L. Modesitt - The White Order

By then blood streaked the fingers of his right hand.

“That’s enough. Clear you’ve had no training in arms.” Eliasar took back the bow, unstrung it, and wiped it down with a cloth he produced from somewhere.

“You’ll never raise a blade-or a bow. So why do you suppose I made you do all this?” Eliasar grinned. “And you’ll do it a score or more times before you ever ride with the lancers.”

“So that I understand what lancers do?”

Eliasar smiled coldly. “So you don’t do something that kills them or you because you don’t understand. You don’t understand. You haven’t even started to understand.” The grin returned. “Least you can wear armor and move. Might be some hope for you.” Eliasar turned. “Let’s get that off you and get you back to the common.”

Cerryl forced his steps to match those of the older mage, although he found himself practically panting to keep up.

“Be another eight-day or two. Mayhap longer, if you get sewer duty, but I’ll see you again. Then we’ll be showing you how to ride proper-like. That’s something you will do, and we’ll make sure you know that.”

Cerryl had the feeling that Eliasar would, and that the mage enjoyed making life difficult for students.

CERRYL LOOKED DOWN at the map outline lightly penned on the vellum spread across the table before him. He almost felt like jamming the quill into the smooth wood of the table or banging his head against the wall-or better yet, picking up Kesrik or Bealtur and pummeling either into a pulp, or tying them to a log and running it through Dylert’s big saw.

Already one eight-day and two days had passed, and all he had was an outline on vellum. His fingers still ached from his morning with Eliasar, and that hadn’t made copying any easier or quicker. He’d had to develop a real scale of distances, one that fit on the size vellum he’d been able to get from Arkos, and that had taken almost two days because none of the maps in the books or the bigger ones in the mages’ library really agreed, not that well.

Not only were all the sizes and scales different, but often the names weren’t even the same. Some had Fenard spelled as Fenardre-after the ancient lord of Gallos, Cerryl guessed-and Jellico as Jellicor. The Westhorns were the Ouesthorns on some maps. One town in Certis had four names: Yytrel, Rellos, Estalcor, and Rytel. Cerryl figured, from the ages of the various histories and places, that the current name was Rytel-unless it had changed again.

West of the Westhorns was worse, but he didn’t have to worry about that, darkness forbid.

Because one of the places that Jeslek had mentioned-Quessa-wasn’t on any map anywhere, Cerryl had asked the few students he trusted, like Faltar and Lyasa and the diffident Heralt. None of them knew.

While he would have been reluctant to approach any full mage he didn’t study with-effectively Jeslek, Broka, and occasionally Derka-he had to ask himself why Jeslek had forbidden such questions. To force Cerryl to search the library and all the histories? To make the task harder? Another of Jeslek’s endless tests?

He looked at the map, then lifted it and reattached it to the working rack in the corner.

Questions would have to wait.

After washing up, Cerryl found himself marching up the avenue toward Fasse’s shop. Jeslek hadn’t forbidden him to talk to others who might know, and he thought he recalled that Fasse had come from Gallos. He hoped his recollections were correct.

In the midafternoon, a line of wagons rumbled along the white stones of the avenue. A series of bells rang, and Cerryl smiled as he saw, trailing the cooper’s wagon, a white-sided refuse wagon.

Once past the market square, filled mainly with women, he reached the jewelers’ row, where in the cool afternoon most doors were closed, except for one. As he passed the green-lacquered open door, he glanced inside, where a goldsmith held a glittering choker to the light of the door for a woman dressed in pale blue. Cerryl couldn’t have guessed how much gold was in the necklace, only that it was far more than he would likely ever see, even if he did become a full mage. For all of the strangeness in the Halls of the Mages, love of gold did not seem a magely fault.

One guard in pale blue livery stood by the door, and another almost between her and the goldsmith. Cerryl nodded to the guard, who did not nod back, and kept walking, past the rest of the fine metalsmiths’, past the grain exchange, and finally to the artisans’ square.

The door to Fasse’s shop was ajar, and Cerryl edged inside. Fasse stood, polishing cloth in hand, by a gold oak chest.

“Yes, young ser?” The twiglike and wispy mustache twitched as the cabinet-maker turned to Cerryl.

Cerryl found the setting strange. A craftmaster-one whose loft he had slept in back at a time when he had barely a handful of coppers to his name-was calling him “ser.”

“Fasse, my name is Cerryl, and once I slept in your loft. I am working on a project for the higher mages. .” What else could he call Jeslek? “. . and I thought you might be able to help.”

“Young ser, you did look familiar.” Fasse’s brow furrowed as he stepped back from the gold oak chest he polished. “Yet, how could I be helping you?”

“I am making a map, and there are some towns in Gallos. . Might you know where Quessa is?”

Fasse scratched the back of his head, his eyes going sidelong at Cerryl for a moment. “Hmmm. . aye. . I was there once, as a boy, but how. . how would I say. . explain. . that be many years ago.”

Cerryl waited.

“Best as I recall, it be three days’ ride to the west of Hierna, only two days east of the Westhorns, the first hills, that be.”

Cerryl swallowed. “Ah. . I know where Tellura is, but not Hierna.”

Fasse twisted one end of the thin mustache. “Tellura. . I never went there, though all said it was to the south and east of Linspros and somewhere south and east of Hierna.” Then he hung the polishing cloth on a wooden peg next to one of the smaller wood racks. “And never having been there, I’d not know how to say to get from one to the other. Or how long one might have to travel.”

“Do you know anyone in Fairhaven who might know?”

Fasse twisted the other end of his mustache, scratching his head with the other hand. Then he pursed his lips. “Lwelter the potter-he might, seeing as his consort, she was Analerian, and they travel all Kyphros. . might be that Hierna be too far north for herders.” Fasse shrugged. “Best I could do.”

“Lwelter. . where could I find him?”

“You know Arkos the tanner? You must. . ah. .” Fasse swallowed.

Cerryl ignored the audible gulp. “I know Arkos. Is Lwelter near there?”

“Two shops toward the square. Leastwise, I think it’s two. You’ll find it, young ser.”

“Thank you, Fasse.” Cerryl nodded and left, repeating as he walked toward the tanner’s what Fasse had said until he was sure he had the information firmly in mind.

From what Cerryl could tell, the potter’s shop, the one with the outsized pitcher over the doorway, was three shops toward the square from the tanner’s. He opened the door gently and stepped inside.

A young man, not that much older than Cerryl himself, sat on a stool, one foot pumping the treadle that powered the wheel. Cerryl watched as the base of a pot or a pitcher rose from the clay under the stubby fingers of the young potter.

The potter never glanced at Cerryl.

Finally, Cerryl cleared his throat. “I’m looking for Lwelter, the potter.”

The slender man looked up from the wheel, then stiffened as he saw the white tunic and trousers. “Lwelter, ser?”

“He might know something,” Cerryl said.