The White Order (16 page)

   “There are three silvers here, as well as the golds. Did you not count?”

   “Ser ... he handed me the pouch. That was what he said. I thought it better not to question his word.”

   “Muneat plays his tricks, but he is generous, unlike some.” A ragged smile crossed Tellis's lips. “He gave you something?”

   “Yes, ser. He gave me a silver.”

   “Good. Keep it safe.” The smile faded. “Do not be thinking that you'll see its like again soon.”

   “No, ser. I know that.” Cerryl paused. “Master Muneat said he would have another in an eight-day or so.”

   “Did he open it while you were there?”

   “No, ser.”

   Tellis nodded slowly.

   “Ser ... what is it that... I mean... I sat in the foyer... polished marble...”

   “He has more coins than most,” Tellis said dryly, massaging his forehead and not looking at Cerryl. “He is one of the largest grain factors in Candar. I believe he even has several ships that sail out of Lydiar.”

   Cerryl glanced around the suddenly very cramped workroom, a room that would have fit even inside the front foyer of Muneat's small palace.

   “He is not alone in his riches in Fairhaven, Cerryl. Far from it.”

   The apprentice wondered what the dwellings of the other rich folk looked like inside.

   “Get me some of the yellow tea Beryal said she'd brew.”

   “Yes, ser.” Cerryl turned and headed toward the kitchen.

   “Yellow tea ... yellow tea ...” mumbled Tellis behind Cerryl. “Darkness ... hate the stuff...”

   Beryal looked up from the kitchen worktable, where she poured a hot liquid from the kettle into a mug. “You're back so soon?”

   “They didn't make me wait. Tellis sent me for the tea.” His eyes traversed the common room, clean and plain-and very small. Very plain.

   “He's stubborn,” said Beryal, lifting one of the smaller mugs and extending it to Cerryl. “Wouldn't stay in bed. No ... has to get up and make the rest of us feel his pain.”

   “He doesn't look well.”

   “Anyone who drank all that double mead at the Pillion last night should look like that. Benthann, she cannot lift her head.” Beryal frowned. “Take the master his yellow tea.”

   Cerryl slipped back to the workroom and extended the mug.

   Tellis took it wordlessly.

   Cerryl sharpened the quill, then stirred the ink, and set The Science of Measurement and Reckoning on the copy stand, opening it to the bookmark. He could almost see the polished marble and the shimmering hangings, and the dark red dress ... even the dark blue velvet and flawless silk worn by Muneat. Cerryl knew, from what he'd learned in talking with Pattera, that the silk shirt alone probably cost a gold. He'd never seen half that in his entire life.

   He took a slow breath. He couldn't change what was. Not yet, perhaps not ever. He dipped the quill in the ink. But you can do more than be a scrivener... you can!

   At the worktable, Tellis sipped bitter yellow tea.

Cerryl dipped the pen into the inkwell, then resumed copying the page before him, trying to concentrate on the words and the shape of his letters, knowing that no matter how closely his efforts resembled those on the scrivener's master sheet, Tellis would still find some way to suggest improvement. One moment, the scrivener was praising his hand; the next, he was complaining about the way Cerryl copied one type of letter or another, or that he didn't fully appreciate the complexities of being a scrivener.

   The apprentice scrivener held in a sigh. Too many sighs, he'd discovered, elicited unwelcome questions. His eyes went to the book on the copy stand.

... the inner lining of the bark of the river willow should be scraped, then dried until it is firm and stiff. Then it must be ground into the finest of powders with a polished hardwood mortar and pestle ...

   Why did powdered willow bark hold down chaos fever? Who had discovered that? For all the volumes that Tellis pushed on him to read, Cerryl felt that he almost knew less than when he had come to Fairhaven more than a season before, since each new book opened far more questions than it answered.

   Scritttchhh... With the sound of the street door opening, Tellis backed up, nearly into the waist-high waste container, and then stepped around his worktable, leaving the stretching frame, and slipped past Cerryl and into the showroom.

