The White Order

LIX

IN THE LATE afternoon, with gray light falling through the library windows, Cerryl rubbed his forehead, forcing himself to concentrate on the words on the vellum.

. . the heavy greases, be they cooking tallow or renderer’s leavings or. . reform in a weak order upon exposure to heat or chaos or heat created by the chaos within chaos-rich wastes. . such scattered blocks of order combine with detritus of a less solid nature to impede the flow of fluids necessary for evacuation. .

He’d thought the histories and the philosophizing of Colors of White had been boring and difficult to follow, but they were transparently clear compared to Myral’s The Management of Offal. The book wasn’t even that long, less than a hundred pages. He continued reading and turned the page.

. . odoriferous as they may appear, night soil and animal droppings retain but a weak order and will dissolve in the presence of water into a liquid which can be purified through the application of simple techniques. .”

“Cerryl?”

He looked up. Faltar and Lyasa stood by the library table.

“Didn’t you hear the bells?”

“The bells?” Even as he asked, he felt stupid. He knew he sounded stupid.

“Those are Myral’s books, aren’t they?” Lyasa pointed to the volumes by his elbow. “The ones on wastes and offal?”

Cerryl nodded.

“How long have you had them?” she asked.

“Since yesterday.” Cerryl massaged his forehead again, this time with his left hand, then the back of his neck, trying to work out the tension.

“How many years did it take Myral to write them?” Lyasa demanded.

Faltar offered an ironic smile.

“He only wrote one. This one.” Cerryl glanced from Faltar to the dark-haired student.

“It’s the same thing.” Lyasa’s voice bore a tinge of exasperation. “It took him years to figure it out enough to write it, and you’re trying to learn it all in a day.”

“I only have an eight-day.”

“You have an eight-day to read it-not learn it word by word.”

“Cerryl has to know it better than anyone. . even Myral,” said Faltar.

“Says who?”

“Cerryl,” answered the blond student mage.

“You two.” Lyasa glared at Faltar, then at Cerryl. “Let’s go eat.”

Cerryl stood, feeling his muscles twinge. How long had he been reading?

“Too long,” answered Faltar.

Lyasa had already left the common by the time Cerryl scooped up the books from the table and started down the corridor toward the meal hall. He stopped by his cell and quickly set the books on the desk.

“Why do you have to learn everything as quickly as you do?” asked Faltar as Cerryl stepped back into the corridor.

“This is the first place where I’ve ever been supposed to learn, and. . I don’t know.” Cerryl looked down at the polished stone floor tiles, glad he didn’t have to scrub floors any longer.

“Why did the scrivener take you on? I mean. .”

“I was a mill boy without any learning?” Cerryl nodded. “I got the millmaster’s daughter to teach me my letters and help me. She gave me books, both in the old tongue and in Temple. They’re really not that different.”

“You taught yourself to read?” Faltar shook his head.

“There wasn’t anyone else.” Cerryl glanced around the meal hall, only half-occupied because the full mages ate there intermittently. Kesrik was at a corner table, apparently being lectured by Fydel about something, because his face was more sullen than usual. Lyasa was at the serving table. “And I didn’t do it alone. I did have help.”

“Darkness,” hissed Faltar. “It’s the lemon lamb.”

The lemon lamb was fine with Cerryl, but he nodded. “It could be worse.”

“Cheese in the sewer? It would take that. Oh. . sorry. . it’ll be my turn next, I suppose.”

“You haven’t done sewer duty?” Cerryl took a large serving of the lamb and a chunk of dark bread and a too-firm pearapple-none of which showed signs of chaos, and probably never would, but the habit he’d developed early had stayed with him.

“Some people get it early, some late, some-like Kesrik-get it more than once.” Faltar took a smaller helping of stew, nearly half a loaf of the dark bread, and two pearapples.

“Kesrik’s had two times on sewer duty?”

“That I know of. They say Kinowin did four as a student, and Eliasar three.”

Cerryl frowned. The big mage had done sewer duty four times? The arms mage three times?

Faltar inclined his head toward the round table where Lyasa sat alone, and Cerryl followed him.

“I see you two finally got hungry.” The black-haired young woman looked up as they sat down.

“For lemon lamb?” Faltar broke off a chunk of bread, then took a swallow of the light ale. “For this I should hurry?”

“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.