.”
“All meetings bring out stupidity. So do… It doesn’t matter.” Cerryl shook his head.
“What were you going to say about Certis?” prompted Leyladin.
“Rystryr will try to take Sligo, if he can. The glass has already shown that Disarj has convinced Rystryr that this is the time to act, when the Guild is the weakest. Or maybe Disarj let Rystryr convince him. Rystryr is beginning to mass forces at Rytel. So I’ve already sent a scroll asking Disarj to go to Tyrhavven to confer with Heralt.”
“Will he do that? With Rystryr thinking about invading
Sligo? Disarj, I mean?” Leyladin squinted as she glanced out the tower window into the bright light of the clear winter day.
“Disarj would not come to Fairhaven-not now-he would find an endless well of excuses. Besides, Rystryr has doubtless prevailed upon Disarj to go to Tyrhavven. If Disarj thinks he can overpower Heralt, then… perhaps armsmen would not be needed, except…”
“To help the Sligan Council keep ‘order’?” Leyladin’s tone turned ironic.
“Of course. That way Certis would regain a port to avoid the tariffs and more golds to stand against the Guild.”
“What will stop him?” Leyladin raised her eyebrows.
“I will.” Cerryl laughed, harshly. “Then we will destroy his forces- if we must.”
“You sound like Jeslek.”
“No. I tell you, and only you. Jeslek told the world. I will tell everyone that I’m going to Tyrhavven to review the trade and tariff problems and to confer with Heralt. Everyone will think I’m displeased with him. I will claim that I hope to work out something. As my critics have said, I will speak many, many words.”
“Convincing everyone that you do not intend to act,” predicted the healer.
“I’ve dispatched Kochar and Kiella to Tyrhavven to support Heralt, and also told them to be very polite to Disarj should he arrive earlier than expected.”
“The Guild-some of the older mages will say you’re just using this… Black Order thing… as an excuse not to fight Recluce,” said Leyladin.
“Some will,” Cerryl admitted. “Most of those remaining will say so most quietly. I will listen and talk to them-privately. After I deal with Anya.”
“What will you tell them?”
“What will make them happy. I will not tell them that all prosperous lands are based on a combination of acceptance and force. Fairhaven and Recluce are no different.”
“We’re no different from Recluce? Darkness forbid that the High Wizard of the White City admit such.” A lazy smile crossed her full lips. “Surely you must be jesting.”
Cerryl returned the smile. “Each person wants in his heart for everyone to believe the way he does, but everyone has different beliefs. Some form of force is necessary to ensure lands do not fall apart. Recluce uses the force of order; we use the force of chaos. Both are force.” He shrugged. “They exile those who will not accept their way-unless, as in the case of this Black engineer, the exiles have enough force to change things. We allow people to think as they will, unlike the Blacks. We only force those who do not keep the peace to flee-or we kill them. The Blacks exile those who even think the wrong way and let others do the killing. It’s still death, one way or the other. But we’re more forgiving and more honest about it, I think.”
“What of those who can accept neither your rules nor those of the Blacks?” Leyladin frowned.
“Each man and woman wants rules that are suited for them. Can we have a thousand sets of rules in a town of a thousand? Even fifty sets of rules in a village? It’s better to have a few absolute rules than many that attempt to deal with all that may befall people.”
“A few simple rules?” Her eyebrows arched.
“The Patrol rules are a good start. We need to bring the idea of patrollers elsewhere. More patrollers and fewer lancers, especially in
Fairhaven.”
“You don’t intend to keep that many lancers in
Fairhaven?” asked Leyladin, eyes twinkling as though she already knew the answer.
“Why?” Cerryl inclined his head. “If we need more than fifty score to defend the city, we will already have lost any war. If we cannot hold together Candar east of the Westhorns, then we cannot hold Fairhaven. Life must get better for the people beyond Fairhaven. They must be our responsibility-”
“Why are they the Guild’s? Some will surely ask that.”
“Because their own rulers will not do what is best. We will.”
“The Guild would not. You will,” said Leyladin. “Just as you will deal with Anya-now that you have undermined much of her support.”
“Not much… but enough.” You hope… Cerryl turned to the window, where, from outside the White Tower, came the faint wail of the late-winter wind.
“Let us hope.” Leyladin took his hand.
Both looked into the clear and cold afternoon.
