The White Order (26 page)

In the late afternoon, with gray light falling through the library windows, Cerryl rubbed his forehead, forcing himself to concentrate on the words on the vellum.

... the heavy greases, be they cooking tallow or Tenderer's leavings or... reform in a weak order upon exposure to heat or chaos or heat created by the chaos within chaos-rich wastes ... such scattered blocks of order combine with detritus of a less solid nature to impede the flow of fluids necessary for evacuation ...

   He'd thought the histories and the philosophizing of Colors of White had been boring and difficult to follow, but they were transparently clear compared to Myral's The Management of Offal. The book wasn't even that long, less than a hundred pages. He continued reading and turned the page.

... odoriferous as they may appear, night soil and animal droppings retain but a weak order and will dissolve in the presence of water into a liquid which can be purified through the application of simple techniques..."

   “Cerryl?”

   He looked up. Faltar and Lyasa stood by the library table. “Didn't you hear the bells?”

   “The bells?” Even as he asked, he felt stupid. He knew he sounded stupid.

   “Those are Myral's books, aren't they?” Lyasa pointed to the volumes by his elbow. “The ones on wastes and offal?”

   Cerryl nodded.

   “How long have you had them?” she asked.

   “Since yesterday.” Cerryl massaged his forehead again, this time with his left hand, then the back of his neck, trying to work out the tension.

   “How many years did it take Myral to write them?” Lyasa demanded.

   Faltar offered an ironic smile.

   “He only wrote one. This one.” Cerryl glanced from Faltar to the dark-haired student.

   “It's the same thing.” Lyasa's voice bore a tinge of exasperation. “It took him years to figure it out enough to write it, and you're trying to learn it all in a day.”

   “I only have an eight-day.”

   “You have an eight-day to read it - not learn it word by word.”

   “Cerryl has to know it better than anyone . . . even Myral,” said Faltar.

   “Says who?”

   “Cerryl,” answered the blond student mage.

   “You two.” Lyasa glared at Faltar, then at Cerryl. “Let's go eat.”

   Cerryl stood, feeling his muscles twinge. How long had he reading?

   “Too long,” answered Faltar.

   Lyasa had already left the common by the time Cerryl scooped up the books from the table and started down the corridor toward the meal hall. He stopped by his cell and quickly set the books on the desk.

   “Why do you have to learn everything as quickly as you do?” asked Faltar as Cerryl stepped back into the corridor.

   “This is the first place where I've ever been supposed to learn, and ... I don't know.” Cerryl looked down at the polished stone floor tiles, glad he didn't have to scrub floors any longer.

   “Why did the scrivener take you on? I mean . . .”

   “I was a mill boy without any learning?” Cerryl nodded. “I got the millmaster's daughter to teach me my letters and help me. She gave me books, both in the old tongue and in Temple. They're really not that different.”

   “You taught yourself to read?” Faltar shook his head.

   “There wasn't anyone else.” Cerryl glanced around the meal hall, only half-occupied because the full mages ate there intermittently. Kesrik was at a corner table, apparently being lectured by Fydel about something, because his face was more sullen than usual. Lyasa was at the serving table. “And I didn't do it alone. I did have help.”

   “Darkness,” hissed Faltar. “It's the lemon lamb.”

   The lemon lamb was fine with Cerryl, but he nodded. “It could be worse.”

   “Cheese in the sewer? It would take that. Oh ... sorry ... it'll be my turn next, I suppose.”

   “You haven't done sewer duty?” Cerryl took a large serving of the lamb and a chunk of dark bread and a too-firm pearapple-none of which showed signs of chaos, and probably never would, but the habit he'd developed early had stayed with him.

   “Some people get it early, some late, some-like Kesrik-get it more than once.” Faltar took a smaller helping of stew, nearly half a loaf of the dark bread, and two pearapples.

   “Kesrik's had two times on sewer duty?”

   “That I know of. They say Kinowin did four as a student, and Eliasar three.”

   Cerryl frowned. The big mage had done sewer duty four times? The arms mage three times?

   Faltar inclined his head toward the round table where Lyasa sat alone, and Cerryl followed him.

   “I see you two finally got hungry.” The black-haired young woman looked up as they sat down.

