The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(43)

Cerryl eased the quill away from the parchment. “He said he was going to Nivor the apothecary's.”

“A course, he'd think of that just before it snows. More of the formulations for ink?”

“He did not say, Benthann.” Cerryl used her name because she wasn't that much older than he was, yet she slept with Tellis but wasn't his consort. He wondered if Tellis had ever had a consort.

“Light be praised that he's not over at Arkos's place. Should it cross his mind to ask, I'm off to the traders' market. Before it snows.” With a toss of her head and a flip of the short blonde hair, she stepped out of the doorway from the showroom, then into the street, leaving the door ajar.

Cerryl set the quill on the holder and eased away from the desk and out to close the door. He paused at the outside door, his hand on the brass lever, and watched as snowflakes danced in the gray day, soaring desperately on the swirling breezes as though they did not want to touch the bleached granite stones of the street.

Benthann had already vanished, and he shivered as the wind gusted. He shut the door and walked back to the desk. He paused before using the striker to get the candle lit. No sense in calling attention to his ability to see in the darkness.

Before he reseated himself, he wiped the quill on the cleaning rag, gently and with the angle of the nib's cut, then dipped it into the ink, trying to sense as well as see the amount of ink drawn up into the shaft.

The iron-gall ink felt similar-in a faint way-to the big sawmill blade. He nodded. Both were iron, and, to him, iron felt different, not menacing but definitely something to be wary of, even if he didn't quite understand why. He wasn't a mage, not even close to being one.





White Order





XXX




Cerryl wiped up the last of the stew with the dark bread, then took a sip of water from the battered brown earthenware mug that was his. In the cool of late winter, the hot midday meal warmed him all the way through. He was in no hurry to go back to copying in a workroom heated only indirectly by the kitchen stove, not until his fingers warmed up more, anyway.

“Ah, a good stew,” said Tellis, stretching.

“Everything I cook is good, master Tellis.” Beryal smiled from where she sat across the table from Cerryl. “But the next one won't be so tasty.”

“It is,” confirmed Benthann. “I never complained about your cooking, Mother.” She raised her left eyebrow, arched so high that Cerryl wanted to laugh.

“Let us not get into that,” Tellis interjected hurriedly, then added, “Why won't the next one be so tasty?”

“Spices-what few peppercorns I have would not season a mugful, and we have no saffron, no cumin, no-”

“Enough! I understand.” Tellis covered his mouth and coughed.

“Have you ever been to the traders' square?” asked Beryal, looking directly at Cerryl and ignoring Benthann's second raised eyebrow, this time the right.

“No. I'd never been to Fairhaven before I came here,” Cerryl admitted. “I've only been out around the square here, and to the farmers' market.”

“There's no place like Fairhaven anywhere,” said Tellis. “Lydiar is damp arid rotting away, and they talk of Jellico and its walls, but inside the walls are crooked streets and hovels and beggars.” The scrivener snorted. “Fenard has a great and glorious history, but outside of history and walls, it's a pigsty.”

“The white mages don't need walls,” pointed out Beryal. “Who would dare attack Fairhaven?”

Cerryl didn't voice an answer, but it struck him that there were probably people who would like to ... or someone who would sooner or later.

“You keep Cerryl inside the shop too much,” said Beryal.

“Apprentice has to earn his keep.”

“You can spare Cerryl for a bit,” noted Beryal. “He needs to see more of Fairhaven than the artisans' way. What if you want him to run something for you?”

“Not too long, then,” answered Tellis with a theatrical sigh.

“I need four silvers, too.” Beryal said, her eyes straying toward the untended stove. “Spices do not buy themselves.”

“Four?” Tellis counterfeited an incredulous look, then winked at Cerryl, smoothing his face as Beryal looked up.

“Five'd be better,” countered Beryal. “Spices are dear this time of year, and will be getting more so.”

“Coins ... you'd think that this poor scrivener is made of coins.”

“Coins-not at all. Excuses, yes.” Beryal turned her eyes to Cerryl. “Well... you best be getting ready, since you gulped down all there was to swallow.”

Cerryl slipped off the bench and headed for the washstand.

“After you wash, best you change to that new tunic,” Beryal said. “What you're wearing is frayed at the elbows. And wear your jacket. I'll wait, but be quick about it.” She turned to her daughter. “Today, you can do the dishes.”

“If I must.” Benthann raised her hands and dropped her shoulders in an overdone shrug. “A burden to bear.”

“Only if you wish to eat,” answered her mother.

Cerryl scurried back to his room and pulled off the brown-splotched work shirt and slipped on the pale blue tunic that Tellis had left one day on his pallet without a word.