   “You keep at that herbal copying,” the master scrivener added over his shoulder as he hurried toward the showroom.

   Use of plants and herbs for healing might be of some interest, certainly more than words about measuring that meant little, reflected Cerryl, but herbs didn't seem to help with controlling chaos. Then he frowned, thinking about how he felt when he tried to warm his wash water. Would the powdered willow bark help reduce the warming in his body and the headache his using chaos caused?

   With the flash of white he saw through the open door, Cerryl stiffened, listening intently.

   “... how might I be of service, honored ser? Perhaps a volume of one of the histories ... ?”

   The response was muted enough that Cerryl could not make out the words.

   “Ah, yes ... that would take several eight-days, perhaps longer . . . you understand?”

   “... understand ... the heavy binding ... virgin vellum ... how much ... ?”

   “Three golds, honored ser.”

   “That is dear.”

   “The vellum and the leather alone-”

   “No more than five eight-days, scrivener, or not a gold to you. And all by your hand. Not another soul but you to handle the original. Do you understand?”

   Cerryl could feel the chill and power of the mage's reply, even from the workroom copy desk.

   “Yes, ser. Before five eight-days, with the heavy binding and the best of virgin vellum.”

   “No one else but you.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   Cerryl abruptly moved the quill, just in time to keep the ink from splattering on the page he was working on. He wiped the splot off the wood, cleaned the nib, then resumed his laborious effort to copy the page from Herbes and Their Selfsame Remedies, trying to look busy when Tellis reentered the workroom.

   “Don't know where as I'll even be getting the time. Yet three golds, that is not a commission I can turn down.” Tellis frowned, then coughed, and looked down at the worn volume in his hands. “Dealing with mages-every gold you earn. And earn again.”

   “I can copy it, ser,” offered Cerryl.

   “This one I'll be copying,” Tellis announced.

 
  “If things are hard, ser, I can do it.”

   The master scrivener shook his head. “Some volumes, the whites say that only the master may copy.”

   “Why? How can they do that?”

   “Cerryl...” This time, Tellis provided the sigh, and not quietly. “Have you heard nothing? The White Council must approve any craft master in Fairhaven. You know the star with the circle above the door? Must I remind you what that master symbol means? Without that star, I'd get no copying or scribing from the Council... or any of the mages.”

   “But you're the best in Fairhaven. Everyone on the square says so,” Cerryl said quickly.

   “You are loyal-I will say that,” answered Tellis. “The mages look for more than ability, Cerryl. They also demand loyalty. Without White Council approval, a tradesman or a crafter can never be more than a journeyman here. Journeymen get no Council business.” Tellis snorted. “And little else, either.”

   “Even able ones?”

   “What merchant or tradesman dare deal with a scrivener not in the Council's favor? Even Muneat would turn away his little pleasures.”

   “He has coins ..'.”

   “Coins are not power, Cerryl. Sometimes, those with coins can purchase power. Now ... best I start. Set the herbal volume on the high shelf. You'll have time to copy when I rest. You can go and get the oak bark and the vellum this will take.”

   Cerryl cleaned the quill, then wiped his hands, stood, and lifted Herbes and Their Selfsame Remedies from the copy stand.

   Tellis set the book he carried on the copy stand and opened the blank cover to the flyleaf.

   Cerryl's eyes went to the words there, and he froze for a moment that seemed all too long as he read the title-Colors of White. Tellis had the entire book there, not just the first part but the whole book. The entire volume he'd wished to lay his hands on for so long-and he couldn't touch it.

   “Don't be standing there. Be off with you. First to Nivor's for the black oak bark. You know the kind. Then when you bring that back, I'll need more of the virgin vellum. But come back and set the bark to steep first, before you go to Arkos's.”

   That meant twice as much walking, but Cerryl nodded politely. “Ah, ser ... won't I need some coin for Nivor?”

