Recluce - Colors Of Chaos Part 25

"I'd prefer you didn't." Anya smiled again as she reached for the door latch. "But you can certainly suggest anyone you wish."

"I doubt I will be suggesting anyone," Cerryl said, holding the door that she had opened. "But I did want your opinion."

"Expressing opinions too early is seldom wise." She flashed Cerryl a smile.

"Good evening, Cerryl."

"Good evening, Anya."

He closed the door slowly. She doesn't want you suggesting her or Fydel ... or anyone. But why should your opinion matter at all? As he sat down again, he nodded. The message had been clear enough: Don't support anyone of great chaos power for overmage.

Cerryl stood. At least Leyladin would be at The Golden Ram. After he shaved, washed, and changed his s.h.i.+rt and tunic, he gathered himself together, stepping out into the empty corridor, half-afraid Anya would swoop down again. He half- smiled, then closed his door. A few moments later, he walked into the fountain courtyard, enjoying the faint breeze, enough to cool but not to chill. "Cerryl?"

The young mage turned. Fydel stood by the fountain in the fading light of early evening, the spray cascading into the circular granite basin behind him.

"How do you like the Patrol?" asked the square-bearded mage.

"So far, it's interesting. Better than gate-guard duty." Cerryl laughed. "I'm not exactly the arms type, like you or Eliasar. Are you going back to Gallos with Jeslek?"

"Jeslek hasn't said anything about going back. Where did you hear that?"

"I didn't hear anything," Cerryl admitted. "I'm just guessing, but from what I saw when I was there with you I don't think that even Jeslek's creation of those mountains will be enough to convince the new prefect to collect road taxes and tariffs."

"That may be," answered Fydel, shaking his head, "but the High Wizard hasn't said anything. I certainly wouldn't wish to guess his actions publicly." Fydel's eyes seemed lost under the bushy eyebrows that arched as he spoke.

"I was but asking."

"Jeslek thinks quite highly of your skills."

Cerryl caught the ever-so-slight emphasis on the word "skills" before he answered. "Mine are poor indeed compared to his."

"He knows that, also. That is another reason why he respects you among the younger mages."

Cerryl didn't bother to comment on Fydel's lying, a twisting of chaos so obvious almost any mage could have caught it. "He respects you most highly."

"I do what I can for him." Fydel bobbed his head. "Well, I must be going. I trust you continue to find Patrol duty interesting, although it's sometimes better if something like that doesn't intrigue you overly. Patrol duty is really meant to be what it is, just simple peacekeeping." With another nod, Fydel smiled, his white teeth bright in the fading luminescence of twilight.

Cerryl pa.s.sed through the courtyard and then through the entry foyer to reach the Avenue, turning south toward the inn.

Why had Fydel stopped him? The older mage had been waiting for Cerryl. To tell him what?

That he should stick to the simpler aspects of peacekeeping? That was clear.

Why wasn't at all clear.

Faltar, Lyasa, and Leyladin sat at the round table in the corner by the front window of The Golden Ram.

"It took you long enough!" Faltar exclaimed. "I ordered an ale for you." He pointed to the mug before the empty seat.

"Thank you." Cerryl sat down, between Leyladin and Faltar, glad to take his weight off his boots.

"Now your friend is here," announced a stocky serving woman, who had seemed to materialize at Cerryl's shoulder, "what would ye mages be having?"

Faltar inclined his head to Lyasa.

"The stew," answered the black-haired woman, exchanging a brief glance across the table with Leyladin.

"The fowl, whatever it is," said Leyladin.

"The fowl," repeated Faltar, followed by Heralt.

"The stew," Cerryl said, trusting Lyasa's judgment, since he knew Leyladin cared little for any kind of inn stew.

"Two stews, three fowls." The server swept away.

"What kept you?" Faltar persisted.

"How about cleanliness and exhaustion?" Cerryl offered a tired grin.

"Unlike some who think but of their guts," quipped Lyasa, with a pointed look at Faltar.

"Ah, I am slandered most unfairly."

"Most fairly, I'd say," suggested Heralt.

"All rumor and gossip," declared the blond White mage. "All of it."

"Speaking of gossip ... did you know that Jeslek's announced a special meeting of the Guild next eight-day?" asked Lyasa. "No one knows what it's about. It's a night meeting. That's so most of the Guild can be there."

Cerryl took a long, slow swallow of his ale.

"Maybe it's so we can approve him as High Wizard. That might be nice." Faltar snorted over his mug of ale.

"You wouldn't be quite so bold if he were here," said Lyasa.

"He's not."

"No-but Bealtur just walked in." Lyasa smiled.

