The White Order (12 page)

   Cerryl glanced around the courtyard again. There was a third door on the right wall, and a narrow door near the common room door on the left.

   Tellis followed his eyes. “Those are our rooms.”

   The youth didn't ask who “ours” included, or what room was whose, but nodded.

   “Put your things in your room. Arrange it how you like and then come back to the workroom.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   Tellis nodded and left Cerryl standing in the empty courtyard, his pack on his shoulders. Cerryl crossed the courtyard, perhaps ten cubits square, and gingerly lifted the latch and opened the door.

   He let his breath out slowly. The space was perhaps four cubits by five and contained a pallet bed-wider than the one he had used at Dylert's-a washstand with pitcher and basin, and a narrow doorless wardrobe of plain and battered pine, plus a stool. The floor was stone, and the faintest film of white dust covered everything.

   His nose itched, and he rubbed it, then set his pack on the foot of the pallet. He took another deep breath before opening the canvas flap and lifting out his jacket. He left his battered half-copy of Colors of White inside the pack-and his medallion from his father. He would need to find a hiding place for them, and soon.

As soon as Cerryl had arranged his things and returned to the workroom, Tellis stopped his work. “Might as well freshen the water. Empty the basins in the house first. Then fill the pitchers.”

   Another figure appeared behind Cerryl. Beryal tapped Cerryl on the shoulder. “Be more than that. Use the polished bucket on the peg. The rough bucket's for scrubbing. Always pump a bucket first and empty it. No telling what be in the pump. Empty the basins into the sewer catch before you start pumping water, and don't be using the bucket for dirtied wash water. Sewer catch be outside the courtyard gate. If there's dirt in the basins, wash them under the pump. That's before you bring water into the house. Understand?”

   Cerryl nodded and headed for the courtyard, carrying the empty basin. After emptying it and the one on the kitchen washstand, he rinsed them and replaced them. Then, heeding what Beryal had said, he began pumping, letting a bucket's worth of water spill over the polished wash stones before rinsing the bucket itself and filling it. He carted the water back to the workroom to refill the pitcher.

   “When you finish with the water, Cerryl...” Tellis did not complete the sentence, preoccupied as he was with the nipping press in the corner.

   “I'll come back.”

   Tellis grunted without looking up.

   Cerryl trudged back out to the kitchen, where Beryal was kneading read. The faint odor of yeast filled the room, and he took a deep breath.

   “You can refill the pitchers on the corner table.”

   “They're next,” Cerryl said, knowing that was what she wanted.

   “Good.”

   He slipped past her and carried the bucket through the common room and out into the courtyard, back to the long-handled pump. He lifted the pump handle. While it still amazed him that clean water flowed beneath the streets, he was happy enough not to be lifting buckets from a deep well. With the bucket three-quarters full, as much water as he dared carry, he turned and started back across the courtyard. A cool breeze, foreshadowing winter, ruffled his hair.

   “Hello ...” A girl's face peered over the whitened wood of the rear gate. “Are you Tellis's new apprentice?” She giggled, then offered a shy grin before brushing a strand of brown hair back off her forehead. “You must be. Only apprentices carry water.”

   Cerryl set down the bucket and walked toward the gate, stopping several cubits back and studying her, knowing he'd seen her. Then he nodded. “You're Pattera, the weaver. I'm Cerryl.”

   Pattera's smile vanished. “How did you know my name?”

   “I was walking by the shop, and your father told you to mind the loom.” Cerryl offered his own grin. “That was when I was looking for Tellis's place.”

   “Oh... you were the boy in the window.”

   Cerryl wasn't sure he liked being called a boy, but he nodded and kept smiling.

   “Father doesn't like it when I look at boys.” She glanced over her shoulder and down the alleyway. “I'd better go. I'm supposed to be at the market.” Another shy smile, and she was gone.

   Cerryl picked up the bucket and reentered the house.

   “Those weaver girls are nothing but trouble, Cerryl. Mind that,” said Beryal. After a moment when he didn't answer, she added, “Cerryl? Did you pump one pail and empty it out first? I didn't see that.”

   “I rinsed the bucket.”

   “Like I told you? Just like I told you?”

   “No, ser.”