   “For lemon lamb?” Faltar broke off a chunk of bread, then took a swallow of the light ale. “For this I should hurry?”

   “Try neruada sometime.” Lyasa smiled.

   “Neruada?” asked Cerryl.

   “Marinated goat stomach stuffed with spices and greenery.”

   Faltar mock-glared at her. “Lemon lamb is bad enough.”

   Cerryl laughed.

   “It's not funny,” Faltar protested, trying to keep from smiling.

   Lyasa smoothed her face into a serious expression. “Is the poor student mage so sour that he cannot withstand the additional sourness of even a tender lamb?”

   Faltar half-coughed, then choked and sputtered out fragments of bread.

   Cerryl grinned even as he ducked.

   After he recovered, Faltar took a sip of the ale and glared at Lyasa. “I will never say an unkind word about lamb. Ever.” He paused. “Until it's served again.”

   “It could be old mutton.” Lyasa shook her head.

   Cerryl took a healthy mouthful of the lamb, being careful not to look at Faltar. He didn't want to start laughing and choke, too.

   “So ... you're starting on the sewers?” Lyasa looked down at her empty platter. “I was hungry.”

   “Interesting phrasing there.” Faltar's voice was dry.

   Lyasa flushed. “You're ...”

   “Difficult.”

   Cerryl swallowed quickly.

   “You are. You know you are. Wait until you get in the sewers Faltar.”

   “Scrivener's apprentice going to get his whites all dirty...” Bealtur's voice drifted across the room from where he sat at the same table with Heralt. The diffident Heralt continued to eat without speaking.

   “Let him talk,” said Lyasa quietly. “He doesn't understand.”

   Cerryl didn't, either, but wasn't about to admit it. He broke off another chunk of bread.

   “You still suffering with Esaak?” asked Faltar.

   “Yes. I still have to study mathematicks, even while I'm working with Myral.” Cerryl grimaced.

   “Numbers and sewers and offal... numbers and sewers and offal ...” offered Faltar in a whispered chant, grinning broadly.

   “Enough.” But Lyasa grinned.

   So did Cerryl, even as he wondered about the sewers.

A narrow cooper's wagon rolled by, carrying but three large barrels, less than three cubits from where Cerryl stood on the west side of the avenue, his white leather jacket unfastened. The driver flicked the reins, careful not to look directly at Cerryl, and the single horse halt-whuffed, half-sighed.

   After the wagon passed, Cerryl turned the map, frowning, trying to hold it against the wind and study the tracery of black and purple and red lines. The two main sewers, the ones that collected wastes from all the others, mostly followed the avenue, each along an alleyway about a hundred cubits back from the avenue. The map showed sewers in three sizes, and from what Cerryl could deduce, there were large tunnels with walkways, smaller tunnels, and then a scattering of covered brick ditches.

   Cerryl grinned as he looked from the map to the granite paving stones, and then to the large houses on the east side of the avenue-perched almost above the large sewer tunnels. Then he nodded. Of course, those with coins got the best waste disposal and the best roads and were closest to the market and the artisans, and even the grain exchange.

   He walked farther north, past the market square, finding his mouth watering as the smell of roasting fowl was carried to him on the midday wind that also held a hint of rain to come. Overhead, thin but dark gray clouds scudded southward.

   “... spices for the winter ... spices for late harvest...”

   “.. . best roots in Candar ... turnips, beets ... get your roots here...”

   “Baskets, baskets for storage ...”

   Cerryl lurched as a sudden gust of wind jerked at the map, almost dragging him off the curbstone and into the avenue itself. Since the way was clear, he rerolled the map and walked across the south side of the market area.

   A girl, perhaps the age of Serai, Pattera's sister, walked around a blue cart displaying woven blankets, still looking over her shoulder. Her head turned, and she swallowed as she saw the white jacket and trousers. Before Cerryl could say a word, she ducked back behind the cart.

   “A blanket, young ser? A fine white blanket?”

   Cerryl shook his head and, rolled map in hand, continued across the square. He almost stopped at the cart where a thin man roasted fowl, but thought about the few coppers left in his purse and kept walking. Too bad he had left his silvers behind at Tellis's. Once in a while he missed them and wondered if he would ever see that much coin again, but he felt the absence of the amulet more.

