Cerryl kept riding, his eyes never stopping then study of their surroundings, even when he passed a set of ancient rock pillars and looked into the central square—just a cobblestoned and open expanse filled with carts and wagons and hawkers. Most of the wagons were of bare wood, brown or gray, not like the painted carts in the market square in Fairhaven.
To his right, standing on an empty mounting block, an urchin with cold eyes studied Cerryl, then looked away.
“You!” snapped the mage.
“Ser? I didn’t do nothing. I didn’t.”
“Which way to the prefect’s?”
“You? They won’t let you in the gate.” The urchin gave a diffident sneer.
“My cousin’s in the guard there.”
“Up the hill past Gyldn’s. The goldsmith.”
“Thank you.”
“Frig you, bravo.” The urchin spat.
Cerryl urged the chestnut into the square, eyes traveling across the carts, the women with baskets, and the two wagons tied on the other side, opposite what looked to be a warehouse. Two men lugged bundles wrapped in gray cloth from the wagon through the open door.
“Spices! Best winterseed this side of the Gulf.
“Ser! Flowers for your lady!”
Cerryl shook his head.
“Then she be no lady!”
The young mage half-grinned, looking for the goldsmith’s as the chestnut carried him around the square. A signboard with a golden chain against a green background caught his eye, and he made for the place, and the street that seemed to slope gently up past three-story buildings that bore shops on the main level and dwellings above.
“Scents and oils . . . scents and oils . . .”
“. . . harvest-fresh roots . . . fresh roots . . .”
Once out of the square and on the cobblestones of the upsloping side street, he could make out the walls ahead on his right. The prefect’s palace was indeed walled, and the walls were a good ten cubits high. Two hundred cubits uphill on the paved street was a gate—or the first gate. While the two wrought-iron gates were open, the four guards were alert, one studying Cerryl as he rode by. Cerryl ignored the scrutiny and continued past the gate, a gate made up of interlocking iron bars forming rectangles that afforded a view of an empty paved courtyard.
Should he be cautious?
He shook his head. There was a time to be bold and a time to be cautious. Mostly, in the past, he’d had to be cautious, and that had to be what Jeslek was counting on. Despite Sterol’s advice about there being no old bold mages, if he weren’t bold, he’d never have the chance to get old. The sooner he removed the prefect—if he could—and returned to Fairhaven, the better . . . before Jeslek’s stories could get out of hand.
On the cross street, at the top of the hill was another gate, but it was locked, and chained, and looked not to have been used in some time. On the north side of the walls was a third gate, where several wagons were lined up—the tradesmen’s gate, Cerryl guessed as he rode by. The bottom gate, less than a block from the square but north of the street he’d taken first, offered entry, from what Cerryl could tell, only to the guards’ barracks, and but a single guard lounged by the guardhouse.
That meant that the southern gate was the one that led where he needed to go. He rode slowly down another side street, trying to find an avenue that angled back toward the gate he wanted. The simplest thing would be to cloak himself in the light shield and follow someone, or someone’s carriage, into the palace—but what would he do with the chestnut?
He smiled—why not just tie the horse somewhere? No one was going to kill a horse. His rider perhaps, but not the mount. They might steal the mount, but the chances were less if he tied the gelding somewhere fairly prosperous looking. He shrugged. If someone stole the gelding, he could find a way to steal another horse. After what he had to do, horse theft couldn’t make it any worse if he were caught.
He rode down several streets and had to retrace his way several times before he finally found what he was looking for—several well-kept shops in a row—not more than a block and a half from the palace walls. The first shop was that of a silversmith—attested by the painted silver candle-stick and pitcher that adorned the purple-bordered signboard by the door. The second was some sort of weaver’s or cloth merchant’s, with bolts of cloth shown behind real glass windows. The third was a cooper’s, with a small half barrel set on a bracket on the left porch post.
Two stone hitching posts with iron rings were set against the cooper’s open wooden porch. Cerryl glanced around, but the cooper’s door was shut, although he could hear muffled hammering within.