CLXXXII
There you have the fleet,“ said Cerryl, nodding toward the glass in the center of the table. A dozen ships bearing the red thunderbolt banner straggled back into the Great North Bay. Cerryl raised a finger, and the image vanished from the mirror. ”Now what do you suggest?“
“You send out another fleet, this time one that will follow orders. That is, if you wish to continue as High Wizard,” Anya said lazily from where she half-reclined in the chair across the table from Leyladin and Cerryl. Anya’s eyes focused not on Cerryl, but past him and on the high gray clouds visible through the tower window beyond the table. On one side of the table rested a deep basin of cold water.
“Sterol was right,” Cerryl added, his voice conversational as he looked at the box on the small side table, a box containing a gold-painted iron amulet.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to let that nobody on Recluce humiliate us?” Anya’s voice took a harder tone. “After what he did to Fydel… and to Jeslek? You’ll let it pass? And stand up and tell the Guild that?”
“There is a Balance, and we can accept it or fight it. Everyone who has fought it has lost. The trick is to make it work for you.”
“You sound like you’re weaseling out, Cerryl. We can’t have that.” Anya sat up straight in the chair but did not rise to her feet.
“Why don’t you listen, for a moment? It won’t hurt.” You really don’t think she will, do you? She’s convinced that you won’t ever act against her. Cerryl stood and walked to the window, glancing toward the cold gray clouds, then back at the redhead.
“I’m listening.” The words were cold, yet white flames lurked behind her eyes.
“This smith-wizard builds machines. Those machines must contain chaos-fired steam or water. That means they embody great, great order. If he builds many of his machines, he increases the amount of chaos in the world. That would increase our power more greatly than his, because his order would be locked in those machines.”
“So you would encourage him to build those machines? To attack and destroy our ships? That would certainly increase chaos. How much good it would do us is another question.” Anya rose like a pillar of white flame.
“He won’t do that.” Cerryl gestured at the now-blank mirror. “He could have destroyed the entire fleet with his little Black ship. He didn’t. He’s certainly no weak-willed Black idiot either. Weak-willed idiots don’t fight head-on. He destroyed Jeslek and Fydel one-on-one-Fydel with a staff, not even that iron clad chaos of his.”
Cerryl turned slowly, almost indolently, and stepped over to the small side table. His back to the redhead, he slipped off the amulet he wore in a quick motion and set it on the table. He opened the wooden box and removed the painted amulet, concealing a wince as the metal burned his hands, not badly, but enough to sting. He had to get back to using less chaos… somehow. “Besides, you saw his ship. Even if we could board it, what could anyone do? Our White Lancers couldn’t even touch half of it with all that black iron.”
Anya eased out of her chair and stepped toward Cerryl’s back. “It’s too bad you’ll follow Sterol, Cerryl dear. You’ll see once the fleet mages return.”
Leyladin stiffened but did not move.
“I don’t think so.” Cerryl lifted the amulet and turned. “But here, you wear it. You always wanted to.” With a quick gesture he dropped the gold-painted iron links around her neck.
Anya lifted her hands, then screamed as a circle of flame burned away the gold paint and the white cloth beneath it. Her hands reached for the hot iron, but Cerryl grasped her wrists and nodded toward the door.
“I’m not quite as dense as I look, dear Anya. And while I’m not as powerful as you believe you are, or Sterol did, I do occasionally think.” His voice rose. “Gostar! Hertyl!”
The three guards who hurried through the tower door and across the white stone floor bore chains of heavy and cold iron in their gloved hands.
“You need me!” the redhead screamed as the additional heavy iron chains slipped around her.
“Indeed we do. You will make a perfect example for future would-be schemers. You will look ravishing once your image is captured for display. Most fetching.” Cerryl smiled and inclined his head to the guards. “Good day, Anya.”
The redhead straightened, ignoring the pain of the cold iron. “You don’t understand, Cerryl. I can see. See like Myral. No matter what you do, it doesn’t matter. I know. I saw you in this room with the amulet. Why do you think your aunt and uncle died? Why did those brigands attack you in the sewer? Despite everything I did, all my actions brought you here.” Her face twisted in pain and rage. “Don’t you see? Everything you do is for nothing. Fairhaven will fall. It will melt under a sun you cannot even think about. Everything you want to do will end as ashes. It’s all worthless! You’re worthless.”