Colors of Chaos (63 page)

More of the fallen stone, timbers, and bricks had been cleared from the main route westward toward the river, but the streets remained mostly deserted. Cerryl saw but one dog, a brown mutt that slunk down an alleyway as the riders passed, tail nearly between its legs.

The middle river gates were on their heavy iron supports-or had never left them-and were open to the piers. The stench from the piers was strong, despite the increasing rain-a mixture of rotting foliage, fish, and other decaying matter, mixed with the smell of mud. Mud was piled everywhere, over the splintered and broken planks that had once formed the deck of the piers and been cast against the rabbled river walls, up almost to the top of the tilted and shortened stone pillars that had comprised the base of the piers. Beneath the pillars, and under the mud, Cerryl could sense that most of the pier bases were solid.

Jeslek’s flood or whatever it had been had piled so much mud against the solid stone bases of the piers that the river was now flowing more than ten cubits from the ruins of the piers.

Cerryl studied the jumbled mass of planks, stone, and mud. Could he use chaos-or loosen order enough-the way he had in the road battle, so that the river would carry away the mud?

“Be hard to put them back together,” murmured Hiser.

Cerryl dismounted and handed the gelding’s reins to the subofficer. The mage walked forward, then back to the pile of huge stones that had been the river wall. There he concentrated, working on loosening the bounds of order, shifting them beneath the pier bases and to the river walls, leaching order out of the mud heaped against the remaining stone pillars.

Unnnnnhhhh… The mud shifted, ever so slightly, and then seemed to slump. Bubbles frothed up through the gray-brown soupy mess.

For a time he just sat down on one of the larger stones from the wall, holding his head in his hands, while stars flashed across his vision.

The rain began to fall more heavily from clouds that had darkened, unnoticed by Cerryl, and mixed with the droplets were ice pellets that bounced off the oiled leather of his jacket.

At last, Cerryl stood and made his way along the edge of the fallen river wall to where Hiser and the squad waited. Hiser’s eyes were on the mud and on the river water, which seemed darker than before.

Cerryl remounted and followed the subofficer’s eyes with his own, noting that the fizzing and bubbling continued and that the river was eating away the slumping mess from around the pier pillars and bases.

He nodded, then massaged his forehead. Should have eaten before you came out here.

“The mud’s going…”

“Don’t believe that…”

Cerryl blinked, then turned to Riser. “We still need planks to refinish the top of the piers and some logs for the round posts…”

“Bollards,” supplied a voice.

“Bollards,” agreed Cerryl, turning.

A wiry man in tattered gray stood on the mud-smeared river wall, a good ten cubits to Cerryl’s right. A sabre leaped into Hiser’s hand.

“Greetin‘, ser mage. You want to put the piers right again?”

Cerryl nodded.

“Best you use your tricks to shift that bar upstream some, then, or ‘fore long you be having the same mud back around the pier column.”

Bar? Cerryl’s eyes flicked upstream, finally catching sight of a mud bar or sandbar slightly to the west of midstream.

“Water comes off the bend and splits… Slow stuff drifts to the east,” added the spritely old figure, as if everyone should have understood his words.

“Did you used to run the piers?”

“Me? Not a lead copper’s wager. Jidro, at your service. Few years back was lead boatman for Virot’s barges.”

Cerryl let his order-chaos senses range across the man, then nodded. “You want a job? Being in charge of rebuilding and running the piers?”

“Aye, and you’d turn me into ashes first time I displeased you.”

“I don’t do that unless people lie to me or attack me.”

Jidro grinned. “Won’t live forever, and I’d like to see ‘em run right. But need one of your lancer subs to give orders. No one listens to an old fart like me.”

Cerryl grinned, then glanced toward Riser. Ferek was too stiff. “Riser… let’s see what Jidro can do for us.”

“Ah… yes, ser.” An expression between horror and relief flitted across the eyes of the blond subofficer.

Again Cerryl hoped he’d read things right. More hope… never quite knowing.

CIX

Cerryl stood at one end of the table, then stepped back, his eyes raking over Teras, Ferek, and Riser. Senglat was absent. Probably sneaking off to find Fydel. “I want that man tied to a post right in front of the gate outside and all the lancers mustered out, right on the street here, on foot.”

“Now?” asked Teras.

“Now. I’ll be out shortly, as soon as he’s tied to the post. You can all leave and prepare.” Sounding like Jeslek, you are. Cerryl concealed a wince, not moving until the small study was empty and he stood alone, alone with his thoughts and the faint odor of decay that would doubtless take years to dissipate totally.

