The White Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Cerryl ate slowly, silently, his mind flitting between the cross-section problems he had not finished working out and his efforts, unsuccessful so far, to split the golden lance light into the colored beams and still have them retain enough power to fire-scour the slimed bricks.

  Bealtur joined Kochar, and the two began to talk, but in voices low enough that the sounds did not carry to Cerryl nor interrupt his thoughts about chaos-fire and light.

  Did trying to order light, so to speak, mean that the power of chaos was weakened in the light? Or was it the way in which he was trying to order it? Cerryl shook his head abruptly. How many times had he argued those points in his head? And how many times had he not found an answer there, or in Colors of White? How many answers had he sought and not found-beginning with the death of his aunt and uncle? Deaths he was more convinced than ever had been caused by chaos-fire.

  “Cerryl?” Faltar stood by the table.

  Cerryl glanced up with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Sit down. I didn’t see you. I was thinking about the problems I have to do before tomorrow for Esaak.”

  Faltar slid onto the stool across from Cerryl, his blond hair drifting across his forehead. “You’re always thinking about something.”

  “I suppose so. There was a time when… never mind.” Cerryl laughed self-consciously, then grinned. “Has anything interesting been happening around here?”

  “Broka says I haven’t learned the bones of the body well enough. Derka doesn’t think my hand is good enough for a mage. He keeps telling me that no one could read what I write. You’re lucky you were a scrivener, that way.” Faltar took a bite of pearapple and chewed it, then looked at the yellowed white sauce on his platter. “Mutton… again.”

  “I hadn’t thought being a scrivener’s apprentice was good for much.” Cerryl took a swallow of ale, a draught that helped cut the greasiness of the lemon sauce. “This is greasier than usual.”

  “You should listen to Derka about writing,” said Faltar sourly. “The mutton is always greasy.”

  Cerryl paused. “I saw Eliasar wearing a lot of weapons, just before I got here. He looked happy.” He gave a low laugh. “He likes weapons. I had to wonder where he was going.”

  “Haven’t you seen?” Faltar took a quick sip of the amber ale. “They’re readying a whole force of white lancers. They’re all going to Certis-Jellico, from what I’ve heard.”

  “From whom?” asked Cerryl quietly. “No one seems to tell anyone anything. Especially us.”

  A quick blush passed across Faltar’s face, a flushing that Cerryl ignored. “I’ve just listened,” Faltar finally said. “You aren’t around here enough to overhear things.”

  “That’s probably true. ”I’m down there struggling along in the tunnels.“ Cerryl offered a smile. ”Did you hear why Eliasar and those lancers are going to Jellico? I thought we had an agreement with Certis.“

  “I think it has something to do with the problems in Gallos.” The blond student shrugged. “You know about the new prefect there?”

  His mouth full of lamb and lemon-sauced bread, Cerryl nodded.

  “He’s claiming that the agreement about the Great White Road was made when his sire was ailing, and that it doesn’t bind him to collect the road tariffs for us.”

  “That’s almost half the road’s length,” mumbled Cerryl.

  “It’s worse than that, Derka says. The prefect’s claiming that we have no right to tax any of the other roads we built, and that includes the main road from Jellico through Passera to Fenard.” Faltar lowered his voice. “They’re going to have a meeting about it-all the full mages.” Faltar lowered his voice. “That was what Lyasa told me.”

  Yet Eliasar was already on his way to Certis. To ensure that the viscount stayed loyal to Fairhaven? Was the White Order’s hold on eastern Candar that fragile?

  “That doesn’t sound good,” murmured Cerryl. “I wouldn’t know, but if there is going to be a meeting…”

  “That’s what… Well… no… I don’t think so, either.” Faltar glanced nervously around the meal hall.

  “Isn’t there a mage in Fenard? We saw him here once, I think. Can’t he do anything?”

  “I don’t know.” Faltar finally looked back at his platter. “About the mage, I mean. There’s a mage in all the places where there’s a ruler. Except Spidlar and Sligo, and they have a Traders’ Council or something.”

  “If they want us to know, they’ll tell us.” Cerryl laughed. “Otherwise, what can we do? I’ve still got sewer duty. You’ve still got to improve your hand, and I’ve still got to do cross-section problems for Esaak. Tonight,” Cerryl added as he stood.

