With a nod, he turned. What he had discovered would have to do. He dared not linger longer.
Shyren’s quarters were far more opulent than the High Wizard’s, and no wonder, with all the gold the old mage possessed.
As Cerryl replaced the lock and the two chaos traps, he wanted to smile. Shyren had one problem. As a White mage, he had to keep at least some, if not all, of his gains near him. Who else dared he trust with such an amount of gold?
Clutching the light-blurring screen, Cerryl turned back down the corridor, descending the stairs and passing the guards on his way back out into the front courtyard.
Behind him, he could hear the low voices of the guards.
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know…looked like he belonged here. One of Dursus’s people, I guess.”
“Too many folk we don’t know these days.”
Cerryl nodded. He hoped so.
Back in his room, he took out the glass and laid it on the worn green braided rug and searched for Shyren, finding the mage in the viscount’s chambers. Almost before the mists had fully parted and revealed the image of Shyren in one of the council chambers with Dursus and the viscount, Cerryl let the screeing glass turn blank.
Then he put the glass away and stepped out into the hall.
“You’re as wet as a drowned cat.” Fydel stood by the door to his own chamber. “Where have you been?”
“Riding in Jellico, trying to learn the city.” Cerryl paused, but only momentarily, noting that Fydel appeared almost as wet as he did. “You’ve been out, too.”
“Making arrangements to ensure nothing disturbs our efforts against Spidlar.” Fydel shrugged. “I’m going to talk with Teras-in the rear courtyard by the building where the viscount meets with all his ministers. Do you want to come? You probably ought to. Someone ought to know about the provisions’ plans besides me. Neither Jeslek nor Anya will pay any attention.” Fydel’s tone was bitter, as it often seemed to be, reflected Cerryl.
Why not? That’s about where you want to go. “If I won’t be in the way.”
“No. You might as well hear what you’ll have to do sooner or later, anyway.” The square-bearded mage gave a faint smile and turned, as if expecting Cerryl to follow him.
Cerryl did. If Fydel’s errand didn’t lead him to where he could find Shyren, he’d find some other pretext. It couldn’t be that hard.
He didn’t have to invent another pretext, for as they crossed the second courtyard, on the side under the overhang that protected them from the rain, another figure in white appeared, heading in the opposite direction, but on the far side of the courtyard.
“Fydel…I need just a word with Shyren.”
“I’ll wait here-if you won’t be long.”
“Only a moment.” Cerryl turned and angled toward the heavy older mage through the rain that had turned to drizzle.
Shyren slowed, then stopped.
“Mage Shyren.” Cerryl inclined his head.
“Young Cerryl, you seemed to be headed toward me.” Shyren smiled falsely. “And how has your stay in Jellico been thus far?”
“Rather unsettling, I must admit. Some fellows let loose with crossbow quarrels-aimed at me, I fear.”
“You do not seem terribly injured. Are you certain that you were the target?”
Cerryl shrugged. “There was no one else upon the street, and the white jacket of a mage is difficult to mistake.” Cerryl shrugged. “Unless they might have been seeking another. You wouldn’t have any idea who else they might have sought?”
“It is to avoid such mishaps that I have made it a practice never to ride the streets. Carriages are much less prone to slings and arrows, as it were. Mages should stick to magery, not adventure, especially not adventure in unfamiliar cities.”
With his senses concentrated on Shyren, Cerryl could feel the twisting, the deception, not quite like a lie, and he wanted to nod. Instead, he inclined his head, blocking all of his own feelings and responding as if he were accepting in a heartfelt way Shyren’s words. “So you had told me, and while I had thought that I might make Jellico less unfamiliar, it appears that your advice was most correct. I intend to remain within both the walls of the palace and the exact dimensions of my assignment here as an assistant to Mage Fydel.” He inclined his head in the direction of the archway where Fydel stood. “Perhaps that will ensure less attention.”
“I can assure you that so long as you confine yourself to that charge any attention you receive will be far more to your benefit. Few appreciate mages extending their talents to where they are unnecessary and unwanted. Especially young mages.” A sympathetic smile, false as those that preceded it, filled the heavyset mage’s face.
“I do appreciate your advice, ser Shyren, and will follow it most scrupulously.” Cerryl bowed. “These recent events have made clear its value.”
“Ah…yes…I am glad you have found that. We all need to do that which we do best. I am most certain Jeslek will be pleased with this…” A last smile crossed the older mage’s lips. “Now, if you will excuse me, as I am tending to a difficulty facing the prefect…”
“Of course.” Cerryl bowed and scraped once more, obsequiously.
“What was that all about?” asked Fydel as Cerryl returned.
“I was conveying to Shyren the value of his advice.”
Fydel raised his eyebrows but did not speak. Then he turned, and Cerryl followed him, conscious that Shyren’s eyes followed him, for all that the older mage had spoken of needing to be excused.
LXXXIV
UNDER ANOTHER GRAY afternoon sky, Cerryl and Fydel stood in the second courtyard of the viscount’s palace, waiting as Jeslek and Anya rode through the archway, followed by the first of the White Lancers, headed by a captain unfamiliar to Cerryl.
Shyren, who stood a good thirty cubits to the left of the two younger mages, raised his arm. “Hail to the High Wizard.” His voice was friendly and loud, pitched to reach Jeslek.
Jeslek rode forward, seemingly toward Shyren, with Anya keeping her mount abreast of the white-haired and sun-eyed mage. Then Jeslek guided his mount aside, back toward Cerryl. As he reined up, Jeslek turned to Anya. “You know what to do.” He vaulted out of the saddle and strode up to Cerryl, flinging the reins in the direction of a lancer who followed. “Come over here.”
Anya rode across in front of Shyren and Fydel, raising chaos as she did. “A moment, Shyren. Jeslek has something to deal with.”
Cerryl caught the glimpse of a smile on the heavy mage’s face before Jeslek drew Cerryl aside, under the overhang of the courtyard across from the stable entrance and away from the other three mages. “Shyren has sent a scroll saying you are a danger to the Guild and that if you are not disgraced and removed, none of the traders will continue to pay tariffs to Fairhaven. What did you do?” asked Jeslek.
Cerryl smiled. “I discovered what happened to the tariff coins.”
“And what have you discovered about the coins?” asked the High Wizard with the lazy smile that concealed anger.
“I take it that coins are getting to be a difficulty.” Cerryl forced himself to keep his voice light while keeping his emotions shielded. He also stood ready to divert any chaos Jeslek might muster. “Even after collecting a thousand golds from Hydlen.”
“Two thousand,” Jeslek corrected, with a tight smile. “I raised the cost since I had to travel there. The new duke had to lose another Tower and the northern gates before he saw the wisdom of paying damages and raising the call for levies.”
“I see.” Cerryl paused, noting the further tightening in Jeslek’s jaw, then added, “Did you know that the prefect has been collecting a tariff laid at the Guild’s door?”