Nothing seemed to be, not involving the Guild.

Finally, he stood and walked toward the corridor toward the front Hall of the Mages. He could walk up the Avenue in the twilight.

Cerryl paused at the edge of the fountain courtyard, where two figures stood in the shadows beyond the fountain in the far corner, shielded by darkness and spray. Their postures bothered him, and he cast forth his perceptions, as gently and dispersed as possible. At the same time, he used his skills to blur over his chaos-order image, so that unless another mage looked right at him with concentration, he wouldn't even seem to be there.

"You sleep with whoever grants you power for the moment," said the taller figure.

"You fawn over whoever grants you favor, Fydel. Tell me there's a difference.

You prefer to sleep with me, but you certainly don't sleep alone much," Anya replied.

"That's different. You make Jeslek think he's the only chaos focus since Cyador, and now every little thing in Spidlar has him feeling personally slighted. He almost killed me over that black toy."

"You kept it from him for a season, and the letters from the smith to the lady trader. That was not wise, Fydel. Don't blame me or Jeslek for your stupidity."

"Do you want Jeslek spewing chaos all over Candar?"

"He already has, and he intends to bring all the lands of eastern Candar under Fairhaven. After the way they're treating the Guild, do you blame him? Do you want your stipend cut?" Anya moved closer to Fydel. "I know this is a hard time."

She touched his face. "I won't be owned, Fydel, but I will make it up to you. Not tonight. Later."

Cerryl eased away before the two realized he had been using his chaos-order senses to spy.

Slowly, his thoughts swirling, he walked back to his empty room, all idea of walking up the Avenue discarded. What had he been missing in his efforts to become the best possible Patrol mage? What was really going on in the Guild and with Spidlar? Black iron so strong it warped the feeling in the High Wizard's room? Made by a Black smith who wrote letters that Fydel had kept from Jeslek.

No wonder Jeslek had let the smith's name drop-Dorrin, was it? To see if Cerryl were plotting with Fydel?

Cerryl swallowed.

That didn't even take into account that the Black smith was tied up with a lady trader-and there were lady traders? Were traders involved in everything? Blacks settling in Spidlar? Certan forces raiding Spidlar? And he'd seen none of it?

He shook his head. What could he do? What should he do? What could a junior Patrol mage do?

He wished Leyladin were back. He needed someone to talk to, someone who understood more than he did and someone whom he could trust.

XLVII.

Cerryl glanced across the Avenue at the main entrance to the Halls of the Mages, silhouetted against the late-afternoon sun, and then at the White Tower, his eyes studying the outside of the topmost floor, the apartment of the High Wizard. Was more chaos swirling around the tower, or was he just becoming increasingly sensitive to chaos?

He crossed the eastern section of the Avenue, ahead of a slow-moving and empty green-trimmed wagon drawn by a pair of matched grays, then continued across the south side of the square and across the empty western half of the Avenue.

Another day of being a Patrol mage, another day of dealing with petty theft of bread, a barrel of flour-and in neither case had the Patrol found the thief, or thieves. No one had seen anything, and by the time Fystl had gotten Cerryl to the shop, somehow all those who might have seen anything had vanished. That bothered Cerryl. So did the slight but slow increase in such peacebreaking.

He blotted his damp forehead as he entered the cool stone walls of the front foyer, glancing ahead to his left, toward the empty steps to the White Tower.

Once through the foyer, he crossed the fountain courtyard, grateful for the cooling mist of the fountain, and made his way through the middle Hall, past two apprentice mages he did not know, and into the rear courtyard.

"Cerryl?" Anya stood in the shade by the arched entryway to the rear Hall.

"Anya . .. greetings."

"How was your day, Cerryl? Do you remain as fond of being a Patrol mage as you were a year ago?"

"I do." Cerryl paused, then added quickly, "You know, I've never asked exactly what you do. I mean, Faltar guards gates; I'm a Patrol mage; Esaak teaches mathematicks." He shrugged. "You seem most talented and yet... mysterious."

