Even from the door, Cerryl could smell the tanned leather. He took another step into the front room and paused, scanning the two dozen or so books on the shelves before him, but aside from the different colors of leather, there were no identifying marks on the spines. Nor did any of the books bear the unseen but sensed whitish red of chaos that the three books in his own pack bore.
Two doors led from the front room—one on the right side, which was closed, and one on the left. After another moment, Cerryl stepped toward the door behind the left side of the chest, stopping in the doorway.
A single man bent over a table in the workroom, a space not much bigger than the front room. The far wall was filled, half with a huge doorless cabinet that contained shelves transformed into cubbies filled with rolled leathers, parchments, palimpsests, real glass jars, stoppered crockery vials, and other manner of items unfamiliar to Cerryl. On each side of the cabinet were racks, the one on the left holding an array of hand tools; the one on the right, green leathers cut into long strips perhaps two spans wide and more than two cubits in length. A writing desk was flush against the left wall, the worktable against the right. The scrivener was stitching something with a long needle that flashed in his fingers.
Cerryl waited until the man paused before speaking. “Master Tellis?”
Tellis straightened and turned, revealing a spare and surprisingly thin face above a more rotund frame. “Yes, young fellow? Are you here on an errand for your master?” The scrivener seemed to squint as he surveyed Cerryl.
“No, ser.” Cerryl stepped forward and extended the scroll. “Master Dylert sent me, ser.”
The briefest of frowns crossed Tellis’s face as the scrivener took the scroll. Cerryl waited, his eyes not leaving the scrivener, much as he wished to study the workroom.
Tellis read through the scroll, licking his lips, once, twice, as he neared the end. “Dylert says you’re a shirttail relative.”
“Yes, ser.”
“He also says you work hard, and that’d not be something he’d offer easily.” Tellis scratched the back of his head, absently disarraying the thick, brown-flecked hair. “Tell me about master Dylert. What does he look like, and what does he favor?”
“Master Dylert . . .” Cerryl managed not to frown. “He is a fraction of a span taller than you are, ser, but tall as he is, he is a wiry man. His beard is black but shows silver. His eyes are brown. He always wanted the mill clean, and the planks and timbers stacked in the barns by their size and quality.” Cerryl shrugged. “His speech is hard, but he is fair.”
“And his household?”
“His consort, Dyella, she is warmer.” Cerryl smiled. “She often gave me extra food.”
“Spoken like a young fellow, thinking of the food. Go on.”
“She has brown hair. It’s thinner. Erhana favors her mother, excepting her face, and Brental—I don’t know. He is the sole one with red hair, so far as I know, but . . . he was good to me as well.”
“Where are your people?”
“None are living . . . now. My uncle . . . he lived in Montgren.” Cerryl swallowed, fighting the burning in his eyes, wondering why the question had upset him.
“You lived with your uncle, then?”
“Yes, ser. Until I went to work for master Dylert.”
“You miss him, your uncle, I mean?”
Cerryl nodded, swallowing again. “My aunt, too.”
“Dylert . . . a good judge of men, but far too good for his own good.” Tellis shook his head. “Ah . . . well . . . we have you to deal with. Not so as I really need an apprentice, you understand, but an extra pair of working hands . . . that we can manage.”
“Yes, ser.” Cerryl kept his eyes on Tellis, his voice polite.
“A few matters, young fellow . . .”
“Cerryl.”
“Important matters, if you intend to remain here.”
Cerryl nodded again, waiting, trying not to shift his weight from one leg to the other as the scrivener studied him again, trying to appear serious and attentive.
“Well, Cerryl . . . you’ll learn as the days pass. But there are some things that don’t change. You’ll be pumping the water for all, and we’ll be getting to that. Water’s close here in Fairhaven, and this is a clean house. You look neat, but clean is better. I expect you to bathe leastwise every third day, and wash your hands and face every time before you work in the shop here. That’s after breakfast and after supper. Dirty hands, dirty sweat—they’ve ruined more books than fires or bugs. And you’ll need another set of clothes. I’ll provide that, but you wash them.”