The White Order

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 half-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.