The White Order(133)

“. . . chaos . . . dirty way to fight . . . not like a blade or a lance . . . them’s clean at least . . .”

Cerryl wanted to answer all of them, but he kept a smile plastered on his face as he strode toward the last sewer grate. He hoped the grate was the last, and the collector the last he had to scour, but he supposed he could be like Kinowin had been, spending more than a year beneath the streets of Fairhaven.

He repressed a shudder. I hope not. I hope not.





LXXXI




CERRYL SLUMPED INTO the chair across from Myral, blotting his forehead from the warmth that would certainly intensify as the late summer day went on. Somehow, it was still hard to believe that another summer had nearly passed, and that he had been in Fairhaven almost a year and a half.

“I went back as you said, and checked everything yesterday. The tunnel is clean.” Cerryl paused. “They haven’t bricked up that door yet.”

“I know. Your successor, young Faltar, will take care of that.”

“My successor?”

“I have talked it over with Sterol. You have cleaned elaborately and well two secondary sewer tunnels, and you have proved that you have the minimal ability to use chaos to defend yourself. There’s nothing more you need learn about the sewers or the use of chaos-fire to clean them.” Myral smiled blandly. “Jeslek has summoned you. You are to replace Kesrik as his assistant.”

“I thought Bealtur or Kochar . . .”

“Neither is as accomplished nor as far along as you are.”

“I do not understand. I don’t think Jeslek even likes me.”

“Nor should he. You respect his ability, but you do not worship the ground on which he treads.” Myral’s tone was dry. “Respect will suffice for now, but never forget to respect the overmage. Remember that.”

Cerryl nodded.

After a sip of cool cider and a silence that the creaking of a noisy wagon on the avenue broke, Myral turned back to Cerryl. “Cerryl . . . times are getting . . . interesting.” The older mage coughed, the same racking cough, despite the warmth of the room, covering his mouth with a grayish cloth.

“Are you all right?”

“As well . . . as possible.” Myral folded the cloth.

“Ser, if you would explain why times are interesting . . . I did not have the privilege of growing up in the creche.”

“I’d not call it a privilege.” Myral laughed, a laugh that turned into another racking cough. The older mage blotted his mouth once more.

“Are you sure you are all right, ser?”

“Nothing wrong with me but age . . . and the ills that brings a mage.” Myral took a sip from the mug on the table. “You know about Gallos, do you not? It stretches from where the rivers join in the north all the way south to Ruzor. The distance is vast enough that it has never been measured accurately, Esaak notwithstanding, but Gallos extends well over eight hundred kays, perhaps a thousand from north to south, and it is a rich land.”

“Yes . . . I have heard such.”

“Too rich. The prefect is another descendant of Fenardre the Great who would emulate his ancestor. He is young, and he is cunning, and he does not like the road taxes or the traders’ guild or us. He toys with Sverlik.”

Sverlik—Cerryl had heard the name somewhere.

“Sverlik is the mage who represents Fairhaven in Fenard. He’s close to my age, and he can’t last forever, either. This young prefect—Lyam is his name—he wants to take over Certis and Spidlar. The Spidlarian Council of Traders, and all Spidlarians are traders of one sort or another, those who are not mercenaries . . . where was I? Oh, the Spidlarians are turning to more trade with Sarronnyn and Recluce, and Gallos is buying most of that. The traders think it is greed on Lyam’s part, but greed is only the beginning. . . .” Myral coughed again and fell silent.

“Ser . . . does that mean the lancers must go to Gallos?”

“I cannot say what Jeslek and Sterol will decide. They will decide something. Jeslek has hinted that he might be able to develop another course of action. He has not said what that might be. You will be there to assist him.”

“Ah . . . when do I see him?”

“Now. You might as well get on your way. I have little enough else to teach you, though I doubt I have taught you so much as you have taught yourself.” A brief smile flitted across the lined round face.

“Ser, you have taught me much.”

“Don’t protest too much.” Myral waved toward the door. “On your way, young Cerryl, old as you are beyond your years. On your way.”

Cerryl rose. “Yes, ser.”

“And do close the door. There’s nothing more susceptible to chill than an old and tired mage.”