The White Order (38 page)

A light wind blew out of the northwest, right into Cerryl's face, carrying faint bits of dust and grit raised by the riders in front of him. He shifted his weight in the saddle, wishing he could get more comfortable on the big chestnut, then glanced westward.

   Jeslek rode at the front of the column, bareheaded, his white hair almost glistening in the late morning sun. Beside him rode the lanky Klybel, the white lancer captain. Behind them rode the red-haired Anya, and beside her, the square-bearded Fydel. Behind the two mages rode the three students-Cerryl, Kochar, and Lyasa. Following the mages was a detachment of white lancers-more than fourscore, Cerryl thought, although he hadn't tried to count them.

   The only sounds were the breathing of the horses and the clopping of hoofs on stone. Again, Cerryl shifted his weight in the saddle in an effort to get less uncomfortable. Riding he could do without, save that it was faster and easier than walking.

   The wind that blew out of the clear green-blue northwestern sky carried a chill that suggested the coming winter, though the sun was warm, warm enough that Cerryl was still sweating slightly.

   Abruptly, Jeslek leaned toward Klybel, then lifted his arm.

   Klybel turned his mount out to the raised shoulder of the road and ordered, “Lancers ... HALT!”

   Cerryl found himself reining back the chestnut, then almost lurching forward in the saddle into his mount's mane.

   Jeslek then circled around Anya and Fydel and eased his mount up beside the apprentice mages. “You see the road?”

   “Yes, ser,” answered Kochar and Cerryl. Lyasa nodded.

   “Do you not think it is somewhat... exposed?” A smile crossed Jeslek's thin lips.

   “Anyone can see it,” offered Kochar quickly.

   Lyasa remained silent. Cerryl nodded, barely.

   “You do not agree, Cerryl?”

   “It is exposed, ser. I do not know if that is good or bad. It is good for someone who wishes to avoid brigands, but it could be bad for other reasons.”

   “You are cautious. Why?”

   “Because I do not know. I have not lived in Fairhaven all my life, and I have not studied all that you and the other mages have.”

   “At least you know your limits. Unlike some.” Jeslek laughed, then turned to Kochar. “You think the road would be better were it less exposed?”

   Kochar tried to conceal a frown. “If it were less exposed, the white lancers could move without all Candar knowing where they went.”

   “That is true.” Jeslek smiled. “Yet we are within a dozen kays of Fairhaven, and here it scarcely matters.”

   Kochar's face became stolid.

   “On the other hand, beyond the Easthorns, where the road stretches across the plains of Gallos-that is another question. And that is why we may be headed there.” His smile faded. “In the meantime, I want you to use your senses to understand how the road is built and how it is held together. How a road feels is as important as all the calculations Esaak would have you make.”

   Gallos?

   They had yet to reach Certis, and Jeslek was talking about Gallos?

   “Stop scaring them,” said Anya with a laugh as Jeslek turned his mount around and rode past the other two mages.

   “You would do well to study the roads as well, Anya. Given your ... inclinations,” suggested Jeslek with a smile. “You as well, Fydel. We will have much to do.” He eased his mount past the other two mages and rejoined the lancer captain. Klybel raised his arm again, and he and Jeslek resumed riding as if nothing had happened.

   “We're going to Gallos?” whispered Kochar.

   “It would seem so,” suggested Lyasa.

   Cerryl frowned, wondering why Jeslek had stopped the column. The white mage could have made his suggestion without halting the lancers, yet had made a point to do so, and to offer barbed comments to Anya and Fydel.

   Belatedly, Cerryl flicked the reins and lurched in the saddle as the chestnut started up again.

As the column rode across the wide stone bridge that spanned the River Jellicor, Cerryl's eyes went to the walls that lay less than half a kay north of the bridge. Jellico was a walled city-a well-walled city with smooth stone ramparts that rose at least forty cubits above the level of the road that led to the gates.

   On the western shore, the highway turned almost northeast for a few hundred cubits before arrowing straight toward the walls. The huge red oak and ironbound gates were open, but well-oiled iron grooves showed that they could be closed rapidly.

