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

Cerryl looked at the iron blade, barely managing to repress a shiver at the deep blackness within the iron that almost felt as though it would burn his hands. “No, ser.”

“Good. Now ... see ... this drops the gear off the track, so the blade stops even if the mill turns. Up there, that's the water gate. Most times, the blade's on gear track when the gate opens. That way, we fret less about breaking the gears.” Dylert fingered his beard. “Cost my father more coins to have the drop gear put in, but it's better when a house has two doors. That's what he said, and it's saved me a blade or two along the way-and blades, they're dear. Black iron, you'd best know.”

Cerryl nodded. “That's hard iron?”

“The hardest. Not many smiths as can forge it, even with a black mage at their elbow.” He laughed harshly. “Good smith and a black mage-few of either, these days, or any times.”

Cerryl managed not to frown. Why couldn't white mages help a smith? Why did it have to be black mages?

“Here ... the entrance to the sawpit. You'll be cleaning that.” Dylert frowned. His voice hardened. “You never go under the blade less the water gate's closed and the drop gear's open. Stay away from the blade even so. You understand that?”

“Yes, ser.”

“No one but me tells you to clean the pit. Understand? Not Rinfur, not Brental, not Viental. No one but me. You understand?”

The gray-eyed boy nodded.

“First time, I'll show you how. Not today.” Dylert smiled. “Be taking you a mite to get used to us. Let's go to the barns.” He turned and started toward the big door. “Good days, we open the swing windows on the west. More light.”

Cerryl's eyes went to the iron blade, and he shivered. Black iron? Why did it feel so ... dangerous? Then he turned and followed Dylert out of the mill and toward the first of the two barns.

Dylert slid back the door, the same kind as the main mill door, and stepped inside into the middle of an aisle between racks of wood that stretched the length of the barn. “Some mills-like in Hydlen-they just put a roof over their cuts and say that's enough. Lucky if the mill lasts from father to son. You want wood to last... then you have to season it right-lots of air, but you don't let it get too hot or too cold. Our cuts are the best. Last season, a mastercrafter sent a wagon all the way from Jellico for my black oak. Something for the viscount... suppose that's all he does now that Fairhaven...” Dylert shook his head. “There I go, woolgathering again.”

Cerryl wanted the mill master to keep talking, and he nodded, without speaking, as Dylert continued.

“This first barn here. See-it's smaller. Mostly hardwoods-oak, lorken, maple. Some fruitwoods, like cherry and walnut and pearapple, when we can get it. Crafters, cabinet makers-they're the ones who use it-and the builders who work for the duke or the white wizards. Fairhaven-they want a lot of white oak.” Dylert walked over to one of the racks on the left of the aisle. “See. You can touch it.”

Cerryl let his fingers brush the wood, white, but with a trace of yellow or gold that would darken with age, like the chest Syodar and Nail shared. The white oak felt cool to his touch, reassuring, unlike the black iron of the saw blade.

“People think there's no difference between lorken and black oak.” The millmaster shook his head. “Not seen a blade struggle through lorken, they haven't. Here.” He pointed to a stack of thin, nearly black planks, no more than a span wide and three cubits long. “Pick up the top one.”

Cerryl had to strain for a moment. “It be heavy.” The dark wood felt warm to his touch, smooth as polished silver, yet prickly beneath the patina, and he quickly eased it back onto the pile.

“That's lorken. Not more than a handful of crafters can handle it. One big lorken log, and even the keenest mill blade needs sharpening. Got some logs on the back racks, seasoning till a buyer comes. No sense in blunting a blade.”

Dylert led Cerryl to the next set of racks, also bearing dark narrow planks. “Lift one of those.”

Cerryl complied. “Not so heavy.”

“What else?” prompted Dylert.

Cerryl replaced the plank. “I don't think it be quite so dark, and it seems rougher.”

Dylert nodded. “Black oak. It be hard, not so hard as lorken, not so heavy, not so smooth.” He snorted. “And folks say there be no difference.”

Cerryl nodded. The dark oak hadn't seemed so warm to the touch, either.

The tall man walked toward the back of the barn. “Sometimes we get virgin logs, the big ones. If I've the time, I'll crosscut a section. Takes a different blade, and a lot of care. But some of the cabinet makers like bigger wood sections. Can charge them as much as a silver a section that way.” He wiped his forehead. “Work, though. A lot of work, and the sections are brittle-break just like that if you drop 'em. Only do a few a year.”

Cerryl hurried to keep up with Dylert's long stride.

“A lot of guessing if you be a millmaster ... keep the wide planks back here. Charge more for them, but a lot of folks rather'd use more of the narrower cuts ...”

The gray-eyed youth found himself struggling to take in all the words as Dylert turned at the rear wall and walked back toward the door.

“Folks always want some lumber. Some years, we couldn't cut and season enough ... hate to let go of green wood ... even if you charge less and it splits, folks don't forget...”