The White Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  A gilt-framed portrait hung on the wall, but Cerryl could not see much except that the figure was a white-haired man in a white shirt, and with a blue short jacket of some sort and dark trousers. The portrait was flanked by two lamps set in bronze wall sconces, polished to a fine sheen. Even the lamp mantels glistened.

  The scent of flowers was stronger inside the foyer, reminding Cerryl of Dyella’s gardens above the mill. He shifted his weight on the bench again, looking down at the velvet-wrapped book.

  The faintest of rustlings caught his ear, and his eyes went back to the hallway, where a woman, impossibly slender, crossed the marble floor and entered through the archway the room on the left side of the hall, past the shimmering hangings. Her gown-not tunic and trousers but a form-fitting dress or gown-was a deep red that also shimmered in the indirect light. Cerryl thought she had worn silver combs in dark hair, but she had moved so gracefully and silently that he was not sure.

  A different scent, one like fruit and roses together, slipped past him, then seemed to vanish.

  Cerryl swallowed as he heard a clicking on the marble. A short figure in deep blue-even in deep blue leather boots-was walking toward the foyer. He wore a shimmering white silk shirt, and a dress jacket and matching trousers of a deep blue velvet. The bald forehead, the silver hair, and the white-silver mustache told Cerryl that master Muneat approached, and the apprentice jumped to his feet, waiting. Behind Muneat walked the seneschal, his face blank.

  “Young fellow… Shallis said you were from master Tellis.” A surprisingly shy smile crossed the broad and jowled face.

  “Yes, ser. Master Tellis sent me to deliver this.” Cerryl extended the velvet-wrapped book. “He said it could only go to your own hand.”

  “To my own hand, ha!” Muneat laughed again, taking the book. “My own hand. Would that others respected my hand so much.”

  Ceryl didn’t know what to say. So he waited for the older man to stop laughing.

  “And you would not be budged, not if you’re from Tellis. Verial was like that, too. Two golds I promised your master, and two golds it shall be. And a silver for you, and two for him.”

  Cerryl managed to keep his mouth shut as Muneat handed him a small leather pouch and then a silver. “Your master’s coins are in the purse. The silver is yours.”

  “I thank you, ser.” Cerryl bowed. “And Master Tellis thanks you.”

  “Always a pleasure dealing with Tellis. Always a pleasure.” Muneat smiled broadly. “And it is good to meet you, lad. Your name?”

  “Cerryl, ser.”

  “Cerryl. A good name. And a good day to you.” Muneat laughed again, a gentle sound, and turned to the seneschal.

  Shallis stepped around his master and forward to open the door.

  “Thank you, ser,” Cerryl said again.

  “And a very good day to you and your master. Tell him I have bother, perhaps in an eight-day or so.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Cerryl stood on the granite paving stones before the fountain for a long moment, then slipped the pouch inside his shirt, and the silver into the slots on the inside of his belt-far safer for him than a wallet- though he’d never heard of a cutpurse in Fairhaven. But he didn’t wish to discover such existed the hard way.

  Back on the avenue, Cerryl glanced back at the house-or palace-then down the avenue, past the half-dozen or more similar dwellings He shook his head. He’d had no idea, no idea at all, of what wealth really was. Dylert he’d reckoned as a wealthy man. He shook his head once more before turning back up the avenue, thinking he could yet smell all the scents of flowers that had filled master Muneat’s home.

  And the red gown-how many coins must one have to wear such gowns for no reason at all? He forced himself to walk briskly past the market square, past the jewelers, past the artisans’ square and up the street to Tellis’s, ignoring the silver in his belt. Silver he could always spend. Getting it was harder. He shook his head-except for those like master Muneat.

  Back at the shop, Cerryl went straight through the showroom to the workroom. Tellis sat slumped at the worktable.

  “Are you all right, ser?”

  Tellis slowly straightened. “Was he in? Did you give it to him?”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl extended the pouch. “He gave me this. Said there were two golds and two silvers in it for you.”

