“I’ve seen Fenard and Hydolar,” Cerryl admitted.
“And how did you find them?”
Resigning himself to a continued discussion of pleasantries, Cerryl replied, “I would say that the walls of Jellico are among the more impressive…”
As he spoke, Cerryl’s eyes wandered to the head of the table, where the Viscount Rystryr leaned toward Fydel, apparently making some sort of point with his fist. Cerryl kept talking, suspecting that he would need many more innocuous subjects and humorous comments to see himself through his days in Jellico. Many, many more.
LXXXI
CERRYL GLANCED DOWN at the glass on the oval braided rug, watching the mists clear, showing a blonde healer in green sitting at a desk, her head cocked to one side, a sheet of paper before her. A broad smile crossed her face, and she lifted her fingers to her lips and then blew the kiss outward.
Cerryl smiled and let the image fade, knowing she had sensed his presence.
After a time, he looked down at the glass again, concentrating until the silver mists formed and then spread, showing a figure in scarlet and gray. The man sat in a carriage, but Cerryl could not tell where the carriage was bound.
A time later, he tried again, concentrating on a more distant view of Pullid, but the glass merely showed the carriage nearing the viscount’s palace, the image blurred by the intermittent spring snow flurries fluttering down.
Cerryl pulled on his white jacket with a shrug and made his way through the corridors toward the front courtyard where he had seen the mounting block for carriages. There he waited with the two pair of armsmen who guarded what appeared to be the entrance to the viscount’s part of the sprawling warren of buildings.
Cerryl stepped forward as Pullid eased out of the carriage. “Ser Pullid?”
The bulky man in gray and scarlet turned. “I do not believe I know you, ser mage. Young ser mage.”
Cerryl ignored the condescending tone. “I was hoping you might bring your vast knowledge of finance to my aid.” He offered what he hoped was a warm smile.
Pullid merely scowled. “What would a mage need to know of finance?”
“Well…we do raise some coins, through the assistance of rulers like the viscount, of course, in order to build and maintain the great White highways. All say you are the one who is most important in assisting Finance Minister Dursus and that you know the best ways to ensure the collection of tariffs and such. We have had some difficulty in Montgren,” Cerryl lied, “and I thought I might ask for your advice.”
Pullid continued to frown without responding.
Cerryl could read the man’s thoughts from his face. He didn’t want to offend a mage, particularly one brought on a war campaign, since that meant one able to turn him to ash. But Pullid clearly did not wish to talk to Cerryl.
“I wondered…obviously the viscount has roads of his own to maintain. Is that a separate tariff, or do you collect them both together?”
“We would not dare to collect taxes more than once.” Pullid offered a slightly off-key laugh. “Even once is difficult enough.”
Cerryl nodded as he gained a definite feel for the man.
“Now…if you will excuse me…”
“Of course.” Cerryl bowed, if but slightly.
Back in his guest quarters, he took out the glass. Perhaps he had stirred Pullid into action. The next image was that of Pullid talking to the finance minister, but from what Cerryl could tell, Dursus seemed unmoved, talking easily, before finally motioning Pullid out of the paneled study or office. Pullid walked until he reached a smaller, a much smaller, paneled room, where he sat behind a table for a long time, long enough that Cerryl finally had to let the image lapse before his head threatened to burst.
His problem still remained. How could he prove the viscount was diverting coins? Everything Cerryl felt told him that it was happening, but he had not one single vision or item even remotely close to proof. Most likely, his efforts had only made everyone nervous and unhappy with one mage named Cerryl. Yet if he didn’t push, how would he find anything in a city where he knew no one?
He sat on the bed and massaged his neck and forehead, trying to massage away the headache.
Perhaps later.
LXXXII
CERRYL SAT ON the edge of the bed and looked down at the glass that rested on the braided oval rug-a rug that might once have been green but now appeared gray. The silver mists vanished, and he was left with a blank glass reflecting the timbered ceiling. He was getting nowhere through screeing.
His brief interchange with Pullid had led nowhere, nor had his repeated attempts to track the man with the screeing glass. Finance Minister Dursus never seemed to leave the palace, except to be driven to and from his luxurious home on the hill south of the one on which the prefect’s palace perched. While Pullid traveled to meet a number of people, even armsmen and those who appeared to be tax collectors, Cerryl could never see any trace of coins, let alone anything other than conversations, usually brief. He wished he could hear what he watched, but the glass did not allow such.
In the three days since their arrival, the viscount had hosted no more meals. Cerryl and Fydel had eaten with the Certan officers on a less formal and far less sumptuous basis in a stone-walled hall in the lower level of the barracks building. Cerryl had already explored the barracks building in which he and Fydel were housed, finding it more than half-empty but with the feel of recently having been more fully utilized. Were the absent armsmen and officers those harassing Spidlar in one way or another?
Speculating and observing through the glass wasn’t going to reveal any more than it had. Of that Cerryl was rapidly being convinced. Either he couldn’t see what was going on or he couldn’t recognize it. He somehow needed to find another approach.
Cerryl leaned back on the bed.
He’d been trying to find out things from those who collected the taxes and tariffs…and finding nothing. That could be because he didn’t know what to look for and where or because the collectors knew he or someone was watching and could simply outwait him.
Who paid the tariffs?
Those who had coins, and the ones most likely to have coins were factors and traders. Cerryl, unhappily, hadn’t met that many traders, either inside or outside Fairhaven. In fact, Narst, the trader he’d begged a ride from on his rather painful journey from Hydolar to Fairhaven, was probably the only real trader Cerryl had met, just as Layel was the only real factor he knew.
Narst had mentioned some names…The one from Spidlar wouldn’t do, but what had been the name in Jellico? Fedor? No…Freidr, or something like that.
You can’t do any worse than you’re doing so far.
He struggled to his feet and pulled on the white jacket. While his room was cool, outside would be cold and wet from the spring snow flurries. After closing his door, he made his way down the corridor and steps to the courtyard and to the stable.
He stood for a moment outside the stable, then cleared his throat. Finally, he whistled.
A pale face appeared. “Ah, yes, ser?”
“I’m going riding,” Cerryl told the ostler.
“Oh, you’ve the big gentle gelding?”
“That’s right.”
“Be a few moments, ser.”
“I’ll wait.”
Cerryl studied the courtyard, sensing the age of the structures that surrounded the stable, seemingly far older than even the ancient buildings of Fairhaven.
“Here he be.” The ostler led out the gelding.
Cerryl glanced at the red and white livery, wondering if he would be better off without such an announcement, then shrugged. “Thank you.”
The ostler nodded.
The gelding whuffed as Cerryl swung himself into the saddle, then walked easily toward the archway from the courtyard. From the low gray sky occasional intermittent fat flakes of snow fell, all melting almost instantly upon hitting the stones of the street. A few patches of white clung to sections of roofs. Cerryl guided the gelding downhill and eastward to the Market Square.