Reylerk licked his lips nervously.
Besimn staggered out with a high-backed chair nearly as big as he was. Cerryl smiled as he saw the red velvet upholstery. “We’ll need a cart.”
“Ah…in the stable, there is a wagon,” volunteered Reylerk, his voice unsteady.
Ferek gestured, and two lancers urged their mounts toward the small building to the left of the dwelling.
Shortly the three women scraped through the doorway with a long roll of red velvet, hurriedly folded and rolled.
Once the chair and hangings were loaded into the wagon, Cerryl looked at the trader. “You can drive your wagon. You’re coming to the square anyway.”
The woman in silks went to her knees. “Spare him, I beg you.”
“That is the High Wizard’s decision.” Cerryl turned the gelding and started out of the courtyard, a courtyard that felt strangely confining.
Ferek rode another lancer’s mount, and the lancer sat on the wagon seat beside the trader while the wounded mount walked behind as the wagon creaked after the lancers. Besimn rode along ahead of the borrowed wagon, swaying uneasily in the hard saddle.
“They’re leaving…”
Cerryl could hear the disbelief in the whispered words. He turned in the saddle. “Fairhaven has some small honor-unlike the traders of Spidlar.”
Faltar…you were worth a dozen of this man…and those like him. Cerryl’s lips tightened as he rode back toward the square.
The sun hung low above the hills on the western side of the harbor before Jeslek finally appeared and took the ornately carved chair under the red velvet hangings that Cerryl had commandeered. Anya and Eliasar stood on each side of the chair.
Still mounted, with his lancers as guards, Cerryl watched from a good fifty cubits back, his eyes flicking across the traders.
“Shall we begin?” Jeslek raised his eyebrows.
The two heavyset traders knelt on the paving stones. Sweat dripped from their brows, leaving dark splotches upon the stone. Beside one was a small wooden chest.
“What have you to say?” Jeslek pointed to the trader with the chest.
“The Council is no more, honored High Wizard. Spidlar is yours. We submit to your will. Here-” The gray-bearded trader gestured to the chest beside him. “This contains my golds. I would offer what you think fair as tribute to Fairhaven.”
A shuffling of feet from the traders massed behind him indicated their unease with the statement.
“You offer tribute only because you could not flee,” suggested Jeslek, his voice almost indolent in tone.
Cerryl glanced toward the harbor to where four ships remained tied at the wharves, sails furled.
“I will spare you,” said Jeslek. “I will not spare your fortunes. All but a fifth part of what you have belongs to the Guild. All but a fifth part of anything that any man has in excess of fifty golds belongs to the Guild. And any man who lies will lose all that he has-and his life as well.”
The High Wizard turned to Anya. “Ask the one on the left.”
“You say that this chest contains all your golds. What else have you hidden?” asked Anya.
“There is little else, sers, a few coins perhaps, some silver plates…”
Anya’s eyebrows lifted.
Cerryl winced, knowing the trader lied, knowing that Anya knew he lied as well.
The redhead glanced to Jeslek, who nodded fractionally.
“You lie,” said Anya.
The trader started to jerk his head up, as if to protest, when Anya’s chaos fire exploded across his body.
The other trader flung himself sideways, cowering on the paving stones. “I brought no golds, High Wizard, but they are yours…yours…”
“Do you have the temerity to insist that whatever chest you may offer holds all your wealth?” Jeslek’s words were almost lazy.
“No…no, ser. I have a ship, but it is somewhere on the Western Ocean, and there are other hidden chests. I have some horses and other possessions. Others in my family may have secreted small things, but what I do not know.” The man’s voice trembled.
“You see?” Jeslek smiled and looked at the half-score of traders guarded by the White Lancers. “He found it much easier to tell the truth. It is really not that difficult.” The red-rimmed but glittering sun-gold eyes flashed toward the heavyset trader standing behind the prostrate trader and at the front of the remaining traders. “Is it?”
The trader bowed and stammered, “No, sire. No…sire.”
Anya stood behind Jeslek’s shoulder, and a cold smile crossed her lips.
Cerryl repressed a shiver at the smile, keeping a pleasant expression upon his own face as Jeslek motioned for another trader to approach.
CXXXII
JESLEK SAT IN the chair Cerryl had taken from Reylerk. From the head of the long table that dominated the narrow dining hall of the largest stone house in Spidlaria the High Wizard surveyed the mages seated on each side. “People from everywhere in this miserable trading land-saving the traders-they all wish to submit and get on with their lives, except for that miserable place to the west.” Jeslek fixed his eyes upon Cerryl.
“Diev?” Cerryl ignored the sweat dribbling down his neck and concentrated on Jeslek.
“That’s where your precious smith is holed up. He won’t escape this time.”
My precious smith? How did he become mine? Because I couldn’t detect what no one else could, either? Cerryl glanced from Jeslek to Anya to Eliasar, then down the table past Fydel, Syandar, and Buar toward Leyladin.
“What do you plan?” asked the scarred arms mage.
“We will march on Diev-all of us except you and a few of the remaining mages. I’ve sent for some more junior ones to help you-Lyasa and Kalesin. You will keep a third of the White Lancers and half the levies and hold Spidlaria…make it into a proper place. The blockade ships will make sure this Dorrin doesn’t flee by sea.” Jeslek turned to Leyladin, seated at the last place at the table. “You, healer, should plan your trip to Lydiar on the vessel leaving on the morrow. Duke Estalin’s son ails once more.”
“It will be days…” began Cerryl.
“It may well be,” snapped Jeslek, “but Estalin is among the few rulers who truly acknowledge Fairhaven, and, unlike some, he asks but little.”
A frown crossed Anya’s face. “What if you need-”
“I am the High Wizard, dear Anya, and I know what I need.” After the briefest of pauses, he added, “And when I will not.”
“Spidlaria may yet harbor those who wish you harm,” Anya pointed out.
Cerryl held a frown at the words, words that seemed false and calculated to irritate the High Wizard. Beside Fydel, Syandar looked from one mage to the other, his eyes darting back and forth with the conversation, his mouth firmly closed.
“There are many who wish me harm. Wishing does not make it so, Anya, as you above all should know.” The sun-gold eyes were flat as Jeslek spoke. “The four of us-you, my dear Anya, Fydel, and our most dutiful Cerryl-will depart tomorrow to reduce Diev to the rubble it should already have been. You, Eliasar, will begin the work of turning Spidlaria into a city of which the Guild will be proud. Syandar and Buar will assist you.”
The arms mage nodded. Beside him, the black-haired Syandar nodded quickly.
Jeslek rose. “There is little else to be said, and the day waxes hot, far too hot for a place that is so chill in the winter. Anya, attend me.”
Cerryl and Leyladin exchanged glances, and Cerryl knew that the healer felt as he did as they rose from the table.
The side door in the wainscoted and paneled wall closed behind Anya and Jeslek, leaving the other mages standing around the table.