The White Order(33)

The brown-haired youth eased the pack under the seat.

By the time he had straightened, Dylert had vaulted off the wagon. “Here’s what I owe you, young fellow, and a bit to spare.” Dylert pulled a cloth purse from his belt and extended it to Cerryl. “You be just like your uncle, not one to ask or press. Sometimes, mayhap, you must.” The millmaster grinned. “For all that, young fellow, we be missing you here. You got that scroll?”

“Yes, ser.” Cerryl wanted to feel the purse but didn’t, instead fastening it to his belt. “I thank you.”

“No thanks be due. You worked hard, and you deserve the coin. And the recommendation to Tellis.” Dylert grinned. “He can be gruff. Don’t let it fool you. Understand?”

Cerryl nodded. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, lad?”

“Ser? In . . . my room . . . I mean . . . it was my room . . . there’s a board under the cubby . . . behind it . . . there’s a bronze blade . . . Brental might want it.”

Dylert nodded solemnly. “He might. Whether I let him . . . that be between us. I thank you for saying such . . . and you be a wise lad not to carry it.”

“You . . . best know.” The words were hard for Cerryl to get out.

Dylert smiled and clapped Cerryl on the shoulder. “Keep that head in place, lad, and you be doing fine.”

Rinfur walked toward them.

“The provisions Dyella set up be under your seat, Rinfur. Extra this time.” Dylert nodded toward Cerryl. “Still growing, I’d wager.”

“Don’t know as growing,” answered the teamster, climbing up onto the seat, “but he eats like he be. Best be up here, lad. A long road ahead we got.”

Cerryl followed Rinfur’s example, except that, with his shorter legs, he had to pull himself up onto the seat. He looked at Dylert, knowing he should say something but not knowing what. Finally, as Rinfur flicked the long leads to the team, he said, “Thank you, ser. Thank you again.”

“Be nothing, young fellow. Take care, and give Tellis my best.”

“Yes, ser.”

Cerryl swallowed as the wagon lurched off the causeway and onto the lane heading down to the road. He wanted to look back but didn’t, instead fixing his eyes on the stream to the left of the lane, his eyes skipping over the patch of blackened soil and rock that remained even after a handful of eight-days of sun and rain.

Until Rinfur had the team on the straightaway toward the road, the wagon moved at the slowest of walks. At the end of the lane, Rinfur turned the team right—left on the road away from Hrisbarg proper.

“Hrisbarg is that way,” said Cerryl, pointing to the right and the uphill road.

“Aye, but the wizards’ road be this way, lad, and that road be smoother and far swifter than the way through Hrisbarg and Howlett.” Rinfur smiled, showing brown teeth. “Trust me. The roads I know, and master Dylert’d not give over this wagon to one he’d not trust.”

That was something about which Cerryl had few doubts at all.

“You ever been on a wizards’ road?” asked Rinfur.

“No. Never been on a wagon before, except around the mill,” Cerryl admitted, shifting his weight on the hard seat.

“A lot you be seeing, then.”

“What’s Fairhaven like?”

The teamster laughed. “A poor driver like me be not the one to tell. The buildings, most like be made of stone so white it glitters. All the ways and byways be paved with white stone like the wizards’ road. Peaceable, too. A girl could walk stark naked, they say, and not a man dare touch her.” Rinfur grinned. “Never seen such, but some say the white mages send out female lancers like that to tempt the wild.”

Cerryl moistened his lips. He wasn’t sure whether they were already dry from the dust or from what he was hearing.

“Those try to molest ’em, well, they end up working on the great highway on the far side of the Easthorns. Working till they die, some folks say.”

The wagon slowed as it climbed the low hill to the east of the mill.

“Do you know why master Dylert sends a wagon to Fairhaven?” Cerryl asked, wanting to say something.

“Don’t know as I understand,” said Rinfur, “Fairhaven being half again as far as Lydiar, and master Dylert not sending wagons to the port.” He shrugged. “Near on twice a year, I take a wagon to Fasse. Always white oak. The good oak. He’s from Kyphros, says there’s no white oak there.”

Cerryl looked over his shoulder at the planks and small timbers neatly secured in the wagon bed. “It must be worth a lot.”

Rinfur shrugged again. “Can’t say as I know. The coins go by messenger.”