The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(110)

Cerryl could sense Kesrik's eyes on his back-or perhaps Bealtur's.

Lyasa nodded tightly. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Myral does fine.” Cerryl wanted to smile but kept his face as expressionless as he could as he set the platter on the table beside Lyasa.

After he seated himself, he could feel Lyasa's hand under the table, briefly touching and squeezing his upper leg, a gesture of reassurance and sadness, all in one. He wanted to tell her that it was all right, but steeled himself and murmured, “It's hard, but it happens.” In a way, the words were true, just not in the way Lyasa would take them.

Faltar looked up from his fowl, a puzzled look crossing his face.

“You'll understand later,” murmured Lyasa. “How long have you been in the sewers? One eight-day?”

“Almost two. I'm not moving very fast.” Faltar shook his head and pulled a long face.

“Most don't,” said Lyasa. “Not at first.”

“... can say that...” mumbled Faltar.

“Have you heard anything new about Gallos or Spidlar?” Cerryl asked quickly.

Lyasa glanced back over her shoulder, toward the table that Kesrik and Kochar had just vacated. Her face clouded momentarily. “Ah... no. I mean... nothing's changed.” She lifted her mug and winced.

“What's the matter?” Cerryl asked, his eyes following Kesrik, wondering what Lyasa had seen-or heard.

“Kinowin has taken over showing students about arms. He stuffed me into full armor and then beat me around some.”

“To show you what guardsmen and lancers go through,” said Cerryl. “Eliasar did that to me.”

“I certainly don't want to be a lancer.” Lyasa laughed. “The black angels were crazy in more ways than one.”

“The ones from Westwind?” asked Faltar. “They supposedly knocked everyone else around. I can't believe it, though.”

“You don't think women are tough enough?” Lyasa's eyebrows rose.

“I didn't say that,” answered Faltar quickly.

“You didn't have to say it.”

Cerryl held back a grin.

“You know a good number of the blades on Recluce are still women. So are some of the white lancers.”

“I shouldn't have said anything.”

“So you did say something?” Lyasa kept a straight face.

Faltar sighed, despondently, almost in the exaggerated fashion of a traveling minstrel. “Go ahead, flame me. Beat me ... anything you wish...for I am in pain and misery ...”

“Next time .. .” Lyasa laughed.

“There won't be a next time,” Faltar promised.

Cerryl laughed at his plaintive tone.

“Why did you ask about things?” Lyasa turned back toward Cerryl.

“Jyantyl-he's the head guard for my sewer work-he said there were rumors about more guards and lancers being sent to Certis, and something about Axalt.” He paused. “What do you know about Axalt?”

“It's an old walled city. It used to be on the main trade road from Jellico to Spidlar-until the Great White Road was completed through the Easthorns. It's not quite a land, but it owes no allegiance to any other ruler.”

“Maybe we'll all be mages before it comes to war,” suggested Faltar.

“Maybe.” Cerryl wasn't sure that was good. He broke off a chunk of bread.

“War doesn't make sense,” said Lyasa.

“Many things don't make sense,” pointed out Faltar, mumbling through his food again. “Why should war?”

Thinking about Anya's reaction when he'd entered the Hall, and so much that had occurred, Cerryl had to agree with Faltar. But there wasn't much he could do, and he lifted his mug and enjoyed a swallow of cool ale.





White Order





LXXVII




Cerryl stepped into the tower room, glad that Myral had the shutters open and that a breeze blew in-except that the breeze stopped when he closed the heavy brass-bound door.

From his seat by the table, where he sipped cool cider, Myral studied Cerryl. “You've been working on not holding chaos within yourself, have you not?”

“I've tried to follow your instructions and suggestions,” Cerryl admitted. “It's hard.”

“Anything done well is often hard.” Myral smiled briefly. “Those to whom power comes naturally have difficulty understanding such until it is oft too late.”

Cerryl refrained from noting that parables weren't exactly going to help him, and eased into the chair across from the older mage.

“How is the cleaning on this one coming?”

“Not too bad,” Cerryl said, “but there's a place just ahead where another tunnel seems to join, and it's not on the map.”

Myral frowned, then rose and half-walked, half-waddled to the bookcase. Cerryl didn't recall the older mage being so ponderous before, but said nothing as Myral returned to the table and unrolled the map scroll.

“Where?”

Cerryl pointed. “About there, right before that turn when it joins the eastern main tunnel.”

Myral's eyebrows rose, and his face cleared immediately. “Oh... that. It's not a collector tunnel. Years and years ago, there was a group of ruffians-they called themselves traders, but they decided to use the sewers as a way out of the city to avoid the guards and the tariffs, and they built an entrance from the lower level of their building. That tunnel was never fully bricked up underground-just from the building side. If you followed it, you'd come to a brick wall. There was another bricked-up tunnel exit all the way out by the spillway, but that was filled in with rubble.” The older mage smiled. “They got away with it for almost a year.” He paused. “I told you how the sunlight striking the water on the spillways cleans the sewer water before it reaches the lake ... ?”