The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(46)

Cerryl shook his head sadly, not that he wanted any sort of iron blade. The darkness within the metal bothered him, for reasons he couldn't even explain to himself.

“As you wish, young fellow.” The peddler turned to a brown-bearded man in faded blue trousers and a sheepskin jacket. “You, ser? A skinning knife? The finest in the eastern lands right here ...”

Cerryl slipped back toward Beryal, his eyes traversing the square-no sign of golden-red hair. Why did he keep thinking of the girl in the glass? It had been more than a year-more than two-since he had seen her, and only in a glass yet. He shook his head, but he kept studying the traders' square while Beryal continued her haggling.

“You call that cumin? Looks and smells like water-soaked oris seeds.”

“Alas, my lady, a dry year it was in Delapra.” The seller shrugged. “This is what I have. Five coppers a palm, and a bargain at that.”

“One, and you do well at that,” countered Beryal.

Cerryl let a faint smile cross his face as he slowly surveyed the square and waited.





White Order





XXXI




Cerryl walked slowly down the lesser artisans' way. His breath puffed from his lips in white clouds, and he found himself hunching into his battered leather jacket, his hands up under the bottom edge to keep them warm. He should have worn his gloves, but Tellis had been so insistent that Cerryl hurry that he hadn't dared to go back to his room for them.

He saw that the weavers' shutters were ajar, and he paused, peering through the narrow opening to see Pattera and her sister working away, Pattera at the big loom, her sister Serai at one of the backstrap looms. As he watched, Pattera tucked the shuttle into a leather bracket on the loom frame and, wrapping a brown shawl around her, scurried toward the door.

With a faint smile, Cerryl stepped back from the window and turned to wait before continuing toward the tanner's. The latch clicked, and the door opened.

“Cerryl... wait, I can spare a moment. Father's gone to Vergren for some more wool.”

“Pattera ... now that he's come, would you close the shutters all the way?” called Serai from inside the weaver's.

“It wasn't like that.” The brown-haired girl flushed and looked away from Cerryl, even as she latched the shutters. “I mean ... leaving the shutters ajar. I just like to see people go by. Serai doesn't.”

“People are different,” Cerryl agreed. “Even sisters.”

“Especially sisters.” Pattera paused. “Where are you going?”

“Out to Arkos's. He's finished some more of the good vellum that Tellis needs for something.” Cerryl smiled crookedly. “Tellis won't say for what, but I'd bet he's going to copy something for the mages. That's always what they ask for.”

Pattera nodded. “They want virgin wool, too.”

“Why? Do you know?” Cerryl had his own suspicions, but he wanted to hear what Pattera had to say.

“I can walk a little ways with you. Is that all right?” she asked shyly.

“Of course.”

“About the wool,” Cerryl prompted, resuming his walk down toward the square, since Arkos's place was a good ways beyond Fasse's cabinet shop, well to the south and east.

“Oh . .. Father says it's because the virgin wool is stronger and resists chaos better. There has to be chaos around the mages and what they wear, with all the chaos some of them must handle.” Pattera paused, then added, “Don't you think so?”

Cerryl offered a shrug as he walked. “I would guess so. I certainly wouldn't be the one to say.” His eyes flicked across the bright blue shutters of the potter's shop, firmly closed against the chill, and to the empty square ahead, where the wind blew a small white dust spout across the white granite stones of the thoroughfare.

“The sheep in Montgren have the best wool-except for the black wool of Recluce, but we couldn't ever scrape up the coins for that.” Pattera shook her head. “They say it lasts forever.”

“Tellis says that a good book should last for generations.” Cerryl frowned. “Then he says that the ones used by the white mages never do. When they look at books in the shop, they never touch them.”

“That's strange.”

“I thought so, too,” Cerryl lied.

“How do you know?” Pattera asked.

“I'm guessing, in a way,” he admitted. “I've never seen them touch one. They ask Tellis or me to show them the book or open it to a page, and if they buy anything, we wrap it so that they don't touch it.” After a moment, he added, “They must touch them sometimes, but I haven't seen any one of them do so.”

“That is strange.”

Cerryl stopped at the edge of the avenue and looked at the brown-haired weaver. “Do you want to come with me?”

“I'd like to, but Serai would get mad and tell father.” Pattera grinned. “Sisters are like that.”

“I wouldn't know,” Cerryl admitted. “I grew up alone.”

“Father said you were an orphan.”

“I was raised by my aunt and uncle, and then they died in a fire.” A mage fire, and I don't know why.

“Oh ... Cerryl, I'm sorry. At least we have father.” Pattera glanced back up the way. “I'd better be going.” With a quick smile, she turned and scurried back toward the shop.