  “Tonight?”

  Cerryl nodded and turned toward his cell, hoping he wouldn’t be working too long into the night.

  LXXII

  Cerryl woke almost clutching at his throat, feeling, sensing chaos everywhere. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and he had a hard time swallowing for a moment.

  His eyes traversed the darkness of his small cell, but it remained as always - the desk with the books, the stool, the table, the unlit lamp, and the cold stone floor - all empty.

  He swallowed again, then eased from under his blanket toward the door, standing with his hand on the latch, shivering in his smallclothes. After a moment of thought, he decided against opening the door but just listened.

  Had he heard the whisper of footsteps on the polished stone of the corridor? Or was that the wind outside the halls?

  He sniffed. Even through the door he could smell the faint odor of sandalwood and flowers, and his senses told him that someone in the corridor had warped or twisted light somehow.

  The faintest snick of a lifted latch-had he heard that, or was it his overactive imagination?

  Anya? Visiting Faltar again?

  Briefly, the corners of his mouth lifted in the darkness as he thought how he would react if someone slipped into his room. Say someone like Leyladin…

  He swallowed and pushed that thought away as he sensed, almost like a white shadow, a looming but partly shielded chaos presence, farther away-where, he couldn’t sense, but not too far. And that chaos presence was definitely watching.

  Cerryl swallowed. Anya was visiting Faltar, and Cerryl had no doubts about what kind of visits the redhead was making, and someone was watching Anya, and both were hiding their presence.

  The thin-faced-and cold-footed-young man slipped back from his door to his bed, easing his blanket back around him, trying to let his feet warm up as his thoughts swirled in his head.

  What did Anya want of Faltar-a mere student? Mere sexual pleasure? Somehow, recalling Anya’s smile and the coolness beneath it, Cerryl doubted that.

  Should he tell Faltar? How much should he say? Or should he just wait? What else can you do but wait. Wait and learn… and hope.

  He turned over, wrapping the blanket tighter about him, but sleep was long in returning.

  LXXIII

  “How did those mathematicks problems go with Esaak?” asked Faltar, taking a swig of ale from his mug, then following it with a mouthful of the crusty hot bread. “I managed to figure out most of them.” Cerryl sipped the mug of water. Ale was something he couldn’t swallow in the morning. Cheese and bread were bad enough, but trying to handle chaos fire on an empty stomach was worse. He broke off another chunk of bread and ate it slowly, his eyes on the oiled and polished white oak table that had turned a burnished gold over the years.

  “Esaak wants everyone to know how much water the sewers can carry and how you determine how strong a wall or bridge is.”

  “Walls and bridges?” blurted Cerryl.

  “Those are next,” affirmed Faltar, attacking another chunk of hard yellow cheese. “He says being a mage isn’t just wielding chaos-force. Oh, and Derka says I’ll start doing sewers pretty soon, maybe before you finish. He has to talk to Myral.”

  “It’s not exactly fun,” demurred Cerryl.

  “That’s what he says.”

  As he ch
ewed the fresh bread, Cerryl looked at Kesrik, not so much with his eyes as with his senses. The stocky blond sat at the corner table with the red-haired Kochar and the goateed Bealtur, and at that moment, none were looking toward Cerryl or Faltar. Then Cerryl turned his scrutiny to Kinowin, who stood over the table where Esaak had been eating alone.

  Cerryl blinked, then looked more at Esaak. Clearly, a far greater chaos power surrounded Kinowin-although far less than Cerryl would have guessed-than the other two, and even the aging Esaak blazed with power compared to Kesrik. Cerryl glanced at Faltar the same way.

  “What’s the matter? You have a funny look,” mumbled Faltar.

  “Just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  About chaos power and who shows it. “All sorts of things. Esaak, Kinowin, Kesrik.”

  “Sometimes you think too much.” Faltar swallowed the last of the ale in his mug.

