The White Order

LXV

CERRYL TRUDGED DOWN the corridor toward his cell, feeling that his shirt, tunic, and trousers smelled of sewer, even though he’d washed thoroughly and brushed the surface of his garments with the hint of chaos-fire before redonning them-a trick he’d picked up from watching Myral. Then maybe the smell of sewage was too deeply imbedded in his nostrils for one stop in the washroom to rid him of it.

He’d been working nearly an eight-day on the one secondary sewer, and he’d cleaned the space between two access grates-all of perhaps three hundred cubits, more or less. The section he’d worked on had only a handful of small collectors entering it, and that was fine because he wasn’t very good at pushing chaos force away from himself and through the buried small glazed brick conduits. The slime and grime were coated on the brick walls more than half a handspan thick in some places, and Cerryl had to wonder when the collector had last been scoured.

He didn’t stop by his cell, knowing he was close to being late for the evening meal. As he stopped outside the meal hall, he felt again-as he had more and more frequently-that someone was watching him in a glass. But who?

He squared his shoulders and stepped into the room, glancing around and seeing Faltar and Lyasa at one of the round center tables. Lyasa was the one who motioned for him to join them.

“. . the sewer student. . say he’s spent an eight-day between two grates-two nearby grates.” Kesrik looked up and smiled blandly. Beside the stocky blond sat a redheaded youth in a new student mage’s tunic, the red stripes at the end of the sleeves bright and fresh. On the other side of the new student sat Bealtur.

Cerryl smiled back at Kesrik and continued toward the serving table. His stomach growled after the long day.

“. . be a long year for him.” Bealtur didn’t bother to look in Cerryl’s direction.

“. . supposed to clean at least one collector all the way,” murmured Kesrik. “At least one.”

Myral hadn’t mentioned that; he’d just told Cerryl to clean it out as well as he could and stop by every morning to report on his progress. Every morning, the rotund mage had answered Cerryl’s few questions and repeated the same instructions, not appearing either pleased or displeased.

Cerryl concentrated on filling his platter with stewed fowl, still checking for chaos in the food and finding none. Then he stepped toward the table with Faltar and Lyasa.

“They say you’re having a hard time of it,” Faltar said quietly as Cerryl slipped onto the stool.

“Trying to. .” Cerryl paused, wondering if he should even mention the means. “Yes, it’s hard, harder than I would have thought.” He took a bite out of the hot crusty bread.

“No one has an easy time in the sewers,” said Lyasa. “I didn’t.”

“. . finding that out. .” mumbled Cerryl, finding himself gobbling down his food.

“It takes a lot of energy, and you’re going to be eating a great deal more.”

Faltar glanced from Cerryl to Lyasa.

“It just does,” said Lyasa. “You’ll see.”

Cerryl would have smiled, if he hadn’t had a mouthful of stewed fowl, at the way Lyasa also avoided mentioning the use of chaos-fire.

“It’s hard work, and I imagine Cerryl got the filthiest secondary in the system.” Lyasa popped a last morsel of bread into her mouth.

Faltar brushed blond hair off his forehead. “You two are keeping secrets. I can tell.”

“When you go to work on the sewers, you can judge that.” Lyasa turned to Cerryl. “Did you know that the Council has worked out a trade agreement with both Certis and Sligo?”

Cerryl decided that Lyasa wasn’t just changing the subject, but thought he should know about the trade agreement, not that he knew anything about trade. “And? The way you say that means there’s something unusual about it.”

“They’ve put a tax on goods from Recluce-wool mostly, I’d guess.”

That didn’t help Cerryl much.

“We don’t need their wool,” said Faltar. “Montgren has plenty of sheep.”

“Spidlar doesn’t. Gallos doesn’t. Kyphros does, but not northern Gallos.”

Cerryl broke off a chunk of the still-warm bread, then took a sip of the ale. “That should mean something.”

“Geography. .” suggested Lyasa.

Cerryl mentally called up the map Jeslek had required. “Gallos doesn’t have any ports-except Ruzor, and that’s a long way from Fenard.”

“The south is Kyphros. It may be part of Gallos, but the Kyphrans don’t think so. Anyway, Ruzor’s no good except for the south, and they don’t need wool there anyway, not a lot. Besides, the Analerians have their own sheep.” Lyasa shrugged, as if the implications were obvious. “Sterol and Jeslek both spoke in the meeting. . that’s what I overheard.”

“They’re worried about Recluce.”

“Cerryl, the Guild has been worried about Recluce since the time of Creslin and Jenred the Traitor.” Faltar laughed, then turned to Lyasa. “What about Recluce?”

Lyasa lifted her shoulders again, then dropped them. “I don’t know. Not for sure, but the prefect of Gallos doesn’t listen much to Sverlik, and the Spidlarian Traders’ Council has never allowed a white mage into Spidlaria. Not in years, anyway.”

“Trouble in the west, then?” asked Cerryl. “With the traders preferring to use the sea and Recluce?”

“And not to pay road taxes to Fairhaven,” suggested Faltar.

“I don’t know for sure.”

Cerryl had a feeling Lyasa did, but he didn’t press the issue as he looked at his empty platter. He stood. “I still have to study for Esaak.”

