Cerryl paused in his pacing as he sensed the rush of chaos that accompanied Gyskas.
“Anything new?” asked the balding older mage, blotting dampness off his high forehead.
“I put a tanner’s laborer on the refuse crew.”
“Beating a woman?”
“Stole some bread for his family because he wasn’t paid.”
Gyskas frowned. “That should be road crew.”
“I know, but I truth-read him. Child and mother are sick; they don’t have enough coins. The tanner can’t pay because of the cheap leather from Hydlen.” Cerryl shrugged. “I couldn’t let him go, but…”
“Cerryl, be careful that you don’t get in the habit of bending the rules. Especially now. We’re going to see more of that.” Gyskas took a deep breath. “I still say that whatever Jeslek did in raising those mountains changed the weather, and it’s hurt the crops and grass. Bread’s a copper for two of the big loaves. Ale at four coppers at The Ram?”
“I don’t see as many carts in the Market Square, either,” Cerryl pointed out.
“They don’t want to travel the roads when they can get as much or more in Hydlen or Spidlar.”
“Would you?” asked the younger mage.
“Probably not, but this can’t go on.”
“The High Wizard’s waiting until both the wealthy factors and the poor traders see that.”
“He’s waited long enough.” Gyskas walked around the table-desk and pulled out the chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Till tomorrow.” Cerryl nodded and left, passing the assembly room before the second shift patrols filed out.
The wind on the street was hot and dry, as always in the height of late summer. Cerryl turned south, toward the Way of the Tanners, eyes and senses studying everything as he moved quickly along one block, then another.
“Afternoon, ser Cerryl!” called the washerwoman who had set her basket on the narrow porch of Esad’s-a store of odd items, neither a chandlery nor a miller’s market nor a weaver’s shop, but a place that held items partaking selectedly of all.
“I hope it has been a good one for you,” he answered, not recalling her name but knowing he had seen her in the assembly room a season back for something.
“Some days are good, some bad, but Ikor does not beat me now. The foul words-those he may keep and use.” She smiled and lifted the basket.
Cerryl nodded and resumed walking.
When he reached the Way of the Tanners, he turned eastward and continued on for another two blocks until he reached a narrow building with a single window and a wooden boot hung over the doorway. He stepped under the wooden boot over the open entry and into the shop.
The black-haired boot maker at the bench looked up. “Ser Cerryl, your boots were ready the day before yesterday.”
“I know. I had to take part of a duty in the northeast section.” Cerryl shrugged. Isork had only let Cerryl cover the time until dinner, saying that it wasn’t Cerryl’s lack of experience, but that he didn’t want to overwork anyone. So Cerryl had taken the first part and Klyat the second, while Wascot recovered from a flux from bad food.
“They say there be more peacebreaking there in the past eight-days,” offered the boot maker, turning toward the shelf on the wall where rested a pair of white and thick-soled Patrol boots. He lifted the boots off the shoulder-high shelf and turned back to Cerryl. “You keep the peace good here. Fairer ’n most, too.”
“I try, Miern.”
“That’ll be a gold, you know?”
Cerryl extracted a gold and a half-silver from his wallet. “There.”
“You need not-”
“Good boots are worth it.” Cerryl reached for the boots.
“For that…at least…” Miern fumbled under the workbench and came out with a worn cloth sack. “…don’t need this anyway.” The boot maker put the boots in the gray sack, splotched with faded patches nearly white, and extended the sack.
“Thank you.”
“Got to take care of those who pay in these days.” Miern smiled.
“Is it that bad for you? Someone told me that leather is getting cheaper,” Cerryl ventured.
“Cow leather,” Miern affirmed. “I make my boots, the sturdy ones, from bull leather. Don’t care for that cheap leather from Hydlen. One thing that Beykr and I agree on.”
The Patrol mage had to grin. “I didn’t know as you agreed on anything.”
“Precious little, ser mage. Precious little.”
“Thank you, Miern,” Cerryl said again.
“Thanks be to you, ser mage.”
Cerryl stepped out onto the walk that flanked the Way of the Tanners and turned westward, toward the White Tower and the Halls of the Mages.
Ahead of him, he could see clouds building and darkening. He hoped the storms weren’t too bad. With harvest hardly begun, a heavy storm could ruin much of the wheat corn, and that would only lead to higher prices, prices that had continued to rise since the previous winter, driving up the price of bread and, unhappily for him, the amount of small theft, even if other forms of peacebreaking seemed to be declining in his section.
Leyladin was waiting in the fountain court at the Halls of the Mages, as she did when she could.
Cerryl couldn’t help smiling, and smiling more broadly when she smiled back. “You still make me smile.”
“Good. You weren’t here yesterday or the day before. I was afraid I’d done something.”
“No. Wascot was sick, and I had to take the first part of his afternoon duty. Isork took the second part one night, and Huroan did last night, but it was late when I got back.” He paused. “You have something to tell me? What’s wrong?”
“It’s not that bad. The High Wizard has requested I go back to Hydlen. The young duke is ailing, and Gorsuch suspects all is not well.”
Cerryl frowned. “That sounds like a different turn on an old tale.”
“I think as much, also.”
Neither needed to spell it out. The old Duke, Berofar, had died just after Leyladin had been there to care for his son Uulrac, and both Cerryl and Leyladin had suspected Gorsuch, as the Guild representative to Hydlen, had not been uninvolved. Yet now Gorsuch was practically demanding Leyladin return.
Cerryl nodded. Of course, an underage ruler needed a regent. If the boy died, then one of his older cousins would become duke and Gorsuch would return to being an adviser, if that, and Jeslek would have to contend with a more independent duke who probably had no love of Fairhaven. “Uulrac’s six?”
“Something like that.”
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
That didn’t surprise Cerryl much, either. “Perhaps you should move to Hydolar and I should petition to become Gorsuch’s assistant.”
“You have to stay here.”
“Why? Myral’s visions?” Why does she keep bringing them up?…I’m no Jeslek, or even a Kinowin.
“And other things,” she replied obliquely. “Can you join me and Father for an early dinner?”
“I’d be happy to, and even happier were you able to invite me for tomorrow.”
“Perhaps you could come as soon as you wash up. Then we could talk.”
“I will hurry.” Cerryl bowed.
“So will I.” She squeezed his hand.
Cerryl strode quickly to his room, where he stripped to little more than smallclothes, and marched to the bathing room. The cold water felt good, even for shaving.
Back in his quarters, still stripped to the waist as he dried and changed, Cerryl’s eyes went to the scar across his shoulder-barely a thin white line, yet it had been a wide red welt. Had it healed so well because of Leyladin’s continual presence?
And now she was headed off, just as matters seemed to be getting worse throughout Candar. Hydolar…again?
He shook his head and donned a clean white shirt, then a crimson-trimmed sleeveless white tunic and the red patroller’s belt. Some of the Patrol mages didn’t wear the red belts, but the belt felt right to Cerryl.
He hurried down the corridor and out of the Halls, nodding to a few that he passed-Myredin and Bealtur and Disarj. He saw Redark from behind, but since the overmage didn’t turn, Cerryl didn’t feel as though he had to acknowledge the High Council member.