The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(40)

“Here is a silver. That should hold the Fornal volume, should it not?”

“Yes, ser.”

“I see you have Histories of Cyador ... both volumes, yet. For what are you offering them?”

“They are hand-copied with light brimstone iron ink, ser. A gold and two silvers each.”

“Two golds for the set, and another gold for the Fornal when it is ready. That's beyond the silver I gave you... if... if it is ready within three eight-days.”

Cerryl swallowed. Three golds and a silver for three volumes? He'd never seen a gold himself. At his wages ... earning a gold would take years.

“Yes, ser. It will be ready.”

“Good.”

“Do you want me to deliver the histories?”

“I'll take them ... if you have something for me to carry them in.”

“A book carry bag. I have one here for you, ser.” A drawer of the showroom chest rumbled slightly. “Fine wool, it is.”

“Put the histories in it. Gently, scrivener. Gently.”

Cerryl found himself looking blankly at what he had written when Tellis stepped back into the workroom.

“That's better, young fellow. Keep looking at the models.” Tellis stepped toward the workbench.

He had not quite filled the slate when Tellis reappeared at his shoulder.

“A fine hand you have, young Cerryl, but it takes more than pretty characters to make a scrivener.” Tellis shook his head. “You can work. That I know, for you work without praise or punishment, and Dylert can judge that better than any man I ever met.”

Cerryl waited. Usually waiting attentively would encourage people to say more-that he had learned.

“Even a fine hand and hard work will not make a scrivener,” Tellis went on. “Nor will colored leather bindings and the finest folio stitching.” He paused and looked at Cerryl.

“What will, master scrivener?” asked the apprentice, taking his cue from Tellis's pause.

“That... that takes a love of the words, of what they say. A scrivener is not just a bookbinder. He is not just a scribe. Not just a recopier of ancient tales and histories ...”

“So... you're filling another poor lad's ear with dreams and drivel?” Cerryl looked up at the acid tones.

The young woman who stood in the doorway from the showroom was blond, trim but muscular. The dark blue eyes seemed to flash, even though the light from outside made her face appear veiled in shadow. “Tell me this one's name. If he stays, I might remember it.”

“Cerryl, lady,” offered the apprentice.

“He's polite, too. You always pick the polite ones. They don't tell YOU how empty your words are.” The eyes flicked to Cerryl. “Oh, I'm Benthann. I'm the one who makes poor Tellis's days miserable and his nights glorious.”

“Benthann...” The scrivener's voice was calm, unstressed. “Did you get the vellum?”

“Arkos will deliver it this afternoon. I couldn't be bothered to carry it.” Benthann smiled. “Besides, I got it for less than you wanted to pay. Four silvers for the lot. Last time it cost you eight, and this is better.” She paused.

Cerryl forced himself not to turn to see Tellis's reaction.

“Coins are all that count, Tellis. Did anyone buy anything today?” Benthann glanced at Cerryl. “They usually don't, you know. They look and make pleasant noises, and then they leave.” She glanced from Cerryl to Tellis.

The scrivener offered a faint smile but did not answer her question.

“He doesn't really need the shop at all,” continued Benthann. “They offer more coins for him to be a scribe.”

“They wouldn't do that,” responded Tellis mildly, “if I were not a reputable scrivener with a shop. You know that, Benthann.”

“You need not spend so much coin and time on those presses and the colored leathers ...”

Cerryl wondered why Tellis didn't just say that someone had bought two books for three golds and ordered a third. He looked at the scrivener.

“The leather protects the words, and the whites value that protection.” The spare face remained calm, almost disinterested.

“You have a word for everything.” Benthann's voice carried a tone between a sneer and a laugh. “I will see you later. Good day to you, young Cerryl.”

Cerryl blinked, and the young woman was gone.

“She has not learned that there is a truth beyond coins.” Tellis gave a headshake and looked at Cerryl, then at the slate. “Wipe it clean and copy again, this time all in old tongue.”

“Yes, ser.”

With a smile, Tellis produced a thick woolen rag. “Use this. At the end of the day wash it out and hang it on the end of the rack here.” He pointed.

Cerryl took the rag and began to wipe the slate clean. What sort of a shop did Tellis run, and who was Benthann?

He kept his face expressionless as he cleaned the chalk from the practice slate.





White Order





XXIX




Cerryl struggled to sweep the sawdust away from the mill pit, but the cold wind coming through the east door kept blowing the sawdust and wood chips back toward the pit from which he had just shoveled them. His arms burned from the resins, and his gloves were worn through.