The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(6)

Shortly, an older and taller man, taller even than Brental, over four cubits in height, his brown shirt and trousers streaked with whitish sawdust, stepped through the open sliding door of the mill.

“Syodor, Brental said you were here to see me.” A broad smile crossed the man's face. “I have no coins, not until after harvest.”

“I be not selling today,” Syodor said slowly. He cleared his throat, then continued. “Ser Dylert, you said you wanted a boy-a serious boy.” After a pause, he added, “Cerryl's serious.”

“That I did say.” Dylert fingered his trimmed, white-streaked black beard, his eyes on Cerryl. “And you need not 'ser' me, Syodor, not as one honest wight to another.”

Syodor nodded.

Cerryl glanced up at the tall Dylert and met his scrutiny, not challenging the millmaster, but not looking away.

“Harvest time, it is now,” suggested Dylert. “The mill is quiet, and few coins flow for timber and planks.”

“That it is,” agreed Syodor. “A good time for a boy to learn.”

Dylert smiled. “A peddler you should have been, Syodor, not a miner and a grubber. Not with your silver tongue.”

“You're too kind, mill master. Cerryl's a good boy.”

“He is slight, Syodar, but he looks healthy. You and Nail took him as your own, Dyella says.”

“We did.” Syodor smiled. “Not a regret for that.” He shrugged. “Time now for him to start on his own. No place to go in the mines. Not these days.”

“True as a pole pine,” answered Dylert. “No place for anyone in the mines, even back when the duke reopened them.” He shook his head. “Folks say they're no place these days, with what's there.” The millmaster looked hard at Syodor.

“Could be,” admitted the one-eyed miner. “Cerryl'd do better here.”

The boy looked at Syodor, catching his uncle's uneasiness. The mines had seemed fine to him, except for those places that anyone with sense had to avoid. Why were Dylert and Syodor talking as though anything connected to the mines happened to be dangerous?

“I did say I needed a mill boy.” Dylert cleared his throat. “You sure about this, Syodor?”

“He be much better here, ser Dylert. Nail and me, we did the best we could. Now ...” The miner shrugged apologetically.

“You think I'd do right by him, Syodor.”

“Better'n aught else I know.”

“That's a heavy burden, Syodor.” Dylert offered a wry smile before turning his eyes back to Cerryl. “Even for a boy, mill work is hard.” Dylert paused.

After a moment, understanding that an answer was required, Cerryl replied, “I can work hard, ser.”

“Mill work be dirty, too. You'd be cleaning out the sawpits, and the gearing. The blades, too. Not sharpening. I do that,” Dylert said quickly. “And probably other chores. Feed the chickens, cart water-most things that need doing. Take messages.” Dylert looked from Cerryl to Syodor. “Can he listen and understand?”

“Never had to tell Cerryl anything twice, ser Dylert.”

Dylert nodded. “Good words from your uncle, boy. He may have a golden tongue, but his word is good. Some ways, that be all a man has.”

Cerryl thought his uncle might say something, but Syodor gave the smallest of headshakes.

“Half-copper an eight-day to start. After a season we'll see. Get your meals with us.” Dylert laughed and looked at Cerryl. “Dyella's cooking be worth more than your pay.” The millmaster turned to Syodor. “You certain, masterminer?”

“Aye, as sure as I can be.”

“It be done, then,” Dylert said.

Syodor bent and gave Cerryl a quick hug. “Take care, lad. Dylert be a good man. Listen to him. Your aunt and I... we be seeing you when we can.”

Cerryl swallowed, trying to keep his eyes from tearing, trying to understand why he felt Syodor's last words were somehow wrong. Before he was quite back in control, Syodor had released him and was walking briskly down the lane away from the mill, the sun on his back.

Cerryl felt as though he watched his uncle from a distance, even though Syodor was still less than a dozen cubits away. His lips tightened, but he watched, his face impassive.

For a time, neither Cerryl or Dylert spoke-not until Syodor's figure vanished over the nearer hillcrest.

Then the millmaster cleared his throat.

Cerryl turned, waiting, still holding on to the sack that contained all that was his.

“Your uncle, he was near right. We've got time to set you up.” Dylert fingered his beard once more, then looked down to Cerryl's bare feet. “Need some shoes, boy, around here. Let's go up to the house and see what we got. Might have an old pair of boots.” Dylert started up the lane to the freshly oiled house with the wide front porch.

For a moment, turning to follow the millmaster, Cerryl had to squint to shut out the brightness of the early afternoon sun.

Dylert waited at the top of the three stone steps to the porch, then pointed to the bench beside the door. “Just wait here, boy.”

Cerryl sat on the bench, letting the sack rest on the wide planks of the porch, glad to be out of the sun. Not more than fifty cubits to the south, while occasionally brawkking, yellow-feathered chickens pecked the ground around a small and low chicken house.