The White Order (19 page)

In the hot and still air of the workroom, Cerryl set the jar of ink on the worktable.

   “Let's see.” Tellis poured a small amount of the fluid into the inkstand, then lifted one of the older quills from the holder before him and dipped it into the ink. “It looks right.”

   The master scrivener wrote three words on his working palimpsest, with a quick fluidity that Cerryl envied. Then Tellis set aside the quill and studied what he had written. Finally, he nodded. “You can't tell for certain for years, but I'd say you did a good job. It feels right, and you do get a feel for these sorts of things in time.”

   “Thank you, ser.” Cerryl didn't know what else to say.

   “You listen, Cerryl. I wasn't sure at first, you know. You always are so polite. Some folks are polite and never hear a thing.” Tellis cleared his throat. “Enough praise. You need to get to work on the new job.” He looked toward the volume by the copy stand-An Alchemical Manual.

   Cerryl nodded. He'd already looked through the first pages, and the manual was even more boring than the herbal book had been, even more boring than the measurements book had been.

   “After you finish cleaning up,” Tellis added.

   Clunk! With the sound of the opening door to the front room came a hot and light breeze, more of the fine white dust from the street-and voices.

   “Is this the place?”

   “Trust me, Fydel.”

   “Not so much as others, dear Anya.”

   Tellis glanced at Cerryl. “You stay here. You can fill the inkstands and then put away the ink.” The scrivener hurried around the worktable and into the front room. “Could I help you, sers?”

   “Do you have The Book of Ayrlyn?” The voice was feminine, if hard, and Cerryl thought he'd heard her before. The white mage in the street? What was she doing at the scrivener's? His heart beat faster. Why would she enter the shop?

   “I'm afraid I don't know that book, ser.”

   Cerryl frowned as he filled the inkstand on the worktable and moved to the copy desk. Even he could tell Tellis was lying.

   “You have not heard of it?”

   “There's not a scrivener alive who has not heard of it. None of us would dare touch it, much less copy it.”

   Cerryl could sense the absolute truth in the scrivener's words. He forced himself to concentrate, then filled his own inkstand.

   “Ah...” A musical laugh followed. “That is more truthful, scrivener. Have you ever seen the book?”

   “Many years ago, in Lydiar, the duke had a copy, and his personal scrivener showed it to me. I did not touch it or read it.”

   “My... you do respect us. That is good. What about Colors of White?”

   Cerryl put the ink jar on the proper shelf, then walked to the wash-stand and basin.

   “.. . copied that for the honored Sterol.”

   A young-faced and stocky man in white-although he had a dark and heavy beard-peered through the doorway into the workroom. He stared for a moment at Cerryl.

   Cerryl got the same feeling as when he felt he was being watched through a screening glass. “Might I help you, ser?”

   “No. I was just looking.” A lazy smile followed. “Are you the scrivener's apprentice?”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “The only one?” Cerryl nodded.

   “I suppose you do things like mix inks and scrub the place?” The mage's voice was pleasant but held a condescending tone.

   “Yes, ser.” Cerryl wanted to meet the man's eyes but looked down instead, afraid the other would see the anger and fear within him. “I also do some copying and run whatever errands master Tellis wishes.”

   “You know your letters?” The mage stepped to the copy desk and opened the cover of the book, then closed it, half contemptuously. “Yes, ser.”

   “Both tongues?”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “I suppose you know Temple better?”

   “I'm better with the old tongue,” Cerryl admitted. “Thank you.” The mage nodded and turned out of the doorway and toward Tellis. Cerryl listened.

   “Was there anything back there?” asked the woman mage. “Just the apprentice, and an alchemist's book to be copied.” A deep laugh followed. “I think we can go, Anya.”

   “Thank you, master scrivener.”

   The front door closed, and Tellis stepped back into the workroom. His forehead was glazed with sweat. Cerryl knew his own forehead was damp as well.

   “The bearded one. What did he want?” asked Tellis. “He wanted to know if I were your only apprentice. I said I was.”

   “What have you done, Cerryl?” Tellis's voice sharpened. “What have you done?”

   “Nothing.” The apprentice looked helplessly at the scrivener. “I can't think of anything out of the ordinary. I've read the books, run errands, and copied things, I've never even been close to their tower.”

   “Do you know any black mages?” The bushy eyebrows seemed to stand out as the scrivener peered at his apprentice.

   Cerryl looked directly at Tellis, meeting his eyes squarely. “Ser, I wouldn't know a black mage if he appeared in the front room.”

   “I don't understand. I've been so careful.” Tellis fingered his bare chin. “Why would they be here?” He looked at Cerryl again. “Are you sure you don't know anything about this?”

 
  “Ser,” Cerryl said carefully, “we've all felt we've been watched. Beryal said something about that. I've felt people were looking from the alleyway.” He shrugged again. “I haven't done anything any different. I haven't stolen anything. I haven't insulted anyone. I haven't gone anyplace I wasn't supposed to go.”

