Colors of Chaos (21 page)

“Both,” she said, drawing back slightly.

“Both?” He shook his head.

“When we’re that close, I can almost sense what you feel. That’s why it will be a long time.” She offered another warm smile. “Good night, Cerryl.”

As he walked back to the Halls of the Mages, through the rain that had begun to fall, with the headache that had also begun to grow, he understood what she hadn’t said. If they were ever to become closer, he could not handle chaos the way Jeslek or Anya or most of the Whites did. In fact, he’d probably have to get better at keeping chaos away from and out of his body.

Could he manage that? As a Patrol mage? As any kind of White mage? Without verging on the gray that the Guild-and Recluce-abhorred?

XXX

Cerryl looked around the room, a space less than six cubits by nine- the duty room, it was called, with bare stone walls composed of faded pink granite blocks a cubit long and a half-cubit high. Both the walls and the cubit-square stone floor tiles were polished to a dull finish. A single high barred window no more than one cubit by two offered the only ventilation.

The single flat table that served as a desk contained two open-topped wooden boxes for scrolls and documents, an inkstand with a quill holder, a stack of blank coarse paper for reports, and a polished but ancient brass table lamp. The only other pieces of furniture were the straight-backed wooden armchair behind the desk and two backless oak chairs across the desk from it.

Cerryl set down On Peacekeeping and massaged his forehead.

“Ser?”

Cerryl glanced up to see a squad leader of one of the four-man patrols standing in the open doorway, a man of medium height with thick short brown hair and a sweeping mustache. Cerryl struggled for a moment with the name. “Yes, Fystl?”

Fystl stepped into the office and shifted from one foot to the other. “A problem, ser.”

Cerryl stood. “Where?”

“Well, ser… it wasn’t as though… ah… well… She said he didn’t know what he was doing, but she stabbed him, and he bashed her with a staff… and right at the edge of the lower
Market Square
. What were we to do? We dragged ‘em here for you to deal with.”

“Are your patrollers all right?”

“Ah… Hurka, he got a slash-it’s not deep, ser-and Veriot got some bruises from the staff.”

Cerryl took a deep breath. His third day as a full Patrol mage, and there were two people he was supposed to turn into ash-according to the manual and the guidelines set forth by Isork. Yet Fystl wasn’t acting as though the two were doomed, but apologetic.

“Maybe you should talk to them.” Fystl looked down at the floor.

“You brought them here?”

“They’re in the big room, yes, ser. Big fellow’s name is Gerlaco; the woman’s name is Jeyna.”

“Gerlaco and Jeyna. Let’s go.” Cerryl followed Fystl out of the duty room and down the short corridor to the big room, the room where the patrols mustered in the morning and where offenders were brought to Cerryl for disposition, except the ones there were his first. As in the duty room, the walls of the assembly room were of stone, and the two head-high windows were barred. Unlike the duty room, there was no furniture. On the back wall was a stone platform elevated somewhat less than two cubits above the floor tiles. The space was approximately square, each wall twenty cubits long.

On the street side of the room-between the windows-three patrollers held a man in a ripped gray shirt, a figure towering well over four cubits. Even with his hands shackled, the three patrollers were having difficulty holding him still-that despite an undressed wound in the shoulder that had to have been painful.

On the other side of the room was a dark-haired woman who was tiny, reaching barely to Cerryl’s shoulder.

Cerryl nodded to both as he walked across the room and climbed up on the platform. He felt silly doing it, but Isork had been firm about his speaking only from the stone platform. The Patrol mage cleared his throat, loudly. “Gerlaco… Jeyna.”

The patrollers looked at him warily. So did the woman.

The big man spat on the floor. “I don’t care if he’s a White demon… no smooth-skinned youth is going to judge me…”

Cerryl decided to cut him off. He concentrated chaos and let fire flare from his fingertips.

“Tricks! All tricks. You’re worse than the Black angels!”

The dark-haired woman flung herself on the floor almost at the base of the low platform. “Gerlaco’s from Delapra. He doesn’t understand! Don’t kill him… please… He drank too much… Please…”

Cerryl could sense, even without trying, that she spoke the truth as she knew it.

“Kill someone… that boy? Ha!” The big man lunged toward Cerryl, getting close enough to one of the patrollers to twist his shackled arms and lash out with an elbow.

