An ox-drawn lumber cart was drawn up to the mill door, and a man taller than Syodor was checking the yoke.
“Brental?” asked Syodor.
The young red-bearded man turned from the oxen and glanced at the two dusty figures for a moment, then said, “Syodor? You’d be wanting Dylert?”
“The same.”
“I’ll be getting him for you, once I get the cart out of the door.” Brental lifted the goad, but did not touch either ox, and called, “Gee-ahh!”
The oxen started forward, slowly pulling the heavy but empty log cart away from the open sliding door in the south side of the mill. Cerryl watched as the cart rumbled along onto the stone causeway across the intersection with the road.
Once the cart was clear of the intersection, Brental gestured with the goad and said mildly, “Ahh. .”
The oxen obediently stopped, and Brental walked past Syodor and Cerryl, giving them a nod, and into the mill.
Cerryl stood, shifting his weight from one bare foot to another, his sack by his feet, ignoring the dampness of his sweaty shirt.
Syodor cleared his throat. “Dylert. . he runs a good mill.” After a moment, he said again, “A good mill. A good man.”
Cerryl nodded, waiting.
Shortly, an older and taller man, taller even than Brental, over four cubits in height, his brown shirt and trousers streaked with whitish sawdust, stepped through the open sliding door of the mill.
“Syodor, Brental said you were here to see me.” A broad smile crossed the man’s face. “I have no coins, not until after harvest.”
“I be not selling today,” Syodor said slowly. He cleared his throat, then continued. “Ser Dylert, you said you wanted a boy-a serious boy.” After a pause, he added, “Cerryl’s serious.”
“That I did say.” Dylert fingered his trimmed, white-streaked black beard, his eyes on Cerryl. “And you need not ‘ser’ me, Syodor, not as one honest wight to another.”
Syodor nodded.
Cerryl glanced up at the tall Dylert and met his scrutiny, not challenging the millmaster, but not looking away.
“Harvest time, it is now,” suggested Dylert. “The mill is quiet, and few coins flow for timber and planks.”
“That it is,” agreed Syodor. “A good time for a boy to learn.”
Dylert smiled. “A peddler you should have been, Syodor, not a miner and a grubber. Not with your silver tongue.”
“You’re too kind, millmaster. Cerryl’s a good boy.”
“He is slight, Syodar, but he looks healthy. You and Nall took him as your own, Dyella says.”
“We did.” Syodor smiled. “Not a regret for that.” He shrugged. “Time now for him to start on his own. No place to go in the mines. Not these days.”
“True as a pole pine,” answered Dylert. “No place for anyone in the mines, even back when the duke reopened them.” He shook his head. “Folks say they’re no place these days, with what’s there.” The millmaster looked hard at Syodor.
“Could be,” admitted the one-eyed miner. “Cerryl’d do better here.”
The boy looked at Syodor, catching his uncle’s uneasiness. The mines had seemed fine to him, except for those places that anyone with sense had to avoid. Why were Dylert and Syodor talking as though anything connected to the mines happened to be dangerous?
“I did say I needed a mill boy.” Dylert cleared his throat. “You sure about this, Syodor?”
“He be much better here, ser Dylert. Nall and me, we did the best we could. Now. .” The miner shrugged apologetically.
“You think I’d do right by him, Syodor.”
“Better ’n aught else I know.”
“That’s a heavy burden, Syodor.” Dylert offered a wry smile before turning his eyes back to Cerryl. “Even for a boy, mill work is hard.” Dylert paused.
After a moment, understanding that an answer was required, Cerryl replied, “I can work hard, ser.”
“Mill work be dirty, too. You’d be cleaning out the sawpits, and the gearing. The blades, too. Not sharpening. I do that,” Dylert said quickly. “And probably other chores. Feed the chickens, cart water-most things that need doing. Take messages.” Dylert looked from Cerryl to Syodor. “Can he listen and understand?”
“Never had to tell Cerryl anything twice, ser Dylert.”
Dylert nodded. “Good words from your uncle, boy. He may have a golden tongue, but his word is good. Some ways, that be all a man has.”
Cerryl thought his uncle might say something, but Syodor gave the smallest of headshakes.
“Half-copper an eight-day to start. After a season we’ll see. Get your meals with us.” Dylert laughed and looked at Cerryl. “Dyella’s cooking be worth more than your pay.” The millmaster turned to Syodor. “You certain, masterminer?”
“Aye, as sure as I can be.”
“It be done, then,” Dylert said.
Syodor bent and gave Cerryl a quick hug. “Take care, lad. Dylert be a good man. Listen to him. Your aunt and I. . we be seeing you when we can.”
Cerryl swallowed, trying to keep his eyes from tearing, trying to understand why he felt Syodor’s last words were somehow wrong. Before he was quite back in control, Syodor had released him and was walking briskly down the lane away from the mill, the sun on his back.
Cerryl felt as though he watched his uncle from a distance, even though Syodor was still less than a dozen cubits away. His lips tightened, but he watched, his face impassive.
For a time, neither Cerryl or Dylert spoke-not until Syodor’s figure vanished over the nearer hillcrest.
Then the millmaster cleared his throat.
Cerryl turned, waiting, still holding on to the sack that contained all that was his.
“Your uncle, he was near right. We’ve got time to set you up.” Dylert fingered his beard once more, then looked down to Cerryl’s bare feet. “Need some shoes, boy, around here. Let’s go up to the house and see what we got. Might have an old pair of boots.” Dylert started up the lane to the freshly oiled house with the wide front porch.
For a moment, turning to follow the millmaster, Cerryl had to squint to shut out the brightness of the early afternoon sun.
Dylert waited at the top of the three stone steps to the porch, then pointed to the bench beside the door. “Just wait here, boy.”
Cerryl sat on the bench, letting the sack rest on the wide planks of the porch, glad to be out of the sun. Not more than fifty cubits to the south, while occasionally brawkking, yellow-feathered chickens pecked the ground around a small and low chicken house.
Cerryl could feel his eyes closing.
“Boy?”
He jerked away and looked up at Dylert. “Yes, ser?”
“Long walk, was it not?”
“We left well before dawn.”
“I’d imagine so.” The millmaster extended a pair of boots, brown and scarred. “You be trying these.”
“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.” Cerryl slipped on the worn leather boots, one after the other, wiggling his toes inside.
“Those were Hurior’s ’fore he left. They fit?”
“Yes, ser. I think so, ser.”
“Good. One problem less.”
A dark-haired girl peered from where she stood in the doorway over at Cerryl. She wore a tan short-sleeved shirt and matching trousers, with a wide leather belt that matched her boots.
“Erhana, this be Cerryl, the new mill boy.” Dylert laughed. “Don’t be distracting him while he works.”
Erhana stepped onto the porch, and Cerryl could see that she was taller than he was, and possibly older. She had her father’s brown eyes and square chin, but dark brown hair, cut evenly at shoulder length. “He’s thin.”
“Your mother’s cooking will help that.”
“He’ll still be thin,” prophesied Erhana.
“Maybe so,” said Dylert. “You can talk at supper. I need to get him settled and show him the mill.”