The White Order (32 page)

Emerging from the secondary tunnel slightly earlier than usual-he hoped-Cerryl turned to Jyantyl. “You and the guards go on back from here. I have to check something for Myral.” He brushed his fine hair off his forehead, vainly, because the light gusting wind immediately blew it back across his eyes.

   “Ser?”

   Cerryl offered a smile. “I still have to be back in the halls.” His eyes went to the east, where the hazy clouds were thickening into a deeper gray.

   “We could accompany you.”

   Cerryl shrugged, deciding that it wasn't a battle that needed to be fought. “If you think it better. I just have to check the level of sewage in two secondaries. It shouldn't take long, but I didn't want to keep you...”

   Jyantyl smiled, clearly an expression of relief. “Not so late as usual, ser. Where to?”

   “We can take the warehouse road south from here, and then, after one check, go east toward the avenue. We'll have to cross the avenue to get to the second, but it's not too far.”

   “As you say, ser.” Jyantyl nodded, and Ullan and Dientyr fell in behind the other lancers, another pair Cerryl didn't know, since those who remained on the street with Jyantyl changed almost daily, while Ullan and Dientyr always accompanied Cerryl. He wondered for what they were being punished, but didn't think it was his place to ask the head lancer.

   Ullan's lance dragged intermittently for a time, until Jyantyl glanced over his shoulder. Always it was Ullan's lance, never Dientyr's.

   Cerryl almost missed the first secondary grate he was looking for because it was actually in a niche in the wall, as if the stable wall had been extended almost to the edge of the sewer tunnel.

   Cerryl knelt and turned the bronze key, smelling both manure from the stable behind him and the odors of sewage drifting up from the grate. Ignoring the smells, he confined the chaos around the lock within order and unfastened the lock. He lifted the heavy grate and locked it open before starting down the brick steps.

   Even before he had taken three steps into the gloomy secondary tunnel, he could sense a strong residual of chaos everywhere. The steps were still clean, as were the walkways and the glazed brick walls.

   At the bottom of the steps, recalling his subterfuge, he turned and examined the level of sewage in the drainage way-flowing smoothly a good two spans below the edge of the walkway.

   With a nod, he turned and walked back up the steps, where he reversed the process to relock the grate in place, ensuring that the chaos protected the relocked grate. Even in the brief time he had been underground, he could feel that the wind was stronger, and somewhat cooler, although the coolness was welcome after the early spring heat of the past few days.

   “One more,” he said to Jyantyl. “Across the avenue and then two long blocks east of here.” After a pause, he added, “I'm sorry.”

   “This be no problem, ser. A few extra steps, we can do that.” Jyantyl shook his head.

   Two women bearing baskets of laundry on their heads looked at Cerryl and the lancers and darted into an alleyway.

   Cerryl smiled faintly-amazed that an orphan mill boy could generate concern simply because he wore a white tunic trimmed in scarlet. Was that power? Or did people do the same when the carriage of someone like Muneat passed?

   He studied the side street as they crossed the avenue, realizing that, although it was not all that far from Tellis's shop, he had never walked down the narrow street before. How many streets and places were like that? So close and yet unvisited?

   All the shops seemed to be either those of weavers or basketmakers, and cloth of all shades hung in unshuttered windows. A bolt of bright green was in the third window, and for some reason, it reminded Cerryl of Leyladin.

   He tightened his lips and kept walking. The grate he wanted was off the second side street from the street of weavers, not more than fifty cubits south.

   The second tunnel was like the first, nearly immaculate except for the excessive residue of white dust, and reeking of chaos. Cerryl walked along the walkway southward nearly a hundred cubits from the steps-well into the darkness, but with the leftover chaos, his senses let him see almost as well as in full light.

   Scattered raindrops began to splat on the stones of the street and the white-plastered walls as he finished relocking the sewer grate. “Back to the halls. That's it.”

   “Not a moment too soon...” came a mutter from the rear of the lancers.

   Jyantyl stiffened but did not turn.

   As they rejoined the avenue on the side street that passed just south of the grain exchange, Cerryl tried to keep his face blank.

