The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(104)

“Esaak wants everyone to know how much water the sewers can carry and how you determine how strong a wall or bridge is.”

“Walls and bridges?” blurted Cerryl.

“Those are next,” affirmed Faltar, attacking another chunk of hard yellow cheese. “He says being a mage isn't just wielding chaos-force. Oh, and Derka says I'll start doing sewers pretty soon, maybe before you finish. He has to talk to Myral.”

“It's not exactly fun,” demurred Cerryl.

“That's what he says.”

As he chewed the fresh bread, Cerryl looked at Kesrik, not so much with his eyes as with his senses. The stocky blond sat at the corner table with the red-haired Kochar and the goateed Bealtur, and at that moment, none were looking toward Cerryl or Faltar. Then Cerryl turned his scrutiny to Kinowin, who stood over the table where Esaak had been eating alone.

Cerryl blinked, then looked more at Esaak. Clearly, a far greater chaos power surrounded Kinowin-although far less than Cerryl would have guessed-than the other two, and even the aging Esaak blazed with power compared to Kesrik. Cerryl glanced at Faltar the same way.

“What's the matter? You have a funny look,” mumbled Faltar.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

About chaos power and who shows it. “All sorts of things. Esaak, Kinowin, Kesrik.”

“Sometimes you think too much.” Faltar swallowed the last of the ale in his mug.

Cerryl tried not to wince at the thought of starting the day with ale, glancing at Lyasa, who walked into the meal hall with Leyladin. Lyasa, like Faltar, showed a modicum of chaos. The red-golden-haired Leyladin flickered with what Cerryl sensed as flecks or streaks of white that seemed to swirl in and through an unseen black mist that enshrouded the blonde. Was that what a black mage looked, felt like? Black mists? Cerryl quickly looked down at his platter as Leyladin's eyes swept toward him.

“Too bad she's a black,” murmured Faltar.

“I thought you were more interested in Anya,” countered Cerryl in a low tone.

Faltar flushed.

“She's beautiful,” agreed Cerryl. But so are lances and daggers. “Anya, I meant.”

“I got who you meant.”

“Even if I were a full mage, I think I'd walk carefully with her ” Cerryl murmured.

“I didn't ask...” Faltar looked hard at Cerryl. “You aren't a full mage.”

“You're right.” Cerryl forced a smile. “Anyway ... different women appeal to different men.” He paused. “It's your choice. When the time comes, Faltar, the best of luck to you.”

“Oh... thank you. I'm sorry. I must have ... never mind.”

“It is one of those mornings, I think. Have you heard about any more lancers going places?”

“No one's saying, but there aren't many left in the barracks out back.” Faltar mumbled through a mouthful of bread. “I overheard Kinowin talking about some armsmen from Hydlen. I thought he said twenty score.”

“Twenty score? That's a lot. It seems like a lot to me.”

Faltar laughed. “You know Eliasar took twice that with him? And that doesn't count the lancers in the south barracks outside Fairhaven. There are ten times as many there as here.”

“A good number.” Something like four thousand white lancers? No wonder Fairhaven needed the road tariffs.

“That's why we need the tariffs. Fairhaven is what holds Candar together, and the Guild holds Fairhaven together.” Faltar nodded sagely, blond hair flopping onto his forehead and spoiling the effect. He stood. “I have to meet with Broka. Bones and more bones.”

Cerryl stood more slowly, his eyes drifting toward the table where Lyasa and Leyladin sat. Neither glanced toward him as he left the meal hall.

As he walked across the courtyard, past the fountain and the spray that seemed chill with the wind, despite the bright spring sun, he had the feeling that every time he learned more about Fairhaven, there was more to learn, and so much no one talked about. So much wasn't in the books, either, like the amount of chaos that surrounded some people.

Lyasa and even Faltar-even the new student Kochar-showed far more chaos power than Kesrik. Yet Jeslek seemed to favor Kesrik.

Cerryl made his way through the front hall, past the closed doors to the meeting hall, across the foyer to the tower steps and past the pair of guards. Hertyl gave him a faint smile, and Cerryl smiled back.

At the second landing, Cerryl rapped on Myral's door.

“Come in.”

Cerryl opened the heavy door, smelled the spiced cider, and close the door behind him.

Myral sipped his usual steaming cider, though the room was comfortable, at least to Cerryl, and the shutters were half-open, showing a sunlit view of Fairhaven to the north of the tower.

Cerryl glanced from the window to the wall of bookshelves and then to the older mage, seated at the table.

“Have some cider.”

“Thank you.” Cerryl slipped into the chair across from Myral, pouring cider into the spare mug and taking a sip. Cider was far better than plain water or ale in the morning.

“How are you coming?”

“Another few days, and I'll have finished the secondary to where it joins the western branch of the main runnel.”

Myral's eyebrows lifted. “You're moving faster.”