"I'm only mysterious because I'm a woman and no one asks a woman what she does. Right now, I'm an a.s.sistant to the High Wizard. I used to teach knife fighting to the lancer officers, and before that I was the a.s.sistant mage for the water aqueducts." A bright smile crossed Anya's creamy-complected face.

"Much more impressive than being a Patrol mage, I must admit." Cerryl's eyes went to the battered sheath at Anya's waist. Somehow, the knife belonged there, unfortunately. "How might I be of service?"

"You really shouldn't use that phrase, Cerryl." Anya smiled crookedly. "Actually, I just wished to talk to you for a moment."

Cerryl managed not to flush. "You always bear interesting views."

"I am glad you think so."

"I do."

"Good." The smile returned, the one Cerryl distrusted thoroughly. "I am sure you know how difficult matters in Spidlar and Gallos are getting."

"I had heard that, but matters here in Fairhaven are not so good as they might be, either. Nor in Hydlen."

"You are having difficulty in your Patrol section?" asked Anya.

"Less trouble than most." But I spend more time working at it.

"That surprises me not, Cerryl, nor the High Wizard." She paused. "You also know that Myral is ailing, and that Kinowin is not so young as he might appear."

"I have heard such."

"Fairhaven has not mustered all its lancers in generations, and those who have seen battle are either few or old."

Cerryl nodded, not enjoying the implications. "Eliasar has experience, much experience."

"Eliasar will offer all he has. It might not reflect well on those others who have even limited experience, should they avoid using that experience when it is needed."

"I can see that."

"Good. I hope you learn much more about peacekeeping in the few eight-days ahead. I trust I haven't kept you."

"Ah... no. Not at all."

"Good afternoon, Cerryl." Anya flashed a last deceitfully honest-looking smile, then inclined her head and slipped past Cerryl and toward the middle Hall, leaving behind the heavy scents of sandalwood and trilia.

Cerryl pursed his lips, then entered the rear Hall and made for the steps to the upper level. He had barely entered his room and seated himself on the edge of the bed when there was a thrap on the door.

"Yes?"

"It's Lyasa. May I come in?"

"Come on in." Cerryl rose to his feet to greet the black-haired mage.

"I see that Anya had something to say."

"I see that you're looking out for my interests." Cerryl grinned and gestured to the chair.

"I don't know about yours. Leyladin is my friend. What did Anya want this time?"

"To warn me without being obvious about it."

"About what?"

"That Jeslek is going to ask me to go with him to take over Spidlar, perhaps reduce some of it to rubble, and that it would be bad for my future, and probably my health, to refuse."

"I cannot imagine that going on a war campaign to Spidlar and Gallos would be very healthful."

"They may ask you as well," mused Cerryl. "Anya mentioned that few mages had any experience in battle, and you were with us in Gallos. You're strong with chaos."

"Not so strong as you or Anya." A frown crossed Lyasa's face, and darkness settled in the deep brown eyes. Then she smiled. "But I could definitely keep a watch on you that way."

"You certainly could."

"Nothing's going to happen soon. If they aren't bringing in wagons and extra mounts now, they can't be ready before late fall or early winter. Jeslek would be a fool to mount a campaign before spring, and he's no fool."

"He's not a fool, but he doesn't always do what others expect."

"Have you heard from Leyladin?"

Cerryl shook his head.

"You could scree her, you know?"

"I don't know. That feels a bit like .. . peeping."

A grin flashed across Lyasa's face. "Good for you. But she wouldn't mind a quick look in the day or afternoon, I suspect. It would show you care." The black-haired woman rose from the chair. "I'm supposed to meet with Kinowin, something about aqueducts."

"Better than sewers."

"I'll see."

After Lyasa left; Cerryl stood and looked at the gla.s.s on his desk. Where should be begin? What was he looking for? And why? Because nothing's quite right and you need the practice because you've been neglecting screeing.

Finally, he sat down and studied the gla.s.s.

Could he see Leyladin, as Lyasa had suggested?

