“That’s like saying a snug cot and a mansion are better than a hut,” replied Khorlya. “Anyway, we’re probably better here…now.”
Kian looked up, clearly surprised.
“They say that the black engineers of Nylan are working on a machine that will copy many books at one time,” offered Khorlya “They won’t need scriveners before long.”
“Who are these people who say that?” asked Kian dryly.
“Eldonya. Her brother is a road patroller between Skil and the Black Wall of Nylan.”
“How many people have repeated what he said? Skil is seven hundred kays or more from Land’s End.”
“Kacet says that the engineers are always working on things,” Khorlya added.
“That’s why they’re engineers. But not everything they make is good for everyone. That’s why the wall is there and why the Council is here in Land’s End. I can’t see the Council allowing a machine-even one bound in order-to replace the honest work of a scrivener, and that’s if they can even build something that works.”
Rahl concealed a smile. His father, as good and solid a scrivener as he was, was order-blind. The order in his life resulted from following the rules and careful habit. Kian couldn’t have felt order or chaos if a black mage had arrived and filled the small dwelling with it or if one of the white wizards of Fairhaven had descended on white lightnings from the sky. So far, that had worked to Rahl’s advantage. Still, he was careful to avoid any of the black mages. Because Kian was a scrivener, and considered a learned man, Rahl had left school earlier than many others his age-and before he’d begun to realize his small abilities with order. While he doubted he had that much order-ability, he had no desire to call attention to himself.
He had a roof over his head, good food, if plain, and plenty of time before he had to settle down.
“What do you think about Tales of the Founders?” asked Kian. “You’re reading it as well as copying it, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ser.” Rahl paused slightly. He usually did in answering his father’s questions, both to give himself a moment to think and to create the impression of thoughtfulness even when he didn’t need the time. “I’ve only read what I’ve copied, but I don’t think the writer is telling the whole story.”
“That happened more than five hundred years ago,” replied Kian dryly, “and you know that he left something out?”
Rahl laughed easily. “Yes, ser. All stories leave something out. Otherwise, they’d go on forever and say little in too many words. It’s like copying a book. You don’t tell a customer all the things you do to make the book, from the binding and gluing to the illustrations and embossing, if it has any. You just say that you copied it. Books are like that. They don’t tell what people have for every meal-”
“Of course not,” snorted Kian. “But that doesn’t change things. You’re talking about something else. Say what you mean.”
Rahl wished he hadn’t said so much. Still, he offered a smile. “The story says that Creslin was a master blade, and that he killed scores of Hamorians, but it also says that he was raised in the Legend in Westwind, where no men bear arms. It doesn’t say how he became a master blade. You’re always telling me that to be good at anything I have to study, and work, and practice. That’s got to be true for a master blade, too. But there’s nothing about that.”
“It’s a legend,” replied Kian. “They leave things out.”
Rahl refrained from pointing out that he had just said that, suppressing his irritation at the fact that his father had ignored what he’d said just a few moments before. His father always ignored what was inconvenient. “It’s interesting, though. I’d like to know how he and Megaera ever got together. She was supposed to be all chaos, and he was all order.”
“Opposites attract,” suggested Khorlya. “That’s something you’ll need to watch out for when it’s time for you to choose a consort. Great attraction beforehand sometimes means greater conflict afterward.”
“He’s got a consort-to-be, woman, if he’d only look. Shahyla is as good a catch as any young fellow could want. With but her one brother, she’ll hold all the upper pastures and half the herds one day. Bradeon’s getting grayer and frailer every eightday.”
Rahl nodded politely. One way or another, Shahyla was not going to be his consort. She was pleasant enough and not bad-looking, but from what he recalled from when they had been in school together she had the curiosity of a milk cow and the brains of a stone wall.
“That’s if Bradeon doesn’t take a liking to some other young fellow and his family.” Khorlya looked to her son. “You’ll be needing to pay her a call on the end-days. I’ll bake you a honey cake to take with you. You can’t be calling empty-handed.”
“Will you make the kind with the almonds?”
“We might be having some left,” Khorlya said. “I’ll see.”
“You’re spoiling him,” replied Kian.
“It’s not for him, remember, dear. It’s for Bradeon and Shahyla. Poor man has no consort, and I hear tell that Shahyla’s so tied up with the milk cows and the creamery, she’s no time to bake properly.”
“I suppose it can’t hurt.” Kian pursed his lips. “Be there enough for a small one for us?”
Khorlya laughed. “I could manage that, I’m sure.”
Rahl finished the last of the heavy soup, and then took the last mouthful of bread, the corner with most of the conserve on it. He liked having a bit of sweetness at the end of a meal.
“Might I be excused?” he asked.
“Where are you going?” asked Khorlya.
“It’s a pleasant evening. I’ve been inside all day. I’m going to take a walk. If Sevien’s around, we’ll play plaques. Otherwise, I won’t be late.”
“Don’t be late at all,” suggested Kian. “You need the sleep for a steady hand. I promised that copy by summer. Good copying can’t be rushed. Means steady days, every day.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Let him go, Kian. I recall someone who sneaked back through the shutters more than once.”
“Was different then…” muttered the scrivener.
His son and consort laughed.
Before Kian or Khorlya could say more, Rahl smiled and slipped off the bench and toward the door.
“Not too late!” called Kian.
“Yes, ser.”
Outside the house, in the fading twilight, Rahl stopped beside the pump and the cistern. Each house had one fed by pipes from the springs supposedly found or created by the black ordermastery of Creslin hundreds of years before. He washed up carefully, brushed the dust off his brown tunic, and smoothed his hair back in place. Then he checked the truncheon at his belt. With a smile, he walked out to the street and turned southward.
At the next corner, just short of Alamat the weaver’s place, he turned left and followed the street to the end, where a small wooden gate stood closed between two waist-high stone walls. Rahl unlatched the gate, entered the orchard, and closed the gate behind him. The pearapple blossoms had mostly fallen onto the sparse grass between the trees, and then faded into a white transparency, but there remained a faint scent, particularly around the trees in the higher and slightly colder southwest corner.
He walked silently down the line of trees toward the small storage barn with its closed and angled doorway that led down to the fruit cellar. To the right was an old wooden bench. Rahl took a rag from his tunic and wiped it off, then sat down.
After a time, he cupped his hands and concentrated, then did his best to imitate the soft call of a rat-owl. “Tuwhoooo…”
While he waited, he listened, but all he heard were the sounds of insects, and the faint whisper of leaves in the light and intermittent breeze.
Before that long, he could sense a feminine presence slipping away from the house. He stood, but said nothing as Jienela neared. She wore a sleeveless summer tunic and loose trousers, and carried something, a cloak perhaps, although the night was warm for midspring.
He took her hand. “I hoped you’d hear.”