The White Order

XXXVII

CERRYL DIPPED THE pen into the inkwell, then resumed copying the page before him, trying to concentrate on the words and the shape of his letters, knowing that no matter how closely his efforts resembled those on the scrivener’s master sheet, Tellis would still find some way to suggest improvement. One moment, the scrivener was praising his hand; the next, he was complaining about the way Cerryl copied one type of letter or another, or that he didn’t fully appreciate the complexities of being a scrivener.

The apprentice scrivener held in a sigh. Too many sighs, he’d discovered, elicited unwelcome questions. His eyes went to the book on the copy stand.

. . the inner lining of the bark of the river willow should be scraped, then dried until it is firm and stiff. Then it must be ground into the finest of powders with a polished hardwood mortar and pestle. .

Why did powdered willow bark hold down chaos fever? Who had discovered that? For all the volumes that Tellis pushed on him to read, Cerryl felt that he almost knew less than when he had come to Fairhaven more than a season before, since each new book opened far more questions than it answered.

Scritttchhh. . With the sound of the street door opening, Tellis backed up, nearly into the waist-high waste container, and then stepped around his worktable, leaving the stretching frame, and slipped past Cerryl and into the showroom.

“You keep at that herbal copying,” the master scrivener added over his shoulder as he hurried toward the showroom.

Use of plants and herbs for healing might be of some interest, certainly more than words about measuring that meant little, reflected Cerryl, but herbs didn’t seem to help with controlling chaos. Then he frowned, thinking about how he felt when he tried to warm his wash water. Would the powdered willow bark help reduce the warming in his body and the headache his using chaos caused?

With the flash of white he saw through the open door, Cerryl stiffened, listening intently.

“. . how might I be of service, honored ser? Perhaps a volume of one of the histories. .?”

The response was muted enough that Cerryl could not make out the words.

“Ah, yes. . that would take several eight-days, perhaps longer. . you understand?”

“. . understand. . the heavy binding. . virgin vellum. . how much. .?”

“Three golds, honored ser.”

“That is dear.”

“The vellum and the leather alone-”

“No more than five eight-days, scrivener, or not a gold to you. And all by your hand. Not another soul but you to handle the original. Do you understand?”

Cerryl could feel the chill and power of the mage’s reply, even from the workroom copy desk.

“Yes, ser. Before five eight-days, with the heavy binding and the best of virgin vellum.”

“No one else but you.”

“Yes, ser.”

Cerryl abruptly moved the quill, just in time to keep the ink from splattering on the page he was working on. He wiped the splot off the wood, cleaned the nib, then resumed his laborious effort to copy the page from Herbes and Their Selfsame Remedies, trying to look busy when Tellis reentered the workroom.

“Don’t know where as I’ll even be getting the time. Yet three golds, that is not a commission I can turn down.” Tellis frowned, then coughed, and looked down at the worn volume in his hands. “Dealing with mages-every gold you earn. And earn again.”

“I can copy it, ser,” offered Cerryl.

“This one I’ll be copying,” Tellis announced.

“If things are hard, ser, I can do it.”

The master scrivener shook his head. “Some volumes, the whites say that only the master may copy.”

“Why? How can they do that?”

“Cerryl. .” This time, Tellis provided the sigh, and not quietly. “Have you heard nothing? The White Council must approve any craft master in Fairhaven. You know the star with the circle above the door? Must I remind you what that master symbol means? Without that star, I’d get no copying or scribing from the Council. . or any of the mages.”

“But you’re the best in Fairhaven. Everyone on the square says so,” Cerryl said quickly.

“You are loyal-I will say that,” answered Tellis. “The mages look for more than ability, Cerryl. They also demand loyalty. Without White Council approval, a tradesman or a crafter can never be more than a journeyman here. Journeymen get no Council business.” Tellis snorted. “And little else, either.”

“Even able ones?”

“What merchant or tradesman dare deal with a scrivener not in the Council’s favor? Even Muneat would turn away his little pleasures.”

“He has coins. .”

“Coins are not power, Cerryl. Sometimes, those with coins can purchase power. Now. . best I start. Set the herbal volume on the high shelf. You’ll have time to copy when I rest. You can go and get the oak bark and the vellum this will take.”