The patroller dropped like a stone, then sat on the stone floor cradling an arm that was wrenched or broken.

Cerryl kept his face stolid. His own appearance didn’t help matters, but he really had no choice, not after everything. “Stand back.” Cerryl’s voice was level.

“NOOO!!!!”

The patrollers backed away abruptly, almost thrusting the giant into the center of the assembly room.

Cerryl concentrated on focusing the chaos as tightly as possible, more like a light lance, but not quite. He didn’t want to give that secret away.

WHHSSTT! A pillar of fire flared where the big man had stood.

“NOOO!!!” The woman sobbed from where she lay on the floor tiles.

“I’m sorry,” Cerryl said quietly but firmly. “No one attacks a patroller. No one. It doesn’t matter whether they’re from Delapra or Recluce or Hamor.” Somehow he kept his voice firm, even as he felt almost like shuddering. He shouldn’t have had to do that, not on his first eight-day as a Patrol mage. Not just because he was small and slender.

“Fystl… we’ll talk in the office.” Cerryl turned and walked out of the room that served as meeting place and judging space, leaving both the patrols and the woman.

“… just like that… Wait till I tell Reyll.”

“… let the boys on tannery row know about this.”

“… like to see him on the streets, though…”

Ignoring the comments, he walked back down the few cubits of the corridor and into the duty room, sinking onto the padded leather cushion on the chair, the only bit of softness in the entire building, and the cushion wasn’t all that yielding. He waited until Fystl closed the door, then gestured to one of the chairs.

Fystl sat, his eyes flicking every which way but not meeting Cerryl’s.

“How many more like this can I expect until the word gets out that I’m just like every other Patrol mage?” Cerryl asked wearily.

“Ah… I don’t know, ser. You handle ‘em quick… maybe not many.” Fystl shook his head. “Ser… was that a firebolt?”

“Yes,” Cerryl lied. “Just a very controlled one. I didn’t want anyone else hurt,” he added more truthfully.

“Most clear the room.” Fystl finally met Cerryl’s eyes. “You that good all the time, ser?”

“Anywhere under fifty cubits.”

A faint smile crossed the squad leader’s face, then faded. “What about the woman?”

“He started it. She’s been punished enough. Let her go.”

Fystl nodded. “That be all, ser?”

“That’s all.”

“By your leave, ser?”

Cerryl rose. “Let me know if any problems come out of this.”

“Won’t be none, ser. Not a one.” Fystl offered a half-bow, then turned and departed.

Cerryl hoped there wouldn’t be, but hope often didn’t match reality. He’d seen that often enough, especially with Uncle Syodor and Aunt Nail.

Cerryl looked at the short stack of papers he had put aside for a few moments to read On Peacekeeping, then leafed through them. He hadn’t understood that another aspect of the drudgery of being a section Patrol mage was writing reports. Isork had mentioned reports, but understanding and doing were often two separate things. Cerryl had to write down any incident where the Patrol took someone into custody or where he used chaos to turn someone into ash or anything else he thought that Isork or the Council should know about.

Cerryl understood, belatedly, the stack of scrolls Isork had been reading when he had first met the Patrol chief. Slowly, he picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink. For a while, he’d decided he’d keep what amounted to a journal-jotting down notes as things happened throughout the day, then writing down at the end of his duty those matters that still seemed worth reporting.

His eyes flicked across the day’s jottings… before the incident with Gerlaco.

… brought in Kealf, accused of stealing apples. Kealf said under truth-read that Vilo wouldn’t take his copper because he was from Sturba. Vilo agreed to take copper and pay a copper in damages to the Patrol.

… one Azorf stole three loaves of bread. Caught by Nuryl’s patrol. Sent to south prison for preparation and assignment to road duty.

… vagrant who would not give name stole purse from Searlica, consort of the cooper Hunryl. Huntyl struck with barrel stave and hailed patrol (Sheffl-leader). Truth-read vagrant, committed theft. Sent to south prison for preparation and assignment to road duty…

Cerryl took his eyes off the notes and began to write, hoping he wouldn’t have to detail turning too many peacebreakers into ash.