  Tellis’s eyes brightened as his trembling hands took the pouch and fumbled it open.

  Coins spilled on the table.

  “There are three silvers here, as well as the golds. Did you not count?”

  “Ser… he handed me the pouch. That was what he said. I thought it better not to question his word.”

  “Muneat plays his tricks, but he is generous, unlike some.” A ragged smile crossed Tellis’s lips. “He gave you something?”

  “Yes, ser. He gave me a silver.”

  “Good. Keep it safe.” The smile faded. “Do not be thinking that you’ll see its like again soon.”

  “No, ser. I know that.” Cerryl paused. “Master Muneat said he would have another in an eight-day or so.”

  “Did he open it while you were there?”

  “No, ser.”

  Tellis nodded slowly.

  “Ser… what is it that… I mean… I sat in the foyer… polished marble…”

  “He has more coins than most,” Tellis said dryly, massaging his forehead and not looking at Cerryl. “He is one of the largest grain factors in Candar. I believe he even has several ships that sail out of Lydiar.”

  Cerryl glanced around the suddenly very cramped workroom, a room that would have fit even inside the front foyer of Muneat’s small palace.

  “He is not alone in his riches in Fairhaven, Cerryl. Far from it.”

  The apprentice wondered what the dwellings of the other rich folk looked like inside.

  “Get me some of the yellow tea Beryal said she’d brew.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl turned and headed toward the kitchen.

  “Yellow tea… yellow tea…” mumbled Tellis behind Cerryl. “Darkness… hate the stuff…”

  Beryal looked up from the kitchen worktable, where she poured a hot liquid from the kettle into a mug. “You’re back so soon?”

  “They didn’t make me wait. Tellis sent me for the tea.” His eyes traversed the common room, clean and plain-and very small. Very plain.

  “He’s stubborn,” said Beryal, lifting one of the smaller mugs and extending it to Cerryl. “Wouldn’t stay in bed. No… has to get up and make the rest of us feel his pain.”

  “He doesn’t look well.”

  “Anyone who drank all that double mead at the Pillion last night should look like that. Benthann, she cannot lift her head.” Beryal frowned. “Take the master his yellow tea.”

  Cerryl slipped back to the workroom and extended the mug.

  Tellis took it wordlessly.

  Cerryl sharpened the quill, then stirred the ink, and set The Science of Measurement and Reckoning on the copy stand, opening it to the bookmark. He could almost see the polished marble and the shimmering hangings, and the dark red dress… even the dark blue velvet and flawless silk worn by Muneat. Cerryl knew, from what he’d learned in talking with Pattera, that the silk shirt alone probably cost a gold. He’d never seen half that in his entire life.

  He took a slow breath. He couldn’t change what was. Not yet, perhaps not ever. He dipped the quill in the ink. But you can do more than be a scrivener… you can!

  At the worktable, Tellis sipped bitter yellow tea.

  XXXVII

  Cerryl dipped the pen into the inkwell, then resumed copying the page before him, trying to concentrate on the words and the shape of his letters, knowing that no matter how closely his efforts resembled those on the scrivener’s master sheet, Tellis would still find some way to suggest improvement. One moment, the scrivener was praising his hand; the next, he was complaining about the way Cerryl copied one type of letter or another, or that he didn’t fully appreciate the compl
exities of being a scrivener.

  The apprentice scrivener held in a sigh. Too many sighs, he’d discovered, elicited unwelcome questions. His eyes went to the book on the copy stand.

  … the inner lining of the bark of the river willow should be scraped, then dried until it is firm and stiff. Then it must be ground into the finest of powders with a polished hardwood mortar and pestle…

  Why did powdered willow bark hold down chaos fever? Who had discovered that? For all the volumes that Tellis pushed on him to read, Cerryl felt that he almost knew less than when he had come to Fairhaven more than a season before, since each new book opened far more questions than it answered.

  Scritttchhh… With the sound of the street door opening, Tellis backed up, nearly into the waist-high waste container, and then stepped around his worktable, leaving the stretching frame, and slipped past Cerryl and into the showroom.

