The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(53)

“He is not alone in his riches in Fairhaven, Cerryl. Far from it.”

The apprentice wondered what the dwellings of the other rich folk looked like inside.

“Get me some of the yellow tea Beryal said she'd brew.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl turned and headed toward the kitchen.

“Yellow tea ... yellow tea ...” mumbled Tellis behind Cerryl. “Darkness ... hate the stuff...”

Beryal looked up from the kitchen worktable, where she poured a hot liquid from the kettle into a mug. “You're back so soon?”

“They didn't make me wait. Tellis sent me for the tea.” His eyes traversed the common room, clean and plain-and very small. Very plain.

“He's stubborn,” said Beryal, lifting one of the smaller mugs and extending it to Cerryl. “Wouldn't stay in bed. No ... has to get up and make the rest of us feel his pain.”

“He doesn't look well.”

“Anyone who drank all that double mead at the Pillion last night should look like that. Benthann, she cannot lift her head.” Beryal frowned. “Take the master his yellow tea.”

Cerryl slipped back to the workroom and extended the mug.

Tellis took it wordlessly.

Cerryl sharpened the quill, then stirred the ink, and set The Science of Measurement and Reckoning on the copy stand, opening it to the bookmark. He could almost see the polished marble and the shimmering hangings, and the dark red dress ... even the dark blue velvet and flawless silk worn by Muneat. Cerryl knew, from what he'd learned in talking with Pattera, that the silk shirt alone probably cost a gold. He'd never seen half that in his entire life.

He took a slow breath. He couldn't change what was. Not yet, perhaps not ever. He dipped the quill in the ink. But you can do more than be a scrivener... you can!

At the worktable, Tellis sipped bitter yellow tea.





White Order





XXXVII




Cerryl dipped the pen into the inkwell, then resumed copying the page before him, trying to concentrate on the words and the shape of his letters, knowing that no matter how closely his efforts resembled those on the scrivener's master sheet, Tellis would still find some way to suggest improvement. One moment, the scrivener was praising his hand; the next, he was complaining about the way Cerryl copied one type of letter or another, or that he didn't fully appreciate the complexities of being a scrivener.

The apprentice scrivener held in a sigh. Too many sighs, he'd discovered, elicited unwelcome questions. His eyes went to the book on the copy stand.



... the inner lining of the bark of the river willow should be scraped, then dried until it is firm and stiff. Then it must be ground into the finest of powders with a polished hardwood mortar and pestle ...



Why did powdered willow bark hold down chaos fever? Who had discovered that? For all the volumes that Tellis pushed on him to read, Cerryl felt that he almost knew less than when he had come to Fairhaven more than a season before, since each new book opened far more questions than it answered.

Scritttchhh... With the sound of the street door opening, Tellis backed up, nearly into the waist-high waste container, and then stepped around his worktable, leaving the stretching frame, and slipped past Cerryl and into the showroom.

“You keep at that herbal copying,” the master scrivener added over his shoulder as he hurried toward the showroom.

Use of plants and herbs for healing might be of some interest, certainly more than words about measuring that meant little, reflected Cerryl, but herbs didn't seem to help with controlling chaos. Then he frowned, thinking about how he felt when he tried to warm his wash water. Would the powdered willow bark help reduce the warming in his body and the headache his using chaos caused?

With the flash of white he saw through the open door, Cerryl stiffened, listening intently.

“... how might I be of service, honored ser? Perhaps a volume of one of the histories ... ?”

The response was muted enough that Cerryl could not make out the words.

“Ah, yes ... that would take several eight-days, perhaps longer . . . you understand?”

“... understand ... the heavy binding ... virgin vellum ... how much ... ?”

“Three golds, honored ser.”

“That is dear.”

“The vellum and the leather alone-”

“No more than five eight-days, scrivener, or not a gold to you. And all by your hand. Not another soul but you to handle the original. Do you understand?”

Cerryl could feel the chill and power of the mage's reply, even from the workroom copy desk.

“Yes, ser. Before five eight-days, with the heavy binding and the best of virgin vellum.”

“No one else but you.”

“Yes, ser.”

Cerryl abruptly moved the quill, just in time to keep the ink from splattering on the page he was working on. He wiped the splot off the wood, cleaned the nib, then resumed his laborious effort to copy the page from Herbes and Their Selfsame Remedies, trying to look busy when Tellis reentered the workroom.

“Don't know where as I'll even be getting the time. Yet three golds, that is not a commission I can turn down.” Tellis frowned, then coughed, and looked down at the worn volume in his hands. “Dealing with mages-every gold you earn. And earn again.”