L. Modesitt - The White Order

A line of fire and a series of little explosions ran in both directions from the chaos-fire impact. After a moment, white ash sprayed across the secondary sewage tunnel below, some rising on hot sewer air and gas into the cooler fresh air of the street above.

“. . ugh. .”

“Ullan,” warned Jyantyl.

Cerryl already felt tired, and he’d barely cleared the area around the tunnel entrance. A gust of cold air swirled around him and mixed with the fetid sewer atmosphere.

He stepped down to the walkway. Bits of white ash covered the thick-looking wastewater, but the green-and-gray scum-fuzz had disappeared. Burned off? Cerryl didn’t know. More reading, he supposed.

Another firebolt brought more clear walkway bricks. He glanced at the drainage way. Was the wastewater level slightly lower? Had the scum he’d burned off slowed the flow down?

Slowly he walked another half-dozen paces into the darkness, though he could sense things well enough. Something protruded from the drainage way, not a great deal, perhaps a half cubit above the water level, and he thought the water level was lower on the other side. A rubbish buildup?

With a half-shrug, he lofted another firebolt onto whatever it was that rose out of the drainage way.

A burst of flame flared into the tunnel, then subsided, and the protuberance vanished with a gurgling sound. Then another gurgling sound rose, and the water level in the drainage way began to drop.

“Why here?” Then he looked back toward the stairs and the grate above. Of course some good citizen of Fairhaven had probably disposed of something through the bars-something he hadn’t wanted to bring to the refuse wagon.

Cerryl wanted to shake his head. Whatever it had been, he’d just destroyed it.

His eyes went to the drainage way, now down to what he thought was a more normal level, and back along the next dozen cubits of walkway that he had yet to clean.

He mustered another firebolt, scouring half the distance to what he’d cleaned previously, but his head was beginning to ache, like it did in a storm, and skies were clear.

How could he direct enough fire to clean anything? He leaned against the just-cleaned tunnel wall for a moment.

Light. . light. . Myral kept talking about light. So had Jeslek. That had to be something about it, something he needed to think about. . if he ever had time and energy.

“Ullan, you and Dientyr can come down now.” His voice sounded ragged, but he turned toward the darkness and slime ahead.

CERRYL RAPPED ON the door to Myral’s tower quarters. Almost immediately, he felt the sense of being watched in a glass.

“Come on in, Cerryl.”

As the sense of being scanned vanished, the student mage opened the door and entered, closing it behind him firmly. “I’m here, as you requested, ser.”

“Yes, you are here. That’s good.” Myral stood from the chair by the round table. “It means that you got the lock open and closed. I would have heard if you hadn’t gotten that far. Jyantyl also would have reported if you hadn’t been able to clean anything.” The round-faced mage pointed to the chair. “Have a seat. You’ll be on your feet all day. Would you like some hot cider?”

“Yes, please.” Cerryl waited until Myral poured another mug of the steaming liquid and had reseated himself. He could see the faintest of white chaos residue around Myral, far less than he sensed around Jeslek or Sterol. Do other mages sense that around you?

“You were up in the old tanners’ section, along the old warehouses.”

Cerryl nodded, taking a quick sip of the spiced cider, so much better than the water or ale that were the morning choices in the meal hall.

“It’s been a while since it’s been scoured. How was it?”

“The drainage way was clogged, not more than a dozen cubits from the steps.” Cerryl managed another sip, despite the heat of the beverage.

“That happens a lot. People push things through the grates. The rubbish flows some distance, sometimes quite a distance, before it catches on something and creates a block.” Myral cocked his head slightly. “Did you find out what it was?”

“No, ser. I didn’t figure that out until I saw something sticking out of the scum and fired it. Then it was too late.”

“It burned, I take it.”

“The scum burned off and so did whatever jammed the drainage way.”

“It could have been worse. You can get quite a jolt if you hit polished iron or steel and you’re not expecting it. Quite a jolt.” Myral fingered his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Have you reached that cluster of third-level inlets on the south side?”

“No, ser.”

“How far did you get?”

“Not very far, ser. Yesterday, I’d guess maybe forty cubits. The slime was almost shoulder high on the walls.”

“That secondary hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned in three or four years, I believe. The cluster should be another fifty cubits or so beyond where you are now. When you get there, spend some time cleaning the inlets as far back as you can press with your chaos-fire.”

“How far should I be able to reach?”

Myral shrugged. “You have just begun to handle chaos-fire. I don’t have any idea. You ought to be able to press it fifteen or twenty cubits back, and the steam should clean it even farther. You can use the steam to your advantage, you know? Block the conduit with your shield, and the steam can only go the other way.”

“Ah. . yes, ser. I hadn’t thought of that.” How much else hadn’t he thought about?

“You’ll learn. You have to do things to learn.” Myral smiled politely and stood. “Oh, there’s one other thing I forgot to tell you. Never use all the chaos force you have.”

Cerryl nodded.

“No. I mean it. You can feel the force build up within you, right? Before you release it?”

“Yes, ser, in a way.”

“If you spray out everything each time, you get tired quickly. Also, unless you’re like Jeslek-with so much power to spare that it doesn’t matter-you’ll find that your ability to handle chaos diminishes over time.”

“Won’t holding chaos back. .?” Cerryl wasn’t certain exactly what he wanted to say.

“Mayhap. . I didn’t say that as well as I could have. Use the force you have, but don’t strain. Don’t try to push that last bit out that you may not have.”

That made more sense.

“Well, best you get to work. Stop by tomorrow-every morning, in fact-and give me a report.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl stood.

“Think about what you do. Do not just act.” Myral inclined his head toward the door.

Cerryl nodded and left, closing the door behind him and starting down the stairs, then pausing as he heard boots coming up from below.

He stepped back up to the landing as a blond-haired figure in green appeared. “Good morning.” He eased to one side of the landing to give the green-eyed young woman access to Myral’s door.

“Good day.” Leyladin smiled pleasantly but made no move to enter Myral’s quarters or to continue up the steps.

Cerryl felt tongue-tied, wanting to say something but not knowing what he could say-or dared to say. Finally, he forced a smile and said, “Good day.” He headed down the steps, conscious of her eyes on his back, wishing he had said something more profound-or less banal.

He’d dreamed of her for years, and all he could say was “Good day.” He looked back up the steps, but she had gone into Myral’s quarters. He took a deep breath. He had sewers to clean.

CERRYL TRUDGED DOWN the corridor toward his cell, feeling that his shirt, tunic, and trousers smelled of sewer, even though he’d washed thoroughly and brushed the surface of his garments with the hint of chaos-fire before redonning them-a trick he’d picked up from watching Myral. Then maybe the smell of sewage was too deeply imbedded in his nostrils for one stop in the washroom to rid him of it.