The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(63)

“I could love you just for that look. Tellis is pretty good to me, but he's still randy beneath that proper exterior. Who would think it of the most proper scrivener?”

His apprentice would have, especially after thinking of the green angel book, but he didn't think voicing such an opinion would have been exactly wise-not at that moment. “We don't see everything, no matter how hard we look.”

“Some folks don't want to see things.”

“I can see that.” Cerryl took a half-step toward the kitchen.

Benthann smiled lazily. “Still worried?”

“Yes.” Cerryl took another step.

“You should be.” She paused, then added, “You know, Cerryl, I could have gotten you between the blankets, if I'd really wanted to.”

“I know,” Cerryl admitted, slipping slowly toward the door to the front room. “I know.”

“You're too nice. You didn't pretend to listen. You really listened.”

“Next time, I might not be so nice,” he answered, his hand on the doorway to the showroom.

“I'll remember that.”

Cerryl smiled, almost sadly, knowing there wouldn't be a next time, knowing Benthann knew that as well. Neither could afford a next time.





White Order





XLIII




In the hot and still air of the workroom, Cerryl set the jar of ink on the worktable.

“Let's see.” Tellis poured a small amount of the fluid into the inkstand, then lifted one of the older quills from the holder before him and dipped it into the ink. “It looks right.”

The master scrivener wrote three words on his working palimpsest, with a quick fluidity that Cerryl envied. Then Tellis set aside the quill and studied what he had written. Finally, he nodded. “You can't tell for certain for years, but I'd say you did a good job. It feels right, and you do get a feel for these sorts of things in time.”

“Thank you, ser.” Cerryl didn't know what else to say.

“You listen, Cerryl. I wasn't sure at first, you know. You always are so polite. Some folks are polite and never hear a thing.” Tellis cleared his throat. “Enough praise. You need to get to work on the new job.” He looked toward the volume by the copy stand-An Alchemical Manual.

Cerryl nodded. He'd already looked through the first pages, and the manual was even more boring than the herbal book had been, even more boring than the measurements book had been.

“After you finish cleaning up,” Tellis added.

Clunk! With the sound of the opening door to the front room came a hot and light breeze, more of the fine white dust from the street-and voices.

“Is this the place?”

“Trust me, Fydel.”

“Not so much as others, dear Anya.”

Tellis glanced at Cerryl. “You stay here. You can fill the inkstands and then put away the ink.” The scrivener hurried around the worktable and into the front room. “Could I help you, sers?”

“Do you have The Book of Ayrlyn?” The voice was feminine, if hard, and Cerryl thought he'd heard her before. The white mage in the street? What was she doing at the scrivener's? His heart beat faster. Why would she enter the shop?

“I'm afraid I don't know that book, ser.”

Cerryl frowned as he filled the inkstand on the worktable and moved to the copy desk. Even he could tell Tellis was lying.

“You have not heard of it?”

“There's not a scrivener alive who has not heard of it. None of us would dare touch it, much less copy it.”

Cerryl could sense the absolute truth in the scrivener's words. He forced himself to concentrate, then filled his own inkstand.

“Ah...” A musical laugh followed. “That is more truthful, scrivener. Have you ever seen the book?”

“Many years ago, in Lydiar, the duke had a copy, and his personal scrivener showed it to me. I did not touch it or read it.”

“My... you do respect us. That is good. What about Colors of White?”

Cerryl put the ink jar on the proper shelf, then walked to the wash-stand and basin.

“.. . copied that for the honored Sterol.”

A young-faced and stocky man in white-although he had a dark and heavy beard-peered through the doorway into the workroom. He stared for a moment at Cerryl.

Cerryl got the same feeling as when he felt he was being watched through a screening glass. “Might I help you, ser?”

“No. I was just looking.” A lazy smile followed. “Are you the scrivener's apprentice?”

“Yes, ser.”

“The only one?” Cerryl nodded.

“I suppose you do things like mix inks and scrub the place?” The mage's voice was pleasant but held a condescending tone.

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl wanted to meet the man's eyes but looked down instead, afraid the other would see the anger and fear within him. “I also do some copying and run whatever errands master Tellis wishes.”

“You know your letters?” The mage stepped to the copy desk and opened the cover of the book, then closed it, half contemptuously. “Yes, ser.”

“Both tongues?”

“Yes, ser.”

“I suppose you know Temple better?”