The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(146)



“Here you be.”

“Thank you.” Cerryl knew he needed to give her something. He fumbled out a copper.

“Thank you, ser.” She flashed a professional smile and slipped away.

The stew was peppery, hotter than burkha, and Cerryl didn't care, but he listened as he ate.

“... a lot of lancers going out the east gates these days. Don't see so many coming back ...”

“... know a good cabinet-maker? She says we need a dowry chest for Hirene ...”

“... good riddance to him .. . mages nothing but trouble . ..” Cerryl's ears burned, but he took another sip of ale, another mouthful of bread, and then more stew.

“... say the white devils are raising mountains to the east...”

“Ha! Even they can't do that... more stories ... Like as not, next they'll be talking of the black angels returning to Westwind. Or the great white birds landing on the plains of Kyphros ... Don't believe all you hear.”

“Don't hear much about the black isle these days.”

“Good that we don't. Got any ideas of whether Frysr do a better job on that chest than Donleb?”

“Frysr be a better crafter, but he'll be costing twice what Donleb will.”

“She'll say Frysr-only the best for Hirene.”

“Lucky you.”

Cerryl looked at the bowl and platter. He'd finished it all-and probably too quickly. With another glance around, he slipped away from the table.

No one seemed to notice-not obviously-when he left, and the hall upstairs was empty but not silent. A bed creaked repeatedly as he passed the door adjoining his.

His room seemed untouched, and there was no sense of chaos or disruption.

Cerryl dropped the bar in place. He brushed the bed with chaos, hoping that would remove most of the vermin, then took off the blade and sword belt, both sets of trousers and tunic and did the same with them.

He stretched out on the bed, feeling his eyes close almost immediately. Darkness, it had been a long day.





White Order





C




Cerryl woke with the gray light that filled the room even before dawn. His head ached, and his back and legs were sore. One arm itched with several small red bites-despite his efforts of the night before with the vermin.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and just sat there for a time, slowly massaging first his neck and then his forehead. Finally, he stood and walked to the basin, where he washed up as best he could. After that, he pulled on his boots and the sword belt. The tunic and jacket had to stay in his pack.

In the wavering image of the wall mirror, thin-faced and drawn, he looked like anything but a well-fed student mage-or a mage of any type. More like a brown-coated weasel or something, he decided, or even a bravo down on his luck-as if he could do more than hack with the blade at his belt.

He definitely missed the razor-and the lady who had given it to him. Would he see her again? Would she care?

Don't think about it... You have a task to finish.

He left his pack beside the bed and went downstairs to find something to eat. The hearth in the corner of the public room was cold, with the smell of ashes. The tabletops were covered in a thin film of whitish dust, and the only table taken was filled by the same three older men that had been there the night before. The three looked Cerryl over, nodded to themselves, and resumed their low conversation.

“... still looks like a bravo ...”

“... you figured out the materials, yet, Byum?”

“... get to it... You know that...”

“... figures out everything but the important stuff...”

A single serving girl-portly-stepped out from the kitchen and looked at Cerryl. “Breakfast don't come with the room.”

“How much for some bread and cheese and ale?”

“Three.”

Cerryl nodded and sat down at the same table where he'd eaten the night before.

A scrawny white-bearded man shuffled in and sat down at the round table in the corner, not looking at Cerryl or the other three. The older man waited, head down, until the heavyset blonde brought him a mug. He slurped it slowly, holding it with trembling hands.

Thump. “Bread and cheese, dark ale.” The blonde's voice was hard, as if she wished she didn't have to serve him.

Cerryl handed over the three coppers. The serving girl vanished through the door to the kitchen. The three men continued talking in their low voices as he ate a half-loaf of the day-old rye bread and some hard white cheese, washing both down with ale. When he had finished, more quickly than was polite, but in character for a bravo, the headache had begun to fade. Did using chaos too much take extra food?

He swallowed the last of the ale, rose, and headed back up to his room, where he used the chamber pot and set it by the door. Then he donned the too-large cloak before picking up his pack and bedroll.

The bed in the room adjoining his was creaking once more as he passed.

Exactly what type of inn had he chosen? He shrugged. At least it wasn't the kind where everyone looked cross-eyed at strangers. Maybe he'd been lucky in that respect.

Out in the dusty courtyard, the stable boy looked at Cerryl and his pack and bedroll. “You not coming back, ser?”

“Would you leave your gear there all day?”

L. E. Modesitt Jr.'s Books