Colors of Chaos

CVI

THE HIGH WIZARD is expecting you.” The lancer subofficer opened the door as Cerryl walked toward the guards stationed at the end of the short hallway. The candles in the smudged wall sconces were unlit, leaving the corridor dim and smelling faintly of burned wax.

Cerryl stepped through the door into the private library of the mansion that Jeslek had appropriated and eased into the chair across the circular table from the High Wizard, glad for the warmth from the hearth. The books remaining on the shelves behind Jeslek had been rearranged and no longer appeared randomly piled on their sides.

Anya and Fydel were already seated, Anya to Cerryl’s left, Fydel to his right. A decanter of wine sat on a silver tray, with a single empty goblet beside it. Anya, Fydel, and Jeslek all had partly filled goblets before them.

Fydel’s fingers tapped the polished wood of the conference table, once, before Anya raised her eyebrows.

“We can begin.” Jeslek smiled.

“I am at your command.” Cerryl returned the smile, then reached for the decanter and half-filled the remaining goblet. While he did not need the wine, the gesture was important, and he took a sip of the wine, an amber vintage, unlike that he had been offered when he had first arrived, but one also verging on turning to vinegar. Too much chaos around Jeslek.

The slightest hint of a smile touched the corners of Anya’s mouth, while Fydel tapped the table once more.

“You will do your own commanding soon.” Jeslek glanced from Fydel to Cerryl, then back at Fydel.

Anya kept her eyes averted from both Cerryl and the square-bearded mage.

“I’ve written it down and sent it to Kinowin and Redark,” Jeslek said with a smile. “Fydel, you are to defend Elparta and to take the fight to the Spidlarians, as necessary. Cerryl, you are to work at rebuilding Elparta, and you are to keep the peace. You may conscript locals as necessary for building and rebuilding.”

Cerryl nodded. That was an option he didn’t like, but he also doubted that he would find all that many carpenters and masons in the lancers-and fewer still who would admit to such skills.

“If it appears that the renegade Black commander-this Brede-is preparing for a massive attack, Fydel, you will summon me immediately.” Jeslek’s eyes flashed. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, High Wizard.” The timbre of Fydel’s voice verged on that of boredom.

“In like terms, Cerryl, you are to rebuild Elparta so that it can serve as our staging base for next year’s attack. The river piers must be rebuilt, and enough housing for fifty-score lancers and 250-score levies.”

Cerryl nodded. Two hundred fifty score? “What about supplies? And coins?”

“You will have one thousand golds, as will Fydel. You will have to raise provisions and supplies locally. The Guild will continue to pay the lancers, but their pay will be held, as normal, until they return to Fairhaven.”

Cerryl held in a wince. The held pay was not going to go over well with the lancers, and that would mean trouble with peacekeeping and the locals.

“The men need some coins,” Fydel finally said in a low voice.

“Use your golds as you wish.” Jeslek shrugged. “I am releasing all the levies except the levied lancers from Hydlen. I will be taking ten score with me. That leaves you with twenty-five score.” His eyes fixed on Fydel and hardened.

They lost fifteen score lancers in taking Elparta? Cerryl pursed his lips. Fifteen score? This Brede is better than anyone will admit.

“As you command, High Wizard,” Fydel responded politely.

“I am going to raise the coins and the armsmen necessary to take the rest of Spidlar in the spring. Personally.” Jeslek’s sun-gold eyes did not glitter but seemed cold and flat, like a serpent’s. “Anya will be assisting me in this winter’s preparations.”

Anya still refrained from looking directly at either Fydel or Cerryl.

“You may all go.” With a lazy smile, Jeslek stood. “You each have much to accomplish in the days before Anya and I depart.”

Cerryl took a last small swallow of the wine he had barely tasted, then stood quickly, before the other two.

Jeslek remained standing by the table. The lancer subofficer closed the door after the three left the library.

Outside, Anya stepped up beside Cerryl as he walked along the hall and into the foyer. The scent of trilia and sandalwood accompanied her, as always. “You’re no longer ‘young Cerryl.’”

Were you ever? “Why do you say that?” Cerryl took his stained white jacket from the peg on the coat holder and slipped it on.

“The bit with the wine goblet. You didn’t even hesitate. Or the blunt question about supplies.” Anya smiled. “You intrigue me more than ever, Cerryl.”

Cerryl returned Anya’s smile with one equally bright and false. “You flatter me. You are the intriguing one.”

“Oh, stop flattering each other.” Fydel snorted. “You’re both false as tin trinkets. And as useful.”

“Cerryl will be very useful to you, Fydel,” Anya answered with a softer smile. “You’ll be free to pursue any blues you can find while he’s worried about masons, and bricks, and planks-and piers and peacekeeping.”

Cerryl wished it were going to be that simple, but he had his doubts, strong ones.

Fydel snorted a second time. “The winter will be long, even with what must be done.”

“You two will manage.” Anya offered a last smile.

Cerryl inclined his head to the redhead, then to Fydel, before leading the way out into the clear and cold afternoon. Despite the brisk wind, the miasma of death still hung over the city.

Cerryl swung into the gelding’s saddle, wondering how he could accomplish all that Jeslek had laid upon him. Does he want you to fail? Again? The brown-haired mage nodded, his eyes somewhere beyond the street as he rode back toward his quarters.