Belatedly, Cerryl flicked the reins and lurched in the saddle as the chestnut started up again.
LXXXVII
AS THE COLUMN rode across the wide stone bridge that spanned the River Jellicor, Cerryl’s eyes went to the walls that lay less than half a kay north of the bridge. Jellico was a walled city—a well-walled city with smooth stone ramparts that rose at least forty cubits above the level of the road that led to the gates.
On the western shore, the highway turned almost northeast for a few hundred cubits before arrowing straight toward the walls. The huge red oak and ironbound gates were open, but well-oiled iron grooves showed that they could be closed rapidly.
Armsmen in gray-and-brown leathers and with armless green overtunics were stationed by the gate. Jeslek and Klybel halted, as did the three students and the lancers who followed.
“The overmage Jeslek, to visit the viscount,” announced Klybel in a deep voice that echoed off the granite walls of the city.
The head armsman glanced nervously from Jeslek to the next two mages, then to the students, and then at the column of white lancers.
“Ah . . . you are most welcome, overmage. You know your way to the palace?”
Jeslek nodded. “I am sure we will find it.”
Cerryl looked up. Archers in green with bows—some strung and some unstrung—watched from the ramparts above, but none seemed terribly interested in raising their weapons.
“The viscount is particular about who he lets enter, but not about us,” suggested Anya.
Cerryl wasn’t sure he cared that much. The inside of his thighs felt raw, and every muscle in his legs seemed ready to cramp.
“Most rulers in Candar are,” said Fydel in a low voice that barely carried to Cerryl.
A messenger in green mounted a gray and quick-trotted down the avenue before them, vanishing from sight even as Jeslek nodded again to the guards and urged his mount through the archway and inside the walls of Jellico.
Houses and shops of fired brick lined the street, wide enough for perhaps four mounts but far narrower than the avenues of Fairhaven. The buildings were higher, often three stories, and seemingly older and less kempt.
Two shaggy brown dogs ran out of a side alley to the right, in front of Jeslek and Klybel, and disappeared into the alley on the left.
“Like as they stole something,” said Kochar.
“Probably,” agreed Lyasa. “There’s more theft here.”
How would dogs know? Cerryl sniffed, noting the sour odor of Jellico, an odor compounded by the smells from the open sewers running next to the buildings on the right of the street, and by other odors, including burned grease and tanning acids, plus some Cerryl could not identify.
“Smells . . .” murmured Kochar.
Cerryl nodded, wondering if every city in Candar but Fairhaven did. He tried to shift his weight in the saddle again, in a way that wouldn’t rub his legs, hoping that they didn’t have to ride that much farther.
The viscount’s palace stood at the west end of the city on a small hill. The granite walls were even smoother and more polished than those of the city, if not so high, and the gates were open. Only two pair of guards were stationed by the gates, but above them on a false rampart was a full squad of crossbowmen.
Hoofs echoed on the stones as the group rode slowly through the long archway that was almost a tunnel, and low enough that Cerryl could have reached up and touched the damp stones overhead.
Inside the courtyard, Eliasar waited, only a pair of guards in green beside him.
“Greetings, honored Eliasar.” Jeslek reined up.
Eliasar’s eyes ran over the group, pausing ever so slightly at Anya and then at Cerryl. “You brought quite an entourage, Jeslek. Three apprentices?”
“One for each full mage,” answered the white-haired wizard.
“Well . . . we can get everyone settled in the guest barracks—except for you. You’ll have the guest quarters down the hall from me—and from Shyren.” He pointed to the west, at another archway, smaller, from the courtyard that barely held all the mounts of the lancers. “The guest stables are through that arch. Klybel, you’ll have to stable the lancer’s mounts in the stable beyond that. It’s closer to the barracks, anyway.”
“Yes, ser.” Klybel’s tone was formal.
Eliasar walked beside Jeslek’s mount, as if leading the white-haired mage to the stable. His voice was low enough that Cerryl could not hear what either man said.
“Who is the viscount?” Cerryl finally asked Lyasa in a low voice. “His name, I mean. I know his rank . . .”
“I understood what you meant.” Lyasa grinned. “His name is Rystryr. He’s been viscount for ten years or so. His older brother and his consort and son—the brother’s consort—died of the bloody flux.” Lyasa raised her eyebrows.