   He supposed Kesrik would call him stupid for not caring more about the silvers, but there was little he could do. The Guild had told Tellis that all Cerryl left belonged to the scrivener, and Cerryl couldn't very well show up in Tellis's showroom and ask for his silvers back.

   After reaching the other side of the square and crossing the eastern section of the avenue, he headed north again and into the jewelers' row. Because of the wind, all the doors were closed, but the shutters were open-enough to show that the metalsmiths were present for any customers.

   He paused before a goldsmith's shop with gold-trimmed green shutters and checked the sewer map again, standing close to the white-Painted bricks of the wall to keep the wind from grabbing the map. From what he could tell, the main sewers had been built farther from the avenue north of the market square.

   Another gust of wind-colder-whipped around him. When it subsided, he studied the map again, then walked north to the first side street, where he turned eastward, in the general direction of Nivor's-the apothecary's-looking for the heavy bronze grill that marked an access grate to the main sewer tunnel.

   The grate was almost flush with the wall of a fuller's shop. Cerryl's eyes-and senses-noted the chaos bound into the large white-bronze lock that secured the grate, a square about two cubits on each side.

   With his own senses, he could make out a set of narrow brick steps disappearing into the darkness below. He could also sense that-again-someone was following him with a glass.

   The wind rose, more steadily, and a few drops of something damp wet the back of his neck. He turned and looked up. The clouds were thicker, and intermittent white flakes flew by his face. He could sense the beginning of the headache that always seemed to come with rain or snow.

   Cerryl fastened his jacket and started back toward the tower, half-wondering who was following him with a glass-and why.

Cerryl stepped into Myral's quarters, dim in the morning despite two lit wall lamps. Sleet clicked against the closed shutters, and the shutters rattled. He could feel a draft around his legs until he closed the door from the tower landing. His head throbbed slightly, but it always did during storms.

   “Ah ... a warm winter day in Fairhaven.” Myral wrapped the white wool blanket around his shoulders but remained seated on one side of the table. He gestured to the seat directly across from him.

   Cerryl sat.

   “How did you find the books?”

   “I read them, but I'm certain I didn't understand everything.” Cerryl paused. “I'm sure I didn't.”

   “I'm not sure I understand everything there, and I wrote one of them.” Myral lifted a mug from which steam drifted upward into the chill air of the room and took a sip. “You're being put on sewer duty earlier than most students. Do you know why?”

   “No, ser ... unless it's because I was a scrivener's apprentice.” The remaining draft seeping through the shutters chilled the back of Cerryl's legs, even through the thick white trousers. He shifted his weight in the hard wooden chair, smelling the warm cider in the older mage's mug.

   “That is one reason. We'll get to the other in a bit.” Myral took another sip of the cider. “The important thing to remember is that Fairhaven is what it is because it is an ordered city.” Myral smiled blandly at Cerryl. “I use the word 'ordered' advisedly, but it's not something that should be discussed outside the Guild.” He paused. “Or even within the Guild, except with me, or if Sterol or Jeslek should bring it up. Never with anyone else.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   Myral raised his eyebrows. “There is a difference between thoughts and words. Don't forget that.”

   “No, ser.”

   “Just like a healthy person, a healthy city must have nourishment, a functioning structure or body, fresh clean water, and a way to get rid of wastes. The aqueducts supply the water, and the sewers take away the wastes, and the Guild is there to ensure that the rest of the city's structure works. Are you surprised that the Guild is the White Order?”

   “Ah ...” Cerryl wasn't surprised, and he wasn't unsurprised.

   “You've had to worry about more pressing needs. I imagine you worried more about food than the place of the Guild. That's one reason why Sterol bent the guidelines to admit you.” Myral smiled. “As for order... most of the Guild doesn't like to admit it, and they're not exactly pleased to accord some recognition to the blacks. They'll do what they can ... but you can't separate order and chaos and survive.”

   Cerryl nodded, not knowing what Myral expected.

   “That is enough philosophizing for now. Starting tomorrow, or the day after, if the storm doesn't clear, you are going to be cleaning sewers and finding places in them that need to be repaired. There are several things you need to keep in mind in the sewers.” Myral's tone was dry. “First, look both up and down. People don't look when they open their sewer catches. And the brick, even on the walkways, can crumble or get slimy.”

