“Try neruada sometime.” Lyasa smiled.
“Neruada?” asked Cerryl.
“Marinated goat stomach stuffed with spices and greenery.”
Faltar mock-glared at her. “Lemon lamb is bad enough.”
Cerryl laughed.
“It’s not funny,” Faltar protested, trying to keep from smiling.
Lyasa smoothed her face into a serious expression. “Is the poor student mage so sour that he cannot withstand the additional sourness of even a tender lamb?”
Faltar half-coughed, then choked and sputtered out fragments of bread.
Cerryl grinned even as he ducked.
After he recovered, Faltar took a sip of the ale and glared at Lyasa. “I will never say an unkind word about lamb. Ever.” He paused. “Until it’s served again.”
“It could be old mutton.” Lyasa shook her head.
Cerryl took a healthy mouthful of the lamb, being careful not to look at Faltar. He didn’t want to start laughing and choke, too.
“So… you’re starting on the sewers?” Lyasa looked down at her empty platter. “I was hungry.”
“Interesting phrasing there.” Faltar’s voice was dry.
Lyasa flushed. “You’re…”
“Difficult.”
Cerryl swallowed quickly.
“You are. You know you are. Wait until you get in the sewers Faltar.”
“Scrivener’s apprentice going to get his whites all dirty…” Bealtur’s voice drifted across the room from where he sat at the same table with Heralt. The diffident Heralt continued to eat without speaking.
“Let him talk,” said Lyasa quietly. “He doesn’t understand.”
Cerryl didn’t, either, but wasn’t about to admit it. He broke off another chunk of bread.
“You still suffering with Esaak?” asked Faltar.
“Yes. I still have to study mathematicks, even while I’m working with Myral.” Cerryl grimaced.
“Numbers and sewers and offal… numbers and sewers and offal…” offered Faltar in a whispered chant, grinning broadly.
“Enough.” But Lyasa grinned.
So did Cerryl, even as he wondered about the sewers.
LX
A narrow cooper’s wagon rolled by, carrying but three large barrels, less than three cubits from where Cerryl stood on the west side of the avenue, his white leather jacket unfastened. The driver flicked the reins, careful not to look directly at Cerryl, and the single horse halt-whuffed, half-sighed.
After the wagon passed, Cerryl turned the map, frowning, trying to hold it against the wind and study the tracery of black and purple and red lines. The two main sewers, the ones that collected wastes from all the others, mostly followed the avenue, each along an alleyway about a hundred cubits back from the avenue. The map showed sewers in three sizes, and from what Cerryl could deduce, there were large tunnels with walkways, smaller tunnels, and then a scattering of covered brick ditches.
Cerryl grinned as he looked from the map to the granite paving stones, and then to the large houses on the east side of the avenue-perched almost above the large sewer tunnels. Then he nodded. Of course, those with coins got the best waste disposal and the best roads and were closest to the market and the artisans, and even the grain exchange.
He walked farther north, past the market square, finding his mouth watering as the smell of roasting fowl was carried to him on the midday wind that also held a hint of rain to come. Overhead, thin but dark gray clouds scudded southward.
“… spices for the winter… spices for late harvest…”
“… best roots in Candar… turnips, beets… get your roots here…”
“Baskets, baskets for storage…”
Cerryl lurched as a sudden gust of wind jerked at the map, almost dragging him off the curbstone and into the avenue itself. Since the way was clear, he rerolled the map and walked across the south side of the market area.
A girl, perhaps the age of Serai, Pattera’s sister, walked around a blue cart displaying woven blankets, still looking over her shoulder. Her head turned, and she swallowed as she saw the white jacket and trousers. Before Cerryl could say a word, she ducked back behind the cart.
“A blanket, young ser? A fine white blanket?”
Cerryl shook his head and, rolled map in hand, continued across the square. He almost stopped at the cart where a thin man roasted fowl, but thought about the few coppers left in his purse and kept walking. Too bad he had left his silvers behind at Tellis’s. Once in a while he missed them and wondered if he would ever see that much coin again, but he felt the absence of the amulet more.
