The White Order

XLV

TELLIS CLEARED HIS throat. “I continue to wonder about those mages. No one at the tower has said so much as a word, and yesterday Sterol requested that I come again the day after tomorrow to act as a copyist.” The scrivener scratched the back of his head, then fingered his chin.

Cerryl continued to sweep the floor stones of the workroom, bending to ease the dirt and tiny leather and vellum scraps and bits of dried glue into the wooden dust holder. For days, Tellis had been muttering about the mages, for days, always half-questioning Cerryl, not quite insisting that Cerryl was the reason.

“What do you think, Cerryl?”

The apprentice finished sweeping the dirt and leavings into the holder and straightened, carefully emptying the holder into the waste bin before replying. “I don’t know, ser.”

“They were here. How can you not think something?”

“I was afraid,” Cerryl admitted. I still am. “I’d never seen more than one white mage before I came to Fairhaven.”

“The one even questioned you.” Tellis’s voice bore the faintest tone of reproach.

“All he asked was what I did and whether I was the only apprentice.” Cerryl slipped the empty dust holder onto its peg and leaned the broom in the corner. He stepped over to the washstand to clean his hands. “He stared at me for a moment, and then he left.”

“That’s all he did?”

“Yes, ser.” How many times had Cerryl told Tellis that?

“But why would they ask about that book?” Tellis fingered his chin again. “They have to know I wouldn’t ever cross them.”

“Neither would I,” Cerryl added. Not openly. It’s too dangerous. “I didn’t even know that there was such a book.”

Tellis coughed. “Can’t get my throat clear. Not for anything.” He coughed again. “I just don’t understand. I’ve always followed the guidelines. Always.” His voice cracked slightly.

“They are mages,” Cerryl said evenly, drying his hands and stepping toward the copy desk and the waiting volume-An Alchemical Manual.

“That is just it,” insisted Tellis. “They must have a reason; they must have.”

“They must have.” Cerryl leaned forward and inspected the quill in the holder, forcing his voice to remain even, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “They are mages.” He paused. “Do you want me to keep working on this, ser?”

“That?” Tellis’s head twitched. “Oh, the manual for Nivor? If you can keep the letter width thin enough. That last page is barely passable. For a journeyman, yes, but not from Tellis the scrivener.” He frowned. “You aren’t listening to me these days, not enough.”

“I try, ser. I’m cutting the nibs the way you showed me yesterday, and I am comparing the letters to the gauge.”

“You shouldn’t have to compare. You should know.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl lifted the quill.

“See that you do.”

The apprentice nodded.

“I still don’t understand about the mages. . Sterol trusts me with all of his books. Why would he send lesser mages into my shop? Why?”

Cerryl kept breathing evenly and took out his penknife to resharpen the quill. After working on it, he stood by the copy desk, waiting, hoping he could either get on with the copying or go on an errand.

“My shop,” Tellis repeated. “Why would any mage come to my shop? My shop, of all others.”

“Stop moaning, Tellis,” interrupted Beryal from the doorway. “If they’d a wanted you on the road, you’d be pounding rocks already. Your high and mighty Sterol would a squashed you like a ground lizard under his shiny white boots. Same’s for your apprentice there. They were looking for something. They didn’t find it here. Count yourself lucky, and stop moaning. If they were after you, you wouldn’t be getting copy work.”

Cerryl wanted to sigh in relief, or smile. He didn’t.

“Beryal. . you are not the one to lecture me.” Tellis turned and glared at the older woman.

“I be telling you I’m on my way to the market, ser.” Beryal inclined her head. “Deria said there were some tender chickens a-coming from Howlett. Some roast fowl would do us all good. Course, I’d need a half silver or so, for that and all else you’d be needing.”

Tellis sighed, then looked at Cerryl. “You can do what you can with Nivor’s book. Keep the letters slender. When I get back, you can scrub the floor in the front room.”

“Yes, ser.”

“After that, you can scrub down the courtyard.”

“Yes, ser.”

“The market, ser?” prompted Beryal. “You’d not be wanting me to be the last one in line for a fowl, you know?”

Tellis gave another sigh and marched out of the workroom, Beryal trailing him.

Cerryl felt like sighing, and did, if silently.