   Both tunnels reeked of chaos, so much so that he knew Kesrik could not have scoured them-not the Kesrik that Cerryl knew. While Cerryl couldn't be sure, Kesrik didn't feel the way Sterol did, and that indicated to Cerryl that Kesrik probably wasn't shielding his control of chaos.

   So ... who had cleaned the tunnels-and how and why? How had Kesrik managed to avoid having the guards see whoever it had been?

   Cerryl almost groaned as it hit him. Anyone strong enough to use that much chaos was probably able enough to use the same technique Anya had in visiting Faltar's cell.

   That raised a few other questions, but all of the questions Cerryl had were not ones he dared surface, not while he was but a student and Kesrik was Jeslek's favorite.

   Once back in the Halls of the Mages, Cerryl stopped by the washroom, where he stripped to the waist and scrubbed off the grime and odor from his hands and face and arms. A touch of chaos helped remove some of the odor from his tunic and trousers.

   Cerryl was actually entering the meal hall when the last bells announcing dinner rang-off-key and jarring. Kesrik's stocky blond form was at the serving table already, but no one else had been served.

   Heralt and Faltar were lined up at the serving table, and Cerryl slipped in behind them.

   “You're early.” The curly-haired Heralt turned.

   “Sometimes it happens.”

   “Not often,” said Faltar with a grin. The grin faded as he regarded the bowls and the steaming pot presided over by a serving boy. “Soup?”

   “Barley and mutton, ser. Mostly barley.” The youth offered a smile of sympathy.

   “Barley? What have I done to deserve barley?”

   “You're a student mage,” suggested Heralt.

   “You're a glutton,” added Cerryl.

   “What have I done to deserve friends like you?” Faltar filled a mug with the lighter ale. “I've been faithful and good.”

   His words were so mock-plaintive that both Cerryl and Heralt laughed.

   “And you laugh at me.” Faltar turned and walked to one of the circular tables.

   “You laugh at us,” countered Heralt as he followed Faltar.

   Cerryl took a healthy chunk of the dark bread, then filled his own mug before joining them.

   “I don't like the damp.” Heralt shivered.

   “None of you Kyphrans do.” Faltar took a sip of ale.

 
  “How did you get here?” asked Cerryl. “I didn't know you were from Kyphros.”

   “Kyphrien. My father was a wool merchant there. I went with him one day when he went to sell some white wool to the white wizard who was the advisor to the subprefect.” Heralt shivered again.

   “And he saw you could handle chaos, and packed you off here?” asked Faltar. “What did your father say?”

   “He wasn't allowed to say anything.” Heralt broke off a piece of bread. “It's better than dying.”

   Cerryl nodded, then took a spoonful of the hot soup, grateful for its warmth after the damp of the rain. Spring was like that-too hot and then too damp. His eyes flicked to the table where Kesrik sat alone.

   As Kesrik ate, Bealtur slipped into the hall, but instead of heading directly to the serving table, he went straight to Kesrik and whispered something. The stocky blond student nodded once as Bealtur finished, then shrugged.

   Cerryl kept his head down but watched. Kesrik didn't look directly at Cerryl but glanced across the hall toward Esaak for a long moment. Bealtur walked quickly to the serving table, brushing by Faltar.

   “I wonder what that was all about,” said Heralt.

   “Who would care?” answered Faltar after swallowing a mouthful of the barley soup. “Kesrik acts like he's already been up before the Guild and as if Bealtur is his student.”

   “That's Bealtur's problem.” Cerryl took a sip of the light ale, more than welcome after his day in the sewers.

   Lyasa eased her lithe form onto the last stool around the circular table, her eyes going to Cerryl. “I heard you're almost through with your first secondary.”

   How had she heard? From Leyladin? “Almost. Myral thinks I may have to do another.”

   Lyasa nodded. “That can happen.”

   Faltar's eyes flicked back and forth between them. “You two are always leaving things out.” He slurped some of the barley soup, then broke off a chunk of bread and shoved it in his mouth.

   “You'll learn why. I also heard that it won't be more than a few eight-days before you start in on the sewers.”

   “So tell me what you're leaving out.”

