Recognizing the modulated voice of the subprefect, Cerryl used his senses to ease his way along the walls toward the double doors. He slipped out the still-open door and onto the polished marble of the corridor. Darkness, he was tired. He just wanted to rest, but that wouldn’t have been a very good idea. Syrma had too good an idea of what mages could do, and Cerryl wasn’t even a full mage.
He stayed next to the marble balustrade all the way down to the courtyard level, then hugged the wall as he retraced his steps, half by feel, half by chaos sense, all the way back to the second courtyard.
Guards milled around the courtyard, and the subprefect’s carriage remained where it had been. Slowly, carefully, managing to hang on to the light shield, Cerryl made his way along the walls, back through the archway and into the first courtyard.
Surprisingly, while the wrought-iron gates were closed, only a single pair of guards remained there.
Should he wait? No . . . he was too tired. He edged along the wall on the north side, away from the guards, until he reached the gates. He could climb them, if he didn’t get too tired. He couldn’t afford to get too tired. He couldn’t.
The gates weren’t so high as the wall, and they were cross-barred. He took the first step up to the gate, and his hands tingled as they closed around the crossbars. Each time his fingers closed over the iron bars, the iron burned. Because he’d been using so much chaos? Because he wasn’t channeling it properly? He didn’t know, only that it hurt, and it was hard because each level up had to be silent and each bar burned.
Finally, he reached the curved top of the gate and swung himself over.
Clung! His boot slipped and struck one of the side bars.
“Who’s there?” Boots echoed on the courtyard stones.
“There’s no one there. One of the beggar kids—throwing stones at the gate again.”
“Enough troubles without them. Wish I’d get my hands on one of them. Teach them a lesson.”
The steps receded. Cerryl waited, his hands burning, his lungs rasping, before he began to lever himself down. His entire body was aching and trembling before his boots touched the street outside the walls. He forced himself to cross the street with care and slip into the side street, behind the rain barrel, listening until he could hear no one.
He released the light shield, and the afternoon sun struck him like a blow, and he staggered, putting a hand out to the wall. He just leaned against the wall, panting, aware that his hands burned and his head ached. Finally, he straightened and walked slowly down the narrow street, the sun at his back, toward the cooper’s.
A woman stepped out of a door, saw him, and stepped back inside quickly.
Wonder of wonders, the chestnut was still tied there. He began to untie the reins.
“That your mount, fellow?”
Cerryl continued to unfasten the reins as he turned. “Yes.”
A heavyset man with a leather apron stood under the over-hanging eaves that formed a porch of sorts. “Those hitching rings are for customers.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.” Cerryl fumbled in his wallet. “I don’t have much. Would a copper help?”
“Wouldn’t help me. I gave your mount some water. You shouldn’t have left him so long.”
Cerryl looked down. The cooper was right, but Cerryl wasn’t sure he’d had that much choice. His head still ached, but he looked at the gray-bearded man. “I’m sorry. Are you sure I couldn’t give you something?”
“No.” The bearded man laughed generously. “You don’t look as you’d need a barrel or even a hogshead. Keep your copper; spend it on grain for your beast. Just remember that Mydyr is the best cooper in Fenard—and when you do need barrels, I’d like to see you.”
“Mydyr—I’ll remember.”
“What’s your name?”
“Cerryl.” Cerryl knew no one in Fenard knew his name, and there was no reason to lie about it. “Thank you. I’ve got to get going.” He mounted quickly.
“Don’t forget, now.”
“I won’t, ser.” His knees were trembling, and he hoped the cooper didn’t see that, or his reddened and burning hands. “I won’t.”
He mounted and rode slowly down the side street, and then around the square, hoping he didn’t get lost, and managed to find the main avenue again. It was beginning to fill with carts departing Fenard, and he rode slowly behind a cart with mostly empty baskets, except for one half-filled with maize.
His legs hurt; his vision kept blurring, and his head throbbed. His hands still burned, feeling both hot and as though they had been bruised. But trying to ride faster would only call more attention to him, and he wasn’t sure he could handle any more attention.