  “You keep at that herbal copying,” the master scrivener added over his shoulder as he hurried toward the showroom.

  Use of plants and herbs for healing might be of some interest, certainly more than words about measuring that meant little, reflected Cerryl, but herbs didn’t seem to help with controlling chaos. Then he frowned, thinking about how he felt when he tried to warm his wash water. Would the powdered willow bark help reduce the warming in his body and the headache his using chaos caused?

  With the flash of white he saw through the open door, Cerryl stiffened, listening intently.

  “… how might I be of service, honored ser? Perhaps a volume of one of the histories… ?”

  The response was muted enough that Cerryl could not make out the words.

  “Ah, yes… that would take several eight-days, perhaps longer… you understand?”

  “… understand… the heavy binding… virgin vellum… how much… ?”

  “Three golds, honored ser.”

  “That is dear.”

  “The vellum and the leather alone-”

  “No more than five eight-days, scrivener, or not a gold to you. And all by your hand. Not another soul but you to handle the original. Do you understand?”

  Cerryl could feel the chill and power of the mage’s reply, even from the workroom copy desk.

  “Yes, ser. Before five eight-days, with the heavy binding and the best of virgin vellum.”

  “No one else but you.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Cerryl abruptly moved the quill, just in time to keep the ink from splattering on the page he was working on. He wiped the splot off the wood, cleaned the nib, then resumed his laborious effort to copy the page from Herbes and Their Selfsame Remedies, trying to look busy when Tellis reentered the workroom.

  “Don’t know where as I’ll even be getting the time. Yet three golds, that is not a commission I can turn down.” Tellis frowned, then coughed, and looked down at the worn volume in his hands. “Dealing with mages-every gold you earn. And earn again.”

  “I can copy it, ser,” offered Cerryl.

  “This one I’ll be copying,” Tellis announced.

  “If things are hard, ser, I can do it.”

  The master scrivener shook his head. “Some volumes, the whites say that only the master may copy.”

  “Why? How can they do that?”

  “Cerryl…” This time, Tellis provided the sigh, and not quietly. “Have you heard nothing? The White Council must approve any craft master in Fairhaven. You know the star with the circle above the door? Must I remind you what that master symbol means? Without that star, I’d get no copying or scribing from the Council… or any of the mages.”

  “But you’re the best in Fairhaven. Everyone on the square says so,” Cerryl said quickly.

  “You are loyal-I will say that,” answered Tellis. “The mages look for more than ability, Cerryl. They also demand loyalty. Without White Council approval, a tradesman or a crafter can never be more than a journeyman here. Journeymen get no Council business.” Tellis snorted. “And little else, either.”

  “Even able ones?”

  “What merchant or tradesman dare deal with a scrivener not in the Council’s favor? Even Muneat would turn away his little pleasures.”

  “He has coins ..‘.”

  “Coins are not power, Cerryl. Sometimes, those with coins can purchase power. Now… best I start. Set the herbal volume on the high shelf. You’ll have time to copy when I rest. You can go and get the oak bark and the vellum this will take.”

  Cerryl cleaned the quill, then wiped his hands, stood, and lifted Herbes and Their Selfsame Remedies from the copy stand.

  Tellis set the book he carried on the copy stand and opened the blank cover to the flyleaf.

  Cerryl’s eyes went to the words there, and he froze for a moment that seemed all too long as he read the title-Colors of White. Tellis had the entire book there, not just the first part but the whole book. The entire volume he’d wished to lay his hands on for so long-and he couldn’t touch it.

  “Don’t be standing there. Be off with you. First to Nivor’s for the black oak bark. You know the kind. Then when you bring that back, I’ll need more of the virgin vellum. But come back and set the bark to steep first, before you go to Arkos’s.”

  That meant twice as much walking, but Cerryl nodded politely. “Ah, ser… won’t I need some coin for Nivor?”

