Cerryl forced himself to begin another sentence in old tongue. The chalk squeaked, but neither Tellis nor the mage spoke. Cerryl stopped and used the small bronze scraping knife to whittle off the imperfection in the chalk stick.
“. . not interested in. . Red Shield of Rohrn. . what about The Legend of Fornal?”
“I am still copying that, honored mage. Another two eight-days, perhaps.”
“Here is a silver. That should hold the Fornal volume, should it not?”
“Yes, ser.”
“I see you have Histories of Cyador. . both volumes, yet. For what are you offering them?”
“They are hand-copied with light brimstone iron ink, ser. A gold and two silvers each.”
“Two golds for the set, and another gold for the Fornal when it is ready. That’s beyond the silver I gave you. . if. . if it is ready within three eight-days.”
Cerryl swallowed. Three golds and a silver for three volumes? He’d never seen a gold himself. At his wages. . earning a gold would take years.
“Yes, ser. It will be ready.”
“Good.”
“Do you want me to deliver the histories?”
“I’ll take them. . if you have something for me to carry them in.”
“A book carry bag. I have one here for you, ser.” A drawer of the showroom chest rumbled slightly. “Fine wool, it is.”
“Put the histories in it. Gently, scrivener. Gently.”
Cerryl found himself looking blankly at what he had written when Tellis stepped back into the workroom.
“That’s better, young fellow. Keep looking at the models.” Tellis stepped toward the workbench.
He had not quite filled the slate when Tellis reappeared at his shoulder.
“A fine hand you have, young Cerryl, but it takes more than pretty characters to make a scrivener.” Tellis shook his head. “You can work. That I know, for you work without praise or punishment, and Dylert can judge that better than any man I ever met.”
Cerryl waited. Usually waiting attentively would encourage people to say more-that he had learned.
“Even a fine hand and hard work will not make a scrivener,” Tellis went on. “Nor will colored leather bindings and the finest folio stitching.” He paused and looked at Cerryl.
“What will, master scrivener?” asked the apprentice, taking his cue from Tellis’s pause.
“That. . that takes a love of the words, of what they say. A scrivener is not just a bookbinder. He is not just a scribe. Not just a recopier of ancient tales and histories. .”
“So. . you’re filling another poor lad’s ear with dreams and drivel?” Cerryl looked up at the acid tones.
The young woman who stood in the doorway from the showroom was blond, trim but muscular. The dark blue eyes seemed to flash, even though the light from outside made her face appear veiled in shadow. “Tell me this one’s name. If he stays, I might remember it.”
“Cerryl, lady,” offered the apprentice.
“He’s polite, too. You always pick the polite ones. They don’t tell you how empty your words are.” The eyes flicked to Cerryl. “Oh, I’m Benthann. I’m the one who makes poor Tellis’s days miserable and his nights glorious.”
“Benthann. .” The scrivener’s voice was calm, unstressed. “Did you get the vellum?”
“Arkos will deliver it this afternoon. I couldn’t be bothered to carry it.” Benthann smiled. “Besides, I got it for less than you wanted to pay. Four silvers for the lot. Last time it cost you eight, and this is better.” She paused.
Cerryl forced himself not to turn to see Tellis’s reaction.
“Coins are all that count, Tellis. Did anyone buy anything today?” Benthann glanced at Cerryl. “They usually don’t, you know. They look and make pleasant noises, and then they leave.” She glanced from Cerryl to Tellis.
The scrivener offered a faint smile but did not answer her question.
“He doesn’t really need the shop at all,” continued Benthann. “They offer more coins for him to be a scribe.”
“They wouldn’t do that,” responded Tellis mildly, “if I were not a reputable scrivener with a shop. You know that, Benthann.”
“You need not spend so much coin and time on those presses and the colored leathers. .”
Cerryl wondered why Tellis didn’t just say that someone had bought two books for three golds and ordered a third. He looked at the scrivener.
“The leather protects the words, and the whites value that protection.” The spare face remained calm, almost disinterested.
“You have a word for everything.” Benthann’s voice carried a tone between a sneer and a laugh. “I will see you later. Good day to you, young Cerryl.”
Cerryl blinked, and the young woman was gone.
“She has not learned that there is a truth beyond coins.” Tellis gave a headshake and looked at Cerryl, then at the slate. “Wipe it clean and copy again, this time all in old tongue.”
“Yes, ser.”
With a smile, Tellis produced a thick woolen rag. “Use this. At the end of the day wash it out and hang it on the end of the rack here.” He pointed.
Cerryl took the rag and began to wipe the slate clean. What sort of a shop did Tellis run, and who was Benthann?
He kept his face expressionless as he cleaned the chalk from the practice slate.
XXIX
CERRYL STRUGGLED TO sweep the sawdust away from the mill pit, but the cold wind coming through the east door kept blowing the sawdust and wood chips back toward the pit from which he had just shoveled them. His arms burned from the resins, and his gloves were worn through.
Behind him, the big blade rang like a chime. Clannnnggggg!!!
“Up. . up, you lazy apprentice!”
He glanced around the room in bewilderment. Where was his cubby? The open wardrobe wasn’t his. And his books? He sat up in the bed, shivering from the chill. What about the other blankets? One wasn’t enough.
“Breakfast is almost ready, and you need to bathe.”
Bathe? Cerryl shook his head, trying to climb out of the white fog and dream that seemed to hold him.
Clannnggg!!
“You awake in there?” demanded the voice. Beryal’s voice, he realized finally.
“I’m awake,” he croaked.
“Heard dead frogs more alive than you. Best be moving.” Beryal’s voice faded.
Slowly, he put his feet down on the chill stone floor, wincing. Then he stood and, in his drawers, pulled the threadbare towel over his shoulder and padded to the door, carrying his battered wash bucket. The courtyard was gray and gloomy before sunrise, and heavy clouds swirled overhead. A chill wind whipped across his bare chest as he filled the wash bucket and plodded back to his room.
Once clean-and shivering-he dressed and then left his room, opened the gate, and emptied the wash water into the sewer catch. He looked down the alleyway to the lesser artisans’ way but saw not a soul. Despite the swirling breeze, there was but a hint of the white street dust, and not a scrap of litter or rubbish in the alley. And not a single rodent.
From what Cerryl could tell, Fairhaven had few rodents-he’d never seen one-and streets cleaner than the floors of many houses in Hrisbarg. Nor did the air smell, except with a faint bitterness that reminded him of the mill blade after Dylert had cleaned, sharpened, and oiled it.
He closed the circular catch basin cover, not too much more than half a cubit across. From the sound of the wastes, the sewer beneath was large. He looked at the stone cover again. Why was it so small? Another minor mystery, and one probably not worth worrying over.
He walked back to his room, closing the gate and then replacing the wash bucket on the peg on the wall by the door. After deciding not to wear his jacket to cross the small courtyard, he hurried to the common room-warmed by the stove. The warmth felt good as he slid onto the empty bench.
“Took you long enough.” Beryal dumped two slabs of bread fried in something onto his plate.