He supposed Kesrik would call him stupid for not caring more about the silvers, but there was little he could do. The Guild had told Tellis that all Cerryl left belonged to the scrivener, and Cerryl couldn’t very well show up in Tellis’s showroom and ask for his silvers back.
After reaching the other side of the square and crossing the eastern section of the avenue, he headed north again and into the jewelers’ row. Because of the wind, all the doors were closed, but the shutters were open-enough to show that the metalsmiths were present for any customers.
He paused before a goldsmith’s shop with gold-trimmed green shutters and checked the sewer map again, standing close to the white-Painted bricks of the wall to keep the wind from grabbing the map. From what he could tell, the main sewers had been built farther from the avenue north of the market square.
Another gust of wind-colder-whipped around him. When it subsided, he studied the map again, then walked north to the first side street, where he turned eastward, in the general direction of Nivor’s-the apothecary’s-looking for the heavy bronze grill that marked an access grate to the main sewer tunnel.
The grate was almost flush with the wall of a fuller’s shop. Cerryl’s eyes-and senses-noted the chaos bound into the large white-bronze lock that secured the grate, a square about two cubits on each side.
With his own senses, he could make out a set of narrow brick steps disappearing into the darkness below. He could also sense that-again-someone was following him with a glass.
The wind rose, more steadily, and a few drops of something damp wet the back of his neck. He turned and looked up. The clouds were thicker, and intermittent white flakes flew by his face. He could sense the beginning of the headache that always seemed to come with rain or snow.
Cerryl fastened his jacket and started back toward the tower, half-wondering who was following him with a glass-and why.
LXI
Cerryl stepped into Myral’s quarters, dim in the morning despite two lit wall lamps. Sleet clicked against the closed shutters, and the shutters rattled. He could feel a draft around his legs until he closed the door from the tower landing. His head throbbed slightly, but it always did during storms.
“Ah… a warm winter day in Fairhaven.” Myral wrapped the white wool blanket around his shoulders but remained seated on one side of the table. He gestured to the seat directly across from him.
Cerryl sat.
“How did you find the books?”
“I read them, but I’m certain I didn’t understand everything.” Cerryl paused. “I’m sure I didn’t.”
“I’m not sure I understand everything there, and I wrote one of them.” Myral lifted a mug from which steam drifted upward into the chill air of the room and took a sip. “You’re being put on sewer duty earlier than most students. Do you know why?”
“No, ser… unless it’s because I was a scrivener’s apprentice.” The remaining draft seeping through the shutters chilled the back of Cerryl’s legs, even through the thick white trousers. He shifted his weight in the hard wooden chair, smelling the warm cider in the older mage’s mug.
“That is one reason. We’ll get to the other in a bit.” Myral took another sip of the cider. “The important thing to remember is that Fairhaven is what it is because it is an ordered city.” Myral smiled blandly at Cerryl. “I use the word ‘ordered’ advisedly, but it’s not some
thing that should be discussed outside the Guild.” He paused. “Or even within the Guild, except with me, or if Sterol or Jeslek should bring it up. Never with anyone else.”
“Yes, ser.”
Myral raised his eyebrows. “There is a difference between thoughts and words. Don’t forget that.”
“No, ser.”
“Just like a healthy person, a healthy city must have nourishment, a functioning structure or body, fresh clean water, and a way to get rid of wastes. The aqueducts supply the water, and the sewers take away the wastes, and the Guild is there to ensure that the rest of the city’s structure works. Are you surprised that the Guild is the White Order?”
“Ah…” Cerryl wasn’t surprised, and he wasn’t unsurprised.
“You’ve had to worry about more pressing needs. I imagine you worried more about food than the place of the Guild. That’s one reason why Sterol bent the guidelines to admit you.” Myral smiled. “As for order… most of the Guild doesn’t like to admit it, and they’re not exactly pleased to accord some recognition to the blacks. They’ll do what they can… but you can’t separate order and chaos and survive.”