  Cerryl tried not to wince at the thought of starting the day with ale, glancing at Lyasa, who walked into the meal hall with Leyladin. Lyasa, like Faltar, showed a modicum of chaos. The red-golden-haired Leyladin flickered with what Cerryl sensed as flecks or streaks of white that seemed to swirl in and through an unseen black mist that enshrouded the blonde. Was that what a black mage looked, felt like? Black mists? Cerryl quickly looked down at his platter as Leyladin’s eyes swept toward him.

  “Too bad she’s a black,” murmured Faltar.

  “I thought you were more interested in Anya,” countered Cerryl in a low tone.

  Faltar flushed.

  “She’s beautiful,” agreed Cerryl. But so are lances and daggers. “Anya, I meant.”

  “I got who you meant.”

  “Even if I were a full mage, I think I’d walk carefully with her ” Cerryl murmured.

  “I didn’t ask…” Faltar looked hard at Cerryl. “You aren’t a full mage.”

  “You’re right.” Cerryl forced a smile. “Anyway… different women appeal to different men.” He paused. “It’s your choice. When the time comes, Faltar, the best of luck to you.”

  “Oh… thank you. I’m sorry. I must have… never mind.”

  “It is one of those mornings, I think. Have you heard about any more lancers going places?”

  “No one’s saying, but there aren’t many left in the barracks out back.” Faltar mumbled through a mouthful of bread. “I overheard Kinowin talking about some armsmen from Hydlen. I thought he said twenty score.”

  “Twenty score? That’s a lot. It seems like a lot to me.”

  Faltar laughed. “You know Eliasar took twice that with him? And that doesn’t count the lancers in the south barracks outside Fairhaven. There are ten times as many there as here.”

  “A good number.” Something like four thousand white lancers? No wonder Fairhaven needed the road tariffs.

  “That’s why we need the tariffs. Fairhaven is what holds Candar together, and the Guild holds Fairhaven together.” Faltar nodded sagely, blond hair flopping onto his forehead and spoiling the effect. He stood. “I have to meet with Broka. Bones and more bones.”

  Cerryl stood more slowly, his eyes drifting toward the table where Lyasa and Leyladin sat. Neither glanced toward him as he left the meal hall.

  As he walked across the courtyard, past the fountain and the spray that seemed chill with the wind, despite the bright spring sun, he had the feeling that every time he learned more about Fairhaven, there was more to learn, and so much no one talked about. So much wasn’t in the books, either, like the amount of chaos that surrounded some people.

  Lyasa and even Faltar-even the new student Kochar-showed far more chaos power than Kesrik. Yet Jeslek seemed to favor Kesrik.

  Cerryl made his way through the front hall, past the closed doors to the meeting hall, across the foyer to the tower steps and past the pair of guards. Hertyl gave him a faint smile, and Cerryl smiled back.

  At the second landing, Cerryl rapped on Myral’s door.

  “Come in.”

  Cerryl opened the heavy door, smelled the spiced cider, and close the door behind him.

  Myral sipped his usual steaming cider, though the room was comfortable, at least to Cerryl, and the shutters were half-open, showing a sunlit view of Fairhaven to the north of the tower.

  Cerryl glanced from the window to the wall of bookshelves and then to the older mage, seated at the table.

  “Have some cider.”

  “Thank you.” Cerryl slipped into the chair across from Myral, pouring cider into the spare mug and taking a sip. Cider was far better than plain water or ale in the morning.

  “How are you coming?”

  “Another few days, and I’ll have finished the secondary to where it joins the western branch of the main runnel.”

  Myral’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re moving faster.”

  “Yes, ser. It’s been hard work.”

  Myral nodded to himself, sipped his cider, coughed, and cleared his throat. “Have you found anything else interesting?”

  “Besides branches near the grates, a few soggy chunks of vellum scraped clean… no.”

  “No bodies… weapons, or scrap iron?”

  “No, ser.” Cerryl frowned. “Scrap iron?”

  “Sometimes it happens. Don’t use chaos-fire on it. You’re not ready for that.” Myral set down the mug and stretched. “These old bones get stiff. I’ll be glad when summer comes. I might even want to go to Ruzor-for a visit-or somewhere warm.”

  “Ruzor?”

  “Everywhere east of the Westhorns where there’s a port, there’s a member of the brotherhood and a detachment of lancers. Ruzor gets a great deal of trade from Southport and Summerdock, even from Recluce. Especially from Recluce.” Myral’s eyebrows waggled.

