The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(34)

Cerryl folded the canvas and laid it across the wagon seat, then slipped down to the ground and joined the other two at the rear of the wagon.

“Which first, master Fasse?” asked Rinfur.

“The heavy ones, of course, for the big racks on the wall. Would I put light planks there? The very thought of it!”

“Just two planks,” Rinfur said to Cerryl, there not being much room to work with.

Cerryl nodded and walked his way back along the planks as Rinfur slid them gently out of the wagon. The two carried the set inside through a narrow door that opened out. The cabinetry shop was small, no more than a dozen and a half cubits square, and half of that was taken with racks for wood. The youth's nose itched with the faintest trace of sawdust, and he wished he could scratch it, but carrying the wood took both hands. He sniffed instead, and his nose itched even more.

“Gentle, gentle with that oak. Not a scar, not a scratch. The whites, they can sense if but a bruise there be.” Fasse scurried around Rinfur and Cerryl as they carried in the wider planks. “On the first rack there, the one padded with the rags. Do be gentle.”

The two eased the planks onto the padded rack, then walked back to the wagon for another load. Cerryl rubbed his nose. What was it about sawdust?

The sun was touching the tops of the shops to the west by the time, following Fasse's directions, they had unloaded and stored all the white oak.

Rinfur stretched. “We need to stable the horses. We can leave the Wagon in the courtyard,” Rinfur explained.

“The stable by the inn?” Cerryl glanced around the courtyard that barely held the wagon.

“Aye. If you sweep out the wagon and cover it...”

“I can do that.”

“Master Fasse?” called Rinfur.

“Yes, teamster?”

“A broom, perhaps, so that Cerryl can clean up the wagon and the courtyard while I stable the horses?”

“There be an old one here somewhere.”

By the time Fasse had reappeared with a ragged-edged straw broom bound in cloth strips, Rinfur had long since departed with the team.

“The dust and scraps ... in the pail in the corner. Piddling chunks, too. Don't be leaving any signs of sawdust or dirt. The patrol won't be having that.”

“Yes, ser.” The patrol? Cerryl merely nodded as he wondered. Patrols inside the city? For what? Then he wanted to shake his head. If the courtyard had to be spotless, why was Fasse so reluctant to come up with a broom?

By the time Rinfur returned, Cerryl had finished sweeping the courtyard and was pushing the wagon, a span at a time, into the corner where it blocked neither the shop door nor access to the alley itself. The teamster added his shoulder to Cerryl's efforts, and they eased the wagon into place. Cerryl covered the wagon with the canvas and reclaimed his pack.

By then, Fasse had reappeared and stood in the doorway. “Not much to offer you this eve,” he suggested, not looking toward either of the two from Hrisbarg.

“Whatever you have, master crafter, that will serve fine,” answered Rinfur with a smile. “We're just poor mill workers.”

“Ah... yes ... let me check with the consort.” Fasse turned and went through the door and vanished down a narrow hall.

“Always does that,” said Rinfur. “He has to feed us, but he never wants to admit it. Folks from Kyphros, they say, be like that.”

His pack half-dangling from his shoulder, Cerryl stifled a yawn. It had been a long day, a very long day.

“Not that we be having much this eve, saving a mutton stew that be mostly carrots and onions, but you be welcome,” said Fasse, reappearing suddenly.

“Thank you, master crafter,” offered Cerryl.

“Thank you,” added Rinfur.

Fasse gestured toward the door, and the two entered. The door closed behind the three with a snick of the latch.

“All the way to the end, and the door on the right,” Fasse suggested.

Cerryl followed Rinfur down the narrow corridor and stepped through the door from the gloom into a surprisingly bright room, the walls a spotless white plaster, the floor a polished golden oak.

The odor of stew filled the room, coming from the stew pot that sat the oblong waist-high black metal structure that Cerryl realized, after moment, must be a stove. A scuttle of coal sat beside the stove, which was set in an alcove with windows on each side. The windows and shutters were open wide. Cerryl nodded almost to himself, sensing the flow of chaos-tinged heat from the hot stove out the window on the right side.

“This be my consort, Weylenya.” Fasse jerked his head toward the gray-haired, round-faced woman in brown who stood before the stove, then gestured to the benches flanking the trestle table. There was a place set on each side and at each end. Backed stools faced the ends of the tables.

“I am honored to meet you,” Cerryl said after an awkward moment.

“Good it be to see you, again, lady,” added Rinfur.

“A poor stew it be, but filling.” Weylenya inclined her head. “Company we had not expected.”

After waiting his turn to use the washstand in the corner, Cerryl stood back until Rinfur picked the bench where he would sit. Then Cerryl stood behind the bench on the other side.

“Sit,” said Weylenya with a laugh, carrying the stew pot toward the table. As the men sat, she ladled stew into the four brown earthenware bowls. “Bread be coming.”