L. Modesitt - The White Order

The faintest of rustlings caught his ear, and his eyes went back to the hallway, where a woman, impossibly slender, crossed the marble floor and entered through the archway the room on the left side of the hall, past the shimmering hangings. Her gown-not tunic and trousers but a form-fitting dress or gown-was a deep red that also shimmered in the indirect light. Cerryl thought she had worn silver combs in dark hair, but she had moved so gracefully and silently that he was not sure.

A different scent, one like fruit and roses together, slipped past him, then seemed to vanish.

Cerryl swallowed as he heard a clicking on the marble. A short figure in deep blue-even in deep blue leather boots-was walking toward the foyer. He wore a shimmering white silk shirt, and a dress jacket and matching trousers of a deep blue velvet. The bald forehead, the silver hair, and the white-silver mustache told Cerryl that master Muneat approached, and the apprentice jumped to his feet, waiting. Behind Muneat walked the seneschal, his face blank.

“Young fellow. . Shallis said you were from master Tellis.” A surprisingly shy smile crossed the broad and jowled face.

“Yes, ser. Master Tellis sent me to deliver this.” Cerryl extended the velvet-wrapped book. “He said it could only go to your own hand.”

“To my own hand, ha!” Muneat laughed again, taking the book. “My own hand. Would that others respected my hand so much.”

Cerryl didn’t know what to say. So he waited for the older man to stop laughing.

“And you would not be budged, not if you’re from Tellis. Verial was like that, too. Two golds I promised your master, and two golds it shall be. And a silver for you, and two for him.”

Cerryl managed to keep his mouth shut as Muneat handed him a small leather pouch and then a silver. “Your master’s coins are in the purse. The silver is yours.”

“I thank you, ser.” Cerryl bowed. “And Master Tellis thanks you.”

“Always a pleasure dealing with Tellis. Always a pleasure.” Muneat smiled broadly. “And it is good to meet you, lad. Your name?”

“Cerryl, ser.”

“Cerryl. A good name. And a good day to you.” Muneat laughed again, a gentle sound, and turned to the seneschal.

Shallis stepped around his master and forward to open the door.

“Thank you, ser,” Cerryl said again.

“And a very good day to you and your master. Tell him I have another, perhaps in an eight-day or so.”

“Yes, ser.”

Cerryl stood on the granite paving stones before the fountain for a long moment, then slipped the pouch inside his shirt, and the silver into the slots on the inside of his belt-far safer for him than a wallet-though he’d never heard of a cutpurse in Fairhaven. But he didn’t wish to discover such existed the hard way.

Back on the avenue, Cerryl glanced back at the house-or palace-then down the avenue, past the half-dozen or more similar dwellings. He shook his head. He’d had no idea, no idea at all, of what wealth really was. Dylert he’d reckoned as a wealthy man. He shook his head once more before turning back up the avenue, thinking he could yet smell all the scents of flowers that had filled master Muneat’s home.

And the red gown-how many coins must one have to wear such gowns for no reason at all? He forced himself to walk briskly past the market square, past the jewelers, past the artisans’ square and up the street to Tellis’s, ignoring the silver in his belt. Silver he could always spend. Getting it was harder. He shook his head-except for those like master Muneat.

Back at the shop, Cerryl went straight through the showroom to the workroom. Tellis sat slumped at the worktable.

“Are you all right, ser?”

Tellis slowly straightened. “Was he in? Did you give it to him?”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl extended the pouch. “He gave me this. Said there were two golds and two silvers in it for you.”

Tellis’s eyes brightened as his trembling hands took the pouch and fumbled it open.

Coins spilled on the table.

“There are three silvers here, as well as the golds. Did you not count?”

“Ser. . he handed me the pouch. That was what he said. I thought it better not to question his word.”

“Muneat plays his tricks, but he is generous, unlike some.” A ragged smile crossed Tellis’s lips. “He gave you something?”

“Yes, ser. He gave me a silver.”

“Good. Keep it safe.” The smile faded. “Do not be thinking that you’ll see its like again soon.”

“No, ser. I know that.” Cerryl paused. “Master Muneat said he would have another in an eight-day or so.”

“Did he open it while you were there?”

“No, ser.”

Tellis nodded slowly.

“Ser. . what is it that. . I mean. . I sat in the foyer. . polished marble. .”

“He has more coins than most,” Tellis said dryly, massaging his forehead and not looking at Cerryl. “He is one of the largest grain factors in Candar. I believe he even has several ships that sail out of Lydiar.”

Cerryl glanced around the suddenly very cramped workroom, a room that would have fit even inside the front foyer of Muneat’s small palace.

“He is not alone in his riches in Fairhaven, Cerryl. Far from it.”

The apprentice wondered what the dwellings of the other rich folk looked like inside.

“Get me some of the yellow tea Beryal said she’d brew.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl turned and headed toward the kitchen.

“Yellow tea. . yellow tea. .” mumbled Tellis behind Cerryl. “Darkness. . hate the stuff. .”

Beryal looked up from the kitchen worktable, where she poured a hot liquid from the kettle into a mug. “You’re back so soon?”

“They didn’t make me wait. Tellis sent me for the tea.” His eyes traversed the common room, clean and plain-and very small. Very plain.

“He’s stubborn,” said Beryal, lifting one of the smaller mugs and extending it to Cerryl. “Wouldn’t stay in bed. No. . has to get up and make the rest of us feel his pain.”

“He doesn’t look well.”

“Anyone who drank all that double mead at the Pillion last night should look like that. Benthann, she cannot lift her head.” Beryal frowned. “Take the master his yellow tea.”

Cerryl slipped back to the workroom and extended the mug.

Tellis took it wordlessly.

Cerryl sharpened the quill, then stirred the ink, and set The Science of Measurement and Reckoning on the copy stand, opening it to the bookmark. He could almost see the polished marble and the shimmering hangings, and the dark red dress. . even the dark blue velvet and flawless silk worn by Muneat. Cerryl knew, from what he’d learned in talking with Pattera, that the silk shirt alone probably cost a gold. He’d never seen half that in his entire life.

He took a slow breath. He couldn’t change what was. Not yet, perhaps not ever. He dipped the quill in the ink. But you can do more than be a scrivener. . you can!

At the worktable, Tellis sipped bitter yellow tea.

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. .