   Armsmen in gray-and-brown leathers and with armless green over-tunics were stationed by the gate. Jeslek and Klybel halted, as did the three students and the lancers who followed.

   “The overmage Jeslek, to visit the viscount,” announced Klybel in a deep voice that echoed off the granite walls of the city.

   The head armsman glanced nervously from Jeslek to the next two mages, then to the students, and then at the column of white lancers.

   “Ah ... you are most welcome, overmage. You know your way to the palace?”

   Jeslek nodded. “I am sure we will find it.”

   Cerryl looked up. Archers in green with bows-some strung and some unstrung-watched from the ramparts above, but none seemed terribly interested in raising their weapons.

   “The viscount is particular about who he lets enter, but not about us,” suggested Anya.

   Cerryl wasn't sure he cared that much. The inside of his thighs felt raw, and every muscle in his legs seemed ready to cramp.

   “Most rulers in Candar are,” said Fydel in a low voice that barely carried to Cerryl.

   A messenger in green mounted a gray and quick-trotted down the avenue before them, vanishing from sight even as Jeslek nodded again to the guards and urged his mount through the archway and inside the walls of Jellico.

   Houses and shops of fired brick lined the street, wide enough for perhaps four mounts but far narrower than the avenues of Fairhaven.

   The buildings were higher, often three stories, and seemingly older and less kempt.

   Two shaggy brown dogs ran out of a side alley to the right, in front of Jeslek and Klybel, and disappeared into the alley on the left.

   “Like as they stole something,” said Kochar.

   “Probably,” agreed Lyasa. “There's more theft here.”

   How would dogs know? Cerryl sniffed, noting the sour odor of Jellico, an odor compounded by the smells from the open sewers running next to the buildings on the right of the street, and by other odors, including burned grease and tanning acids, plus some Cerryl could not identify.

   “Smells ...” murmured Kochar.

   Cerryl nodded, wondering if every city in Candar but Fairhaven did. He tried to shift his weight in the saddle again, in a way that wouldn't rub his legs, hoping that they didn't have to ride that much farther.

   The viscount's palace stood at the west end of the city on a small hill. The granite walls were even smoother and more polished than those of the city, if not so high, and the gates were open. Only two pair of guards were stationed by the gates, but above them on a false rampart was a full squad of crossbowmen.

   Hoofs echoed on the stones as the group rode slowly through the long archway that was almost a runnel, and low enough that Cerryl could have reached up and touched the damp stones overhead.

   Inside the courtyard, Eliasar waited, only a pair of guards in green beside him.

   “Greetings, honored Eliasar.” Jeslek reined up.

   Eliasar's eyes ran over the group, pausing ever so slightly at Anya and then at Cerryl. “You brought quite an entourage, Jeslek. Three apprentices?”

   “One for each full mage,” answered the white-haired wizard.

   “Well... we can get everyone settled in the guest barracks-except for you. You'll have the guest quarters down the hall from me-and from Shyren.” He pointed to the west, at another archway, smaller, from the courtyard that barely held all the mounts of the lancers. “The guest stables are through that arch. Klybel, you'll have to stable the lancer's mounts in the stable beyond that. It's closer to the barracks, anyway.”

   “Yes, ser.” Klybel's tone was formal.

   Eliasar walked beside Jeslek's mount, as if leading the white-haired mage to the stable. His voice was low enough that Cerryl could not hear what either man said.

   “Who is the viscount?” Cerryl finally asked Lyasa in a low voice “His name, I mean. I know his rank ...”

   “I understood what you meant.” Lyasa grinned. “His name is Rystryr. He's been viscount for ten years or so. His older brother and his consort and son-the brother's consort-died of the bloody flux.” Lyasa raised her eyebrows.

   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.

 
  “Better to be here now than in winter ... All this stone gets cold ...”

   “Better sleeping here than on the road,” answered Fydel, “no matter what the season ...”

   The guards on the far side of the next courtyard barely nodded as the group of mages passed, but as Anya led them up the steps, Cerryl strained to hear the few words that passed.

