The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(87)

“Thank you, ser.”

“You are welcome, and some day you may understand exactly how much. Good day, Cerryl.”

Cerryl bowed again before he left.

Almost every time he had met with Jeslek for nearly two seasons, the mage had unsettled him, and his words this time were no less unsettling. Cerryl walked down the steps and then out of the rear hall into the courtyard and past the fountain. The wind whipped spray across him, and it felt like ice on his face.

First, Jeslek had suggested that Kesrik would have used chaos-fire on Cerryl. Why? Because Cerryl wasn't mage-born? Or from wealthy parentage? Or for some other reason? Then, Jeslek had implied that Myral was a good instructor, but not terribly good at other things. But at what was the balding mage lacking? And finally, Jeslek had flatly stated that Cerryl owed Jeslek great thanks. For letting Cerryl survive?

The thin-faced young man took a deep breath as he entered the rear of the front foyer, and several more before he reached the second level of the white tower.

“Jeslek said to expect you.” The older and rotund mage with the thinning and wispy black hair opened the door before Cerryl could knock, and gestured for the young man to enter the room.

Myral's quarters were smaller than either Jeslek's or Sterol's, and one entire wall of the single squarish room was filled with books-' perhaps as many as a third of what was contained in the entire library. Practically underneath the shuttered windows was a narrow bed, wide enough for one person, unlike the spacious beds favored by both Sterol and Jeslek. Through the window, Cerryl could see the avenue angling toward the artisans' square.

The wall opposite the bookshelves held two desks and a round table with a screeing glass and four chairs. One of the chairs was occupied- the one on the far side of the screeing glass-by a woman in pale green with red-blonde hair. A large tome lay open before her. Cerryl froze for a moment.

“Ah, you must have seen Leyladin around the halls.” Myral made a sweeping gesture from Cerryl to Leyladin as he turned to the young woman. “This is Cerryl. Like you, he does not come from the creche or a magely parent. He was a scrivener's apprentice.” The mage smiled, a smile that took in both mouth and eyes. “Now I have to teach him about sewers and wastes.”

“It's good to see you here.” Leyladin stood, her gaze meeting Cerryl's, a faint and amused smile upon her lips, the hint of a glimmer in her dark green eyes.

“I'm glad to meet you.” As he bowed, Cerryl felt she saw right through him, that she knew he'd once screed her through his glass, the glass probably still hidden in the wall at Tellis's place.

“I should go,” she said to Myral, stepping away from the table. “Before they-”

“No. This will take but a moment.” Myral smiled and turned to Cerryl. “Pay attention to me, if you will, not the young lady.”

Cerryl flushed.

“I'm not nearly so gentle to look upon, young Cerryl, but we have work to prepare for.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Fairhaven has its name for a reason.” Myral's voice was high, almost squeaky, and he steepled his fingers, then gestured vaguely in the direction of the door-or the square. “If you travel to most places, they dump their night soil and everything else in the streets, and they stink.” The mage wrinkled his nose. “Fairhaven is fair, and one of the tasks before us is to keep it fair ...”

Myral half-turned toward the books, and Cerryl's eyes strayed again to Leyladin.

Her eyes were so green, like a deep ocean. She pointed to Myral, as if to suggest that Cerryl had best listen.

“. . . and we have to work to keep Fairhaven clean. You probably don't know how much work that is. Everyone who has lived here knows some things about keeping a city clean-sewer catches and clean walks-jakes here in the hall's and in the greater homes. No rubbish in the streets. The big waste wagons, but much more goes on unseen.”

Suddenly, the rotund mage turned and walked over to the book-shelves, pulling out one book, then another and another. He walked back to the table and set five of them down.

“Jeslek says that you read quickly. Can you read these in the next eight-day?”

Cerryl looked at the stack of books, then at the mage. “I think so If there's not something strange about them.”

“Only the subject matter ... I even wrote one of them.” A brief grin followed. “If you can't, come and see me. If you can, study them, and come back here an eight-day from now, immediately after breakfast.” Myral paused again. “Study them as if I were Jeslek.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl bowed.

“One other thing.” Myral bustled toward the corner of the room, almost behind the white oak door, where he rummaged through a chest of some sort, one with thin drawers that he slid out, one after the other. “Ah... this will help.”

The white mage rolled a section of vellum into a tube as he headed toward Cerryl. He thrust the tube at Cerryl. Cerryl stepped back as he took it. What was it?

“That? Oh, that's the best map of all the sewers. You need to study that, too. Learn where every sewer runs. You shouldn't have any trouble. Jeslek said you were good with maps. It might help if you took a few walks with it and tried to locate where the main sewers are.”

Cerryl felt like he'd been frozen in a different way. First, running into Leyladin, and then being assaulted with a pile of books and a sewer map. A sewer map, for darkness's sake!