Colors of Chaos

XVIII

CERRYL BLOTTED HIS forehead with the back of his forearm. Even in midmorning, the shadiest space behind the rampart of the guardhouse was almost unbearably hot. He felt sorry for Heralt, who would have to endure it all afternoon, with even less shade, although the dark-haired young mage was from Kyphros-to the south and far warmer than Fairhaven. Perhaps Heralt was better able to withstand the heat than Cerryl. Cerryl hoped so.

The green-blue sky was clear, with a haze toward the horizon that bespoke the promise of greater heat as the day went on. The air was still, hot, thick, weighing on Cerryl like a heavy blanket.

He glanced back toward Fairhaven, but the Avenue down toward the Wizards’ Square was empty of all but a few riders and some folk on foot, none headed toward the gates themselves. He turned. The highway to Hrisbarg and Lydiar was equally deserted, a long, gently curving arc of deserted white stone in the midmorning glare.

Was that because it was summer? Or the result of the higher taxes and tariffs? Or had the High Wizard already started using warships somehow to enforce the taxes? He frowned. The taxes were levied in ports, such as Lydiar and Tyrhavven. How could the Guild levy a tariff or a tax on a ship’s cargo if the goods were shipped elsewhere-to Spidlar or Sarronnyn?

Creeakkk…

Cerryl turned.

A thin figure led a donkey and cart off the side road a halfkay to the northwest and onto the highway toward the guardhouse. The young mage watched as the farmer led the cart around to the side of the guardhouse. The cart contained several baskets of greenery-beans?

“Ser? Another farmer for a medallion.”

Cerryl nodded, turned, and started down the steps. Another farmer? As he reached the back medallion room, he asked, “Vykay? Have we had a lot of farmers lately?”

The thin guard looked at the other man, who had the ledger before him. “Sandur?”

“A moment.” Sandur glanced at the waiting farmer. “That’s five coppers for a cart, a silver for a full four-wheeled wagon.”

“A cart be all I can pay for.” The thin farmer pushed five coppers across the wooden surface of the counter behind which stood Sandur, the lancer acting as medallion guard. The medallion guard handed the bronze rectangle to Vykay but looked at the farmer. “Vykay and the mage will attach it to your cart, ser.”

The farmer grunted.

Sandur turned the pages of the ledger, then glanced at Cerryl. “Says here…been six in the last eight-day. More than I recall.”

Cerryl nodded to himself. The highway was emptier, and there were more farmers getting medallions. He turned to the farmer. “Your cart outside, ser?”

“By the door, young ser.”

Cerryl led the way back out into the heat, followed by the farmer and Vykay with his drill, pouch, tools, and the medallion.

Cerryl waited beside the cart as Vykay drilled the holes for the medallion-another new medallion, no less.

More farmers than Sandur recalled? Again, Cerryl didn’t know enough to determine whether that was just coincidence…or more. As if you could really do anything about it.