   “Pestilence ... yes. Arkos will trust me for the vellum, but Nivor trusts no one.” Tellis fumbled in his purse. “Not more than a silver and five coppers for a tenth stone of the bark, either, no matter what that thief Nivor says. If he won't give it to you for that... then come home without it.”

   “Yes, ser.” Cerryl took the coins and put them in his own purse with the three coppers that were his.

   “You can tell him I said so, too.” Tellis shifted his weight on the stool. “Man's more brigand than apothecary ... but don't tell him that. Now, be off with you.”

 
 “Yes, ser.”

   In moments, Cerryl had pulled on his better tunic-used for errands and holiday meals-and stepped out into the spring afternoon, warm, but with the hint of a winter chill that had not yet vanished, and gray, with the promise of rain before evening. He hoped the rain wasn't too long or too heavy; he could do without the attendant headache.

   He stretched, then started for the lesser artisans' way. After a dozen steps or more, he glanced toward Pattera's window-ajar as usual. Only her father worked at the big loom. His eyes went toward the square.

   “You!”

   The voice was peremptory and high-pitched, the words coming from behind Cerryl, and he almost stopped. But who would want anything from him? Were they talking to the master weaver?

 
  “In the blue ... I mean you.”

   Cerryl turned . . . and swallowed as he saw the white tunic, shirt, and trousers. He bowed immediately. “I did not realize . . . I'm sorry, ser ...”

   “No, you didn't . . . did you?” A musical laugh followed - a laugh with a hard tone that made Cerryl want to shiver, even as he realized that the mage was a woman, an attractive figure with flame red hair and eyes that went through him, eyes that seemed to contain all colors and yet none at all. A faint scent of something - sandalwood, perhaps, drifted toward him.

   He bowed again, saying nothing.

   “Do you live here, young fellow?”

   “Yes, ser. I'm an apprentice to Tellis.”

   “The scrivener?” Another laugh followed. “Most interesting. Do you know your letters?”

 
  “Yes, ser.” How could an apprentice scrivener not know the letters? Still, Cerryl kept his tongue.

   “Both tongues?”

   “I do not know Temple as well as the old true tongue,” he admitted.

   “The old true tongue,” she mused. “And you mean what you say. Better and better. What is your name?”

   “Cerryl, ser.” Cerryl had to work at keeping his voice level, feeling as though he faced some sort of examination, a dangerous examination, even though he could not explain exactly what or why.

   “Cerryl the apprentice scrivener . . .” She laughed more musically than before. “Keep learning your letters and all that you can. It might be enough.” She paused, and her voice turned harder. “You may go on whatever errand your master sent you.”

   Cerryl tried to gather himself together as he bowed.

   “Go.”

   “Yes, ser.” He bowed again, turned, and hastened down toward the square and toward Nivor the apothecary's.

   The woman in white - she was certainly a mage, and not all that much older than Cerryl. He shivered, recalling the cold eyes that had changed color with every word and the cruel laugh. He wasn't sure he Wanted to know what she had meant about his learning more might be enough. Enough for what?

   He shivered, though he tried not to do so. So much went on in Fairhaven that few saw. His brief experience with master Muneat had shown him one side of it, but that wasn't all. Though he saw little of the power of chaos that lay hidden, that power he could feel, unlike that of the golds of the factors. And the hidden chaos made him shiver, unlike the golds.

Cerryl lay on his back, under both the thin blanket and his leather jacket, not quite shivering but not exactly warm, either. His eyes looked generally in the direction of the ceiling beams, but his thoughts were well beyond his room.

   Tellis had the complete volume of Colors of White, the whole thing, with the sections missing from the volume Syodar had given Cerryl. The apprentice scrivener turned on his side, drawing his legs up so that he was curled into a ball, trying not to think about the volume locked inside the chest in the copy room, and trying even harder not to think about the key in the hidden niche by the door.

   “It's not as though...” he murmured. As though? As though he would be stealing? He wouldn't hurt the book. He'd read it in the workroom in the dark. Stealing knowledge? But did knowledge belong to anyone? Or was that how the mages stayed in power-by keeping their knowledge to themselves?

