The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(17)

He'd only been able to have a few sessions with Erhana and her copybooks, but already he could pick out some of the letters in his books, although the script was curved and more elaborate than that in hers. He could make out a handful of words, not enough to read anything ... not yet.

His fingers went to his belt pouch and tightened around the talisman-was that what it was?-that Syodor had given him. Had it been his father's? Or had his father picked it up somewhere?

“... afore midsummer, Dorban will be here for the seasoned oak- the big timbers for the shipyard ...” A good thirty cubits away, Dylert's voice trailed off.

“He always complains,” said Brental, “but he comes back.”

Cerryl did not turn his head. He'd learned years earlier that his hearing was sharper than that of most folks. He'd also learned that he gained more information by not letting on.

“He hopes that we'll lower the price if he complains enough ...”

Cerryl kept listening as he started in on the third pile.

“Oooo.” He stopped and carefully eased out the splinter. Although he tried to be careful, wood had splinters, some of them sharp enough to cut deeply if he_were careless or if his mind wandered-as it just had.

Cerryl shook his head. Was Erhana right? That he'd spend the rest of his life in the mill, the way Rinfur was?

His lips tightened, but his eyes and attention went back to the hardwood planks.

Standing closer to the big blade of the saw itself, Dylert and Brental continued talking, but Cerryl shut out their words.

Outside the mill, the rain continued to fall, beating on the roof, on the stones, and inside Cerryl's skull.





White Order





XIII




Cerryl hurried out of the mill and along the causeway, noting the bean plants in the garden on the hill, already calf-high in the midmorning light. He found it hard to believe that summer had slipped into Hrisbarg, almost without his knowledge.

The gray-haired Siglinda's voice drifted down from the house porch toward the mill, clearly audible with the wheel and the saw silent. “No! He is going to the market. Read what is on the page. In any case, 'be' is not a verb cultured people use, except with the subjunctive.”

Cerryl half wondered what she meant, what the subjunctive was. He tried to hold on to the idea that he should use “is” instead of “be.” Still, he needed to find Dylert.

He slipped into the first lumber barn, then froze as he saw the two figures by the racks. He waited, listening, so still that he could feel himself blend into the white oak stacked on his left. In the racks across the narrow side aisle of the second lumber barn were the various-sized planks and timbers of first-quality black oak.

“I am most certain that the duke would confer his best wishes upon you for providing what I need at a most reasonable price,” said the small stocky man in the gray tunic. “His best wishes ...”

Dylert stood at the edge of the center aisle, gesturing toward the racked black oak cuts. “Fine talk, master cabinet maker,” said the mill-master with a gentle laugh, “but cutting lorken or black oak means sharpening the blade for darkness-near every log. Best wishes don't pay for the work or the time. Nor the wear on the blade.”

“I'm not asking you to deliver, Dylert. I'm the one paying a wagon to carry it all back to Lydiar.”

“You haven't much choice, Erastus. There's no one in eastern Lydiar who's taken care to preserve black oak and lorken. You want good lorken, you'll come to me, or go a fair piece west of here.”

Erastus offered a shrug. “The duke has insisted on a black-oak-and-lorken chest. I had thought you might understand.”

“Let the duke pay for it, then,” answered Dylert.

“I'm already paying for the wagon. Three golds for the wood,” suggested the crafter.

In the shadows of the wood racks, Cerryl frowned. Erastus's words felt wrong. Was that because he bargained?

“Erastus, it's four golds for that much lorken. That doesn't include the oak you need for bracing.”

“You're a brigand, Dylert, a black-bearded brigand with the smile of a streetwalker and the heart of a mage.”

Dylert laughed. “You know better than that. Six golds for the lot, and I'll even throw in some of the pine planks for your apprentices to work with.”

Erastus sighed. “You don't bargain much. How about a few lengths of golden oak as well?”

“A few,” conceded Dylert.

“Be generous,” suggested Erastus. “If the duke isn't grateful, then I will be.”

“I'd count on your gratitude far more than the duke's,” answered Dylert. “Far more.”

“Six golds,” Erastus agreed. “Once the wagon's loaded, and I've seen the wood.”

“Fair enough. You'll get the best.”

“I'll bring the wagon to the door here.” Erastus gestured.

The millmaster nodded, then watched as the crafter walked out, passing within a half-dozen cubits of Cerryl.

Once Erastus was out of the mill, Dylert beckoned toward Cerryl. “What do you want, lad?”

“Brental sent me. There's a crack in the second big blade. He said you should know. He and Viental are changing it now.” Cerryl waited.