anywhere.'
'Maybe,' she said, hands dropping to his shoulders. 'But you stayed with me, and that's what counts.' She leaned in, kissed the top of his head. 'And look at what we've already accomplished. They wouldn't have had the weapons to even consider something this major without my resources, and without you…'
'Oh, yeah, she's provided just enough weapons for these morons to run out and get themselves neatly diced into small, fleshy cubes. You've done wonders for your cause. Again.'
'Shut up!' Cerris hissed under his breath. Then, at Irrial's puzzled blinking, 'Ah, sorry. Not you. Just… Talking to myself. Considering options.'
Poor, very poor. Pathetic, even. But what else could he offer her? Oh, that? I'm just talking to a creature who shared my head for so long that his voice seems to have stayed around even though the bastard's long since gone to hell. Literally. Somehow, he didn't think that'd go over very well. At best, she'd think him haunted; at worst (and most likely), a lunatic.
Cerris himself wasn't entirely sure which of the two options he preferred. But so long as it-the voice, his apparent madness, whatever it was-caused him no tribulations other than the occasional bout of self-loathing and the need to tell himself to shut up, he could endure.
'Really? Guess I'll have to try harder, then.'
Irrial blinked one last time, then sat on the bench beside him. 'You know, you never did mention how you found out when the caravan's due.'
'Yarrick.'
'What?'
Cerris chuckled. 'Relax, m'lady. I didn't tell him anything about our plans. He thinks I'm just trying to escape without being caught.' He paused. 'If this works out, though, we might consider bringing him in. He's got resources and connections you don't, and he's got no reason to love Cephira. They may have left him his office and his Guild, but they're pulling his strings and he knows it.'
'Gods, must we? The man's dull as lettuce, Cerris.'
'He really, really is. I understand that sheep count him when they're lying awake at night.' He smiled at Irrial's laughter. 'But if he can be useful…'
'Oh, all right. If this first operation works out, we'll talk about it.' She gave him a smoldering look from beneath her lashes. 'But if he starts putting me to sleep, I'm making it your responsibility to figure out new ways to keep me awake.'
'Well.' Cerris rose to his feet, double-checked to ensure the door was securely bolted, and turned her way once more. 'I'd better start practicing, then, hadn't I?' ASSUMING ALL WENT even remotely to plan, getting back into the city wouldn't be an issue. In addition to all the supplies they could carry, the resistance would find themselves in possession of a whole mess of Cephiran tabards and armor. And since the city's main gates remained open during the day-to allow the labor gangs passage-the rebels need simply hide in the wilderness overnight and then return, by ones and twos, in the same disguise that had served Cerris so well.
No, as Irrial had rightly pointed out, it would be getting out through Rahariem's heavily manned western gates that would prove difficult. Suggestion became discussion became argument, and days flew by within the beats of nervously pounding hearts. Only two nights remained before the caravan's scheduled arrival, now, and still every strategy they developed offered more risk than reward.
'I'm starting to think it would be a damn sight easier,' Andevar barked in frustration, pacing irritably before the assembled insurgents, 'for us to just attack the fucking walls directly.'
And following on the heels of that comment, a plan crept fully formed into the forefront of Cerris's mind. For several long moments, as the others continued their fruitless debate, he examined it in horrified disbelief. Yet over the past days, he had spent much time walking the streets, idly examining Rahariem's defenses, seeking inspiration-and despite himself, he had to concede that it might actually work.
'Wow. You really have gone insane, haven't you?'
Every face in the room lit up with elated anticipation when Cerris announced that he had an idea- expressions that swiftly grew hostile when he refused to tell them what it was.
'Look, it's better you don't know,' he explained-lamely, he admitted-trying to quell the rising chorus. 'It's something I need to handle on my own.'
'Cerris, you can't ask us to…'
'… could you possibly do by yourself that we couldn't…'
'… not staking my life on a plan you won't even…'
'… bloody idiot if you think I'm going to trust…'
And on, and on, until the individual words lost all meaning, the voices coalescing into a meaningless, angry rumble. But Cerris stood, arms crossed, unrelenting-and struggling fiercely to ignore that wretched voice, needling him, reminding him 'There was a time they wouldn't have questioned you. They wouldn't have dared. Gods, you've grown soft in your old age. Or maybe it's old in your soft age. But soft and old, regardless.'
Finally, the verbal floodwaters subsided enough that he might make himself heard over the din. Perhaps 'Everyone shut the hell up!' wasn't the most politic way he might have made his case, but it bought a moment of astonished silence.
'That's a little more like it. Still needs work, though.'
'Perhaps,' he said more quietly, 'I'll be able to explain later. I can't now. It was you,' he said, meeting Andevar's glare, 'who chose the supply caravan as our target. And you'-now directing a somewhat gentler expression toward Irrial-'who begged for my help. Well, I've helped, and I'll continue to help, but I'll do it my way. I remind you that we no longer have the time for debate. I need you…' His gaze swept every man and woman present before ending, once more, on the baroness. '… to trust me,' he finished gently.
Nobody left the meeting happy that night, and the new suspicion in Irrial's eyes sunk painfully into his gut like a steel-shod hoof, but at the last they had agreed. What else, ultimately, could they do? CERRIS SLIPPED FROM THE HIDDEN chamber several hours before dusk. Despite the mask of confidence he'd worn to reassure his allies, he knew damn well his plan was fraught with hazards. It was not these that caused him to chew nervously at his lips and cheeks, however, or to wipe a constant sheen of sweat from his palms. No, instead it was the thought of the magics he must invoke…
An intricate, ancient spell whose prior use had cost him everything he treasured, and delivered precious little of what it promised.
Streets and alleys, homes and storefronts, citizens and soldiers passed by all unnoticed, for Cerris's attentions were turned inward. He'd long since committed the incantations and tendon-contorting gestures to memory. He hadn't dared keep the original writings on his person, for this was the last surviving spell of the Archmage Selakrian, a page torn from his ancient tome before the spellbook perished in flame. To keep such a terrible prize was to invite the attention, if not the enmity, of Imphallion's small but potent community of sorcerers.
But even with his iron will and a mind as sharp as the Kholben Shiar, he had difficulty retaining such arcane formulae, for this was a complex spell indeed, well beyond Cerris's normal proficiency. He had cast the invocation several times before-most recently a few years back, on a particularly stubborn Rahariem merchant-and he recited it over and over on his walk, lips moving and twisting until they were numb, but still he remained only half convinced that he'd properly recalled it.
Evening's advance scouts were peering over the horizon, perhaps hoping to see where the sun would hide himself tonight. A cool breeze wrestled with the lingering heat of the day when Cerris neared his destination, many blocks from the western gates. Swiftly he ducked into a nearby alley, changing into the Cephiran hauberk and tabard he'd kept from his escape. By now his combination of military walk and sporadic illusions came naturally, and nobody offered him a second glance-in most cases, not even a first one-as he strode boldly toward the nearest cluster of Cephiran defenses.
For many minutes he wandered, head high and shoulders straight, as if he knew precisely where he was going, but constantly watching, cataloging, timing. It took only a short while to track the movements of various servants and low-ranking soldiers who brought missives and water to those who manned the gates, those who patrolled atop the walls…
And those who crewed the Cephiran siege engines.
It took an even shorter while for Cerris to corner one of the servants alone and to take his place, disposing
