Finally, he stood and walked toward the corridor toward the front Hall of the Mages. He could walk up the Avenue in the twilight.
Cerryl paused at the edge of the fountain courtyard, where two figures stood in the shadows beyond the fountain in the far corner, shielded by darkness and spray. Their postures bothered him, and he cast forth his perceptions, as gently and dispersed as possible. At the same time, he used his skills to blur over his chaos-order image, so that unless another mage looked right at him with concentration, he wouldn’t even seem to be there.
“You sleep with whoever grants you power for the moment,” said the taller figure.
“You fawn over whoever grants you favor, Fydel. Tell me there’s a difference. You prefer to sleep with me, but you certainly don’t sleep alone much,” Anya replied.
“That’s different. You make Jeslek think he’s the only chaos focus since Cyador, and now every little thing in Spidlar has him feeling personally slighted. He almost killed me over that black toy.”
“You kept it from him for a season, and the letters from the smith to the lady trader. That was not wise, Fydel. Don’t blame me or Jeslek for your stupidity.”
“Do you want Jeslek spewing chaos all over Candar?”
“He already has, and he intends to bring all the lands of eastern Candar under Fairhaven. After the way they’re treating the Guild, do you blame him? Do you want your stipend cut?” Anya moved closer to Fydel. “I know this is a hard time.” She touched his face. “I won’t be owned, Fydel, but I will make it up to you. Not tonight. Later.”
Cerryl eased away before the two realized he had been using his chaos-order senses to spy.
Slowly, his thoughts swirling, he walked back to his empty room, all idea of walking up the Avenue discarded. What had he been missing in his efforts to become the best possible Patrol mage? What was really going on in the Guild and with Spidlar? Black iron so strong it warped the feeling in the High Wizard’s room? Made by a Black smith who wrote letters that Fydel had kept from Jeslek. No wonder Jeslek had let the smith’s name drop-Dorrin, was it? To see if Cerryl were plotting with Fydel?
Cerryl swallowed.
That didn’t even take into account that the Black smith was tied up with a lady trader-and there were lady traders? Were traders involved in everything? Blacks settling in Spidlar? Certan forces raiding Spidlar? And he’d seen none of it?
He shook his head. What could he do? What should he do? What could a junior Patrol mage do?
He wished Leyladin were back. He needed someone to talk to, someone who understood more than he did and someone whom he could trust.
XLVII
CERRYL GLANCED ACROSS the Avenue at the main entrance to the Halls of the Mages, silhouetted against the late-afternoon sun, and then at the White Tower, his eyes studying the outside of the topmost floor, the apartment of the High Wizard. Was more chaos swirling around the Tower, or was he just becoming increasingly sensitive to chaos?
He crossed the eastern section of the Avenue, ahead of a slow-moving and empty green-trimmed wagon drawn by a pair of matched grays, then continued across the south side of the square and across the empty western half of the Avenue.
Another day of being a Patrol mage, another day of dealing with petty theft of bread, a barrel of flour-and in neither case had the Patrol found the thief, or thieves. No one had seen anything, and by the time Fystl had gotten Cerryl to the shop, somehow all those who might have seen anything had vanished. That bothered Cerryl. So did the slight but slow increase in such peacebreaking.
He blotted his damp forehead as he entered the cool stone walls of the front foyer, glancing ahead to his left, toward the empty steps to the White Tower. Once through the foyer, he crossed the fountain courtyard, grateful for the cooling mist of the fountain, and made his way through the middle Hall, past two apprentice mages he did not know, and into the rear courtyard.
“Cerryl?” Anya stood in the shade by the arched entryway to the rear Hall.
“Anya…greetings.”
“How was your day, Cerryl? Do you remain as fond of being a Patrol mage as you were a year ago?”
“I do.” Cerryl paused, then added quickly, “You know, I’ve never asked exactly what you do. I mean, Faltar guards gates; I’m a Patrol mage; Esaak teaches mathematicks.” He shrugged. “You seem most talented and yet…mysterious.”
“I’m only mysterious because I’m a woman and no one asks a woman what she does. Right now, I’m an assistant to the High Wizard. I used to teach knife fighting to the lancer officers, and before that I was the assistant mage for the water aqueducts.” A bright smile crossed Anya’s creamy-complected face.
“Much more impressive than being a Patrol mage, I must admit.” Cerryl’s eyes went to the battered sheath at Anya’s waist. Somehow, the knife belonged there, unfortunately. “How might I be of service?”
“You really shouldn’t use that phrase, Cerryl.” Anya smiled crookedly. “Actually, I just wished to talk to you for a moment.”
Cerryl managed not to flush. “You always bear interesting views.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“I do.”
“Good.” The smile returned, the one Cerryl distrusted thoroughly. “I am sure you know how difficult matters in Spidlar and Gallos are getting.”
“I had heard that, but matters here in Fairhaven are not so good as they might be, either. Nor in Hydlen.”
“You are having difficulty in your Patrol section?” asked Anya.
“Less trouble than most.” But I spend more time working at it.
“That surprises me not, Cerryl, nor the High Wizard.” She paused. “You also know that Myral is ailing, and that Kinowin is not so young as he might appear.”
“I have heard such.”
“Fairhaven has not mustered all its lancers in generations, and those who have seen battle are either few or old.”
Cerryl nodded, not enjoying the implications. “Eliasar has experience, much experience.”
“Eliasar will offer all he has. It might not reflect well on those others who have even limited experience, should they avoid using that experience when it is needed.”
“I can see that.”
“Good. I hope you learn much more about peacekeeping in the few eight-days ahead. I trust I haven’t kept you.”
“Ah…no. Not at all.”
“Good afternoon, Cerryl.” Anya flashed a last deceitfully honest-looking smile, then inclined her head and slipped past Cerryl and toward the middle Hall, leaving behind the heavy scents of sandalwood and trilia.
Cerryl pursed his lips, then entered the rear Hall and made for the steps to the upper level. He had barely entered his room and seated himself on the edge of the bed when there was a thrap on the door.
“Yes?”
“It’s Lyasa. May I come in?”
“Come on in.” Cerryl rose to his feet to greet the black-haired mage.
“I see that Anya had something to say.”
“I see that you’re looking out for my interests.” Cerryl grinned and gestured to the chair.
“I don’t know about yours. Leyladin is my friend. What did Anya want this time?”
“To warn me without being obvious about it.”
“About what?”
“That Jeslek is going to ask me to go with him to take over Spidlar, perhaps reduce some of it to rubble, and that it would be bad for my future, and probably my health, to refuse.”
“I cannot imagine that going on a war campaign to Spidlar and Gallos would be very healthful.”
“They may ask you as well,” mused Cerryl. “Anya mentioned that few mages had any experience in battle, and you were with us in Gallos. You’re strong with chaos.”
“Not so strong as you or Anya.” A frown crossed Lyasa’s face, and darkness settled in the deep brown eyes. Then she smiled. “But I could definitely keep a watch on you that way.”