   “Go do it, and be thankful I'm asking. Benthann would have emptied the pitcher over you.” Beryal had covered the bread dough with a gauzelike cloth and was slicing pale green roots into a skillet. “Then she would have made you mop the floor.”

   Without speaking, he turned and went out and through the courtyard and the gate and lifted the access stone to the sewer, pouring out the bucket. It was easier to comply with Beryal's whims than to argue that he'd cleaned the bucket before he'd started and run the pump through several cycles, letting the water flow over the wash stones.

   Cerryl replaced the stone and straightened, feeling eyes upon him, then looked toward the end of the alleyway. Pattera waved at him from where alley and street met. With his free hand he returned the gesture. Carrying two long cylindrical loaves of bread in her left arm, the brown-haired girl slipped from sight down the lesser artisans' way.

   Back in the courtyard, Cerryl refilled the bucket and returned to the kitchen, where he first refilled the pitchers on the table in the corner.

   “Do it right first, next time.”

   “Yes, Beryal.”

   Beryal turned and slipped the skillet onto the hot stove.

   Cerryl stepped away from the heat of the kitchen, wiping his forehead on his sleeve, and out into the courtyard, where he replaced the bucket on the peg over the pump. After washing his hands and face, and feeling the chill of the breeze on his damp skin, he hurried back to the workroom.

   No sooner had he stepped through the door from the kitchen into the showroom than Tellis called out, “Cerryl?”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “At the desk.”

   Cerryl cautiously approached the empty writing desk against the wall.

   “Just sit down.” The scrivener set the wood-framed and oblong slate on the writing desk. Beside it was the sheet of parchment that contained the practice sentences-one for Temple script and one for the old tongue. Each sentence contained every letter character. Tellis handed Cerryl an oblong of chalk. “You need more practice. Look at the models. Every letter you write should be identical to every other one-of the same letter, I mean.”

   Cerryl understood. Each letter alir should be the same as every other alir. The tedium bothered him, not the ideal Tellis espoused. “How do you know whether to write a book in Temple or old tongue?”

   Tellis cleared his throat. “Mostly old tongue here in Fairhaven. In Lydiar, were I scribing there, most would be in Temple. The blacks were stronger there after the fall of Cyador and Lornth, and Relyn is still revered on the coast.”

   “Relyn?” The name wasn't familiar to Cerryl, and he wondered if Relyn had been a duke or something.

   “The founder of the Temples.” Tellis shook his head. “You must read more. I'll give you an old history... but wash your hands each time before you open it.”

   “I will,” Cerryl promised, even as he wondered what good history would do him. Still, scribing promised a better life than millworking, and if Tellis thought he should read a history, it might not hurt too much.

   “The Temple tongue is easier, and it is used more every year.” Tellis shrugged. “The white mages prefer the old tongue, though, like as I can see, the two are not that dissimilar. Now ... practice.”

   Cerryl looked at the chalk between his fingers, then looked at the practice lines of old tongue, even if he really didn't need to do so to know the words. He already knew the sentence by heart. Still... he'd better concentrate on replicating the shapes of the letters.

   At the sound of footsteps in the front showroom, when Cerryl had written but a dozen lines on the slate, Tellis straightened from his repairs to the recalcitrant nipping press.

   Cerryl did not turn. He could sense that the customer was a white mage; the telltale red-tinged white energies suffused the shop. He forced himself to copy another sentence, concentrating on the form and shape of the letters, almost drawing them, his fingers trembling.

   “Yes, honored ser?” offered Tellis smoothly.

   “Do you have The Founding of Fyrad and the White Lands? Sterol had said that you had recopied versions of some of the old tales.”

   “Yes, ser. In the burgundy on the end... would you like me to show you?”

   “Please.” The voice was bored.

   “Here. You see, this was copied from the master version-”

   “That's clear enough. Show me the end pages.”

   Cerryl forced himself to begin another sentence in old tongue. The chalk squeaked, but neither Tellis nor the mage spoke. Cerryl stopped and used the small bronze scraping knife to whittle off the imperfection in the chalk stick.

   “... not interested in... Red Shield of Rohrn ... what about The Legend of Fornal?”

   “I am still copying that, honored mage. Another two eight-days, perhaps.”