The murmurs from the officer and subofficers were loud enough that he could hear they were talking, but not loud enough for him to pick up the words. It didn’t matter. The lancer had been caught right after he had murdered a local woman because she wouldn’t comply with his wishes. Then the fellow had bold-facedly lied to Cerryl, and denied the murder.

The slightly built mage shook his head. If he let the man off, his authority over the lancers would begin to erode until he’d have to do something drastic to regain it. Anya was right…in this situation.

When he saw the prisoner being marched from the makeshift cells in the cellar of the barracks house and the lancers forming up, Cerryl pulled on his jacket and stepped out into the cold and windy day, walking just outside the wrought-iron gate.

From where he was roped to a post wedged between two large cobble stones and braced with several other stones the lancer prisoner, a gag across his mouth, glared at Cerryl. The man probably could have loosened the post if he had struggled enough, but he still would have been fastened to what amounted to a heavy log.

“The men are here-all we could find quickly, ser,” announced Teras, his voice carrying over the slight whistle of the wind.

“Thank you.” Cerryl cleared his throat, then waited as he heard hoofs. A trace of a smile played across his lips as he sensed the chaos that accompanied the two riders.

Fydel galloped up, Senglat beside him. The square-bearded mage’s face was red, almost livid, as he dismounted and marched up to Cerryl. His voice was low, pitched at Cerryl and not to carry. “I’m the one in charge of the lancers and what they do.”

“I’m in charge of the city,” Cerryl answered quietly. “Your lancer broke the peace, and lancers answer to the Patrol, even in Fairhaven. It’s no different here.”

“Why are you doing this?” asked Fydel. “I won’t let you.” Cerryl raised shields and chaos before answering, his voice also low. “You won’t stop me, Fydel.” He smiled as the older man stepped back.

“Jeslek will hear of this.”

“I’m sure he will. He doesn’t care. All he wants are results. He wants Elparta rebuilt and the tariffs from its trade. If my way gets things done, your complaint doesn’t matter. If it doesn’t,” Cerryl smiled ironically, “then it’s minor compared to my failure.”

“You’re worse than Anya.”

“Perhaps. Now… will you stand back and let me finish? It would be better if you did not make a scene.”

“Jeslek will know of my displeasure.”

“I am certain he will… if you choose to let him know. If you think, upon reflection, that is wise.” Cerryl stepped forward, ignoring Fydel, his eyes beyond the lancer tied to the post. He raised his voice “I ordered that no man, woman, or child in this town be hurt unless they attacked one of you. This man not only beat and killed a woman, but he lied to me about it. She did not threaten him; she did not wish to be used by him. He disobeyed, and he lied. He will pay the price.” Cerryl nodded brusquely, then raised chaos.

For first time the lancer began to struggle, lunging against the ropes and the post-realizing that the slender mage meant his death.

Whhsttt! The firebolt engulfed the prisoner, flaring into a brief column of flame and greasy black smoke. Within instants, only white ashes drifted in the cold air.

Cerryl nodded to Teras. “You may dismiss them.” His eyes went to the still-mounted Senglat. “You are dismissed as well, Captain.”

Senglat’s eyes flickered from Cerryl to Fydel and then dropped. “Yes, ser.”

Cerryl remained almost rigid until the lancers had begun to move and until Senglat turned his mount down the street toward the makeshift stables.

“… means what he said.”

“… other mage looked like the little one kicked him silly.”

“… Hiser said he was tough.”

“… one they kicked out of the Patrol ‘cause he was too mean… that’s what Yurit heard.”

Cerryl looked at Fydel, whose color had gone from livid to near-white.

“I see why Isork wanted you off the Patrol.”

“Do you?” Cerryl turned. His head ached again, and he felt exhausted, more emotionally than physically.

Fydel opened his mouth, then closed it. After a long pause, he spoke. “You cannot accept things as they are. You want them to be as they should be. Men are not as they should be but as they are.”

“They won’t be any better by doing their worst,” Cerryl answered. “Neither will we.” But what is “better”? He wished he knew.

Leaving Fydel and his mount in the street, Cerryl walked slowly back into the quarters building, back past the immobile guards and into the silent structure.

Force… maybe Anya was right, but Cerryl didn’t have to like it. Not at all.