   “All that white ... only means trouble ...”

   At the top of the steps, the decor changed. Instead of bare stone corridors, the hallway was wainscotted in pink marble, and gilt frames held pictures of men in green uniforms on horseback. The brass lamps were polished and lit, and their glass mantels sparkled. Guards in green and gold were stationed every dozen cubits, and the scent of cooking meat and flowers mixed.

   An open archway at the end of the short corridor revealed a dining hall, though one Cerryl would not have called small, as it was a good fifty cubits long and half that in width.

   Eliasar and Jeslek stood near the head of the table, talking with a younger man in a gaudy green-and-gold tunic. Rystryr was a big and broad-shouldered man, almost as tall as Kinowin, with ruddy cheeks above a bushy beard and under thick blond hair. With the three at the head of the table, was another mage in white-clearly Shyren, the only mage in the dining hall Cerryl had not met.

   In a corner by the unlit marble fireplace at the foot of the table were gathered a number of Certan officers. They fell silent, and the viscount glanced up, raising his eyebrows as Anya led in Cerryl and the others. “With such an assembly of mages, we scarcely might need food.” Rystryr's voice was as big and hearty as he was, and he followed the words with a broad smile. “Welcome to Jellico!”

   “We thank you,” answered Jeslek. “You are and have always been most hospitable.”

   “With all the guests present, I suggest we eat.” Rystryr made a sweeping gesture toward the table.

   Cerryl looked blankly at the long table, wondering where he was to sit and how to determine that.

   “Look for your name on the place slate,” whispered Anya before smiling broadly and stepping forward.

   Cerryl's bronze-framed place slate-bearing a statuette of an undercaptain-was more than halfway down the long walnut table and read in a chalked old tongue script, “Carrl.” Jeslek and Eliasar sat on the right and left of the viscount, while Shyren-an older and heavier man-sat to Eliasar's left. Anya sat beside Jeslek, while Fydel sat below Jeslek. Then came an officer in green and gold, and beside him Klybel.

   “You ever used a blade, young ser?” asked the dark-haired undercaptain across the table from Cerryl.

   “Only enough to know that I'd make a poor armsman,” Cerryl admitted. “I'm Cerryl.”

   “Deltry, undercaptain of the Fourth.”

   “Slekyr, undercaptain of the Second.” The older undercaptain who sat beside Cerryl and toward the head of the table had streaks of gray in his trimmed beard.

   “Lyasa.”

   “Kochar,” gulped the redhead, who sat below two other undercaptains.

   After a moment of silence, Deltry took the pitcher and filled the goblets of those around him with the red wine.

   “Thank you,” said Lyasa.

   “My pleasure, and for that I would beg you clear up a question for me. It's said that a white mage can still kill an armsman, even one with an iron blade,” offered Deltry as he broke a chunk of rye bread from the loaf in the basket and handed it to Lyasa. “I don't see how, myself, especially if the armsman had mind enough to carry an iron shield.”

   Lyasa smiled, taking the basket.

   “You smile, apprentice mage,” noted Slekyr, his eyes meeting those of the dark-haired young woman. “Know you for a fact any mage who has confronted cold iron one on one and survived?”

   Cerryl looked down, fearing what was coming.

   “Yes. Cerryl there was attacked by two men with iron blades and shields. He killed them both.”

   Slekyr turned and studied Cerryl. “Is that true?”

   “Yes.” Cerryl looked up and met the other's eyes.

   “Yet you are not a full mage yet?” asked Deltry.

   “No.” Cerryl wanted to say “no, ser,” but knew that doing so would undermine the status the three students had been granted. He added, “undercaptain,” belatedly. “Mages have to learn much.”

   “So it would seem.” Slekyr laughed. “I'm just as glad that our viscount counts himself a friend of Fairhaven.”

   “So are we,” answered Cerryl, reaching for the bread.

   “You really killed two men armed with cold iron?” pursued Deltry.

   “Three, actually,” added Lyasa. “Cerryl tends to be modest.”