 
  Cerryl sat silently. Cleaning sewers? That was sewer duty?

   “Also ... you'll be accompanied by lancers-it's disciplinary duty for them... so what kind of guard you get...” The older mage shrugged.

   Guards in the sewers? Cerryl moistened his lips.

   “We do our best to keep the sewers for offal and sewage ... that's one reason why the sewer catches are so small. We don't want people shoving larger wastes, like branches or bodies, into the sewers.” Myral grimaced. “We still find bodies-usually children-and then we have to try to find who killed them. I'll get into that later. If you find a body right now, leave it and send a messenger for me.”

   Guards and bodies? What lurked in the sewers? The door to the tower stairs rattled, and Cerryl's eyes followed the sound before he turned back to concentrate on Myral.

   “Branches and any sort of rubbish that doesn't reflect a crime-it's up to you to dispose of it as you clean the tunnel and the walkway.”

   Cerryl frowned. “With chaos-force, ser?”

   “How else?” Myral offered a broad smile. “How else indeed? You can certainly call it forth.” A brief shadow crossed Myral's face, so brief Cerryl wasn't sure he had seen it. “It crackles around you. You see Cerryl, those with the talent to handle chaos are blessed and cursed. Someone who might be a black mage would not suffer should he choose not to use his talent. That is not true of someone with the talent to handle the white force of chaos. Chaos is so powerful that it must be guided and disciplined. If it is not, it will destroy anyone with the talent to channel it. It cannot be ignored. In time, it will destroy even those of us with discipline.”

   Myral's face turned from an ironic smile to a somber mien. “One either masters chaos, or it masters one. We cannot afford to have even one undisciplined chaos focus in Candar.”

   Cerryl did not know what to say. He waited.

   “You wonder-all young mages wonder-why the Guild suffers no one to survive who is not bound by its disciplines. Are we that power-mad? Are we so insecure that anyone who defies us must be destroyed?” A sadness crossed the round face, and Myral brushed back a lock of wispy black hair, carefully, to cover part of his balding pate. “I fear for the time when there is no Guild, no discipline.”

   How could there not be a Guild? Cerryl shifted his weight and glanced toward the window, but the closed shutters blocked the view of the avenue stretching northward toward the artisans' square.

   “All things pass, young Cerryl, and the Guild will also, as will Fairhaven, and mad chaos-wielders will roam Candar, for the mad attain their powers more quickly.” Myral shook his head. “This I have seen ... but it will be many generations.” He reached for the pitcher and poured still steaming cider into the other mug and extended it to the younger man. “I have been remiss, and the room is draft-ridden.”

   Cerryl sipped the hot cider gratefully.

   “What has this meandering of an old mage to do with the sewers?” The sadness vanished with a forced smile. “The sewers are where you all learn to wield and control chaos-force. If you fail, only you suffer.”

   Cerryl could see that.

   "There are two aspects to sewer duty-three if you count maintenance, but there your job is to protect the masons. You must learn to bring forth chaos-force under control, and you must learn to develop a shield against that force-either that which you raise or that raised by others.

   “The greatest mages-not the most heralded but the greatest-are those with the strongest shields. I'll leave it to you to figure out why.”

   All of the mages did that-they left puzzles for the students to figure out. Was that an ongoing test, or just because they were busy doing other things?

   “You are not to attempt shielding or raising chaos-force anywhere except in the sewers or when directed by me or an overmage.”

   “Are overmages the ones with the sunbursts?”

   “Do you know why none of you are told that? Because the Guild doesn't care much for hotheads.” Myral nodded, almost to himself. “Caution is called for when handling chaos.” Myral smiled. “Did you know that Anya was sent to scare you?”

   “To see if I would flee?”

   “And Kinowin was given instructions to let you have the illusion that you might be able to escape. He didn't like that.”

   Cerryl felt half vindicated, half dazed.

   “The sewers will be harder than that.” Myral lifted the steaming cider. “To a warmer tomorrow.”

   Cerryl lifted his own mug, inclining his head to the rotund mage, knowing there was little else he could do.