The White Order(118)

“Oh . . . thank you. I’m sorry. I must have . . . never mind.”

“It is one of those mornings, I think. Have you heard about any more lancers going places?”

“No one’s saying, but there aren’t many left in the barracks out back.” Faltar mumbled through a mouthful of bread. “I overheard Kinowin talking about some armsmen from Hydlen. I thought he said twenty score.”

“Twenty score? That’s a lot. It seems like a lot to me.”

Faltar laughed. “You know Eliasar took twice that with him? And that doesn’t count the lancers in the south barracks outside Fairhaven. There are ten times as many there as here.”

“A good number.” Something like four thousand white lancers? No wonder Fairhaven needed the road tariffs.

“That’s why we need the tariffs. Fairhaven is what holds Candar together, and the Guild holds Fairhaven together.” Faltar nodded sagely, blond hair flopping onto his forehead and spoiling the effect. He stood. “I have to meet with Broka. Bones and more bones.”

Cerryl stood more slowly, his eyes drifting toward the table where Lyasa and Leyladin sat. Neither glanced toward him as he left the meal hall.

As he walked across the courtyard, past the fountain and the spray that seemed chill with the wind, despite the bright spring sun, he had the feeling that every time he learned more about Fairhaven, there was more to learn, and so much no one talked about. So much wasn’t in the books, either, like the amount of chaos that surrounded some people.

Lyasa and even Faltar—even the new student Kochar—showed far more chaos power than Kesrik. Yet Jeslek seemed to favor Kesrik.

Cerryl made his way through the front hall, past the closed doors to the meeting hall, across the foyer to the tower steps and past the pair of guards. Hertyl gave him a faint smile, and Cerryl smiled back.

At the second landing, Cerryl rapped on Myral’s door.

“Come in.”

Cerryl opened the heavy door, smelled the spiced cider, and closed the door behind him.

Myral sipped his usual steaming cider, though the room was comfortable, at least to Cerryl, and the shutters were half-open, showing a sunlit view of Fairhaven to the north of the tower.

Cerryl glanced from the window to the wall of bookshelves and then to the older mage, seated at the table.

“Have some cider.”

“Thank you.” Cerryl slipped into the chair across from Myral, pouring cider into the spare mug and taking a sip. Cider was far better than plain water or ale in the morning.

“How are you coming?”

“Another few days, and I’ll have finished the secondary to where it joins the western branch of the main tunnel.”

Myral’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re moving faster.”

“Yes, ser. It’s been hard work.”

Myral nodded to himself, sipped his cider, coughed, and cleared his throat. “Have you found anything else interesting?”

“Besides branches near the grates, a few soggy chunks of vellum scraped clean . . . no.”

“No bodies . . . weapons, or scrap iron?”

“No, ser.” Cerryl frowned. “Scrap iron?”

“Sometimes it happens. Don’t use chaos-fire on it. You’re not ready for that.” Myral set down the mug and stretched. “These old bones get stiff. I’ll be glad when summer comes. I might even want to go to Ruzor—for a visit—or somewhere warm.”

“Ruzor?”

“Everywhere east of the Westhorns where there’s a port, there’s a member of the brotherhood and a detachment of lancers. Ruzor gets a great deal of trade from Southport and Summerdock, even from Recluce. Especially from Recluce.” Myral’s eyebrows waggled.

“Ser . . . everyone talks around Recluce. Why? I mean, Eliasar laughs about Recluce. He says they have no warships, and they haven’t ever—I mean, according to the histories—they haven’t tried to send armsmen to take things here, not since Creslin the Black raided Lydiar, and that was a long time ago . . .”

“Two hundred eighty-seven years ago at the first turn of summer, according to the records.”

“Oh.”

“It’s in the Guild records, the sealed ones, but you can figure it out from the histories.” Myral’s eyes hardened and focused on the younger mage. “Cerryl . . . power is measured not solely by warships and armsmen.” Myral coughed again, almost rackingly, cleared his throat, and sipped more of the hot cider. “Fairhaven maintains armsmen and lancers, and they are paid in part by the trade duties on all the roads Fairhaven has built, but especially on the Great White Highways, and in part from the levies on the trades here in Fairhaven itself. Have you asked what happens if Recluce sends cheaper wool—or better wool for the same coinage for a stone’s bundle of wool—to Tyrhavven or Spidlaria? What if the traders of Gallos or Spidlar buy their wool from Recluce instead of Montgren? Or pearapples or oilseeds from Recluce instead of from Certis or Hydlen?”