   “Then why did the white mages come in here? They didn't want a book. They asked me about a forbidden book.”

   “They asked about The Book of Ayrlyn. You've never said anything about it. What is it?” Cerryl glanced at Tellis. “Why would they ask about that? You only copy the books they want.”

   “That's just it.” The scrivener fingered his chin once more, frowning. “I don't know why they asked that.”

   “I don't know what the book is,” Cerryl suggested obliquely, hoping Tellis would offer a clue.

   “Oh... one of the old forgeries. It's supposed to be the story of one of the ancient black angels. It couldn't be. There's nothing from that time. They didn't have scriveners. The Guild would know.”

   “So they're looking for a forgery? They should know you better than that.”

   “They should,” Tellis agreed. “You haven't been copying anything else, have you?”

   “No, ser. I haven't copied a line you haven't told me to. Not one.”

   “I believe you.” Tellis frowned again. “But it doesn't make sense. What could they possibly be looking for?”

   Me, Cerryl wanted to answer. But why? It can't because of Uncle Syodor and Aunt Nail. They'd already have turned chaos on me. “They act like they're looking for something, but maybe they're asking all the scriveners or people who might have books. They didn't seem upset when they left.”

   “That's true.” Tellis's face brightened slightly. “They just take people away for the road if they've done something wrong.” A furrow crossed his forehead. “It is troubling, though.”

   “Yes.” Cerryl had to cough to clear his throat. “I could barely answer when he stood there.”

   “You see why you don't ever want to cross them? They know almost everything.”

   “Yes, ser.” Cerryl only hoped they didn't know absolutely everything. His stomach remained clenched in knots, and every word felt like an effort. He knew there would be no more warm water, and no more reading of forbidden books-not for a long, long time.

   He swallowed.

   “Well... white mages or not... you've copying to do.” Tellis's voice sounded forced, and he wiped his forehead.

   “Yes, ser.” Cerryl feared his own voice sounded equally false.

   “Take out that ink and get to it, then.”

   “I filled the stands already.” Cerryl stepped toward the copy desk.

   “Good. I need to go over to Nivor's. It won't be more than a moment or two. You see what you can do. Skip the illustrations on the overleaf. I'll do those. You start on the main text.”

   Cerryl took out his penknife, hoping his hands would not shake too much, hoping Tellis would leave and that he could gather himself together.

   “Keep the letter width thin.” Tellis stood by the workroom door for a moment, then jerked his head away. The door closed firmly, almost as though it had been slammed.

   Cerryl just sat on the stool for a time before his hands stopped shaking, and before he dared to sharpen the quill.

Cerryl rubbed his eyes, then picked up the chamber pot and trudged out through the courtyard and through the gate to the sewer catch, still in his tattered nightshirt and half-wondering why he bothered.

   Because some white mage probably tracks all the sewer dumps. He frowned, then lifted the lid and held his breath as he dumped out the odoriferous contents into the even more concentrated and noxious wastes that flowed through what seemed to be a large runnel of fired and glazed brick. How many kays of such runnels ran beneath Fairhaven ... and why? So that the city smelled a little better?

   When the chamber pot was empty, he lowered the dump lid and retreated to the courtyard pump, where he rinsed the battered crockery chamber pot. Then he returned to the sewer dump. Once was enough, especially since he wasn't looking forward to bathing in chill water, not that he had dared to do otherwise for the last eight-day. Not after the visit from the pair of mages, and not with Tellis looking sideways & him and grumping at everything he did, as if he'd suddenly been declared a thief-or worse.

   “Cerryl...”

   He looked up. Pattera was flattened against the whitened bricks of the alleyway-gray in the dawn-less than a dozen cubits from the sewer dump and the back gate.

   “Don't say anything,” she whispered. “They say that the mages are coming for you-that you're a ... renegade. That's what they say.”

   “Who says?” Cerryl hissed back, turning.

   “They do.”

   “Who?”

   “Just... I have to go. You have to get away before they come. Just go... please.”

   She turned, and Cerryl watched blankly as Pattera scurried back down the alley, the shawl over her nightdress flapping as her bare feet padded on the stones.

   A renegade? Him? For heating some water? They couldn't have known about his reading Colors of White. Besides, the book really hadn't said anything, not anything that wasn't common sense, except for the history part. He'd read the same things in the histories that Tellis had given him, and those weren't forbidden. Tellis didn't dare to have anything like that around.

   With a last look down the now-empty alley, he lifted the chamber pot and reentered the courtyard, closing the gate. He glanced down the alley again from the gate. The way was empty, without a sign that Pattera had ever even been there.

   His bare feet carried him back to his room. Why had she come to warn him, and how had she known? Did the weavers' guild know? Or had her father overheard something?

   Cerryl moistened his lips and opened his door.

   When he had replaced the chamber pot in the corner of his room, he returned to the pump again, this time with his wash-water bucket. The cold water spilled across his hands as he filled the bucket.