CX

Windswept piles of snow had drifted against the stone fence-wall on the eastern side of the road, flakes swirling and shifting across the surface of the drifts in the light winter wind. Behind the stones were trees, Mostly saplings, and the stumps where larger trees had once stood. The sound of a score of mounts’ hoofs echoed off the frozen clay of the road as Cerryl and the lancers rode north.

Downhill from the western side of the narrow road, a stream burbled, ice-fringed, but its dark water clear in the center. Splotches of snow dotted the narrow field beyond the streambed, and trees with winter-grayed leaves rose behind the field.

“The place is around the next bend,” Hiser announced.

As he passed the midpoint of the gentle curve in the road, Cerryl leaned forward in the saddle. A narrower road curved eastward rising beside the stream. Both road and stream cut through the middle of the field. The wide berm of stone-faced earth and the rough-planked building beside it were the first signs of the mill. A single large timber barn stood to the left of the mill and an unpainted house uphill of both, with a thin line of smoke rising from the chimney.

The arrangement of the mill and the outbuildings looked little like Dylert’s, where Cerryl had spent his years after leaving the mines and Uncle Syodar and Aunt Nail, yet the feel was similar.

While there were recent tracks on the road to the mill and house, all the plank-sided buildings were shuttered, all the doors fastened tight. A dog’s tracks crossed a patch of windblown snow before the low one-story house, but no dog was in sight. The plank walls of the house were water-stained, and the roof sagged.

Cerryl wanted to shake his head as he mentally compared Dylert’s null and the house before him. “Let’s see if anyone’s here.”

At Hiser’s nod, one of the lancers dismounted and, hand on sabre, used his free hand to pound on the door. Cerryl waited, but there was no answer.

“Try again. Say who ser Cerryl is,” ordered Hiser.

The lancer pounded on the door. “Ser Cerryl, the city commander of Elparta.”

Again the door remained closed.

Cerryl could sense no chaos, but he felt exposed. Then, he was always feeling exposed anymore. “I’m Cerryl, and I’m a White mage, and I don’t mean any harm-unless you won’t meet with me.”

The door opened but a span. Cerryl could see the heavy chains.

“Yes, ser?”

“Come on out. If I wanted to, I could burn down the door, but it wouldn’t do either of us much good.”

Hiser smothered a grin.

Slowly, the bearded man eased out into the chill wind, and the door shut firmly behind him. “Mill’s closed. No way to get logs down till spring.”

Cerryl glanced at the bearded millmaster, then nodded at Hiser, before dismounting and stepping up to the taller man. Disliking it, but knowing the necessity, he raised equal order and chaos from the area around, letting it smolder around him. His gray eyes fixed the mill-master’s pale green ones.

The miller’s eyes widened, and he looked at the rut-frozen ground.

“Let’s take a look at your mill.”

The miller glanced at the score of lancers and at Riser’s hard blue eyes. “Ah… as you wish, ser mage.”

Two lancers, sabres out, led the way as the stocky man walked ponderously along the frozen red clay to the planked door in the middle of the building. He opened the door and paused. “Dark inside. But one lantern and no striker.”

“Hold up the lantern,” Cerryl said dryly, waiting until the miller did before focusing a touch of chaos on the wick.

The lantern flared into light. The millmaster swallowed.

“Inside,” Cerryl suggested.

One of the lancers took the lantern from the miller and stepped into the mill. The millmaster followed, and then came Cerryl.

Cerryl studied the mill floor, covered with sawdust that had to have been there since fall-or even summer. The few racks flanking the blade, wrapped in oiled cloth, were empty.

“Now the storage barn there.” Cerryl gestured in the general direction of what he knew had to be the curing and storage barn.

With a deep breath the millmaster turned, and the four walked from the mill across the road and to the sliding door. The bearded man’s hands fumbled as he unlatched the big door and pushed it sideways.

Perhaps a third of the racks contained planks, mostly smaller cuts, though Cerryl noted perhaps two dozen heavy oak planks that might work for refurbishing the piers. After walking to that rack and checking the planks, he turned and left the barn, then waited for the millmaster to slide shut the heavy door. The wind whistled more loudly as the four walked back toward the house and the still-mounted lancers and their subofficer.

Before the house, Cerryl turned once more to the bearded man. “We need timber. More than what you have here. You need your mill. You have no logs to cut, but there is enough water in the river to run the blade. The ice isn’t that thick, and the mill is undershot anyway. It was designed to work in the winter.”

“Ah… yes.” The miller glanced at Cerryl.

“I once worked in a mill. Do you have a wagon and a team?”