  “Ser… everyone talks around Recluce. Why? I mean, Eliasar laughs about Recluce. He says they have no warships, and they haven’t ever-I mean, according to the histories-they haven’t tried to send armsmen to take things here, not since Creslin the Black raided Lydiar, and that was a long time ago…”

  “Two hundred eighty-seven years ago at the first turn of summer, according to the records.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s in the Guild records, the sealed ones, but you can figure it out from the histories.” Myral’s eyes hardened and focused on the younger mage. “Cerryl… power is measured not solely by warships and arms-men.” Myral coughed again, almost rackingly, cleared his throat, and sipped more of the hot cider. “Fairhaven maintains armsmen and lancers, and they are paid in part by the trade duties on all the roads Fairhaven has built, but especially on the Great White Highways, and in part from the levies on the trades here in Fairhaven itself. Have you asked what happens if Recluce sends cheaper wool-or better wool for the same coinage for a stone’s bundle of wool-to Tyrhavven or Spidlaria? What if the traders of Gallos or Spidlar buy their wool from Recluce instead of Montgren? Or pearapples or oilseeds from Recluce instead of from Certis or Hydlen?”

  “Not so many traders use the roads?”

  “Exactly.” Myral set the mug on the table with a thump. “Less traders on the Great White Roads means fewer road tariffs and fewer coins to pay our lancers.”

  “Could we not tariff the cargoes from Recluce?”

  “Ah…” Myral smiled. “Someone could… but the port of Spidlaria does not owe allegiance to Fairhaven. Lydiar and Renklaar do, and we could insist on tariffs there. But… say you are a trading captain, and the taxes raise the price of your cargo in Lydiar but not in Spidlaria, would you not increase your price less than the tariff and-”

  “Port it in Spidlaria?” asked Cerryl.

  The older mage nodded. “It is more complex than that, young Cerryl, and something you need not worry about yet, but that was exactly why Creslin the Black raided Lydiar those long years ago. He needed ships and freedom to trade. Now… Recluce has both.” Myral smiled sadly. “Sterol is talking about how we may need to place mages aboard our ships-and those of our friends and allies-to protect them. I hope it does no
t come to that, but it may.”

  “Eliasar said we were building warships,” Cerryl prompted.

  “We have always had warships. A land that cannot protect its traders upon the seas soon has no traders. Now… enough of that. You need to get to work if you are to complete your duties as you plan.”

  “Which sewer tunnels did Kesrik clean?” Cerryl asked after a moment of silence.

  “Does it matter?” A soft smile crossed Myral’s lips, one that bothered Cerryl. “You all clean secondaries.”

  “I was curious.” Cerryl forced a shrug. “Did he-I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to you, or you wouldn’t have asked.” Myral’s tone was dry.

  “Yes, ser.”

  “You know, Cerryl… you blaze too much.”

  Cerryl’s mouth started to open, and he swallowed, almost choking on the bit of cider he hadn’t swallowed.

  “This should come later, but, if I don’t tell you now, you may not be around later.” Myral took a deep breath and glanced toward the tower door. “Jeslek has gone to Gallos, and Sterol and Anya are otherwise occupied-for the moment.”

  “When a mage feels strongly or is about to gather chaos and does not shield himself, the chaos around him flares-or blazes. That’s one reason why Jeslek always seems so powerful. Chaos almost radiates from him. Sterol is almost as powerful, yet he seems mild, withdrawn. He shields his power, much as you shield yourself from chaos in the sewer-or maybe it’s better described as ordering chaos so that it is held rather than dispersed.” Myral shrugged. “Right now, you’re like a young Jeslek, spraying power everywhere. If you hadn’t been an orphan or a scrivener’s apprentice, where no one thought to look, Sterol would have slapped you into the creche years ago-or had you suffocated.”

  Cerryl waited.

  “Sterol’s worried about Recluce-again, and for the reasons I just told you. You can thank the blacks and the new prefect of Gallos for your survival, I suspect. But… you’re a possible rival to Jeslek. Once Sterol goes, Jeslek won’t want you around.”