The White Order(68)

He never tried to call the chaos forces when he felt watched, but it was clear someone, somehow, was using something to look for chaos use. Should he go back to cold water? He had to fight a wince at that thought.

He couldn’t help wondering, as he pulled on his tunic, what he had done to have a white mage using a glass to follow his actions. Had it been the red-haired mage?

Tomorrow, he told himself, no warm water. Then, he’d said that the day before as well. He sat on his pallet and pulled on his boots. He carried the wash water back out to the sewer dump before returning the bucket to its peg on the wall and heading across the courtyard to the common room and breakfast.

“Saw you a-coming.” Beryal slid a crockery platter with a slab of egg toast on it in front of him even before he sat down.

“Thank you.” He poured a small portion of the bitter yellow tea, knowing it would cut some of the greasiness of the toast.

“Cerryl?” rumbled Tellis.

“Yes, ser?”

“I checked the herbal book when I got back last night.” Tellis mumbled his words. “You are doing well, and you’ve kept the letter width about the same. A little variation, but not at all bad.”

“Thank you.” Cerryl popped a large mouthful of the heavy toast into his mouth and followed it with a sip of the tea.

“You’ll have to keep it up. The High Wizard wants me back again today, and it could be late most nights for an eight-day or two. They have a great deal of copying.”

“No one else can do it?” asked Beryal. “You’d think as they’d have their own copyists.”

Cerryl kept a straight face and took another mouthful of egg toast, letting the master scrivener address the question.

“Like as they do, but not for works that should last. Those who handle the stuff of chaos—I’ve told you this, Beryal; why don’t you listen?—if they were to copy those volumes, the life of both the originals and the copies would be far shorter.” Tellis moistened his lips before taking another swig from his mug and then the last morsel of his egg toast. “Another piece, if you please. A long day ahead.”

Beryal slipped away from the bench and walked back to the hot stove, scooping a dollop of tallow into the heavy iron skillet.

“What else do you want of me, master Tellis?” Cerryl finished his own egg toast.

“You need to keep working on the herbal book. Almost nearing the end, are you not?”

“Yes, ser. Within the next few days, or sooner.”

“I’ll be needing another batch of the dark iron-gall ink, too. And so will you. I’m taking the big jar.”

“Egg toast.” Beryal dropped another slab of the egg-battered bread into the skillet, and then a second. “And one for the apprentice, too.”

“Thank you.” Cerryl smiled and poured more of the tea.

“Don’t forget to clean the jars before you mix new.”

“No, ser.” Cerryl gathered himself together, then asked casually, “What sort of books do you copy there?”

“Whatever they wish,” answered Tellis with an enigmatic smile.

“I was not asking about what was within the books, ser. I only wondered . . .”

“There’s little enough in them I understand—or would want to, my dear apprentice.” Tellis’s face grew stem. “Nor should you, when you are called by one of the great ones. It is a challenge and an honor.”

“Better than that,” interposed Beryal. “It pays good coins.”

Tellis ignored her comment and stood. “It would not do to be late, not for the mages. I’d not like to have their glasses spying on me.”

“Spying on you? Why would they do that?” Cerryl asked innocently.

“Who knows?” Tellis shrugged. “I’ve little enough to hide these days, but in Fairhaven even the blank walls have eyes. Best remember that, young Cerryl. Even with your weaver friend.” A broad grin crossed the scrivener’s face before he gave a quick nod and stepped to the washstand.

“Aye,” agreed Beryal. “Little enough that they don’t see, there is.”

Cerryl gulped the last mouthful of egg toast.

“And keep those hands clean,” Tellis added before he stepped out of the common room and into the front room to gather supplies from the workroom.

Cerryl nodded. Clean hands and another long day of copying . . . and worrying about whether he had already doomed himself—like his father.

He thought of the amulet that lay hidden in his room. Would he end like that? A memory to a few people and a piece of jewelry the only remnants?

He forced himself to finish the bitter yellow tea, knowing he would need the warmth within him.