The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(127)

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?”