L. Modesitt - The White Order

His pack half-dangling from his shoulder, Cerryl stifled a yawn. It had been a long day, a very long day.

“Not that we be having much this eve, saving a mutton stew that be mostly carrots and onions, but you be welcome,” said Fasse, reappearing suddenly.

“Thank you, master crafter,” offered Cerryl.

“Thank you,” added Rinfur.

Fasse gestured toward the door, and the two entered. The door closed behind the three with a snick of the latch.

“All the way to the end, and the door on the right,” Fasse suggested.

Cerryl followed Rinfur down the narrow corridor and stepped through the door from the gloom into a surprisingly bright room, the walls a spotless white plaster, the floor a polished golden oak.

The odor of stew filled the room, coming from the stew pot that sat on the oblong waist-high black metal structure that Cerryl realized, after a moment, must be a stove. A scuttle of coal sat beside the stove, which was set in an alcove with windows on each side. The windows and shutters were open wide. Cerryl nodded almost to himself, sensing the flow of chaos-tinged heat from the hot stove out the window on the right side.

“This be my consort, Weylenya.” Fasse jerked his head toward the gray-haired, round-faced woman in brown who stood before the stove, then gestured to the benches flanking the trestle table. There was a place set on each side and at each end. Backed stools faced the ends of the tables.

“I am honored to meet you,” Cerryl said after an awkward moment.

“Good it be to see you, again, lady,” added Rinfur.

“A poor stew it be, but filling.” Weylenya inclined her head. “Company we had not expected.”

After waiting his turn to use the washstand in the corner, Cerryl stood back until Rinfur picked the bench where he would sit. Then Cerryl stood behind the bench on the other side.

“Sit,” said Weylenya with a laugh, carrying the stew pot toward the table. As the men sat, she ladled stew into the four brown earthenware bowls. “Bread be coming.”

Soon, the aroma of dark bread mixed with that of the stew as Weylenya set a wicker basket in the center of the polished walnut table.

“Brew in the gray pitcher, watered wine in the brown,” Fasse explained.

Following Rinfur’s example, Cerryl poured the amber beer from the gray pitcher into a brown mug with a chipped handle. With a chunk of the brown bread in one hand, he sipped the beer. Despite the slight bitterness, he enjoyed the taste.

“Good brew,” affirmed Rinfur. “Always have a good brew here.”

“Get it from Herlot out in Weevett. Keep it in the coldest corner of the shop. The woods help, but I don’t know why.” Fasse took a swallow from his own mug. Weylenya drank the watered wine between small bites of bread and stew.

Cerryl found himself looking down at an empty bowl.

“Growing lad, I see.” The crafter’s consort stood and returned with the stew pot, refilling both the teamster’s bowl and Cerryl’s.

“Thank you.” Cerryl offered a grateful smile with the words.

“A polite young fellow you are.” Fasse nodded. “Polite indeed. Why you be coming to Fairhaven, young fellow? Aim to make your fortune?” Fasse laughed. “Seen lots of young fellows. Either want to pile up the coins or become mages. One or the other.”

Cerryl finished chewing a mouthful of the hot bread. “I have to learn to become a scrivener.”

“What? No coins?” asked the cabinet maker. “No great dreams?”

Cerryl forced a gentle smile but said nothing.

“Know your letters?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Knowing your letters, and not having dreams, you might yet make a good scrivener.” Fasse shook his head. “Too many folk these days, wanting to be rich or powerful. Not like the old times, when a man took pride in his work. That was when the work counted, not the coins.”

A half smile crossed Weylenya’s lips, as if she had heard the words more than a few times before.

“Now. . the young ’uns, they want the coins afore the first join is set, afore the barrel holds water, afore the. . ah, what’s the use? An old crafter railing ’gainst a world that doesn’t know where it’s going, doesn’t recall where it came from.” The crafter lifted his mug and drained it, then looked at Rinfur. “You be sleeping in the loft, the two of you. You know where, teamster.”

“Yes, master crafter.”

Cerryl finished his stew and the last corner of the dark bread, trying not to yawn while he ate. The day had been long, and his buttocks were sore.

Yet, even after he straggled up the short ladder to the loft and the narrow pallet alone, not caring that Rinfur had said he was taking a walk, he could not sleep, tired as he was. Though he lay on the narrow pallet, thinner and harder than the one at Dylert’s, his eyes remained open, resting on the thick beams of the workroom ceiling.

Around him, beyond the stone walls of the shop, he could sense the flows of red-tinged white. The energies he’d felt in the mines, or even with the white mages who had fought at the mill, were insignificant compared to those which suffused Fairhaven. He shivered.

Careful. . he would have to be most careful. Already he had seen enough to know that Fairhaven was a dangerous place for him-for anyone. With those thoughts, his eyes finally closed.

AFTER HELPING RINFUR move the wagon and harness the team, Cerryl waved as the teamster eased the wagon out of the courtyard. Then he swallowed as Rinfur and the team disappeared behind the buildings of the side street leading to the square.

Finally, after a deep breath, he hoisted his pack and slipped into Fasse’s shop. The crafter stood to one side of the front door, surveying the street outside and the handful of passersby.

“Ser? Could you tell me the way to Tellis the scrivener?”

“What? Oh. .” Fasse half-turned. “That be right. Dylert be sending you there.” The crafter fingered his narrow ginger mustache, then lifted and dropped his angular shoulders. “Tellis? His place be across the square and four long blocks up the lesser artisans’ way.”

Cerryl wanted to ask Fasse who or what the lesser artisans were, but the cabinet maker’s continued glances toward the square were enough to discourage questions. “Thank you, ser. I appreciated the bed and the food. Very much.”

“Be nothing, young fellow. You be doing the same for another some day.” Fasse glanced toward the main avenue again. “Best you be off. I be awaitin’ a mage.” The crafter gestured toward the polished white oak chest that stood to his left.

Cerryl’s eyes took in the chest, waist high, and finished with something that glistened like fresh oil but was just as clearly not.

“Have to be varnished for them. All they touch. . they destroy in time. The varnish helps.” Fasse looked down the avenue to his right again.

“Thank you.” Cerryl nodded and shouldered his pack.

“High price for managing chaos. .” murmured the crafter.

Cerryl concealed a frown as he stepped through the open door and onto the raised stone sidewalk, still marveling at the very idea. In Hrisbarg, sometimes the shopkeepers put down boards during the rains, but pedestrians and horses shared the streets, and Cerryl knew to watch where he put his feet.

He waited for a two-horse wagon piled with baskets of potatoes to pass, and crossed the western part of the avenue. The farmer on the seat had never even glanced in his direction.

The sun was barely above the roofs to the east of the square, and long shadows lay across the white stone avenue and the sidewalk stones and curbings, and darkened the emerald grass. The slight coolness of the evening before had vanished, and neither grass nor stone bore the slightest trace of dew. Although the air was already warm, the oval shape of what Rinfur and Fasse had called a square was empty. A handful of people walked the sidewalks, mostly from the gates toward the center of Fairhaven, and the creaking of wagons and the clop of hoofs on the stones were the loudest sounds.