"And some don't look at that hard," added Faltar dryly. "From what I've heard."

From Anya? Cerryl wondered. Then he pondered how Faltar, usually so sensible, had fallen for the red-haired mage who apparently bedded half the Hall and cared little for any beyond the moment or what she could gain from using her body. Is that why you still keep Faltar as a friend-because he's a friend despite Anya? Or because he's kept supporting you? Still... Faltar's relationship with Anya meant that Cerryl had to be careful in some of what he said to the blond mage.

"How did you sense the hides?" asked Heralt.

"I didn't really sense them," admitted Faltar. "But there were some blades hidden under the wagon seat. Not enough to be contraband, but enough to make me worry. So I asked the guards to check the wagon. They knew where to look."

"They still couldn't have made more than a gold or so," protested Heralt.

"A single gold is more than some folk see in a year," Cerryl said.

"Spoken like a man who knows," said Lyasa.

"I made about three silvers in the whole time I was a scrivener's apprentice,"

Cerryl admitted. "The same when I worked at the mill." He laughed. "But I was at the mill a whole lot longer."

"I think I'd rather be a mage." Heralt took the last chunk of bread from the basket.

"Two fowls, ribs, and a stew." The four platters and two baskets of bread practically tumbled onto the polished but battered tabletop. "That be ten."

Cerryl fumbled out four coppers, wondering how often he could afford such luxury-despite Faltar's mathematicks.

"Thank you all." The serving woman scooped up the coins.

Faltar took a bite of the fowl and chewed noisily.

Across the table from Cerryl, Lyasa raised her eyebrows. "He only appears neat."

"Food's better than talk," mumbled Faltar. "Specially after a long duty day."

Cerryl used his dagger to slice off a strip of the chicken to pop into his mouth.

Somehow it was both juicy and dry at the same time, but he was hungry enough that it didn't matter that much. Still, compared to the meals he'd had at Furenk's and Leyladin's, The Golden Ram's fare was definitely inferior. A mere two seasons before, he never would have thought that.

"This is better than Hall lamb any day," Faltar added.

"Better than stale bread, too." Cerryl grinned at Heralt.

"More costly, as well," countered the curly-haired mage.

"Mages aren't meant to die with coins," said Lyasa. "We can't leave them to anyone. You might as well enjoy what you eat."

"And drink," added Faltar.

"The other day, there was a big wagon that headed out toward Lydiar," Cerryl said. "Filled with worked bra.s.s. Ship fittings ..."

"Has to be for the warships," replied Faltar after wiping his mouth and emptying his mug. He held the mug up for the server to see.

"I thought the Guild's ships were built in Sligo."

"Off that island in the Great North Bay. It's faster to use the highway to Lydiar and send heavy stuff by boat."

"That'll be two more," said the server as she took Faltar's mug. "You'll have it,"

the blond mage promised, reaching for his belt purse.

"Ten ships seem like a lot," mused Cerryl.

"I know of at least seven solid ports in eastern Candar," Lyasa pointed out.

"With time for supplies and transit, that's only one more ship to watch each port."

Put that way, reflected Cerryl, ten ships seemed almost too few.

"The only two ports that matter right now are Diev and Spidlaria...maybe Quend," suggested Faltar.

"That's still only three ships for each port. The Northern Ocean is pretty big."

Lyasa sipped her ale.

Thump! Another mug of ale appeared at Faltar's elbow. "Here you be."

The blond mage extended three coppers.

"How would you use the ships, Heralt?" Cerryl asked. "You know more about trade than most of us, I suspect."

The curly-haired and dark-eyed mage shrugged. "Lyasa's right. No one's going to smuggle through Lydiar or Renklaar. Ruzor or Worrak, maybe. That's only four or five places, but we'd have to mount a blockade, and the Blacks would try to use the weather. I don't know. I wonder if we could afford as many ships as we need. They say we've only got a score or so now. Ten more-that might do it."

Heralt yawned. "Unless the Blacks build more ships, or better ones, or something like that."

"How could you build a better ship?" demanded Faltar. "A ship's a ship. If you make it faster, then it carries less cargo-or less armsmen-and there's not that much difference in speed under sail anyway. They all need the wind."

"Hamor uses slave galleys in the calmer parts of the Western Ocean," Lyasa said.

"Water's too rough here," insisted Faltar.

"Probably." Heralt yawned again. "I need some sleep."

"I'll walk back with you," said Cerryl. "Morning duty." He rose, then looked at Lyasa. "Are you coming?"

"I'll keep Faltar out of trouble."

"Me? Trouble?"

"Yes, you," she answered amiably.

Cerryl and Heralt slipped out into the fresher air, air still warm, with the faint fragrance of something.

"You think there's trouble coming?" Heralt asked as they headed toward the rear Hall, stifling yet another yawn.

"There's always trouble coming." Cerryl offered a laugh. "It's just taken me a while to understand that."

His eyes went to the northern sky and the pinpoints of light, distant lights supposedly, if Colors of White were correct, with suns similar to the one that brought chaos and light upon them.

Did they have their troubles? Did it matter?

He tried not to yawn as he started up the steps beside Heralt.

XVIII.

Cerryl blotted his forehead with the back of his forearm. Even in midmorning, the shadiest s.p.a.ce 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 half-kay 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.

XIX.

"Here you be. Ten for the lot." The serving woman set down the two mugs of wine and then the two of ale.

Cerryl glanced past her toward the archway that held the door into The Golden Ram, thinking he had seen Anya's red hair. He decided he'd seen but a glint of something off the bronze reflector of a wall lamp. He extended seven coppers before Leyladin could reach her wallet, eased the two mugs of ale across the table, then slid one of the mugs of wine before Leyladin.

Bealtur and Myredin each extended two coppers, and the serving woman swept them all up and headed back to the kitchen. Past her, in the far corner, past the cold hearth, sat Broka and Elsinot with a third, ginger-haired mage-Redark, Cerryl thought.

Cerryl reached under the table and squeezed Leyladin's hand, even as he looked at the two other mages. "How is guard duty going for you?"

The goateed Bealtur shrugged. "Mostly, it's boring."

Myredin's fine black hair drifted across his forehead. "I had a farmer walk up and ask why he had to pay for a medallion when his potatoes and maize fed the city. I told him everyone pays to trade. He wasn't happy, but he came back and bought a medallion."

"Does everyone pay? I sometimes wonder." Bealtur fingered his goatee, then took a sip of ale.

The serving woman set down four bowls. "Three each, twelve in all."

Cerryl frowned. "Stew used to be two, didn't it?"

"Was till last eight-day. Hioll says he can't get the fixings for what he used to."

The server shrugged. "Whatever ... he says what it is, and I tell you."

"And we pay," said Myredin.

"Better you than me, ser mage."

Cerryl grinned and extended his coins, as did the others.

After the server took the coppers and slipped away, Leyladin glanced at Cerryl.

"Three for stew? There's not as much as there was last eight-day."

"Food must be getting dearer."

"It does anyway in the summer before harvest," added Myredin.