His nose itched, and he rubbed it, then set his pack on the foot of the pallet. He took another deep breath before opening the canvas flap and lifting out his jacket. He left his battered half-copy of Colors of White inside the pack—and his medallion from his father. He would need to find a hiding place for them, and soon.
XXVIII
AS SOON AS Cerryl had arranged his things and returned to the workroom, Tellis stopped his work. “Might as well freshen the water. Empty the basins in the house first. Then fill the pitchers.”
Another figure appeared behind Cerryl. Beryal tapped Cerryl on the shoulder. “Be more than that. Use the polished bucket on the peg. The rough bucket’s for scrubbing. Always pump a bucket first and empty it. No telling what be in the pump. Empty the basins into the sewer catch before you start pumping water, and don’t be using the bucket for dirtied wash water. Sewer catch be outside the courtyard gate. If there’s dirt in the basins, wash them under the pump. That’s before you bring water into the house. Understand?”
Cerryl nodded and headed for the courtyard, carrying the empty basin. After emptying it and the one on the kitchen washstand, he rinsed them and replaced them. Then, heeding what Beryal had said, he began pumping, letting a bucket’s worth of water spill over the polished wash stones before rinsing the bucket itself and filling it. He carted the water back to the workroom to refill the pitcher.
“When you finish with the water, Cerryl . . .” Tellis did not complete the sentence, preoccupied as he was with the nipping press in the corner.
“I’ll come back.”
Tellis grunted without looking up.
Cerryl trudged back out to the kitchen, where Beryal was kneading bread. The faint odor of yeast filled the room, and he took a deep breath.
“You can refill the pitchers on the corner table.”
“They’re next,” Cerryl said, knowing that was what she wanted.
“Good.”
He slipped past her and carried the bucket through the common room and out into the courtyard, back to the long-handled pump. He lifted the pump handle. While it still amazed him that clean water flowed beneath the streets, he was happy enough not to be lifting buckets from a deep well. With the bucket three-quarters full, as much water as he dared carry, he turned and started back across the courtyard. A cool breeze, foreshadowing winter, ruffled his hair.
“Hello . . .” A girl’s face peered over the whitened wood of the rear gate. “Are you Tellis’s new apprentice?” She giggled, then offered a shy grin before brushing a strand of brown hair back off her forehead. “You must be. Only apprentices carry water.”
Cerryl set down the bucket and walked toward the gate, stopping several cubits back and studying her, knowing he’d seen her. Then he nodded. “You’re Pattera, the weaver. I’m Cerryl.”
Pattera’s smile vanished. “How did you know my name?”
“I was walking by the shop, and your father told you to mind the loom.” Cerryl offered his own grin. “That was when I was looking for Tellis’s place.”
“Oh . . . you were the boy in the window.”
Cerryl wasn’t sure he liked being called a boy, but he nodded and kept smiling.
“Father doesn’t like it when I look at boys.” She glanced over her shoulder and down the alleyway. “I’d better go. I’m supposed to be at the market.” Another shy smile, and she was gone.
Cerryl picked up the bucket and reentered the house.
“Those weaver girls are nothing but trouble, Cerryl. Mind that,” said Beryal. After a moment when he didn’t answer, she added, “Cerryl? Did you pump one pail and empty it out first? I didn’t see that.”
“I rinsed the bucket.”
“Like I told you? Just like I told you?”
“No, ser.”
“Go do it, and be thankful I’m asking. Benthann would have emptied the pitcher over you.” Beryal had covered the bread dough with a gauzelike cloth and was slicing pale green roots into a skillet. “Then she would have made you mop the floor.”
Without speaking, he turned and went out and through the courtyard and the gate and lifted the access stone to the sewer, pouring out the bucket. It was easier to comply with Beryal’s whims than to argue that he’d cleaned the bucket before he’d started and run the pump through several cycles, letting the water flow over the wash stones.
Cerryl replaced the stone and straightened, feeling eyes upon him, then looked toward the end of the alleyway. Pattera waved at him from where alley and street met. With his free hand he returned the gesture. Carrying two long cylindrical loaves of bread in her left arm, the brown-haired girl slipped from sight down the lesser artisans’ way.