The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(144)

He was in Fenard, with no idea of where the palace or anything was. He wore white garments that would make him an instant target in daylight, and he had but two silvers and a handful of coppers in his purse.

Cerryl had few doubts that he would find any trace of Sverlik- dead or alive. He also had strong suspicions that Jeslek had already figured that out, well before the overmage had sent Cerryl on his “task.”

“Out! Out before you wreck it all...”

The junior mage glanced up where a tall figure staggered out into the street by the torch.

“A weighty man was he ... was he ... a weighty man was he ...”

Thud... The sound of a door closing echoed down the street, followed by a brief rustling that Cerryl suspected signified rats.

“... and a weighty man ... am I... am I...”

The shadowy figure waddled toward Cerryl, who could see that the drunkard was both tall and broad, twice his own bulk, and wearing a capacious cloak. Cerryl had no weapons to speak of, save the short white-bronze knife. Should he turn? But that might put him in view of the gate guards.

He sat on the chestnut and waited.

As the reveler staggered toward Cerryl, Cerryl drew the light shield around himself and the chestnut-then released it when the man was less than three cubits away.

“Weighty ... man... am I-where did you come from, fellow?”

Cerryl recloaked himself and his mount, easing the chestnut sideways slightly, so that the reveler would walk by, rather than run into the horse. He drew out his knife. The heavy man stood there for a moment, then scratched his head. “If that's how ... you want it...” He started past the concealed mage.

As he passed, Cerryl reached down and grabbed the long cloak, slicing the ties.

The heavy man turned, coming up with a truncheonlike club, but Cerryl and the cloak had vanished.

Cerryl rode slowly down the street, past the smoking torch, and turned left at the next, and broader, way where he stopped and fastened the long cloak over his white jacket. The long cloak covered his upper body and most of his trousers.

Then he urged the chestnut on. The buildings were mostly of two stories, with plaster and timber fronts, and the second stories protruded a cubit or two farther into the street than the ground-floor levels. A foggy mist swirled around the buildings, a mist that bore the odor of open sewers and fires.

Someone was ahead. Cerryl swallowed, and gathered chaos, hoping he did not have to use it.

The small figure scurried down a side alley, and Cerryl took a deep breath. The next block was not quite so dark, though there were no lamps or torches hung, because blotches of light fell into the street from the windows or shutters of the dwellings on the left.

The scrape of boots on the cobblestones brought his attention closer. Two figures darted from the shadows of the alley on the left that he had not really noticed.

“Fellow ... you'll be surrendering that mount-and your purse.”

Cerryl glanced at the pair. Both wore tattered shirts and trousers, and wide belts with scabbards. Both bore midlength iron blades. No others were near them. “I'm sorry.”

“Not so sorry as you're going to be.” The bigger man, nearly as tall as Kinowin, laughed.

Cerryl smiled sadly, gathering chaos.

Whsstt Whsst!

The big man toppled. The smaller man stood for a moment, his mouth opening

“White-!”

Whhhstt!.

Cerryl swayed in the saddle, then forced himself to dismount. He glanced up and down the alley, but the narrow way was dark and empty-with only a hint of a lamp or torch reflected on the corner of the building nearest the main way.

Splushh ... His right boot went into the sewer ditch. “Darkness ...”

His chaos-aided night vision helped as he stripped the smaller man and cut both purses and took a scabbard and blade he could scarcely use.

He kept looking around as he dusted the ragged trousers with chaos and then pulled them on over his own white trousers, but no one appeared. After belting the scabbard in place and sheathing the blade, careful not to touch the cold iron, he cleaned his boots as well as he could and remounted. Then, still scanning the area, he checked the purses. Three silvers and a handful of coppers.

That the two would have killed him was clear, but that he had profited from their deaths nagged at him-and such a little profit. Was a man worth more than a pair of silvers? Yet Jeslek had sent him off to certain death, one way or another, for less than that. And had sent Ludren as well.

Yet, was Cerryl any better? He'd used the lancers as a decoy. Still, they had a chance. He'd given them that, a better chance, he hoped, than Jeslek had given him.

He took a deep breath and resumed the ride down the larger street, trying to be more careful, until he reached the main road again, where he turned right and continued toward the middle of Fenard.

The main street had more traffic-men with guards and lamp bearers, a carriage with guards-but no one really scrutinized the thin cloaked figure. Cerryl finally found what he sought.

The signboard bore an image illuminated by a single torch-that of a yellow-colored bowl. Cerryl rode past the door and toward what looked to be an archway to a courtyard and a stable.

“Ser? Late you are.”

“Aye ...” Cerryl roughened his voice. “Late ... any man would be in this warren.”

The stable boy shrank back as Cerryl dismounted.

“There's room here?”