“Old? You don’t look old.”
“I’m old, Cerryl. Old, old, old for a mage. I have my vanities, and Leyladin helps me with them, but I’m an old man, good for telling about sewers and refuse and such, and little else.” Myral plopped back into his chair, breathing heavily. After a moment, he glared at Cerryl. “Go on. You go scour the sewer, and I’ll sit here and look important to myself.”
Cerryl stood.
“When you get to the smugglers’ tunnel, be careful. You’ll have to clean that out, or it will mean the secondary will have to be scoured sooner. But there’s no telling whether their workmanship was any good. You may have to get masons. Just let me know.” Myral laughed, then coughed. “It’s not as though I’ll be traveling far.”
The younger man nodded again, then left, meeting Jyantyl and the lancers outside the barracks at the rear of the halls as usual.
The morning went quickly enough, if not so swiftly as Cerryl had hoped, since he found another set of small collectors on the east side. One was nearly totally plugged, and he’d had to use firebolts and steam to bore through the sludgy mass.
Even after he and the lancers had taken a midday break, Cerryl still felt tired, but he again unlocked the bronze sewer grate and nodded to Ullan and Dientyr, then started down the steps. At least in summer the tunnels were somewhat cooler than the streets.
He tried not to breathe deeply at first, until his sense of smell was partly deadened. The odors were far worse in summer and would get even worse as the heat drew on toward harvest. Cerryl ignored the omnipresent stench and let his senses range up the sewage tunnel to his right. Somewhere ahead was the bricked-up smugglers’ tunnel.
The wastewater flowed down the bottom of the sewer, below the slimy walkway. . but there was something about it. . a hint of turbulence. . something.
Cerryl let a small lance of the golden chaos light flare along the top of the water. A line of fire flashed even beyond the limits of his light lance. Something in the sewage was burning-an oil? He tried to sniff but could smell nothing. Where would oil come from?
He loosed another bolt of chaos along the tunnel wall closest to him, but all that resulted were cleaner bricks and white ash. In the lingering flash he could see as well as sense the curve of the secondary tunnel.
A brief tapping on the bricks echoed down the tunnel. Cerryl turned.
“Sorry, ser,” squeaked Ullan.
Cerryl returned to scrutinizing the tunnel ahead, frowning not only because of the smell of burned oil but because of something else.
Ullan clicked or tapped the lance again.
Cerryl ignored the tapping, trying to press his senses into the darkness of the tunnel.
A scraping rose over the burbling of the drainage way.
Suddenly, Cerryl could sense someone-something around the corner-waiting in the supposedly bricked-up tunnel. He began to gather chaos to him as he heard boots on stone.
A faint light oozed out from the side tunnel, and two men appeared, dim shapes, shapes not clear even in his senses, let alone to his eyes. Cerryl blinked in spite of himself.
One hung a bronze lamp from a hook on the wall, a hook Cerryl hadn’t noticed. Both men carried shields-large and dark glowing iron shields. They also bore dark iron blades that glowed with the reddened black of order, and moved silently and slowly toward Cerryl.
Behind him, Cerryl could hear the two white lancers easing backward, almost silently.
Myral had said the guards might not be much help. He’d also said that firing chaos against iron would jolt Cerryl.
Cerryl stepped back slowly, trying to think. What could he do?
The armed men moved toward him, shields forward.
Whhhstt!
Cerryl released a golden firebolt-not aimed at the leading man’s shield, where it would do little good, but at the sewer water directly before and beside the man.
A second firebolt followed the first, and a third and a fourth.
Cerryl held his shields against the chaos steam, keeping it confined, trying to direct it toward the armed men even as he backed away from them, but they continued to advance.
He angled a gold lance light low-toward the leading man’s legs. It missed, but the second man jumped and crashed into the tunnel wall, staggering there for a moment, his shield low.
Whhhhsttt! Cerryl flared another lance of the golden light into the man’s exposed face.
“Aeei-” The choked scream died as the armsman clutched at his charred face and throat, then toppled slowly forward.
As he cast another firebolt at the sewer water, the young mage backed away from the first armsman.
The armsman rushed forward, then half-flung, half-pushed the iron shield at Cerryl, lifting the iron blade and scrambling the few remaining cubits between them.
With a calmness he did not feel, even as the heavy shield crashed into him, Cerryl loosed another firebolt.
The man plummeted forward, his body a charred mass.
Cerryl pushed away the heavy shield, conscious that he would have burns on his hands. In several places, his white tunic was charred from the impact of the iron.
He had to reach out and steady himself on the wall. His head ached, and his stomach churned, and he stood there, gasping, the darkness seeming to recede and flash toward him.
Finally, he straightened and began to walk toward the steps. Dientyr stood there.
“Ser?” The white lancer looked at the walkway.
“Where’s Ullan?”
“Ah. . I don’t know, ser.”
Cerryl kept walking until he reached the steps, where he sat down in the pool of light cast from the grate opening above. He didn’t care if his whites were filthy. He needed to rest.
“Dientyr? Have someone get word to Myral. . brigands in the sewer. They’re dead, but I’m supposed to let him know.”
“Yes, ser.”
Cerryl ignored the relief in the guard’s voice and the rapid scramble up the steps. He just kept trying to catch his breath. Was it that he’d thrown so much chaos in such a short time?
When he finally felt less shaky, he eased his way back up the tunnel slowly, looking through the darkness. But there was nothing left-except two partly charred figures, two iron shields and blades, and the smell of burned oil-and slime and sewage. Of Ullan there was no sign, either.
He turned back to the steps to wait for Myral.
Dientyr and another lancer preceded Myral down the steps. A messenger in blue followed.
“Cerryl?”
“I’m here. There’s nothing here except me-and the bodies.”
“Bodies?”
“Two armed men-I don’t know why.”
“Best we see.” With the guard leading the way, and the messenger trailing, the two walked the few dozen cubits to the scene of the attack.
“Two of them.” Myral studied the two forms-the mostly charred one and the partly uncharred one. His face hardened as he used the white-bronze knife in his hand to lift one of the shields, but his breath rasped heavily as he straightened.
Cerryl tensed. What had he done wrong?
“It is not you.” The rotund mage turned to the messenger in blue. “I would have the honored Sterol meet me here.”
“Yes, ser.” The messenger left, almost as though fleeing.
“Maker’s marks. . on the shields.” Myral continued to breathe heavily. “They’re from Gallos. . only one trader in arms licensed to Gallos. . shouldn’t be too hard to find who brought in iron weapons.”
“I didn’t think iron weapons were allowed here.”
“A few uses only. .” Myral panted.
“Ser. . the steps back there. They’re clean. You could sit there.”
“Not. . a bad idea.”
Cerryl led Myral back to the steps up to the grate.
Even without Myral’s orders, the lancers stood guard over the charred shapes sprawled on the walkway. Another group had joined Jyantyl on the street above in guarding the grate.