The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(54)

“I can copy it, ser,” offered Cerryl.

“This one I'll be copying,” Tellis announced.

“If things are hard, ser, I can do it.”

The master scrivener shook his head. “Some volumes, the whites say that only the master may copy.”

“Why? How can they do that?”

“Cerryl...” This time, Tellis provided the sigh, and not quietly. “Have you heard nothing? The White Council must approve any craft master in Fairhaven. You know the star with the circle above the door? Must I remind you what that master symbol means? Without that star, I'd get no copying or scribing from the Council... or any of the mages.”

“But you're the best in Fairhaven. Everyone on the square says so,” Cerryl said quickly.

“You are loyal-I will say that,” answered Tellis. “The mages look for more than ability, Cerryl. They also demand loyalty. Without White Council approval, a tradesman or a crafter can never be more than a journeyman here. Journeymen get no Council business.” Tellis snorted. “And little else, either.”

“Even able ones?”

“What merchant or tradesman dare deal with a scrivener not in the Council's favor? Even Muneat would turn away his little pleasures.”

“He has coins ..'.”

“Coins are not power, Cerryl. Sometimes, those with coins can purchase power. Now ... best I start. Set the herbal volume on the high shelf. You'll have time to copy when I rest. You can go and get the oak bark and the vellum this will take.”

Cerryl cleaned the quill, then wiped his hands, stood, and lifted Herbes and Their Selfsame Remedies from the copy stand.

Tellis set the book he carried on the copy stand and opened the blank cover to the flyleaf.

Cerryl's eyes went to the words there, and he froze for a moment that seemed all too long as he read the title-Colors of White. Tellis had the entire book there, not just the first part but the whole book. The entire volume he'd wished to lay his hands on for so long-and he couldn't touch it.

“Don't be standing there. Be off with you. First to Nivor's for the black oak bark. You know the kind. Then when you bring that back, I'll need more of the virgin vellum. But come back and set the bark to steep first, before you go to Arkos's.”

That meant twice as much walking, but Cerryl nodded politely. “Ah, ser ... won't I need some coin for Nivor?”

“Pestilence ... yes. Arkos will trust me for the vellum, but Nivor trusts no one.” Tellis fumbled in his purse. “Not more than a silver and five coppers for a tenth stone of the bark, either, no matter what that thief Nivor says. If he won't give it to you for that... then come home without it.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl took the coins and put them in his own purse with the three coppers that were his.

“You can tell him I said so, too.” Tellis shifted his weight on the stool. “Man's more brigand than apothecary ... but don't tell him that. Now, be off with you.”

“Yes, ser.”

In moments, Cerryl had pulled on his better tunic-used for errands and holiday meals-and stepped out into the spring afternoon, warm, but with the hint of a winter chill that had not yet vanished, and gray, with the promise of rain before evening. He hoped the rain wasn't too long or too heavy; he could do without the attendant headache.

He stretched, then started for the lesser artisans' way. After a dozen steps or more, he glanced toward Pattera's window-ajar as usual. Only her father worked at the big loom. His eyes went toward the square.

“You!”

The voice was peremptory and high-pitched, the words coming from behind Cerryl, and he almost stopped. But who would want anything from him? Were they talking to the master weaver?

“In the blue ... I mean you.”

Cerryl turned . . . and swallowed as he saw the white tunic, shirt, and trousers. He bowed immediately. “I did not realize . . . I'm sorry, ser ...”

“No, you didn't . . . did you?” A musical laugh followed - a laugh with a hard tone that made Cerryl want to shiver, even as he realized that the mage was a woman, an attractive figure with flame red hair and eyes that went through him, eyes that seemed to contain all colors and yet none at all. A faint scent of something - sandalwood, perhaps, drifted toward him.

He bowed again, saying nothing.

“Do you live here, young fellow?”

“Yes, ser. I'm an apprentice to Tellis.”

“The scrivener?” Another laugh followed. “Most interesting. Do you know your letters?”

“Yes, ser.” How could an apprentice scrivener not know the letters? Still, Cerryl kept his tongue.

“Both tongues?”

“I do not know Temple as well as the old true tongue,” he admitted.

“The old true tongue,” she mused. “And you mean what you say. Better and better. What is your name?”

“Cerryl, ser.” Cerryl had to work at keeping his voice level, feeling as though he faced some sort of examination, a dangerous examination, even though he could not explain exactly what or why.

“Cerryl the apprentice scrivener . . .” She laughed more musically than before. “Keep learning your letters and all that you can. It might be enough.” She paused, and her voice turned harder. “You may go on whatever errand your master sent you.”