An ox-drawn lumber cart was drawn up to the mill door, and a man taller than Syodor was checking the yoke.
“Brental?” asked Syodor.
The young red-bearded man turned from the oxen and glanced at the two dusty figures for a moment, then said, “Syodor? You’d be wanting Dylert?”
“The same.”
“I’ll be getting him for you, once I get the cart out of the door.” Brental lifted the goad, but did not touch either ox, and called, “Gee-ahh!”
The oxen started forward, slowly pulling the heavy but empty log cart away from the open sliding door in the south side of the mill. Cerryl watched as the cart rumbled along onto the stone causeway across the intersection with the road.
Once the cart was clear of the intersection, Brental gestured with the goad and said mildly, “Ahh . . .”
The oxen obediently stopped, and Brental walked past Syodor and Cerryl, giving them a nod, and into the mill.
Cerryl stood, shifting his weight from one bare foot to another, his sack by his feet, ignoring the dampness of his sweaty shirt.
Syodor cleared his throat. “Dylert . . . he runs a good mill.” After a moment, he said again, “A good mill. A good man.”
Cerryl nodded, waiting.
Shortly, an older and taller man, taller even than Brental, over four cubits in height, his brown shirt and trousers streaked with whitish sawdust, stepped through the open sliding door of the mill.
“Syodor, Brental said you were here to see me.” A broad smile crossed the man’s face. “I have no coins, not until after harvest.”
“I be not selling today,” Syodor said slowly. He cleared his throat, then continued. “Ser Dylert, you said you wanted a boy—a serious boy.” After a pause, he added, “Cerryl’s serious.”
“That I did say.” Dylert fingered his trimmed, white-streaked black beard, his eyes on Cerryl. “And you need not ‘ser’ me, Syodor, not as one honest wight to another.”
Syodor nodded.
Cerryl glanced up at the tall Dylert and met his scrutiny, not challenging the millmaster, but not looking away.
“Harvest time, it is now,” suggested Dylert. “The mill is quiet, and few coins flow for timber and planks.”
“That it is,” agreed Syodor. “A good time for a boy to learn.”
Dylert smiled. “A peddler you should have been, Syodor, not a miner and a grubber. Not with your silver tongue.”
“You’re too kind, millmaster. Cerryl’s a good boy.”
“He is slight, Syodar, but he looks healthy. You and Nall took him as your own, Dyella says.”
“We did.” Syodor smiled. “Not a regret for that.” He shrugged. “Time now for him to start on his own. No place to go in the mines. Not these days.”
“True as a pole pine,” answered Dylert. “No place for anyone in the mines, even back when the duke reopened them.” He shook his head. “Folks say they’re no place these days, with what’s there.” The millmaster looked hard at Syodor.
“Could be,” admitted the one-eyed miner. “Cerryl’d do better here.”
The boy looked at Syodor, catching his uncle’s uneasiness. The mines had seemed fine to him, except for those places that anyone with sense had to avoid. Why were Dylert and Syodor talking as though anything connected to the mines happened to be dangerous?
“I did say I needed a mill boy.” Dylert cleared his throat. “You sure about this, Syodor?”
“He be much better here, ser Dylert. Nall and me, we did the best we could. Now . . .” The miner shrugged apologetically.
“You think I’d do right by him, Syodor.”
“Better ’n aught else I know.”
“That’s a heavy burden, Syodor.” Dylert offered a wry smile before turning his eyes back to Cerryl. “Even for a boy, mill work is hard.” Dylert paused.
After a moment, understanding that an answer was required, Cerryl replied, “I can work hard, ser.”
“Mill work be dirty, too. You’d be cleaning out the sawpits, and the gearing. The blades, too. Not sharpening. I do that,” Dylert said quickly. “And probably other chores. Feed the chickens, cart water—most things that need doing. Take messages.” Dylert looked from Cerryl to Syodor. “Can he listen and understand?”
“Never had to tell Cerryl anything twice, ser Dylert.”
Dylert nodded. “Good words from your uncle, boy. He may have a golden tongue, but his word is good. Some ways, that be all a man has.”
Cerryl thought his uncle might say something, but Syodor gave the smallest of headshakes.
“Half-copper an eight-day to start. After a season we’ll see. Get your meals with us.” Dylert laughed and looked at Cerryl. “Dyella’s cooking be worth more than your pay.” The millmaster turned to Syodor. “You certain, masterminer?”