L. Modesitt - The White Order

The young woman who stood in the doorway from the showroom was blond, trim but muscular. The dark blue eyes seemed to flash, even though the light from outside made her face appear veiled in shadow. “Tell me this one’s name. If he stays, I might remember it.”

“Cerryl, lady,” offered the apprentice.

“He’s polite, too. You always pick the polite ones. They don’t tell you how empty your words are.” The eyes flicked to Cerryl. “Oh, I’m Benthann. I’m the one who makes poor Tellis’s days miserable and his nights glorious.”

“Benthann. .” The scrivener’s voice was calm, unstressed. “Did you get the vellum?”

“Arkos will deliver it this afternoon. I couldn’t be bothered to carry it.” Benthann smiled. “Besides, I got it for less than you wanted to pay. Four silvers for the lot. Last time it cost you eight, and this is better.” She paused.

Cerryl forced himself not to turn to see Tellis’s reaction.

“Coins are all that count, Tellis. Did anyone buy anything today?” Benthann glanced at Cerryl. “They usually don’t, you know. They look and make pleasant noises, and then they leave.” She glanced from Cerryl to Tellis.

The scrivener offered a faint smile but did not answer her question.

“He doesn’t really need the shop at all,” continued Benthann. “They offer more coins for him to be a scribe.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” responded Tellis mildly, “if I were not a reputable scrivener with a shop. You know that, Benthann.”

“You need not spend so much coin and time on those presses and the colored leathers. .”

Cerryl wondered why Tellis didn’t just say that someone had bought two books for three golds and ordered a third. He looked at the scrivener.

“The leather protects the words, and the whites value that protection.” The spare face remained calm, almost disinterested.

“You have a word for everything.” Benthann’s voice carried a tone between a sneer and a laugh. “I will see you later. Good day to you, young Cerryl.”

Cerryl blinked, and the young woman was gone.

“She has not learned that there is a truth beyond coins.” Tellis gave a headshake and looked at Cerryl, then at the slate. “Wipe it clean and copy again, this time all in old tongue.”

“Yes, ser.”

With a smile, Tellis produced a thick woolen rag. “Use this. At the end of the day wash it out and hang it on the end of the rack here.” He pointed.

Cerryl took the rag and began to wipe the slate clean. What sort of a shop did Tellis run, and who was Benthann?

He kept his face expressionless as he cleaned the chalk from the practice slate.

CERRYL STRUGGLED TO sweep the sawdust away from the mill pit, but the cold wind coming through the east door kept blowing the sawdust and wood chips back toward the pit from which he had just shoveled them. His arms burned from the resins, and his gloves were worn through.

Behind him, the big blade rang like a chime. Clannnnggggg!!!

“Up. . up, you lazy apprentice!”

He glanced around the room in bewilderment. Where was his cubby? The open wardrobe wasn’t his. And his books? He sat up in the bed, shivering from the chill. What about the other blankets? One wasn’t enough.

“Breakfast is almost ready, and you need to bathe.”

Bathe? Cerryl shook his head, trying to climb out of the white fog and dream that seemed to hold him.

Clannnggg!!

“You awake in there?” demanded the voice. Beryal’s voice, he realized finally.

“I’m awake,” he croaked.

“Heard dead frogs more alive than you. Best be moving.” Beryal’s voice faded.

Slowly, he put his feet down on the chill stone floor, wincing. Then he stood and, in his drawers, pulled the threadbare towel over his shoulder and padded to the door, carrying his battered wash bucket. The courtyard was gray and gloomy before sunrise, and heavy clouds swirled overhead. A chill wind whipped across his bare chest as he filled the wash bucket and plodded back to his room.

Once clean-and shivering-he dressed and then left his room, opened the gate, and emptied the wash water into the sewer catch. He looked down the alleyway to the lesser artisans’ way but saw not a soul. Despite the swirling breeze, there was but a hint of the white street dust, and not a scrap of litter or rubbish in the alley. And not a single rodent.

From what Cerryl could tell, Fairhaven had few rodents-he’d never seen one-and streets cleaner than the floors of many houses in Hrisbarg. Nor did the air smell, except with a faint bitterness that reminded him of the mill blade after Dylert had cleaned, sharpened, and oiled it.

He closed the circular catch basin cover, not too much more than half a cubit across. From the sound of the wastes, the sewer beneath was large. He looked at the stone cover again. Why was it so small? Another minor mystery, and one probably not worth worrying over.

He walked back to his room, closing the gate and then replacing the wash bucket on the peg on the wall by the door. After deciding not to wear his jacket to cross the small courtyard, he hurried to the common room-warmed by the stove. The warmth felt good as he slid onto the empty bench.

“Took you long enough.” Beryal dumped two slabs of bread fried in something onto his plate.

He looked at the strangely fried bread blankly.

“Never seen egg toast before?”

“No, ser.”

“Beryal does it well,” said Tellis, taking the chair at the end of the table. “Best egg toast in Fairhaven.”

“You must be feeling good this mom,” observed Beryal from the stove where she fried more of the heavy bread.

“A good morning it is, if a bit chill, but the winter here is mild, compared to the plains of Jellicor.” Tellis yawned.

“Men.” Beryal smirked and walked back to the stove.

Cerryl looked around the common room. Benthann? Now that he thought about it, he’d never seen her at breakfast.

“Don’t be looking for her mightiness,” said Beryal. “Not afore midmorning, leastwise.”

Cerryl held back a cough. For a mother, Beryal wasn’t exactly warm and supportive of her daughter. Neither Nail nor Syodor had ever been that cutting, and he hadn’t even been their son. Nor had Dylert been that cross, even when Brental had nearly ruined the big blade on a lorken log with knotted heartwood.

Tellis coughed, loudly.

“Don’t you be coughing and snorting at me, master Tellis. I cook, and I clean and do as you order for the household, but my words be my own.” The sizzle of the frying bread emphasized Beryal’s statement. More emphasis followed when she slammed the crockery platter and the browned egg toast before Tellis.

Cerryl kept his eyes on his plate, except when he reached for his mug of cool water.

“Don’t know why I keep you two around,” murmured Tellis.

“We all know that, and there’d be no reason to talk more about it,” answered Beryal, back at the stove fixing her own egg toast. “Cerryl, would you want more toast?”

“If I could have another piece. . please.”

“That you can, and you ask, unlike some who sleep forever.” Beryal carried the skillet over and slipped a third chunk of the browned egg-battered toast onto his plate.

“That was yours. .”

“There is more where that came from. Not be starving myself, not in this household.” Beryal grinned. “And I thank you for caring.”

As she turned her back, Tellis grinned at Cerryl.

Not knowing quite what the grin meant, Cerryl offered a faint smile in return. “Good toast it is, ser.”

“It is indeed,” said Tellis. “Enjoy it as you can.”

Beryal sat down across from Cerryl and began to eat her egg toast. The three ate silently. Before he realized it, Cerryl glanced at his suddenly empty plate. He repressed a burp, took a last swallow of water, and then looked toward Tellis.