The murmurs from the officer and subofficers were loud enough that he could hear they were talking, but not loud enough for him to pick up the words. It didn’t matter. The lancer had been caught right after he had murdered a local woman because she wouldn’t comply with his wishes. Then the fellow had bold-facedly lied to Cerryl, and denied the murder.
The slightly built mage shook his head. If he let the man off, his authority over the lancers would begin to erode until he’d have to do something drastic to regain it. Anya was right…in this situation.
When he saw the prisoner being marched from the makeshift cells in the cellar of the barracks house and the lancers forming up, Cerryl pulled on his jacket and stepped out into the cold and windy day, walking just outside the wrought-iron gate.
From where he was roped to a post wedged between two large cobble stones and braced with several other stones the lancer prisoner, a gag across his mouth, glared at Cerryl. The man probably could have loosened the post if he had struggled enough, but he still would have been fastened to what amounted to a heavy log.
“The men are here-all we could find quickly, ser,” announced Teras, his voice carrying over the slight whistle of the wind.
“Thank you.” Cerryl cleared his throat, then waited as he heard hoofs. A trace of a smile played across his lips as he sensed the chaos that accompanied the two riders.
Fydel galloped up, Senglat beside him. The square-bearded mage’s face was red, almost livid, as he dismounted and marched up to Cerryl. His voice was low, pitched at Cerryl and not to carry. “I’m the one in charge of the lancers and what they do.”
“I’m in charge of the city,” Cerryl answered quietly. “Your lancer broke the peace, and lancers answer to the Patrol, even in Fairhaven. It’s no different here.”
“Why are you doing this?” asked Fydel. “I won’t let you.”
Cerryl raised shields and chaos before answering, his voice also low. “You won’t stop me, Fydel.” He smiled as the older man stepped back.
“Jeslek will hear of this.”
“I’m sure he will. He doesn’t care. All he wants are results. He wants Elparta rebuilt and the tariffs from its trade. If my way gets things done, your complaint doesn’t matter. If it doesn’t,” Cerryl smiled ironically, “then it’s minor compared to my failure.”
“You’re worse than Anya.”
“Perhaps. Now…will you stand back and let me finish? It would be better if you did not make a scene.”
“Jeslek will know of my displeasure.”
“I am certain he will…if you choose to let him know. If you think, upon reflection, that is wise.” Cerryl stepped forward, ignoring Fydel, his eyes beyond the lancer tied to the post. He raised his voice. “I ordered that no man, woman, or child in this town be hurt unless they attacked one of you. This man not only beat and killed a woman, but he lied to me about it. She did not threaten him; she did not wish to be used by him. He disobeyed, and he lied. He will pay the price.” Cerryl nodded brusquely, then raised chaos.
For the first time the lancer began to struggle, lunging against the ropes and the post-realizing that the slender mage meant his death.
Whhsttt! The firebolt engulfed the prisoner, flaring into a brief column of flame and greasy black smoke. Within instants, only white ashes drifted in the cold air.
Cerryl nodded to Teras. “You may dismiss them.” His eyes went to the still-mounted Senglat. “You are dismissed as well, Captain.”
Senglat’s eyes flickered from Cerryl to Fydel and then dropped. “Yes, ser.”
Cerryl remained almost rigid until the lancers had begun to move and until Senglat turned his mount down the street toward the makeshift stables.
“…means what he said.”
“…other mage looked like the little one kicked him silly.”
“…Hiser said he was tough.”
“…one they kicked out of the Patrol ’cause he was too mean…that’s what Yurit heard.”
Cerryl looked at Fydel, whose color had gone from livid to near-white.
“I see why Isork wanted you off the Patrol.”
“Do you?” Cerryl turned. His head ached again, and he felt exhausted, more emotionally than physically.
Fydel opened his mouth, then closed it. After a long pause, he spoke. “You cannot accept things as they are. You want them to be as they should be. Men are not as they should be but as they are.”
“They won’t be any better by doing their worst,” Cerryl answered. “Neither will we.” But what is “better”? He wished he knew.
Leaving Fydel and his mount in the street, Cerryl walked slowly back into the quarters building, back past the immobile guards and into the silent structure.
Force…maybe Anya was right, but Cerryl didn’t have to like it. Not at all.
CX
WINDSWEPT PILES OF snow had drifted against the stone fence-wall on the eastern side of the road, flakes swirling and shifting across the surface of the drifts in the light winter wind. Behind the stones were trees, mostly saplings, and the stumps where larger trees had once stood. The sound of a score of mounts’ hoofs echoed off the frozen clay of the road as Cerryl and the lancers rode north.
Downhill from the western side of the narrow road, a stream burbled, ice-fringed, but its dark water clear in the center. Splotches of snow dotted the narrow field beyond the stream-bed, and trees with winter-grayed leaves rose behind the field.
“The place is around the next bend,” Hiser announced.
As he passed the midpoint of the gentle curve in the road, Cerryl leaned forward in the saddle. A narrower road curved eastward rising beside the stream. Both road and stream cut through the middle of the field. The wide berm of stone-faced earth and the rough-planked building beside it were the first signs of the mill. A single large timber barn stood to the left of the mill and an unpainted house uphill of both, with a thin line of smoke rising from the chimney.
The arrangement of the mill and the outbuildings looked little like Dylert’s, where Cerryl had spent his years after leaving the mines and Uncle Syodor and Aunt Nall, yet the feel was similar.
While there were recent tracks on the road to the mill and house, all the plank-sided buildings were shuttered, all the doors fastened tight. A dog’s tracks crossed a patch of windblown snow before the low one-story house, but no dog was in sight. The plank walls of the house were water-stained, and the roof sagged.
Cerryl wanted to shake his head as he mentally compared Dylert’s mill and the house before him. “Let’s see if anyone’s here.”
At Hiser’s nod, one of the lancers dismounted and, hand on sabre, used his free hand to pound on the door. Cerryl waited, but there was no answer.
“Try again. Say who ser Cerryl is,” ordered Hiser.
The lancer pounded on the door. “Ser Cerryl, the city commander of Elparta.”
Again the door remained closed.
Cerryl could sense no chaos, but he felt exposed. Then, he was always feeling exposed anymore. “I’m Cerryl, and I’m a White mage, and I don’t mean any harm-unless you won’t meet with me.”
The door opened but a span. Cerryl could see the heavy chains.
“Yes, ser?”
“Come on out. If I wanted to, I could burn down the door, but it wouldn’t do either of us much good.”
Hiser smothered a grin.
Slowly, the bearded man eased out into the chill wind, and the door shut firmly behind him. “Mill’s closed. No way to get logs down till spring.”
Cerryl glanced at the bearded millmaster, then nodded at Hiser, before dismounting and stepping up to the taller man. Disliking it, but knowing the necessity, he raised equal order and chaos from the area around, letting it smolder around him. His gray eyes fixed the millmaster’s pale green ones.