“You have to study while you’re on sewers?” asked Lyasa, pushing jet-black hair back over her ears.

“The most honored Jeslek informed me that I was woefully deficient in mathematicks.” Cerryl laughed softly. “I still am, Esaak informs me.”

“He so informs all,” said Faltar dryly.

“Even so. .” Cerryl gestured toward the corridor to his cell.

As he left the meal hall, he could hear Bealtur murmur, “Yes. . go study, for all the good it will do. .”

Once in his cell, Cerryl picked up Naturale Mathematicks and dutifully opened the book, taking out the slate and chalk stick. Three pages and a dozen problems were all he managed before his head was swimming.

He closed the book and stood. He began walking in a narrow circle in his room. He was tired but not that sleepy, and if he tried to sleep, he’d just wake up in the middle of the night. Besides, he still hadn’t followed up on Myral’s-and everyone’s-suggestions about light and chaos-fire. He paused. That wasn’t right. Various mages had suggested he study light. None had linked it with chaos-fire. Was that another of the unmentioned links or bits of knowledge that he’d assumed were tied together?

Light, trade, Recluce, sewers, mathematicks, Recluce. . Cerryl found himself rubbing his forehead. His eyes went to Colors of White, then toward the Mathematicks book. Finally, he lifted Colors and slowly opened it.

Light? What did it say about light? He flipped through the sections, trying to recall what he had read, the pages that had dealt with light. He found one section and read it, then frowned.

Cerryl studied the words again. . There was something there.

. . light, being the spirit and manifestation of chaos, has neither order nor more than minimal cohesion. . but embodies all the power of primal chaos in a manifestation that must be weaker than its source in order for those objects on which it falls to survive. .

That made sense. . in a vague sort of way. He closed his eyes and tried to think, then opened them as he found himself jerking as if he were about to fall asleep.

Darkness knew, he was tired enough. He read the next few lines.

. . the challenge facing any mage is to strengthen the power of chaos embodied in light without reducing light to mere streams of color without true power. .

Mere streams of color without power. . did that mean some streams of colored light had true power? How could that be? His eyes closed, and he forced them open.

The implication was that light from the sun was less powerful than it could be. . and somehow that was tied into separating-or strengthening light by separating it into different beams of color.

Maybe tomorrow. .

He barely managed to pull off his boots and hang up his whites before collapsing onto his bed.

He didn’t remember waking up or even eating before he went to the secondary collector to begin his cleaning duties once again, but was that because he had been so tired?

Still. . he found himself back underground, standing in a long and slimy sewer. . a secondary collector, and the oozing scum from the drainage way seemed to grab at his boots, with armlike branches that clutched.

Cerryl tried to wield chaos-fire, but his firebolts were but small globes of flame that sputtered across the greened bricks without searing them clean. Each step found him trying to yank his boots free. Even when he did not move, he had to lift his boots and kick them free of the clutching ooze and slime.

He glanced over his shoulder, but the white lancers had vanished, and so had their lamp. And the grate at the top of the steps was again closed, locked with a bronze lock that bore double order and chaos twisted around it.

Cerryl felt heat at his back, and he turned to the space he had been cleaning. A fireball of chaos abruptly swelled up before him on the brick walkway. Lines of light, light that burned like chaos-fire, but more brightly, flared from the chaos ball, and his tunic burst into flame, and he could feel his face blister and the lances of light rip through him like spears of fire.

Cerryl bolted up in his bed abruptly. Sweat poured from his forehead. It had only been a dream, a realistic dream, but only a dream.

Still. . he could feel chaos-and something else-nearby. His eyes and senses scanned his cell, but no one was within the room. He massaged his forehead. It had to be the dream.

After a moment, he padded barefoot across the cold stone to the door, lifted the latch, and eased the door to the corridor barely ajar. His eyes said that no one was about in the darkness well before dawn, yet his senses indicated that someone was, just past his door. Then Faltar’s door eased open and closed.

Cerryl swallowed. He had seen no one, not even Faltar. Yet someone had passed. He sniffed the air. A scent. . a faint fragrance. . somehow familiar. . sandalwood and something.

The only mage who wore any fragrance was Anya-at least the only one he knew. But. . Anya-going to Faltar’s cell? Why? Faltar was only a student mage, and probably a good year from becoming a full mage, perhaps longer, since Faltar had been in the halls longer than Cerryl but still hadn’t even done anything in the sewers.

Anya. . why? Why was she bedding-or seeing-Faltar in secret? And what else had he missed? Cerryl rubbed his chin, feeling a few signs of the beard he had wondered if he would ever grow. What had Anya done to avoid being seen?

Light? Had she used order to wrap light around her?

Abruptly, he realized his feet were chilled and getting colder, and that he stood with his door ajar. He eased the door shut and the latch back in place as silently as he could, and climbed back into his bed, his thoughts spinning.

Every time he turned, there was light-some aspect of light-and he still didn’t understand. . not well enough. Colors of White offered oblique hints. . and little more. Myral offered hints. . and little more.

With a sigh, Cerryl pulled the thin blanket around him.