The White Order(57)

“Yes, ser, just past the market square?”

“His is the first house on the far side, the very first one. There is a fountain with two birds in the courtyard before the front door. You go to the front door.” Tellis paused, then swallowed hard. “This must go only to the hand of master Muneat himself. He is short, not much taller than you are, and he has a wide white mustache, and he is mostly bald.”

“What—”

“You just tell whoever opens the door that you must deliver it to his hand, and his alone, and that you will wait—or return whenever he deems fit. You be most polite, but only to his hand—or return.”

“Yes, ser.”

“And wear your good tunic. Go get it on and return.”

When Cerryl returned, Tellis had wrapped the volume in the velvet, then tied the cloth with thin strips of vellum, so that none could see the volume. Cerryl picked it up, wishing he’d known of it . . . just to see what such wondrous tales were. Green angels? He’d heard of the black angels of Westwind, but not green angels.

“You go straight there, and come straight back. You hear?”

“Yes, ser. Straight to master Muneat’s. The first house past the market square on the far side. A fountain with two birds.”

“Good . . .”

Cerryl bowed again, then gingerly picked up the wrapped volume. Tellis did not move, and the apprentice slipped away and out through the showroom door.

The air on the street was cold, but the bright sun helped warm Cerryl as he walked down the way of lesser artisans toward the square. The shutters were still closed at the weaver’s, though he could hear the shuttling of the big loom when he passed.

Across the market square, Fasse’s door was ajar, and a wagon stood at the curb of the avenue, with a driver beside it. Some cabinet being picked up by whoever had commissioned it? Who had the coins for such—besides people like dukes and viscounts?

Cerryl turned down the avenue, past the inn, and the smell of fresh-baked bread, and past the ostlery beside it, and the faint scent of hay brought in from somewhere and stacked in bales beside the stable door. Hay? In very early spring? Or had it been stored somewhere all winter?

Three carriages were lined up by the grain exchange, with the drivers standing by the middle carriage.

“Morning, boy!” called the older driver at one side.

“Good morning, ser.” The sun felt good on Cerryl’s face, and he smiled as he hurried down the walk past the jewelers’ row—the ironbound doors yet closed. He did catch the odor of hot metal from the last shop before the market square. In the square itself, the many-colored carts filled the pavement, but only a handful of those interested in their wares had appeared.

Cerryl’s steps slowed as he passed the square. The first dwelling on the far side . . . He paused at the open wrought-iron gate, looking into the open expanse of dark green grass, bordered by bushes that lined the inside of the wall, and split by the polished granite walk that led straight to a fountain—a fountain with a bird on each side of the jet of water that splashed into the basin. Two birds, Tellis had said.

Cerryl just looked at the front of the dwelling for a moment longer. The walk circled the fountain and led to a stonecolumned and roofed portico that sheltered a huge polished red oak door—bound in iron. He’d thought that the houses along the avenue had been little more than one level. He’d been wrong, but that had been because they were larger, far larger in breadth, than he had thought. While the dwelling before him appeared to be but one level, that one level was twice the height of most of the shops along the way of the lesser artisans.

The shutters were open to reveal real glass windows—at least a half score on each side of the entry portico, each window composed of dozens of diamond-shaped glass panes that glittered in the morning sun, casting a silvered reflection across the deep green grass that filled the space before the house—or small palace.

Beside the smooth stones of the granite walk were rectangular and raised flower beds, filled with dark green plants bearing delicate white flowers. The scents of flowers—different kinds, scents he’d never smelled—drifted around him in the still air of morning, yet he could see no flowers.

Finally, he squared his shoulders and stepped through the gate, walking slowly but firmly up the walk. Tellis had told him the front door, and that was where he was headed.

Several drops of water flecked his face as he passed the fountain, and he shifted the book to his left hand, away from the fountain.

Standing in the shadows of the portico, a tall space that made him feel very small, he lifted the heavy and brightly polished brass knocker, then let it drop.