L. Modesitt - The White Order

“When a mage feels strongly or is about to gather chaos and does not shield himself, the chaos around him flares-or blazes. That’s one reason why Jeslek always seems so powerful. Chaos almost radiates from him. Sterol is almost as powerful, yet he seems mild, withdrawn. He shields his power, much as you shield yourself from chaos in the sewer-or maybe it’s better described as ordering chaos so that it is held rather than dispersed.” Myral shrugged. “Right now, you’re like a young Jeslek, spraying power everywhere. If you hadn’t been an orphan or a scrivener’s apprentice, where no one thought to look, Sterol would have slapped you into the creche years ago-or had you suffocated.”

Cerryl waited.

“Sterol’s worried about Recluce-again, and for the reasons I just told you. You can thank the blacks and the new prefect of Gallos for your survival, I suspect. But. . you’re a possible rival to Jeslek. Once Sterol goes, Jeslek won’t want you around.”

“Me, ser?”

“I said possible. Right now, Jeslek would snuff you out like a candle. You have no shields to speak of, and you still haven’t figured out how to use your power. It’s not easy, as you’re finding out. Some mages finish sewer duty almost burned out; they exhaust themselves rather than learn. In any case, why do you think Sterol wanted you in the sewers? It was Sterol’s idea, not Jeslek’s, no matter what the great Jeslek said.” Myral wiped his suddenly damp forehead.

“So I could learn?”

“So you would have to learn.” Myral’s tone turned dry again. “Let us hope you have. And, by the way.” Myral stood and walked to the bookshelves, where he extracted a rolled scroll. He carried the scroll back to the table where he unrolled the sewer map. “Here are the two collectors that Kesrik was told to scour the last time.” The rotund mage leaned over the unrolled map and pointed.

Cerryl fixed the locations in his mind.

“I didn’t tell you. And I can lie convincingly, even to Jeslek. It’s one of my few strong abilities.” Myral smiled bitterly. “Now. . on your way. And work upon shielding just how much power you have-if you want to keep it.”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl stood, almost in a daze.

The entire walk to the secondary collector was like another dream, though he remembered talking to Jyantyl and feeling the cool wind that blew down the avenue out of the north.

He barely recalled unlocking the bronze grate and descending into the all-too-familiar odors of the tunnel.

Cerryl looked into the darkness of the collector tunnel. In a way, it seemed like no matter what he discovered, he was still always looking into the darkness. Was life looking into the darkness?

He blazed too much. . and it was important enough that Myral had told him-told him while being most nervous. He blazed too much, and Jeslek would snuff him out like a candle. He blazed too much.

If he blazed, as Myral put it, was that because he was still holding too much chaos within and around himself? Could he do otherwise? Could he not do otherwise. . if he wished to survive?

Cerryl took a deep breath and looked once more into the darkness of the tunnel. . a darkness that stretched well beyond where the secondary tunnel met the main tunnel.

EMERGING FROM THE secondary tunnel slightly earlier than usual-he hoped-Cerryl turned to Jyantyl. “You and the guards go on back from here. I have to check something for Myral.” He brushed his fine hair off his forehead, vainly, because the light gusting wind immediately blew it back across his eyes.

“Ser?”

Cerryl offered a smile. “I still have to be back in the halls.” His eyes went to the east, where the hazy clouds were thickening into a deeper gray.

“We could accompany you.”

Cerryl shrugged, deciding that it wasn’t a battle that needed to be fought. “If you think it better. I just have to check the level of sewage in two secondaries. It shouldn’t take long, but I didn’t want to keep you. .”

Jyantyl smiled, clearly an expression of relief. “Not so late as usual, ser. Where to?”

“We can take the warehouse road south from here, and then, after one check, go east toward the avenue. We’ll have to cross the avenue to get to the second, but it’s not too far.”

“As you say, ser.” Jyantyl nodded, and Ullan and Dientyr fell in behind the other lancers, another pair Cerryl didn’t know, since those who remained on the street with Jyantyl changed almost daily, while Ullan and Dientyr always accompanied Cerryl. He wondered for what they were being punished, but didn’t think it was his place to ask the head lancer.

Ullan’s lance dragged intermittently for a time, until Jyantyl glanced over his shoulder. Always it was Ullan’s lance, never Dientyr’s.

Cerryl almost missed the first secondary grate he was looking for because it was actually in a niche in the wall, as if the stable wall had been extended almost to the edge of the sewer tunnel.

Cerryl knelt and turned the bronze key, smelling both manure from the stable behind him and the odors of sewage drifting up from the grate. Ignoring the smells, he confined the chaos around the lock within order and unfastened the lock. He lifted the heavy grate and locked it open before starting down the brick steps.

Even before he had taken three steps into the gloomy secondary tunnel, he could sense a strong residual of chaos everywhere. The steps were still clean, as were the walkways and the glazed brick walls.

At the bottom of the steps, recalling his subterfuge, he turned and examined the level of sewage in the drainage way-flowing smoothly a good two spans below the edge of the walkway.

With a nod, he turned and walked back up the steps, where he reversed the process to relock the grate in place, ensuring that the chaos protected the relocked grate. Even in the brief time he had been underground, he could feel that the wind was stronger, and somewhat cooler, although the coolness was welcome after the early spring heat of the past few days.

“One more,” he said to Jyantyl. “Across the avenue and then two long blocks east of here.” After a pause, he added, “I’m sorry.”

“This be no problem, ser. A few extra steps, we can do that.” Jyantyl shook his head.

Two women bearing baskets of laundry on their heads looked at Cerryl and the lancers and darted into an alleyway.

Cerryl smiled faintly-amazed that an orphan mill boy could generate concern simply because he wore a white tunic trimmed in scarlet. Was that power? Or did people do the same when the carriage of someone like Muneat passed?

He studied the side street as they crossed the avenue, realizing that, although it was not all that far from Tellis’s shop, he had never walked down the narrow street before. How many streets and places were like that? So close and yet unvisited?

All the shops seemed to be either those of weavers or basketmakers, and cloth of all shades hung in unshuttered windows. A bolt of bright green was in the third window, and for some reason, it reminded Cerryl of Leyladin.

He tightened his lips and kept walking. The grate he wanted was off the second side street from the street of weavers, not more than fifty cubits south.

The second tunnel was like the first, nearly immaculate except for the excessive residue of white dust, and reeking of chaos. Cerryl walked along the walkway southward nearly a hundred cubits from the steps-well into the darkness, but with the leftover chaos, his senses let him see almost as well as in full light.

Scattered raindrops began to splat on the stones of the street and the white-plastered walls as he finished relocking the sewer grate. “Back to the halls. That’s it.”

“Not a moment too soon. .” came a mutter from the rear of the lancers.