  “Pestilence… yes. Arkos will trust me for the vellum, but Nivor trusts no one.” Tellis fumbled in his purse. “Not more than a silver and five coppers for a tenth stone of the bark, either, no matter what that thief Nivor says. If he won’t give it to you for that… then come home without it.”

  “Yes, ser.” Cerryl took the coins and put them in his own purse with the three coppers that were his.

  “You can tell him I said so, too.” Tellis shifted his weight on the stool. “Man’s more brigand than apothecary… but don’t tell him that. Now, be off with you.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  In moments, Cerryl had pulled on his better tunic-used for errands and holiday meals-and stepped out into the spring afternoon, warm, but with the hint of a winter chill that had not yet vanished, and gray, with the promise of rain before evening. He hoped the rain wasn’t too long or too heavy; he could do without the attendant headache.

  He stretched, then started for the lesser artisans’ way. After a dozen steps or more, he glanced toward Pattera’s window-ajar as usual. Only her father worked at the big loom. His eyes went toward the square.

  “You!”

  The voice was peremptory and high-pitched, the words coming from behind Cerryl, and he almost stopped. But who would want anything from him? Were they talking to the master weaver?

  “In the blue… I mean you.”

  Cerryl turned… and swallowed as he saw the white tunic, shirt, and trousers. He bowed immediately. “I did not realize… I’m sorry, ser…”

  “No, you didn’t… did you?” A musical laugh followed - a laugh with a hard tone that made Cerryl want to shiver, even as he realized that the mage was a woman, an attractive figure with flame red hair and eyes that went through him, eyes that seemed to contain all colors and yet none at all. A faint scent of something - sandalwood, perhaps, drifted toward him.

  He bowed again, saying nothing.

  “Do you live here, young fellow?”

  “Yes, ser. I’m an apprentice to Tellis.”

  “The scrivener?” Another laugh followed. “Most interesting. Do you know your letters?”

  “Yes, ser.” How could an apprentice scrivener not know the letters? Still, Cerryl kept his tongue.

  “Both tongues?”

  “I do not know Temple as well as the old true tongue,” he admitted.

  “The old true tongue,” she mused. “And you mean what you say. Better and better. What is your name?”

  “Cerryl, ser.” Cerryl had to work at keeping his voice level, feeling as though he faced some sort of examination, a dangerous examination, even though he could not explain exactly what or why.

  “Ce
rryl the apprentice scrivener…” She laughed more musically than before. “Keep learning your letters and all that you can. It might be enough.” She paused, and her voice turned harder. “You may go on whatever errand your master sent you.”

  Cerryl tried to gather himself together as he bowed.

  “Go.”

  “Yes, ser.” He bowed again, turned, and hastened down toward the square and toward Nivor the apothecary’s.

  The woman in white - she was certainly a mage, and not all that much older than Cerryl. He shivered, recalling the cold eyes that had changed color with every word and the cruel laugh. He wasn’t sure he Wanted to know what she had meant about his learning more might be enough. Enough for what?

  He shivered, though he tried not to do so. So much went on in Fairhaven that few saw. His brief experience with master Muneat had shown him one side of it, but that wasn’t all. Though he saw little of the power of chaos that lay hidden, that power he could feel, unlike that of the golds of the factors. And the hidden chaos made him shiver, unlike the golds.

  XXXVIII

  Cerryl lay on his back, under both the thin blanket and his leather jacket, not quite shivering but not exactly warm, either. His eyes looked generally in the direction of the ceiling beams, but his thoughts were well beyond his room.

  Tellis had the complete volume of Colors of White, the whole thing, with the sections missing from the volume Syodar had given Cerryl. The apprentice scrivener turned on his side, drawing his legs up so that he was curled into a ball, trying not to think about the volume locked inside the chest in the copy room, and trying even harder not to think about the key in the hidden niche by the door.

  “It’s not as though…” he murmured. As though? As though he would be stealing? He wouldn’t hurt the book. He’d read it in the workroom in the dark. Stealing knowledge? But did knowledge belong to anyone? Or was that how the mages stayed in power-by keeping their knowledge to themselves?