The 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 washstand 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 screeing 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?”

“I’m better with the old tongue,” Cerryl admitted.

“Thank you.” The mage nodded and turned out of the doorway and toward Tellis.

Cerryl listened.

“Was there anything back there?” asked the woman mage.

“Just the apprentice, and an alchemist’s book to be copied.” A deep laugh followed. “I think we can go, Anya.”

“Thank you, master scrivener.”

The front door closed, and Tellis stepped back into the workroom. His forehead was glazed with sweat. Cerryl knew his own forehead was damp as well.

“The bearded one. What did he want?” asked Tellis.

“He wanted to know if I were your only apprentice. I said I was.”

“What have you done, Cerryl?” Tellis’s voice sharpened. “What have you done?”

“Nothing.” The apprentice looked helplessly at the scrivener. “I can’t think of anything out of the ordinary. I’ve read the books, run errands, and copied things. I’ve never even been close to their tower.”

“Do you know any black mages?” The bushy eyebrows seemed to stand out as the scrivener peered at his apprentice.

Cerryl looked directly at Tellis, meeting his eyes squarely. “Ser, I wouldn’t know a black mage if he appeared in the front room.”

“I don’t understand. I’ve been so careful.” Tellis fingered his bare chin. “Why would they be here?” He looked at Cerryl again. “Are you sure you don’t know anything about this?”

“Ser,” Cerryl said carefully, “we’ve all felt we’ve been watched. Beryal said something about that. I’ve felt people were looking from the alleyway.” He shrugged again. “I haven’t done anything any different. I haven’t stolen anything. I haven’t insulted anyone. I haven’t gone anyplace I wasn’t supposed to go.”

“Then why did the white mages come in here? They didn’t want a book. They asked me about a forbidden book.”

“They asked about The Book of Ayrlyn. You’ve never said anything about it. What is it?” Cerryl glanced at Tellis. “Why would they ask about that? You only copy the books they want.”

“That’s just it.” The scrivener fingered his chin once more, frowning. “I don’t know why they asked that.”

“I don’t know what the book is,” Cerryl suggested obliquely, hoping Tellis would offer a clue.

“Oh. . one of the old forgeries. It’s supposed to be the story of one of the ancient black angels. It couldn’t be. There’s nothing from that time. They didn’t have scriveners. The Guild would know.”

“So they’re looking for a forgery? They should know you better than that.”

“They should,” Tellis agreed. “You haven’t been copying anything else, have you?”

“No, ser. I haven’t copied a line you haven’t told me to. Not one.”

“I believe you.” Tellis frowned again. “But it doesn’t make sense. What could they possibly be looking for?”

Me, Cerryl wanted to answer. But why? It can’t be because of Uncle Syodor and Aunt Nail. They’d already have turned chaos on me. “They act like they’re looking for something, but maybe they’re asking all the scriveners or people who might have books. They didn’t seem upset when they left.”

“That’s true.” Tellis’s face brightened slightly. “They just take people away for the road if they’ve done something wrong.” A furrow crossed his forehead. “It is troubling, though.”

“Yes.” Cerryl had to cough to clear his throat. “I could barely answer when he stood there.”

“You see why you don’t ever want to cross them? They know almost everything.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl only hoped they didn’t know absolutely everything. His stomach remained clenched in knots, and every word felt like an effort. He knew there would be no more warm water, and no more reading of forbidden books-not for a long, long time.

He swallowed.

“Well. . white mages or not. . you’ve copying to do.” Tellis’s voice sounded forced, and he wiped his forehead.

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl feared his own voice sounded equally false.

“Take out that ink and get to it, then.”

“I filled the stands already.” Cerryl stepped toward the copy desk.

“Good. I need to go over to Nivor’s. It won’t be more than a moment or two. You see what you can do. Skip the illustrations on the overleaf. I’ll do those. You start on the main text.”

Cerryl took out his penknife, hoping his hands would not shake too much, hoping Tellis would leave and that he could gather himself together.

“Keep the letter width thin.” Tellis stood by the workroom door for a moment, then jerked his head away. The door closed firmly, almost as though it had been slammed.

Cerryl just sat on the stool for a time before his hands stopped shaking, and before he dared to sharpen the quill.