Cerryl wondered what poison created the effects of the bloody flux . . . or could some indirect application of chaos?
“That was right after Shyren became the mage to Certis, wasn’t it?” asked Kochar.
Cerryl mentally confirmed his thoughts about how Rystryr became viscount.
“I believe so.” Lyasa’s voice was flat. “I’ll be glad when I can get off this horse and get cleaned up.”
Once Jeslek reined up and dismounted in the second courtyard, a square a good hundred cubits on a side surrounded by window-studded stone walls rising a good five stories, Cerryl struggled out of the saddle, clinging to it for a moment as his legs threatened to buckle.
“Feels good to stand up,” said Kochar.
Cerryl nodded, flexing one leg and then the other. Behind him the lancers continued onward through another archway, leaving just Eliasar, Jeslek, Anya, Fydel, and the three student mages and their mounts in a rough semicircle around a dark opening a good ten cubits wide.
“This is the guest stable . . .”
Cerryl hoped he wouldn’t get lost in the viscount’s keep or palace. Every building seemed to join every other one, and all looked about the same from outside—flat stone walls with small windows. He took a slightly deeper breath and decided that the keep didn’t smell any better than the city.
Eliasar turned from Jeslek. “Fydel and Anya, you two rate captain’s rooms, and the apprentices each get an undercaptain’s room.”
“Don’t get any overlarge ideas of your worth. Certis has a great number of captains,” added Jeslek with a broad smile. “Get your gear off your mounts. The ostlers will stall them.”
Mechanically, Cerryl unstrapped his bedroll and pack, then followed the others through a weathered bailey door and up two flights of steps, then along another narrow stone corridor and around a corner. Their boots echoed in the empty corridors.
“The first two rooms are yours.” Eliasar nodded to Anya and Fydel.
“Thank you for your kindness,” Anya offered graciously, her voice melodious and modulated. The tone sent shivers down Cerryl’s back, so much did he distrust it.
Fydel merely inclined his head.
Around yet another corner, Eliasar pointed out three more doors. “You all are expected for dinner at the second bell in the small dining hall. Take the stairs at the end to the first level and cross the third courtyard. Ask the guards.”
As Jeslek and Eliasar walked away, Cerryl stepped into the room between Kochar and Lyasa. He lowered his bedroll and pack onto the bare stone floor and studied the barracks room—several cubits larger than his cell in Fairhaven, with a single window, shuttered. The furniture consisted of a narrow pallet bed, a battered wardrobe, a washstand and pitcher, and a lamp on a brass bracket. A heavy door bar lay propped against the wall behind the door.
Were undercaptains so disliked they needed to bar their rooms? Or just in Certis?
After washing his hands and face and arms and everywhere he could easily reach, Cerryl again applied some of Myral’s ointment. It helped reduce the rawness and soreness, and his legs and thighs seemed to be getting tougher.
He shook his head. He couldn’t believe that in the rush to leave Fairhaven, he’d forgotten the white-bronze razor from Leyladin. He thought he’d put it in his pack, but it was nowhere to be found. The only real gift anyone had given him in years, and he’d forgotten it. And from Leyladin, no less. He wanted to bash his own head, but that would have only added another area of soreness.
Instead, he used a touch of chaos to clean his clothes before dressing, finishing as the bell rang.
Kochar was waiting in the corridor, somewhat stained and disheveled. His eyes widened as he saw Cerryl. “You . . . your clothes . . . you weren’t carrying that much in your pack.”
Cerryl smiled. “Something I learned in the sewers. I’m sure you will, too.”
Lyasa joined them, looking even more fresh than Cerryl. Kochar shook his head.
“Let us go,” said a fourth voice that echoed down the corridor—Anya’s. She and Fydel stood at the end of the corridor. “We should not keep the overmage or the viscount waiting.”
Cerryl noted the slightest of emphasis on the word “overmage” but walked quickly toward the steps where the two full mages waited.
“Have you seen anyone else?” Kochar asked in a low voice, glancing forward to Anya and Fydel.
“Seems rather empty,” Cerryl agreed blandly.
Anya turned her head. “Observations by junior mages are best made silently, especially in the keeps of other lords.”
Kochar flushed. Fydel grunted. Cerryl kept his face expressionless. Once Anya returned to her low conversation with Fydel, Lyasa offered a bemused smile.