Faltar choked, then looked over his shoulder. "That wasn't fair."

"He could have," suggested Leyladin. "Or Fydel, or Anya, or Myredin..."

"All right." Faltar looked at the mug he held. "Will you let me drink now?"

"I might." Lyasa grinned.

"Here you be!" announced the server. "Three fowl, two stew. Three each for the stew, four for the fowl. And two baskets of the light bread. Dark's a copper more."

"Light will be fine," Heralt said.

Cerryl frowned as he pulled out coins, handing three to Faltar and three to the server. The last time he'd had the stew, the price had been but two coppers and the fowl had been three.

"That's right," Leyladin whispered into his ear. "Prices are higher."

"Thanks be to ye." With a smile, the server departed.

"Was the ale three?" Cerryl asked Faltar.

Faltar nodded, his mouth already full of fowl.

Cerryl bent forward. He was hungry, not having eaten since morning. When he straightened again, his bowl was nearly empty, and he'd also finished two large chunks of rye bread.

"You were hungry." Leyladin offered a smile over a platter of fowl of which she had seemingly only eaten but a third.

"Very hungry," Cerryl admitted before taking a swallow of the ale.

"We were talking of gossip," suggested Lyasa.

"At the moment, Jeslek is both High Wizard and overmage," mused Heralt.

"Who will they select?" asked Faltar.

"It's who we select," corrected Lyasa. "We have to select both, even if no one will choose other than Jeslek for High Wizard."

"But the overmage?" asked Leyladin, almost indifferently.

"Who knows?" Lyasa lifted jet-black eyebrows. "Kinowin is still the other overmage. So maybe Jeslek will suggest someone."

"He won't," offered Heralt. "He's taken being High Wizard. He'll let the Guild select someone."

"But who?" asked Faltar. "Myral's too old. Derka won't come back from Hydolar. Jeslek's going to need to send Eliasar to Gallos. Esaak doesn't care about anything but mathematicks."

"Anya?" suggested Heralt.

"She'd like that." Lyasa laughed. "But she won't be chosen."

"Then who?"

Cerryl leaned back in the chair, trying to ignore the headache from the rain and the concerns raised by Anya's visit. He also tried to stifle a yawn but did not quite succeed.

Leyladin leaned closed to him and whispered, "You need to leave, don't you?"

He nodded slightly.

"Are we boring you, Cerryl?" Faltar asked.

"I was up before dawn, and I walked some of the section after duty. I'm tired."

He forced a smile. "Not bored."

Leyladin stood. "I had to spend more time with Myral, and I'm about to fall over."

Cerryl rose slowly. "I'm sorry. I am tired."

Lyasa smiled. "Bedtime, then."

Cerryl found himself flus.h.i.+ng.

"Go on, you two. We understand." Faltar grinned broadly.

Cerryl could sense Leyladin's embarra.s.sment as well. "Faltar ... not everyone has quite the same approach as you do."

"Ha!" said Heralt. "He's got you, Faltar."

Everyone gets me," grumbled the blond mage good-naturedly as Cerryl followed Leyladin out of The Golden Ram.

Out in the lamp-punctuated misty darkness, the blonde healer turned to Cerryl.

"You don't have to walk me home. You're tired."

"It's but a few blocks, really, and the exercise will do me good."

"You're lying. Your feet hurt, and your head aches, and the fog and rain don't help." Her voice was soft, and a smile followed.

"Never lie to a Black mage," he said. "I still would feel better if I walked you home."

"I can accept that." Leyladin smiled. "Perhaps you could come to dinner, the night after tomorrow? Father should be back by then."

"Back? Is he off again?"

"He's in Lydiar, something about bra.s.s fittings and about getting armsmen for a s.h.i.+p bound for Summerdock."

"He's been traveling more lately."

"He says he has to."

After a short silence, Cerryl glanced to his left at the bulk of the White Tower, almost glowing with the power of chaos through the drizzle and mist.

"You're worried. Why?" Leyladin glanced up the Avenue. "Anya came to see me." Cerryl's pale gray eyes followed her green ones. "Fydel stopped me in the courtyard on the way to The Ram. Neither one of them has spoken to me in eight- days. Or longer."

"What did they say?" Leyladin glanced toward the Market Square, dark and wreathed in a foglike mist.

"Nothing. Well... not quite. Anya delivered a veiled hint that it would be better if the next overmage happened to be one that wouldn't challenge Jeslek in power.

Fydel? He as much as told me that I shouldn't get too involved in anything beyond simple peacekeeping."

"Hmmmm ... and what are you up to, dear Cerryl?"