XXXI

Cerryl took a large helping of creamed lamb from the Meal Hall’s serving table and a full mug of the amber ale. At most of the tables around the room were apprentices, faces he did not know-except for the two redheads, Kiella and Kochar. The exception was the big circular table near the Meal Hall entrance, where Faltar, Lyasa, and Heralt sat, almost through with their meal. Lyasa waved to Cerryl, and he headed in their direction. He sat down and grinned as he noted the crumbs around Faltar’s plate. “A touch of lamb with your bread?”

“I was too tired to go out, even with creamed mutton.” Faltar grinned back. “I’m not a highly paid Patrol mage. I have to watch my coins.”

“Someone told me that even junior mages could go out every night,” Cerryl replied.

“He was wrong.”

Heralt and Lyasa laughed at Faltar’s woebegone expression.

“How does being a Patrol mage compare to gate duty?” Heralt- the curly-haired young mage originally from Kyphrien-took a sip of ale.

“Harder. Much harder,” mumbled Cerryl between bites of lamb.

“You get off in midafternoon. You been over at the trader’s place?” asked Faltar. “With your favorite healer?”

“No… walking the southeast section. Only way to get to know it well enough.”

“By yourself?” asked Lyasa.

“As a Patrol mage, it wouldn’t look all that good to have an escort off-duty.” Cerryl’s tone was dry. “I stay out of shadowed alleys and the taverns.”

“He’s still acting like an apprentice who has to learn everything,” Faltar told Lyasa.

“He’s also bringing in more coins, Faltar,” she replied. “There might be some relation between the two.”

“Never,” said Faltar. “I couldn’t imagine walking all over the city. My feet ache enough after guard duty.”

“So does my head,” admitted Heralt.

“Speaking of headaches.” Lyasa turned to Cerryl. “Did you hear about Jeslek?”

“Besides his making mountains all over the middle of Gallos?”

“No. He’s going to be High Wizard. We just heard.”

Cerryl nearly choked and ended up covering his mouth to contain his coughs.

“You got a reaction there.” Faltar grinned. “One of the few times I’ve seen Cerryl surprised.”

Cerryl finished coughing and cleared his throat with a small swallow of ale. “I’m not surprised that he’s High Wizard. I always thought he would be; but not nearly this soon.”

“He marched up to Sterol’s quarters and came down with the amulet,” Faltar said.

“Kinowin has to approve it-and all the Guild,” pointed out Heralt.

The other three looked at the curly-haired mage.

“I know. No one will oppose him,” Heralt admitted.

“He’s already wearing the amulet,” pointed out Lyasa.

You mean Anya is. Cerryl shook his head at the vagrant thought, Why had he thought that? Jeslek was far more powerful than Anya, as strong as she was in chaos handling.

“I don’t understand it,” Faltar said quietly. “Derka says he’s going back to Hydlen. Hydolar, actually.”

“Derka’s leaving
Fairhaven?” asked Cerryl.

“Sterol’s moving into Derka’s chambers, too,” Lyasa said. “That’s what Kiella told me.”

“I don’t understand,” added Heralt. “When Sterol was High Wizard, Jeslek kept his quarters as far from the Tower as possible. Now Sterol’s going to be right under Jeslek.”

Cerryl lifted a mug of the hall ale, definitely flat in comparison to that of The Golden Ram, and took a sip, then another.

“Three floors of solid stone,” said Lyasa.

“Nothing compared to mountains,” countered Faltar.

“Jeslek won’t be there that much anyway,” suggested Heralt. “He’ll have to do something about Gallos and Spidlar.”

“That’s probably why Sterol let him have the amulet,” suggested the black-haired Lyasa.

“But who will be the other overmage, to take Jeslek’s place?” asked Faltar. “Does anyone know?”

“Anya would love that,” offered Lyasa.

“I haven’t heard,” said Heralt. “Would Sterol take it?”

“No. He’d have to support Jeslek,” Faltar said quickly.

Cerryl’s eyes went to Faltar. That hadn’t been Faltar’s idea, he suspected, but said nothing.

“Cerryl? You aren’t saying anything.”

“What is there to say? Jeslek returns from Gallos, where he has created an entire range of chaos mountains. Suddenly, the honored Sterol relinquishes the amulet and recommends that the Guild approve Jeslek as High Wizard. No one knows who will be the new overmage, except that it’s unlikely to be Sterol. What can a lowly mage such as I add to that?”

“I think you just did,” said Lyasa.

Cerryl shook his head. “I said earlier that I always thought he’d be High Wizard. He just got there sooner than I thought.”