The White Order (The Saga of Recluce #8)(89)

“You haven't done sewer duty?” Cerryl took a large serving of the lamb and a chunk of dark bread and a too-firm pearapple-none of which showed signs of chaos, and probably never would, but the habit he'd developed early had stayed with him.

“Some people get it early, some late, some-like Kesrik-get it more than once.” Faltar took a smaller helping of stew, nearly half a loaf of the dark bread, and two pearapples.

“Kesrik's had two times on sewer duty?”

“That I know of. They say Kinowin did four as a student, and Eliasar three.”

Cerryl frowned. The big mage had done sewer duty four times? The arms mage three times?

Faltar inclined his head toward the round table where Lyasa sat alone, and Cerryl followed him.

“I see you two finally got hungry.” The black-haired young woman looked up as they sat down.

“For lemon lamb?” Faltar broke off a chunk of bread, then took a swallow of the light ale. “For this I should hurry?”

“Try neruada sometime.” Lyasa smiled.

“Neruada?” asked Cerryl.

“Marinated goat stomach stuffed with spices and greenery.”

Faltar mock-glared at her. “Lemon lamb is bad enough.”

Cerryl laughed.

“It's not funny,” Faltar protested, trying to keep from smiling.

Lyasa smoothed her face into a serious expression. “Is the poor student mage so sour that he cannot withstand the additional sourness of even a tender lamb?”

Faltar half-coughed, then choked and sputtered out fragments of bread.

Cerryl grinned even as he ducked.

After he recovered, Faltar took a sip of the ale and glared at Lyasa. “I will never say an unkind word about lamb. Ever.” He paused. “Until it's served again.”

“It could be old mutton.” Lyasa shook her head.

Cerryl took a healthy mouthful of the lamb, being careful not to look at Faltar. He didn't want to start laughing and choke, too.

“So ... you're starting on the sewers?” Lyasa looked down at her empty platter. “I was hungry.”

“Interesting phrasing there.” Faltar's voice was dry.

Lyasa flushed. “You're ...”

“Difficult.”

Cerryl swallowed quickly.

“You are. You know you are. Wait until you get in the sewers Faltar.”

“Scrivener's apprentice going to get his whites all dirty...” Bealtur's voice drifted across the room from where he sat at the same table with Heralt. The diffident Heralt continued to eat without speaking.

“Let him talk,” said Lyasa quietly. “He doesn't understand.”

Cerryl didn't, either, but wasn't about to admit it. He broke off another chunk of bread.

“You still suffering with Esaak?” asked Faltar.

“Yes. I still have to study mathematicks, even while I'm working with Myral.” Cerryl grimaced.

“Numbers and sewers and offal... numbers and sewers and offal ...” offered Faltar in a whispered chant, grinning broadly.

“Enough.” But Lyasa grinned.

So did Cerryl, even as he wondered about the sewers.





White Order





LX




A narrow cooper's wagon rolled by, carrying but three large barrels, less than three cubits from where Cerryl stood on the west side of the avenue, his white leather jacket unfastened. The driver flicked the reins, careful not to look directly at Cerryl, and the single horse halt-whuffed, half-sighed.

After the wagon passed, Cerryl turned the map, frowning, trying to hold it against the wind and study the tracery of black and purple and red lines. The two main sewers, the ones that collected wastes from all the others, mostly followed the avenue, each along an alleyway about a hundred cubits back from the avenue. The map showed sewers in three sizes, and from what Cerryl could deduce, there were large tunnels with walkways, smaller tunnels, and then a scattering of covered brick ditches.

Cerryl grinned as he looked from the map to the granite paving stones, and then to the large houses on the east side of the avenue-perched almost above the large sewer tunnels. Then he nodded. Of course, those with coins got the best waste disposal and the best roads and were closest to the market and the artisans, and even the grain exchange.

He walked farther north, past the market square, finding his mouth watering as the smell of roasting fowl was carried to him on the midday wind that also held a hint of rain to come. Overhead, thin but dark gray clouds scudded southward.

“... spices for the winter ... spices for late harvest...”

“.. . best roots in Candar ... turnips, beets ... get your roots here...”

“Baskets, baskets for storage ...”

Cerryl lurched as a sudden gust of wind jerked at the map, almost dragging him off the curbstone and into the avenue itself. Since the way was clear, he rerolled the map and walked across the south side of the market area.

A girl, perhaps the age of Serai, Pattera's sister, walked around a blue cart displaying woven blankets, still looking over her shoulder. Her head turned, and she swallowed as she saw the white jacket and trousers. Before Cerryl could say a word, she ducked back behind the cart.

“A blanket, young ser? A fine white blanket?”