Cerryl nodded, not knowing what Myral expected.
“That is enough philosophizing for now. Starting tomorrow, or the day after, if the storm doesn’t clear, you are going to be cleaning sewers and finding places in them that need to be repaired. There are several things you need to keep in mind in the sewers.” Myral’s tone was dry. “First, look both up and down. People don’t look when they open their sewer catches. And the brick, even on the walkways, can crumble or get slimy.”
Cerryl sat silently. Cleaning sewers? That was sewer duty?
“Also… you’ll be accompanied by lancers-it’s disciplinary duty for them… so what kind of guard you get…” The older mage shrugged.
Guards in the sewers? Cerryl moistened his lips.
“We do our best to keep the sewers for offal and sewage… that’s one reason why the sewer catches are so small. We don’t want people shoving larger wastes, like branches or bodies, into the sewers.” Myral grimaced. “We still find bodies-usually children-and then we have to try to find who killed them. I’ll get into that later. If you find a body right now, leave it and send a messenger for me.”
Guards and bodies? What lurked in the sewers? The door to the tower stairs rattled, and Cerryl’s eyes followed the sound before he turned back to concentrate on Myral.
“Branches and any sort of rubbish that doesn’t reflect a crime-it’s up to you to dispose of it as you clean the tunnel and the walkway.”
Cerryl frowned. “With chaos-force, ser?”
“How else?” Myral offered a broad smile. “How else indeed? You can certainly call it forth.” A brief shadow crossed Myral’s face, so brief Cerryl wasn’t sure he had seen it. “It crackles around you. You see Cerryl, those with the talent to handle chaos are blessed and cursed. Someone who might be a black mage would not suffer should he choose not to use his talent. That is not true of someone with the talent to handle the white force of chaos. Chaos is so powerful that it must be guided and disciplined. If it is not, it will destroy anyone with the talent to channel it. It cannot be ignored. In time, it will destroy even those of us with discipline.”
Myral’s face turned from an ironic smile to a somber mien. “One either masters chaos, or it masters one. We cannot afford to have even one undisciplined chaos focus in Candar.”
Cerryl did not know what to say. He waited.
“You wonder-all young mages wonder-why the Guild suffers no one to survive who is not bound by its disciplines. Are we that power-mad? Are we so insecure that anyone who defies us must be destroyed?” A sadness crossed the round face, and Myral brushed back a lock of wispy black hair, carefully, to cover part of his balding pate. “I fear for the time when there is no Guild, no discipline.”
How could there not be a Guild? Cerryl shifted his weight and glanced toward the window, but the closed shutters blocked the view of the avenue stretching northward toward the artisans’ square.
“All things pass, young Cerryl, and the Guild will also, as will Fairhaven, and mad chaos-wielders will roam Candar, for the mad attain their powers more quickly.” Myral shook his head. “This I have seen… but it will be many generations.” He reached for the pitcher and poured still steaming cider into the other mug and extended it to the younger man. “I have been remiss, and the room is draft-ridden.”
Cerryl sipped the hot cider gratefully.
“What has this meandering of an old mage to do with the sewers?” The sadness vanished with a forced smile. “The sewers are where you all learn to wield and control chaos-force. If you fail, only you suffer.”
Cerryl could see that.
“There are two aspects to sewer duty-three if you count maintenance, but there your job is to protect the masons. You must learn to bring forth chaos-force under control, and you must learn to develop a shield against that force-either that which you raise or that raised by others.
“The greatest mages-not the most heralded but the greatest-are those with the strongest shields. I’ll leave it to you to figure out why.”
All of the mages did that-they left puzzles for the students to figure out. Was that an ongoing test, or just because they were busy doing other things?
“You are not to attempt shielding or raising chaos-force anywhere except in the sewers or when directed by me or an overmage.”
“Are overmages the ones with the sunbursts?”
