L. Modesitt - The White Order

“Most don’t,” said Lyasa. “Not at first.”

“. . can say that. .” mumbled Faltar.

“Have you heard anything new about Gallos or Spidlar?” Cerryl asked quickly.

Lyasa glanced back over her shoulder, toward the table that Kesrik and Kochar had just vacated. Her face clouded momentarily. “Ah. . no. I mean. . nothing’s changed.” She lifted her mug and winced.

“What’s the matter?” Cerryl asked, his eyes following Kesrik, wondering what Lyasa had seen-or heard.

“Kinowin has taken over showing students about arms. He stuffed me into full armor and then beat me around some.”

“To show you what guardsmen and lancers go through,” said Cerryl. “Eliasar did that to me.”

“I certainly don’t want to be a lancer.” Lyasa laughed. “The black angels were crazy in more ways than one.”

“The ones from Westwind?” asked Faltar. “They supposedly knocked everyone else around. I can’t believe it, though.”

“You don’t think women are tough enough?” Lyasa’s eyebrows rose.

“I didn’t say that,” answered Faltar quickly.

“You didn’t have to say it.”

Cerryl held back a grin.

“You know a good number of the blades on Recluce are still women. So are some of the white lancers.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“So you did say something?” Lyasa kept a straight face.

Faltar sighed, despondently, almost in the exaggerated fashion of a traveling minstrel. “Go ahead, flame me. Beat me. . anything you wish. . for I am in pain and misery. .”

“Next time. .” Lyasa laughed.

“There won’t be a next time,” Faltar promised.

Cerryl laughed at his plaintive tone.

“Why did you ask about things?” Lyasa turned back toward Cerryl.

“Jyantyl-he’s the head guard for my sewer work-he said there were rumors about more guards and lancers being sent to Certis, and something about Axalt.” He paused. “What do you know about Axalt?”

“It’s an old walled city. It used to be on the main trade road from Jellico to Spidlar-until the Great White Road was completed through the Easthorns. It’s not quite a land, but it owes no allegiance to any other ruler.”

“Maybe we’ll all be mages before it comes to war,” suggested Faltar.

“Maybe.” Cerryl wasn’t sure that was good. He broke off a chunk of bread.

“War doesn’t make sense,” said Lyasa.

“Many things don’t make sense,” pointed out Faltar, mumbling through his food again. “Why should war?”

Thinking about Anya’s reaction when he’d entered the Hall, and so much that had occurred, Cerryl had to agree with Faltar. But there wasn’t much he could do, and he lifted his mug and enjoyed a swallow of cool ale.

CERRYL STEPPED INTO the tower room, glad that Myral had the shutters open and that a breeze blew in-except that the breeze stopped when he closed the heavy brass-bound door.

From his seat by the table, where he sipped cool cider, Myral studied Cerryl. “You’ve been working on not holding chaos within yourself, have you not?”

“I’ve tried to follow your instructions and suggestions,” Cerryl admitted. “It’s hard.”

“Anything done well is often hard.” Myral smiled briefly. “Those to whom power comes naturally have difficulty understanding such until it is oft too late.”

Cerryl refrained from noting that parables weren’t exactly going to help him, and eased into the chair across from the older mage.

“How is the cleaning on this one coming?”

“Not too bad,” Cerryl said, “but there’s a place just ahead where another tunnel seems to join, and it’s not on the map.”

Myral frowned, then rose and half-walked, half-waddled to the bookcase. Cerryl didn’t recall the older mage being so ponderous before, but said nothing as Myral returned to the table and unrolled the map scroll.

“Where?”

Cerryl pointed. “About there, right before that turn when it joins the eastern main tunnel.”

Myral’s eyebrows rose, and his face cleared immediately. “Oh. . that. It’s not a collector tunnel. Years and years ago, there was a group of ruffians-they called themselves traders, but they decided to use the sewers as a way out of the city to avoid the guards and the tariffs, and they built an entrance from the lower level of their building. That tunnel was never fully bricked up underground-just from the building side. If you followed it, you’d come to a brick wall. There was another bricked-up tunnel exit all the way out by the spillway, but that was filled in with rubble.” The older mage smiled. “They got away with it for almost a year.” He paused. “I told you how the sunlight striking the water on the spillways cleans the sewer water before it reaches the lake. .?”

“Yes, ser. You took me out there and showed me how the sludge is trapped in the first basin, and then-”

Myral waved vaguely as he straightened up and rerolled the scroll. “No sense in telling you what I’ve told you. These days-maybe I always did-I repeat myself too much. Happens when you get old.”

“Old? You don’t look old.”

“I’m old, Cerryl. Old, old, old for a mage. I have my vanities, and Leyladin helps me with them, but I’m an old man, good for telling about sewers and refuse and such, and little else.” Myral plopped back into his chair, breathing heavily. After a moment, he glared at Cerryl. “Go on. You go scour the sewer, and I’ll sit here and look important to myself.”

Cerryl stood.

“When you get to the smugglers’ tunnel, be careful. You’ll have to clean that out, or it will mean the secondary will have to be scoured sooner. But there’s no telling whether their workmanship was any good. You may have to get masons. Just let me know.” Myral laughed, then coughed. “It’s not as though I’ll be traveling far.”

The younger man nodded again, then left, meeting Jyantyl and the lancers outside the barracks at the rear of the halls as usual.

The morning went quickly enough, if not so swiftly as Cerryl had hoped, since he found another set of small collectors on the east side. One was nearly totally plugged, and he’d had to use firebolts and steam to bore through the sludgy mass.

Even after he and the lancers had taken a midday break, Cerryl still felt tired, but he again unlocked the bronze sewer grate and nodded to Ullan and Dientyr, then started down the steps. At least in summer the tunnels were somewhat cooler than the streets.

He tried not to breathe deeply at first, until his sense of smell was partly deadened. The odors were far worse in summer and would get even worse as the heat drew on toward harvest. Cerryl ignored the omnipresent stench and let his senses range up the sewage tunnel to his right. Somewhere ahead was the bricked-up smugglers’ tunnel.

The wastewater flowed down the bottom of the sewer, below the slimy walkway. . but there was something about it. . a hint of turbulence. . something.

Cerryl let a small lance of the golden chaos light flare along the top of the water. A line of fire flashed even beyond the limits of his light lance. Something in the sewage was burning-an oil? He tried to sniff but could smell nothing. Where would oil come from?

He loosed another bolt of chaos along the tunnel wall closest to him, but all that resulted were cleaner bricks and white ash. In the lingering flash he could see as well as sense the curve of the secondary tunnel.

A brief tapping on the bricks echoed down the tunnel. Cerryl turned.

“Sorry, ser,” squeaked Ullan.

Cerryl returned to scrutinizing the tunnel ahead, frowning not only because of the smell of burned oil but because of something else.

Ullan clicked or tapped the lance again.