   “After you start in the sewers,” answered Lyasa.

   “You're not fair.”

   “You think chaos is fair?” countered the slender black-haired young woman.

   “Or order?” added Heralt.

   “You're all against me,” complained Faltar, spoiling his words with a wry smile.

   Cerryl half-listened, watching as Bealtur returned to eat with Kesrik, but neither student spoke, and both ate quickly and left the hall.

   “Cerryl... are you here?”

   “Oh ...” He turned to Lyasa. “I'm sorry. I was thinking.”

   “About what, I wonder?” Faltar grinned. “Or should I say who?”

   “Better not,” countered Cerryl, “or I'll talk about your dreams.”

   Faltar flushed.

   “Look at him ... look at him.” Heralt smiled broadly.

   “What... about... your dreams?” Faltar jabbed, bread still in his hand, toward Lyasa.

   “My dreams are mine. And they remain mine.” She raised both eyebrows in high arches.

   Cerryl couldn't help grinning.

   “All of you ... all against me ...” protested Faltar.

   “Poor Faltar ...”

   Everyone laughed, even Faltar.

   Later, well after dinner, Cerryl sat on the stool at the desk in his cell, looking blankly at the open pages of Naturale Mathematicks. The formulas and numbers in the dark iron-gall ink seemed written more in the evanescent white of chaos than in solid ordered black ink.

   The more he learned the less he knew.

   Anya was visiting Faltar in the darkness, shielding herself with ordered chaos... and Cerryl couldn't see why. Faltar didn't have wealthy family like Kesrik, and he wasn't powerful like Jeslek or Sterol.

   Add to that that the collector tunnels Kesrik was supposed to have cleaned had been cleaned by someone else.

   Then . . . Myral had warned Cerryl about radiating too much chaos, and then told him about the sewers assigned to Kesrik. The old mage had also told Leyladin about his progress. Had she asked?

   A faint smile crossed Cerryl's face, but he shook his head. She'd been nothing more than friendly. Nothing more than friendly, and somewhat standoffish, he reminded himself.

   But what could Cerryl do? How could he protect himself?

   Myral had talked about mages burning themselves out, and others like Sterol shielding their chaos powers. Why couldn't he do both? Let others think he had burned out some of his powers ... but conceal what he could do? Could he do it?

   He swallowed.

   But why shield? He nodded. Shielding was necessary because mages essentially carried chaos within themselves-or around them. Better to call on chaos or channel it from elsewhere ...

   “Large words and thoughts...” The words almost dribbled from his lips and he glanced around the dark cell. Conceiving of the idea was easy. Working it out in a way convincing to others was a harder problem.

   Another smile crossed his lips. He had an entire new sewer collector tunnel to work on, and no one to observe closely.

The struggle between the white and the black, between the way of rightness and the powers of darkness, will continue so long as the world endures, for even as the Guild has banished one twisted vine of darkness, yet another springs from the wickedness of the world.

   When the ancient white mages had imprisoned the dark forest of Naclos and created the great and peaceful land of Cyador, they believed that they had banished darkness forever, but the demon powers reached and drew mighty champions from far beyond the world, and the black mage Nylan sundered the prison created by the righteousness of Cyador and freed the dark forest.

   When Westwind sundered the lands of the west, the white mages of long ago rebuilt the lands of the east into a bastion of light and prosperity, and founded the city of light itself, a beacon unto all the world that light, like the sun from which it comes, always conquers the darkness.

   Then, after years of struggle, the white brethren of the Guild at last overthrew the tyranny of Westwind. Yet before the last stone had fallen before the last female demon had fallen on those defiled heights, the black wind wizard Creslin created another haven for darkness upon the barren isle of Recluce.

   In the fullness of time, when Recluce is sundered and split in twain, then, too, will yet another black fortress arise, for never can darkness be overcome, but only conquered and held at bay so long as the right-thinking continue their efforts . . .

   Yet, we should not consider such efforts as futile, for with each effort, the powers of light have increased and grown more able to provide peace, prosperity, and the providence of life to those who follow the path of light.

         Colors of White

         (Manual of the Guild at Fairhaven)

         Preface