He concentrated on finding order, the solid black order he equated with her. He felt two pulls, amid smaller pulses of order. He settled for the stronger sense of order and let his mind focus on order, solid black order.

The silver mists filling the gla.s.s before him parted, more easily than he recalled, showing a red-haired man with a hammer in his hands, working an anvil. Order seemed to well from the gla.s.s.

Was this the smith Jeslek had mentioned? Was he the same one Anya had talked to Fydel about? The one tied up with a woman trader? Cerryl doubted there could be any other embodying such order, yet the red-haired smith didn't seem either much younger or older than Cerryl himself.

If possible, the smith embodied order as much as Jeslek did chaos.

Cerryl watched the even rhythm of the hammer for a time, then released the image, realizing belatedly that sweat poured down his face.

After a time, he tried the gla.s.s again and was rewarded with an image of a blonde healer sitting across a table from a brown-haired boy with a face too thin for his age and eyes sunken too deep below fine eyebrows.

Leyladin looked healthy, but Cerryl worried about her charge and what that could mean for Fairhaven-and Leyladin and him.

Slowly, he let the image slip away. He sat at the desk for a time, a long time.

XLVIII.

Cerryl studied the screeing gla.s.s, knowing he should practice more He didn't want to try to look at Leyladin too often. He knew that would upset her because she could probably sense his efforts. After all, she had sensed his first attempt when he was a youth, and Cerryl himself could tell when someone was using a gla.s.s to capture his image.

He frowned. Did the young Black smith know he was being observed? How could he not? That brought up another question. Jeslek had insisted there were three Blacks in Spidlar, but Cerryl had only been able to use the gla.s.s to find the smith. That meant the other two didn't marshal nearly the order that either the smith or Leyladin did. So why was Jeslek so concerned? Were they better arms commanders than those of Certis or Fairhaven? Cerryl had no way of determining that and enough more immediate worries-such as Leyladin and Patrol duty. His duty hadn't been quite so bad for the past two days, perhaps because he'd been spending more time on the streets again. How long could he do that? It made it more difficult for all the area patrols he didn't accompany to find him, and it wasn't fair to them for him to be out of the building too long. Yet his being on the street definitely reduced even the minor peacebreaking.

He took a deep breath and looked toward the window, where the afternoon light and a warm breeze poured into the room. Then he looked down at the gla.s.s again.

Thrap.

For practice, Cerryl concentrated on the gla.s.s, attempting to see who stood on the other side of the white oak door. As the mists parted, the image of a messenger in red appeared, a round-faced girl who was new, at least to Cerryl.

He let the image lapse and stood, quickly walking to the door and opening it.

"Yes?"

"Mage Cerryl, ser?"

"That's me."

"The overmage Kinowin bids you come immediately. He wants you to hurry. He will meet you at the mage Myral's quarters as soon as you can get there."

Cerryl swallowed, then stepped out of the room and closed the door. "Thank you!" he called over his shoulder as he began to hurry toward the stairs, not quite at a run.

He dodged around Kiella entering the fountain court and almost ran down another apprentice in the front foyer. Cerryl slowed his pace as he neared the steps to the tower. It wouldn't do any good for him to race up to Myral's and arrive so out of breath that all he could do would be to stand and pant.

He was still slightly breathless when Kinowin opened Myral's door.

"I'm glad you hurried," the overmage whispered. "Cerryl's here," he added in a louder voice as he closed the door.

Myral lay on his bed, wearing a white robe, one so heavy that Cerryl would have sweated to death, yet the older mage had a blanket over him and shivered as Cerryl neared the bed.

"Glad ... you came." The words were barely audible.

Cerryl knelt on the floor by the bed, letting his fingers touch Myral's all too pale forehead. Cerryl kept his face composed and concerned, with a superficial calmness he hung onto as necessary for the moment. Cerryl struggled to try to raise order, as he did chaos, outside himself, and to impose that flickering black fragment on the flux that was ravaging Myral.

"Helps ... a little ... for a few moments ... know ... there's too much chaos in my body. Before long ..." Myral gasped. "For a White mage, it has been a good life."