“Yes, ser.” The millmaster’s eyes darted toward the outbuilding to the west of the long house.

“Then you will turn that wagon into a sledge. Remove the wheels. I will send a half-score of able men to help you fell and move the logs. If we get timbers and planks from those logs, you will get golds. Not many, but more than if I have to burn the mill. The choice is yours.” Cerryl forced a smile like Anya’s-hard and bright.

“You drive a hard bargain, ser mage.”

“No. There are many who lost everything. You get to keep what you have and work hard for a few golds. Most would envy you.”

The bearded man’s eyes did not meet Cerryl’s.

“Best you prepare,” Cerryl said firmly. “You will have workers tomorrow or the next day.”

“Yes, ser.” The resigned tone was barely audible.

Cerryl ignored it and remounted the gelding.

As they rode back down the narrow road, Hiser glanced at Cerryl. “You promised men.”

“The troublemakers… Bring them out here tomorrow. The first one that makes more trouble, bring him back to me.”

“Ah…”

“I’ll kill him with chaos,” Cerryl said flatly. “In front of all the lancers. Don’t think I won’t. And any others who lay a hand on the locals, except to defend themselves.”

“Ah… after the last one… you won’t have trouble, ser.” Hiser grinned raggedly. “What will you do when the troublemakers reform?”

“I’ll think of something.” Cerryl shrugged. “Or maybe we’ll have enough planks, or maybe the locals will want planks, and the miller can pay some of them.” He flicked the reins.

Planks and timber will be the least of your problems. Of that he was certain.

CXI

Cerryl reined up by the south gate to Elparta, where the heavy wooden gates had been rebuilt and replaced on the gate pillars. The damp wind seeped through the oiled leather of his white jacket. He shifted his weight in the hard and cold saddle as he studied the river walls, the tumbled stones still sprawling away from the low wall cores that had been shifted and tilted in places by Jeslek’s use of chaos on the River Gallos. The tumbled section ran northward to the middle river gates and then farther downriver to the north city gates.

After a moment, Cerryl turned to Riser, mounted and waiting on his left. “We need to work on those… the river walls.”

Most of the houses on the hill where he and his lancers were quartered had been repaired and reshuttered, if crudely. So had the dwell ings in the area to the north and east of the south gate-not a hundred cubits from where he surveyed the river and where Fydel had quartered the majority of the White Lancers remaining in Elparta.

“What about the other houses?” asked Riser.

“They’ll have to wait.” Besides, if we get the walls and all the piers back, come spring, there will be people returning and paying crafters to rebuild-or doing it themselves.

“Ought to wait,” grumped Ferek. “Fools, all of ‘em.”

Fools? Or just fearful? “Perhaps. It doesn’t matter. Finishing the piers and then the gates and the river walls comes next. Without trading facilities, the city will suffer more in the years to come.”

“Should suffer,” murmured Ferek under his breath.

Cerryl ignored the comment. “Tomorrow, have them start on the river side, all the way past the barracks houses, up to the trading gate- the middle one. After that, we’ll see.”

“That be several eight-days’ work.”

“I imagine so.” Cerryl flicked the reins. “We’ll go by the Market Square on the way back. Didn’t you say people are showing up to trade?”

“Some,” answered Riser cautiously.

“When they think we’re not looking,” added Ferek.

The three, followed by four lancer guards, rode along the avenue from the south gate toward the center of Elparta. Away from the river, the smell of fish and mud dwindled, but the air seemed smokier.

As he neared the edge of the Market Square, Cerryl slowed the gelding. One of the stores-a chandlery-had been repaired, although the door was shut and the windows shuttered. A shutter on the adjoining cooper’s shop clattered slowly against the mud-splattered plaster of the wall, moved back and forth by the wind.

A bellow, inchoate but loud, echoed across the seemingly empty square, followed by a scream and another, sharper yell.

Cerryl glanced around, then at Riser.

Before either could speak, a man in a green vest and an oversized and open brown cloak ran out of an alleyway, darting around a pile of brick and mud. He dashed toward Cerryl. “Ser mage! Help! They’ll kill me, they will.”

Another man, swinging a sabre, his belt undone, scabbard banging against his leg, charged around the rubble and after the ginger-bearded and vested man.

“Halt!” bellowed Ferek.

Both the bearded man and the man chasing him slowed, then stopped as they saw the six lancers with unsheathed blades. The sabre-swinging man was a lancer, Cerryl could see, despite the afternoon shadows that lent an air of gloom to the dilapidated square.