   Cerryl turned over once more and looked through the darkness at the ceiling beams again. He wanted to sigh, but what good would that have done? He could almost feel the white-dusted volume calling him.

   Tellis hadn't said no one else could read it, but that no one else was supposed to copy the book. Cerryl winced at the self-deception. No one else was supposed to handle it because the white mages didn't want anyone besides a craftmaster they trusted to read it. A craftmaster who was the son of a mage?

   Sooner or later, they'll find out that you can handle chaos a little ..-if they don't know already. Wouldn't it be better to learn what you can now? Momentarily ignoring the thought, he turned over on the pallet. Then he turned back. Some moments later, he found himself looking at the ceiling beams once more.

   Finally, he sat up and swung his feet over the side of his bed, not letting them touch the cold stone of the floor for a moment. Then he stood. He eased open his own door and surveyed the dark and silent courtyard. The sole sounds were those of the breeze and the clopping hoofs and creaking of a wagon somewhere down on the avenue.

   Cerryl took a deep and silent breath. Wearing only the jacket and his smallclothes, he padded noiselessly across the courtyard. The door to the common room scraped, but only slightly, as he closed it behind him and eased around the table and through the kitchen.

   Cerryl slipped into the workroom, not lighting a candle, and trusting his own night vision. The key slid from its recess beside the door into his fingers, and the cabinet lock barely snicked as he turned the key arid opened the door. The book itself lay in the first drawer, half-illuminated to Cerryl's senses by the traces of chaos power dusting it. For the moment, he left it there untouched.

   None of the white mages would be able to tell that Cerryl had read it, because his own faint chaos power traces would be obscured by their far vaster power. Still, he rinsed his hands in the cool water remaining in the pitcher, wanting to reduce further the faintest residue of the chaos energy that seemed to flow within him and out through his bare fingers. After drying them on his own towel-still damp from when he had washed before dinner-he turned back and lifted the book from the drawer and carried it to the copy stand, setting it down and opening it roughly halfway through, toward where he thought the second section might begin.

   In the dimness, even with his night vision, he had to strain to read the words on the page to which he had turned.

A mage must use order to channel chaos, for nothing else can contain the pure flame of chaos, yet he must not be constrained by that order, lest his power to use chaos for good be turned to naught...

   Cerryl flipped through more pages. He wanted answers, not philosophy.

... there be two types of healing, the use of order to strengthen the flesh and the use of chaos to destroy all manner of illnesses arising from whence the elements of the world mortify the flesh ... in the second, the mage must ascertain the very source of the mortification... his energies must but destroy that source and none other, for any other destruction will most assuredly destroy also the patient...

   Cerryl wanted to beat his forehead. How was he supposed to concentrate chaos energies inside someone? He understood the ideas, even those he hadn't known about. Technique was the question, not philosophizing about the technique. He flipped through several more pages.

... those marshaling the fires of the air must understand that the aether itself acts as though it were a function of order, pressing in upon the energies of chaos focused by the mage ...

   That didn't tell him anything, either. At least he didn't think it did His forehead was damp, despite the chill night air in the workroom but he read on.

... so that even a line of chaos fire will reassemble itself into a globe of such fundamental fire when hurled through its own power over even the shortest of distances ...

   Cerryl forced himself to keep reading. Maybe he just didn't know enough. Maybe.

   How long he read-that he had no idea, except that his head felt as though it were twirling on his shoulders and filled with burning sawdust when he replaced the book in the cabinet and relocked it. The key went back into its recess, and he retraced his silent steps back to his room.

   He closed the door and looked through the darkness at his pallet, frowning. He felt as though someone were observing him, yet nothing moved, nothing offered the slightest of sounds, except the wind.

   Finally, with a shiver, he slipped under the blanket, realizing that his feet were like blocks of ice. He shivered again, and might have once more, except his eyes were too heavy.