Cerryl cleaned the quill, then wiped his hands, stood, and lifted Herbes and Their Selfsame Remedies from the copy stand.

Tellis set the book he carried on the copy stand and opened the blank cover to the flyleaf.

Cerryl’s eyes went to the words there, and he froze for a moment that seemed all too long as he read the title-Colors of White. Tellis had the entire book there, not just the first part but the whole book. The entire volume he’d wished to lay his hands on for so long-and he couldn’t touch it.

“Don’t be standing there. Be off with you. First to Nivor’s for the black oak bark. You know the kind. Then when you bring that back, I’ll need more of the virgin vellum. But come back and set the bark to steep first, before you go to Arkos’s.”

That meant twice as much walking, but Cerryl nodded politely. “Ah, ser. . won’t I need some coin for Nivor?”

“Pestilence. . yes. Arkos will trust me for the vellum, but Nivor trusts no one.” Tellis fumbled in his purse. “Not more than a silver and five coppers for a tenth stone of the bark, either, no matter what that thief Nivor says. If he won’t give it to you for that. . then come home without it.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl took the coins and put them in his own purse with the three coppers that were his.

“You can tell him I said so, too.” Tellis shifted his weight on the stool. “Man’s more brigand than apothecary. . but don’t tell him that. Now, be off with you.”

“Yes, ser.”

In moments, Cerryl had pulled on his better tunic-used for errands and holiday meals-and stepped out into the spring afternoon, warm, but with the hint of a winter chill that had not yet vanished, and gray, with the promise of rain before evening. He hoped the rain wasn’t too long or too heavy; he could do without the attendant headache.

He stretched, then started for the lesser artisans’ way. After a dozen steps or more, he glanced toward Pattera’s window-ajar as usual. Only her father worked at the big loom. His eyes went toward the square.

“You!”

The voice was peremptory and high-pitched, the words coming from behind Cerryl, and he almost stopped. But who would want anything from him? Were they talking to the master weaver?

“In the blue. . I mean you.”

Cerryl turned. . and swallowed as he saw the white tunic, shirt, and trousers. He bowed immediately. “I did not realize. . I’m sorry, ser. .”

“No, you didn’t. . did you?” A musical laugh followed-a laugh with a hard tone that made Cerryl want to shiver, even as he realized that the mage was a woman, an attractive figure with flame red hair and eyes that went through him, eyes that seemed to contain all colors and yet none at all. A faint scent of something-sandalwood, perhaps, drifted toward him.

He bowed again, saying nothing.

“Do you live here, young fellow?”

“Yes, ser. I’m an apprentice to Tellis.”

“The scrivener?” Another laugh followed. “Most interesting. Do you know your letters?”

“Yes, ser.” How could an apprentice scrivener not know the letters? Still, Cerryl kept his tongue.

“Both tongues?”

“I do not know Temple as well as the old true tongue,” he admitted.

“The old true tongue,” she mused. “And you mean what you say. Better and better. What is your name?”

“Cerryl, ser.” Cerryl had to work at keeping his voice level, feeling as though he faced some sort of examination, a dangerous examination, even though he could not explain exactly what or why.

“Cerryl the apprentice scrivener. .” She laughed more musically than before. “Keep learning your letters and all that you can. It might be enough.” She paused, and her voice turned harder. “You may go on whatever errand your master sent you.”

Cerryl tried to gather himself together as he bowed.

“Go.”

“Yes, ser.” He bowed again, turned, and hastened down toward the square and toward Nivor the apothecary’s.

The woman in white-she was certainly a mage, and not all that much older than Cerryl. He shivered, recalling the cold eyes that had changed color with every word and the cruel laugh. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she had meant about his learning more might be enough. Enough for what?

He shivered, though he tried not to do so. So much went on in Fairhaven that few saw. His brief experience with master Muneat had shown him one side of it, but that wasn’t all. Though he saw little of the power of chaos that lay hidden, that power he could feel, unlike that of the golds of the factors. And the hidden chaos made him shiver, unlike the golds.