L. Modesitt - The White Order

“I hadn’t thought being a scrivener’s apprentice was good for much.” Cerryl took a swallow of ale, a draught that helped cut the greasiness of the lemon sauce. “This is greasier than usual.”

“You should listen to Derka about writing,” said Faltar sourly. “The mutton is always greasy.”

Cerryl paused. “I saw Eliasar wearing a lot of weapons, just before I got here. He looked happy.” He gave a low laugh. “He likes weapons. I had to wonder where he was going.”

“Haven’t you seen?” Faltar took a quick sip of the amber ale. “They’re readying a whole force of white lancers. They’re all going to Certis-Jellico, from what I’ve heard.”

“From whom?” asked Cerryl quietly. “No one seems to tell anyone anything. Especially us.”

A quick blush passed across Faltar’s face, a flushing that Cerryl ignored. “I’ve just listened,” Faltar finally said. “You aren’t around here enough to overhear things.”

“That’s probably true. I’m down there struggling along in the tunnels.” Cerryl offered a smile. “Did you hear why Eliasar and those lancers are going to Jellico? I thought we had an agreement with Certis.”

“I think it has something to do with the problems in Gallos.” The blond student shrugged. “You know about the new prefect there?”

His mouth full of lamb and lemon-sauced bread, Cerryl nodded.

“He’s claiming that the agreement about the Great White Road was made when his sire was ailing, and that it doesn’t bind him to collect the road tariffs for us.”

“That’s almost half the road’s length,” mumbled Cerryl.

“It’s worse than that, Derka says. The prefect’s claiming that we have no right to tax any of the other roads we built, and that includes the main road from Jellico through Passera to Fenard.” Faltar lowered his voice. “They’re going to have a meeting about it-all the full mages.” Faltar lowered his voice. “That was what Lyasa told me.”

Yet Eliasar was already on his way to Certis. To ensure that the viscount stayed loyal to Fairhaven? Was the White Order’s hold on eastern Candar that fragile?

“That doesn’t sound good,” murmured Cerryl. “I wouldn’t know, but if there is going to be a meeting. .”

“That’s what. . Well. . no. . I don’t think so, either.” Faltar glanced nervously around the meal hall.

“Isn’t there a mage in Fenard? We saw him here once, I think. Can’t he do anything?”

“I don’t know.” Faltar finally looked back at his platter. “About the mage, I mean. There’s a mage in all the places where there’s a ruler. Except Spidlar and Sligo, and they have a Traders’ Council or something.”

“If they want us to know, they’ll tell us.” Cerryl laughed. “Otherwise, what can we do? I’ve still got sewer duty. You’ve still got to improve your hand, and I’ve still got to do cross-section problems for Esaak. Tonight,” Cerryl added as he stood.

“Tonight?”

Cerryl nodded and turned toward his cell, hoping he wouldn’t be working too long into the night.

CERRYL WOKE ALMOST clutching at his throat, feeling, sensing chaos everywhere. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and he had a hard time swallowing for a moment.

His eyes traversed the darkness of his small cell, but it remained as always-the desk with the books, the stool, the table, the unlit lamp, and the cold stone floor-all empty.

He swallowed again, then eased from under his blanket toward the door, standing with his hand on the latch, shivering in his smallclothes. After a moment of thought, he decided against opening the door but just listened.

Had he heard the whisper of footsteps on the polished stone of the corridor? Or was that the wind outside the halls?

He sniffed. Even through the door he could smell the faint odor of sandalwood and flowers, and his senses told him that someone in the corridor had warped or twisted light somehow.

The faintest snick of a lifted latch-had he heard that, or was it his overactive imagination?

Anya? Visiting Faltar again?

Briefly, the corners of his mouth lifted in the darkness as he thought how he would react if someone slipped into his room. Say someone like Leyladin. .

He swallowed and pushed that thought away as he sensed, almost like a white shadow, a looming but partly shielded chaos presence, farther away-where, he couldn’t sense, but not too far. And that chaos presence was definitely watching.

Cerryl swallowed. Anya was visiting Faltar, and Cerryl had no doubts about what kind of visits the redhead was making, and someone was watching Anya, and both were hiding their presence.

The thin-faced-and cold-footed-young man slipped back from his door to his bed, easing his blanket back around him, trying to let his feet warm up as his thoughts swirled in his head.

What did Anya want of Faltar-a mere student? Mere sexual pleasure? Somehow, recalling Anya’s smile and the coolness beneath it, Cerryl doubted that.

Should he tell Faltar? How much should he say? Or should he just wait? What else can you do but wait. Wait and learn. . and hope .

He turned over, wrapping the blanket tighter about him, but sleep was long in returning.

HOW DID THOSE mathematicks problems go with Esaak?” asked Faltar, taking a swig of ale from his mug, then following it with a mouthful of the crusty hot bread.

“I managed to figure out most of them.” Cerryl sipped the mug of water. Ale was something he couldn’t swallow in the morning. Cheese and bread were bad enough, but trying to handle chaos fire on an empty stomach was worse. He broke off another chunk of bread and ate it slowly, his eyes on the oiled and polished white oak table that had turned a burnished gold over the years.

“Esaak wants everyone to know how much water the sewers can carry and how you determine how strong a wall or bridge is.”

“Walls and bridges?” blurted Cerryl.

“Those are next,” affirmed Faltar, attacking another chunk of hard yellow cheese. “He says being a mage isn’t just wielding chaos-force. Oh, and Derka says I’ll start doing sewers pretty soon, maybe before you finish. He has to talk to Myral.”

“It’s not exactly fun,” demurred Cerryl.

“That’s what he says.”

As he chewed the fresh bread, Cerryl looked at Kesrik, not so much with his eyes as with his senses. The stocky blond sat at the corner table with the red-haired Kochar and the goateed Bealtur, and at that moment, none were looking toward Cerryl or Faltar. Then Cerryl turned his scrutiny to Kinowin, who stood over the table where Esaak had been eating alone.

Cerryl blinked, then looked more at Esaak. Clearly, a far greater chaos power surrounded Kinowin-although far less than Cerryl would have guessed-than the other two, and even the aging Esaak blazed with power compared to Kesrik. Cerryl glanced at Faltar the same way.

“What’s the matter? You have a funny look,” mumbled Faltar.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

About chaos power and who shows it . “All sorts of things. Esaak, Kinowin, Kesrik.”

“Sometimes you think too much.” Faltar swallowed the last of the ale in his mug.

Cerryl tried not to wince at the thought of starting the day with ale, glancing at Lyasa, who walked into the meal hall with Leyladin. Lyasa, like Faltar, showed a modicum of chaos. The red-golden-haired Leyladin flickered with what Cerryl sensed as flecks or streaks of white that seemed to swirl in and through an unseen black mist that enshrouded the blond. Was that what a black mage looked/felt like? Black mists? Cerryl quickly looked down at his platter as Leyladin’s eyes swept toward him.