Cerryl swallowed. “Several eight-days ago, we started getting more farmers buying medallions. One farmer sought a medallion for his cart. The cart was older, but it had never had a medallion. That seemed odd. I checked the ledger. There have been more than a score of farmers just at the northeast guardhouse since midsummer. Last year there were five; the year before, seven.” He turned to Kinowin.
“Thank you, Cerryl.”
As Cerryl stepped down, Kinowin began to speak. “Cerryl got me thinking, and I went back over the records and ledgers. The most medallions given out from all guardhouses in a full year has been slightly over two score. This year, as of an eight-day ago, we have issued three score.”
“Farmers are getting smarter…”
“What’s the point?”
“The point, Isork, is simple. Farmers can pay five to ten coppers and make coins selling in the city. They couldn’t before. Why? Because food prices are higher-much higher. Crops will be poor this year, especially in Hydlen and Kyphros. Tariff and tax collections on trade are less, because of what the Black Isle and Spidlar are doing. With crop prices going up, people have fewer coins to buy things, and that means Guild revenues are going down-as they already have…”
Cerryl reclaimed his spot beside the column.
Lyasa leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Don’t say any more. Junior mages should be heard only on request.”
Cerryl nodded, but his nod was of acknowledgment, not of agreement.
“You’re going to get in trouble,” she predicted.
“I’ve been in trouble my whole life,” he whispered back, watching as Sterol resumed speaking.
“Recluce may have even tampered with the winds…to weaken us, and now with crops becoming scarce, they are shipping more and more goods into Spidlaria to evade the surtax. Lydiar is almost deserted at times, and so is Tyrhavven.”
“While Spidlaria and Fenard prosper,” Jeslek declaimed theatrically.
“Let them…” came a murmur from the back of the hall.
“…don’t need another war…not with the Blacks…”
Kinowin nodded.
The heavyset Myral heaved himself onto the dais, glancing around. “Those are fine words…but prosperity is not paid for with cowardice and ease. Most of you know me as the sewer mage, but we have less flux and raging fever than any city in Candar. Our people are healthy. Yet we cannot maintain sewers without masons and mages, and none of you would forgo your stipends. All that takes coins.” Myral’s eyes raked the chamber, and he coughed once, twice, clearing his throat before continuing.
“No sooner do we take action against Recluce than traitors here in Candar steal the livelihoods and the coppers from our people.” The words of the heavyset and black-haired wizard garbed in white rumbled across the chamber.
“Proud words, Myral…”
“…not the one to go with the lancers…”
“Silence!” snapped Sterol. “If you wish to speak, then stand forth and speak. Do not hide your words in murmurs and mumbles.”
Cerryl smiled wryly, then stepped back onto the dais.
Kinowin opened his mouth, then shut it.
The trace of a smile crossed Jeslek’s thin lips.
“I am most junior,” Cerryl said. “And have been counseled to keep silent. So I will be brief. I stand with Myral.” Cerryl kept his words level, almost soft, but loud enough to carry. “The renowned Jeslek and the noble Sterol have done their best to improve the lot of our people. Unlike many, I came from outside Fairhaven, and I know what great good Fairhaven represents. I have lived elsewhere. Can we do any less than support the work of the High Wizard and the overmages?”
“What’s in it for you, Cerryl?” called Fydel.
Cerryl smiled softly, letting the clamor and snickers die down before speaking. “With such imposing figures as Jeslek and our High Wizard Sterol already expressing their concern…how about survival?” He grinned.
A patter of nervous laughter circled the chamber as he stepped off the low speaking stage and edged back toward his position by the third column.
“While I would not be so direct as gentle Cerryl…” began the next speaker, a man with white hair but an unlined and almost cherubic face.
Cerryl slowed as he neared the side of the chamber. Lyasa had slipped away, and a redheaded figure waited in the comparative dimness behind the post.
“Most effective, Cerryl.” The voice was affectedly throaty.
“Thank you, Anya. I presume the effect was as you and the noble Sterol wanted.” He smiled softly. “Or as you wanted, should I say.”
“You flatter me.” She returned the smile momentarily.
“Hardly. We do what we can. With your ability…” He shrugged. “Perhaps you will someday be High Wizard.”
“Being High Wizard in these times might require rather…unique skills.”
“That is certainly true, a point which Jeslek is certainly not adverse to making-repeatedly. I would prefer your approach, I suspect. That is why you would make a better High Wizard than the mighty Jeslek.”
“A woman as High Wizard?” Anya’s tone was almost mocking. “You do me high honor, indeed.”
“I recognize your talent, dear lady.” His smile was bland. “Your considerable talent.”
“You are…sweet…Cerryl.” She tilted her head. “Would you like to join me for a late supper-tomorrow evening?”
“Your wish is my desire.”
“You are so obliging, Cerryl.”
“When one is limited in sheer power of chaos, one must be of great service, Anya.”
“I am so glad you understand that.” She turned and stepped toward the broader Fydel, who waited, his hand touching his squared-off beard.
Cerryl smiled faintly, nodding to the square-bearded Fydel. As Fydel and Anya turned away, he shrugged and continued along the side aisle toward the back of the chamber, wondering how he could handle the dinner invitation he did not wish and feared greatly.
XXIII
"THE UPPER ROOM.” Anya smiled brightly at Westcort, the owner of The Golden Ram.
“As you wish.” Westcort bowed and lifted the braided golden silk rope that barred the staircase on the left side of the entry foyer to The Golden Ram.
Cerryl followed Westcort and Anya up the narrow stairs.
“Your request is our command.” Westcort bowed again. “Would you like the wine now?”
“Please.” Anya smiled.
The upper room was small, paneled in polished white oak and with its two windows hung in blue velvet. A deep blue cloth covered the single table, graced by a pair of crystal goblets and a full set of cutlery for each place. Two wall lamps lent a soft light to the room, and through the open window came a light breeze and the soft points of light shining through the evening along the southern part of the Avenue. The breeze carried the usual bitter-clean odor of chaos and stone, mixed with various other city scents-cooking, lamp oil, and greenery.
Anya seated herself, and Cerryl took the seat across from the red-haired mage.
“You were kind to join me.” Anya smiled.
“You were most kind to invite me. I am a very inexperienced mage.”
“What you did in the Council meeting was not inexperienced.”
Cerryl smiled guilelessly. “What I did was because I am, dear lady. An experienced mage would not have needed to call attention to his powerlessness.”
“Having less power than Jeslek does not mean you are without power,” she pointed out, pausing as Westcort returned with a bottle of wine.
“This is the best of Telsen.” He bowed.
“You may pour it, Westcort,” Anya purred.
Westcort inclined his head and filled each of the goblets half-full of the dark red wine, leaving the bottle on the table. “You had requested the special cutlets with pearapple glaze…They will be here shortly.”
“Thank you.”
Westcort bowed again before retreating down the stairs.
Cerryl wasn’t sure he wanted to know what favors or leverage Anya had used to make the proprietor so subservient, but his own experiences with her maneuvering, maneuvering that had resulted in Kesrik’s death at Sterol’s hands, left no doubt that Westcort knew her power.