   Cold water? For how long? For the rest of his life? Or until someone showed up to claim he was a renegade?

   He walked slowly back into his room.

   Should he run?

   He shook his head. Running would only tell them he had done Wrong-and they'd kill him like his father and the fugitive at Dylert's.

   They might anyway, but he hadn't done anything that wrong, of that he was convinced. But... did they care?

   Should he get rid of the books and his father's amulet? No... if they came for him, those wouldn't matter, one way or another, and he wasn't going to give up what little he had of his father out of fear.

 
  Still... he shuddered as he dipped the washrag into the bucket of too-chill water. For all his hopes, for all his dreams, he had nowhere to run and no way to escape.

   The cold water on his face helped ... for a moment.

Tellis cleared his throat. “I continue to wonder about those mages. No one at the tower has said so much as a word, and yesterday Sterol requested that I come again the day after tomorrow to act as a copyist.” The scrivener scratched the back of his head, then fingered his chin.

   Cerryl continued to sweep the floor stones of the workroom, bending to ease the dirt and tiny leather and vellum scraps and bits of dried glue into the wooden dust holder. For days, Tellis had been muttering about the mages, for days, always half-questioning Cerryl, not quite insisting that Cerryl was the reason.

   “What do you think, Cerryl?”

   The apprentice finished sweeping the dirt and leavings into the holder and straightened, carefully emptying the holder into the waste bin before replying. “I don't know, ser.”

   “They were here. How can you not think something?”

   “I was afraid,” Cerryl admitted. I still am. “I'd never seen more than one white mage before I came to Fairhaven.”

   “The one even questioned you.” Tellis's voice bore the faintest tone of reproach.

   “All he asked was what I did and whether I was the only apprentice.” Cerryl slipped the empty dust holder onto its peg and leaned the broom in the corner. He stepped over to the washstand to clean his hands. “He stared at me for a moment, and then he left.”

   “That's all he did?”

   “Yes, ser.” How many times had Cerryl told Tellis that?

   “But why would they ask about that book?” Tellis fingered his chin again. “They have to know I wouldn't ever cross them.”

   “Neither would I,” Cerryl added. Not openly. It's too dangerous. “I didn't even know that there was such a book.”

   Tellis coughed. “Can't get my throat clear. Not for anything.” He coughed again. “I just don't understand. I've always followed the guidelines. Always.” His voice cracked slightly.

   “They are mages,” Cerryl said evenly, drying his hands and stepping toward the copy desk and the waiting volume-An Alchemical Manual.

   “That is just it,” insisted Tellis. “They must have a reason; they must have.”

   “They must have.” Cerryl leaned forward and inspected the quill in the holder, forcing his voice to remain even, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “They are mages.” He paused. “Do you want me to keep working on this, ser?”

   “That?” Tellis's head twitched. “Oh, the manual for Nivor? If you can keep the letter width thin enough. That last page is barely passable. For a journeyman, yes, but not from Tellis the scrivener.” He frowned. “You aren't listening to me these days, not enough.”

   “I try, ser. I'm cutting the nibs the way you showed me yesterday, and I am comparing the letters to the gauge.”

   “You shouldn't have to compare. You should know.”

   “Yes, ser.” Cerryl lifted the quill.

   “See that you do.”

   The apprentice nodded.

   “I still don't understand about the mages ... Sterol trusts me with all of his books. Why would he send lesser mages into my shop? Why?”

   Cerryl kept breathing evenly and took out his penknife to resharpen the quill. After working on it, he stood by the copy desk, waiting, hoping he could either get on with the copying or go on an errand.

   “My shop,” Tellis repeated. “Why would any mage come to my shop? My shop, of all others.”

   “Stop moaning, Tellis,” interrupted Beryal from the doorway. “If they'd a wanted you on the road, you'd be pounding rocks already. Your high and mighty Sterol would a squashed you like a ground lizard under his shiny white boots. Same's for your apprentice there. They were looking for something. They didn't find it here. Count yourself lucky, and stop moaning. If they were after you, you wouldn't be getting copy work.”

   Cerryl wanted to sigh in relief, or smile. He didn't.

   “Beryal... you are not the one to lecture me.” Tellis turned and glared at the older woman.

   “I be telling you I'm on my way to the market, ser.” Beryal inclined her head. “Deria said there were some tender chickens a-coming from Howlett. Some roast fowl would do us all good. Course, I'd need a half silver or so, for that and all else you'd be needing.”

   Tellis sighed, then looked at Cerryl. “You can do what you can with Ivor's book. Keep the letters slender. When I get back, you can scrub the floor in the front room.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “After that, you can scrub down the courtyard.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “The market, ser?” prompted Beryal. “You'd not be wanting me to be the last one in line for a fowl, you know?”

   Tellis gave another sigh and marched out of the workroom, Beryal trailing him.

   Cerryl felt like sighing, and did, if silently.