   “Here is a silver. That should hold the Fornal volume, should it not?”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “I see you have Histories of Cyador ... both volumes, yet. For what are you offering them?”

   “They are hand-copied with light brimstone iron ink, ser. A gold and two silvers each.”

   “Two golds for the set, and another gold for the Fornal when it is ready. That's beyond the silver I gave you... if... if it is ready within three eight-days.”

   Cerryl swallowed. Three golds and a silver for three volumes? He'd never seen a gold himself. At his wages ... earning a gold would take years.

   “Yes, ser. It will be ready.”

   “Good.”

   “Do you want me to deliver the histories?”

   “I'll take them ... if you have something for me to carry them in.”

   “A book carry bag. I have one here for you, ser.” A drawer of the showroom chest rumbled slightly. “Fine wool, it is.”

   “Put the histories in it. Gently, scrivener. Gently.”

   Cerryl found himself looking blankly at what he had written when Tellis stepped back into the workroom.

   “That's better, young fellow. Keep looking at the models.” Tellis stepped toward the workbench.

   He had not quite filled the slate when Tellis reappeared at his shoulder.

   “A fine hand you have, young Cerryl, but it takes more than pretty characters to make a scrivener.” Tellis shook his head. “You can work. That I know, for you work without praise or punishment, and Dylert can judge that better than any man I ever met.”

   Cerryl waited. Usually waiting attentively would encourage people to say more-that he had learned.

   “Even a fine hand and hard work will not make a scrivener,” Tellis went on. “Nor will colored leather bindings and the finest folio stitching.” He paused and looked at Cerryl.

   “What will, master scrivener?” asked the apprentice, taking his cue from Tellis's pause.

   “That... that takes a love of the words, of what they say. A scrivener is not just a bookbinder. He is not just a scribe. Not just a recopier of ancient tales and histories ...”

   “So... you're filling another poor lad's ear with dreams and drivel?” Cerryl looked up at the acid tones.

   The young woman who stood in the doorway from the showroom was blond, trim but muscular. The dark blue eyes seemed to flash, even though the light from outside made her face appear veiled in shadow. “Tell me this one's name. If he stays, I might remember it.”

   “Cerryl, lady,” offered the apprentice.

   “He's polite, too. You always pick the polite ones. They don't tell YOU how empty your words are.” The eyes flicked to Cerryl. “Oh, I'm Benthann. I'm the one who makes poor Tellis's days miserable and his nights glorious.”

   “Benthann...” The scrivener's voice was calm, unstressed. “Did you get the vellum?”

   “Arkos will deliver it this afternoon. I couldn't be bothered to carry it.” Benthann smiled. “Besides, I got it for less than you wanted to pay. Four silvers for the lot. Last time it cost you eight, and this is better.” She paused.

   Cerryl forced himself not to turn to see Tellis's reaction.

   “Coins are all that count, Tellis. Did anyone buy anything today?” Benthann glanced at Cerryl. “They usually don't, you know. They look and make pleasant noises, and then they leave.” She glanced from Cerryl to Tellis.

   The scrivener offered a faint smile but did not answer her question.

   “He doesn't really need the shop at all,” continued Benthann. “They offer more coins for him to be a scribe.”

   “They wouldn't do that,” responded Tellis mildly, “if I were not a reputable scrivener with a shop. You know that, Benthann.”

   “You need not spend so much coin and time on those presses and the colored leathers ...”

   Cerryl wondered why Tellis didn't just say that someone had bought two books for three golds and ordered a third. He looked at the scrivener.

   “The leather protects the words, and the whites value that protection.” The spare face remained calm, almost disinterested.

   “You have a word for everything.” Benthann's voice carried a tone between a sneer and a laugh. “I will see you later. Good day to you, young Cerryl.”

   Cerryl blinked, and the young woman was gone.

   “She has not learned that there is a truth beyond coins.” Tellis gave a headshake and looked at Cerryl, then at the slate. “Wipe it clean and copy again, this time all in old tongue.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   With a smile, Tellis produced a thick woolen rag. “Use this. At the end of the day wash it out and hang it on the end of the rack here.” He pointed.

   Cerryl took the rag and began to wipe the slate clean. What sort of a shop did Tellis run, and who was Benthann?

   He kept his face expressionless as he cleaned the chalk from the practice slate.