Should he be cautious?
He shook his head. There was a time to be bold and a time to be cautious. Mostly, in the past, he’d had to be cautious, and that had to be what Jeslek was counting on. Despite Sterol’s advice about there being no old bold mages, if he weren’t bold, he’d never have the chance to get old. The sooner he removed the prefect-if he could-and returned to Fairhaven, the better. . before Jeslek’s stories could get out of hand.
On the cross street, at the top of the hill was another gate, but it was locked, and chained, and looked not to have been used in some time. On the north side of the walls was a third gate, where several wagons were lined up-the tradesmen’s gate, Cerryl guessed as he rode by. The bottom gate, less than a block from the square but north of the street he’d taken first, offered entry, from what Cerryl could tell, only to the guards’ barracks, and but a single guard lounged by the guardhouse.
That meant that the southern gate was the one that led where he needed to go. He rode slowly down another side street, trying to find an avenue that angled back toward the gate he wanted. The simplest thing would be to cloak himself in the light shield and follow someone, or someone’s carriage, into the palace-but what would he do with the chestnut?
He smiled-why not just tie the horse somewhere? No one was going to kill a horse. His rider perhaps, but not the mount. They might steal the mount, but the chances were less if he tied the gelding somewhere fairly prosperous looking. He shrugged. If someone stole the gelding, he could find a way to steal another horse. After what he had to do, horse theft couldn’t make it any worse if he were caught.
He rode down several streets and had to retrace his way several times before he finally found what he was looking for-several well-kept shops in a row-not more than a block and a half from the palace walls. The first shop was that of a silversmith-attested by the painted silver candle-stick and pitcher that adorned the purple-bordered signboard by the door. The second was some sort of weaver’s or cloth merchant’s, with bolts of cloth shown behind real glass windows. The third was a cooper’s, with a small half barrel set on a bracket on the left porch post.
Two stone hitching posts with iron rings were set against the cooper’s open wooden porch. Cerryl glanced around, but the cooper’s door was shut, although he could hear muffled hammering within.
He dismounted quickly, tied the gelding, and slipped around the corner of the building and down the short alley to the side street that led to the perimeter street that flanked the southern gate to the prefect’s palace.
Don’t run. . Don’t hurry. . Just look as though you have business to take care of. . The side street curved slightly, and Cerryl stopped at the corner, just back of a large rain barrel that was held to the timber walls of the dwelling with an iron strap. His hand brushed the iron, and he felt a tingling, but the iron didn’t burn. Not yet. .
Leaning against the wall, in the morning shadows and out of sight of the gate guards, Cerryl watched the street running up from the main square.
After a while, after a cart and two men bearing something wrapped in cloth on a long pole between them had passed, an officer with a single gold slash on his sleeve made his way up the street, his mount’s hoofs clicking on the cobbled paving stones, so much rougher than the smooth blocks of Fairhaven’s avenues. The officer barely paused as he rode through the gate. Cerryl strained to hear the exchange between guards and officer.
“Good day, Undercaptain. Here to see Captain Yurak?”
“If he’s in.”
“He’s there.”
As the sorrel carried the captain across the courtyard, one guard turned to the other, but from behind the corner, Cerryl could not catch the words.
He waited. The sun got warmer, and the sky clearer. Another officer, a full captain, rode through the gate, but the guards did not speak.
Cerryl continued to wait as scattered riders and a cart, then a wagon, passed. Three women bearing laundry walked out of the side street, right past Cerryl, ignoring him, and down toward the square.
“. . Elva. . too good to do her own laundry. .”
“Would I had her coins, and I wouldn’t either.”
Cerryl drew himself up. A carriage-a dark carriage-had started up the street, and both guards had stepped forward, stiffening into positions of attention. Whoever it might be, the guards expected the carriage, and it might be his only chance for some while.
Cerryl slipped the light cloak around him and eased across the street. Despite his care, since he could only sense things in rough terms, he almost tripped on the uneven stones. He stopped against the wall on the north side of the gates, where he could slip behind the coach and walk in after it. The coach slowed as it approached and turned through the wrought-iron-gate-flanked entry. Cerryl walked quickly, almost abreast of and between the back of the rear wheels, glad that the coach was not the kind with footmen.
“Good day, ser.”
There was no answer from the carriage to the guard’s pleasantry, and the coach continued to roll slowly through the courtyard and then under another archway. Cerryl found he was panting when the coach creaked to a halt, and he forced himself to breathe more deeply and slowly.
Which side should he take? Cerryl eased up next to the right rear wheel, listening as the coach door opened and a man stepped out onto the mounting block.
An officer, perhaps the same undercaptain who had entered the palace earlier, stood in the archway above the steps. “The prefect is waiting in his study, ser.”
“Very well.” The voice was modulated, and bored. “I will see him before I deal with Overcaptain Taynet. Would you inform the overcaptain that I will be there presently, and that I expect him to await my arrival.”
“Yes, Subprefect, ser.” The officer’s boots clicked on the stone.
Cerryl reminded himself to step lightly as he followed the dignitary. He walked carefully behind the guards who trailed the subprefect, trying to keep his steps in the same rhythm as theirs, hoping no one stopped too quickly.
The journey was surprisingly short, just into a foyer, and then down a corridor for perhaps fifty cubits, and then up three flights of steps, and back down another corridor for another fifty cubits or so. The entourage halted before a set of double doors guarded by a pair of armsmen.
Cerryl stopped as they did, amazed that no one had looked around, but, then, perhaps everyone felt watched or followed in a palace.
“Subprefect Syrma, at the prefect’s request.”
“We will inform him, ser.”
The doors opened and closed.
Cerryl eased up closer to the guards, standing to one side, wagering that they would not accompany Syrma into the study.
The study doors opened again. “The prefect will see you, ser.”
The guards stepped to the left, and Cerryl barely managed to slip around them to the right, and then inside. He swallowed and stepped wide around another set of guards, glad he was almost right behind the subprefect. One of the guards stiffened as his eyes flicked around, then slowly relaxed.
Cerryl edged along the bookcases to the left of the door before the guards closed them with a firm thump. He kept sliding along the bookcases and around a table to the left of the broad wooden desk behind which sat the prefect. At least he hoped the figure behind the desk was the prefect. That was the problem with navigating totally through chaos senses.
“You requested my presence, Prefect.”