“Do you know why none of you are told that? Because the Guild doesn’t care much for hotheads.” Myral nodded, almost to himself. “Caution is called for when handling chaos.” Myral smiled. “Did you know that Anya was sent to scare you?”
“To see if I would flee?”
“And Kinowin was given instructions to let you have the illusion that you might be able to escape. He didn’t like that.”
Cerryl felt half vindicated, half dazed.
“The sewers will be harder than that.” Myral lifted the steaming cider. “To a warmer tomorrow.”
Cerryl lifted his own mug, inclining his head to the rotund mage, knowing there was little else he could do.
LXII
Under the clear skies and with the bright sun on his back, Cerryl still felt cold because of the chill wind that blew out of the northwest, almost into his face. He and Myral walked westward on the side avenue, followed by two of the white guards.
Next to a blank white granite wall-the side wall of a warehouse of some sort-Myral stopped and knelt by the bronze sewer grate. The older mage fumbled with his purse before extracting a large bronze key. “Cerryl.” Cerryl bent down.
“Watch what I do with the key. Use your senses.” Cerryl could sense a point of chaos within the heavy bronze lock, and he watched as a darkness built up around the lock before Myral turned the key and opened it.
“Lift the grate.”
Cerryl struggled and lifted the grate, discovering that it opened on a pair of hidden hinge pins nearly as thick as his wrists.
“Swing it back against the wall.”
When the grate was against the wall, another bronze ring protruding from the building wall extended through the bars of the grate. Myral relocked the grate in the open position and returned the key to his purse. The two guards stood back from the square opening.
“Did you see what I did?”
“You did something with darkness there.”
“Exactly.” Myral smiled. “All sewer locks are charged with chaos. I’ll explain in a moment.” He turned to the guards. “Remain here until we return.”
“Yes, ser.” The older and grizzle-bearded armsman nodded.
Myral stepped onto the top stair within the circular opening and started downward.
Cerryl glanced over his shoulder, back at the bronze grate that Myral had locked open, and at the pair of white lancers guarding the entrance to the main sewer tunnel. A faint smile crossed the lips of the taller and younger
guard, then vanished.
Looking back down, Cerryl followed the older mage into the darkness barely lit by the oil lamp Myral carried down the narrow and unrailed brick staircase. Their boots clicked on the hard bricks.
The first odors-a mixture of barnyard and fish and rotten meat, or worse-almost gagged Cerryl.
“You’ll get used to it,” Myral called back over his shoulder.
Never… I hope not. Cerryl swallowed and kept heading downward, trying not to think about the source of the foulness.
At the bottom of the stairs, Myral took several more steps before he turned and waited.
The main sewer was a square tunnel of red glazed bricks whose braced and squared granite arches were a good two cubits above Cerryl’s head as he stood at the foot of the narrow staircase. On the left side was a walkway, about two cubits wide, except where the cubit-wide stairs descended. To the right of the walkway was the drainage way that carried the sewage, the surface of the turbid waters another cubit or so below the walkway.
“In storms, the waters can rise halfway up the staircase.” Myral paused, then added, “You don’t work in the sewers during heavy rains.”
The younger man looked back at the stairs, imagining all that filthy water rushing through the tunnels.
“The secondary sewers are just tall enough to walk in-sometimes-and the collectors for them are little more than covered and glazed brick trenches anywhere from one to two cubits square.”
Cerryl decided not to ask how he was supposed to clean the collectors.
“You won’t be working the collectors to begin with. You’ll start on the secondaries once I’m sure you can handle the work. Now… we’ll go a little farther, until the walkway starts to get slimy. It doesn’t take long down here.”
A dozen cubits or so farther from the stairs, Myral halted. “I’m going to demonstrate how to use chaos to clean away the filth. Watch me, with your eyes and your senses.”
As the mage turned back toward the darkness, Cerryl could sense the buildup of chaos, a white unseen fire that seemed to flicker around the older mage, yet behind the white of chaos was a dark mist, a dilute blackness, the same as Myral had used with the lock, except there was more of it.
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