White Order
XIII
Cerryl hurried out of the mill and along the causeway, noting the bean plants in the garden on the hill, already calf-high in the midmorning light. He found it hard to believe that summer had slipped into Hrisbarg, almost without his knowledge.
The gray-haired Siglinda's voice drifted down from the house porch toward the mill, clearly audible with the wheel and the saw silent. “No! He is going to the market. Read what is on the page. In any case, 'be' is not a verb cultured people use, except with the subjunctive.”
Cerryl half wondered what she meant, what the subjunctive was. He tried to hold on to the idea that he should use “is” instead of “be.” Still, he needed to find Dylert.
He slipped into the first lumber barn, then froze as he saw the two figures by the racks. He waited, listening, so still that he could feel himself blend into the white oak stacked on his left. In the racks across the narrow side aisle of the second lumber barn were the various-sized planks and timbers of first-quality black oak.
“I am most certain that the duke would confer his best wishes upon you for providing what I need at a most reasonable price,” said the small stocky man in the gray tunic. “His best wishes ...”
Dylert stood at the edge of the center aisle, gesturing toward the racked black oak cuts. “Fine talk, master cabinet maker,” said the mill-master with a gentle laugh, “but cutting lorken or black oak means sharpening the blade for darkness-near every log. Best wishes don't pay for the work or the time. Nor the wear on the blade.”
“I'm not asking you to deliver, Dylert. I'm the one paying a wagon to carry it all back to Lydiar.”
“You haven't much choice, Erastus. There's no one in eastern Lydiar who's taken care to preserve black oak and lorken. You want good lorken, you'll come to me, or go a fair piece west of here.”
Erastus offered a shrug. “The duke has insisted on a black-oak-and-lorken chest. I had thought you might understand.”
“Let the duke pay for it, then,” answered Dylert.
“I'm already paying for the wagon. Three golds for the wood,” suggested the crafter.
In the shadows of the wood racks, Cerryl frowned. Erastus's words felt wrong. Was that because he bargained?
“Erastus, it's four golds for that much lorken. That doesn't include the oak you need for bracing.”
“You're a brigand, Dylert, a black-bearded brigand with the smile of a streetwalker and the heart of a mage.”
Dylert laughed. “You know better than that. Six golds for the lot, and I'll even throw in some of the pine planks for your apprentices to work with.”
Erastus sighed. “You don't bargain much. How about a few lengths of golden oak as well?”
“A few,” conceded Dylert.
“Be generous,” suggested Erastus. “If the duke isn't grateful, then I will be.”
“I'd count on your gratitude far more than the duke's,” answered Dylert. “Far more.”
“Six golds,” Erastus agreed. “Once the wagon's loaded, and I've seen the wood.”
“Fair enough. You'll get the best.”
“I'll bring the wagon to the door here.” Erastus gestured.
The millmaster nodded, then watched as the crafter walked out, passing within a half-dozen cubits of Cerryl.
Once Erastus was out of the mill, Dylert beckoned toward Cerryl. “What do you want, lad?”
“Brental sent me. There's a crack in the second big blade. He said you should know. He and Viental are changing it now.” Cerryl waited.
“Darkness and demons! First, Erastus and now a cracked blade. That's a good ten golds for a blade like that.” He shook his head, then fingered his trimmed black-and-silver beard. “Ten golds ... where ...” His eyes focused on the youth. “You move like a serpent, young fellow. Never saw you until Erastus was leaving. How much did you hear?”
“Just the part about the duke wanting a black-oak-and-lorken chest, ser. And after that.” Cerryl met the millmaster's eyes.
“Well... let it be a lesson to you. Folks always expect that you'll do more for less if a duke or a great man wants something. Sometimes, it's like as true. Most times, the great man never heard. Old Erastus there, he was trying to get me to charge him less. You think that he'd be asking a copper less from the duke had I even given him the lorken? Ha!” Dylert snorted. “Now ... another blade to be reforged and tempered and cut and sharpened... They don't think of that when they want the wood cheap. No, they don't.”
Cerryl nodded.
“And another thing, lad. Don't think I don't know you been sweet-talking Erhana into teaching you the letters after dinner.” Dylert grinned. “Or any other time.”
“I don't do it when I'm supposed to work, ser.” Cerryl looked down at the clean-swept floor stones.
“That you don't, and you work hard. Harder than any boy I had here.” Dylert frowned. “Why the letters?”
“My da, he could read. Least I could do is learn my letters,” said Cerryl, knowing he was not telling the entire truth, and hoping Dylert did not press him.
“Trying to match your da.” Dylert nodded. “Folks don't talk much of your father. You know why?”
“They said he was a wizard.”
“He tried to be a wizard, lad. There be a difference.” Dylert paused, then added, “The white mages, they choose you... if they think you might be one of them. No one be making them do what they do not wish to do. No one be crossing them. And trying to be a mage without their blessing ... that be a mighty crossing.” Dylert cleared his throat. “You understand that, lad?”
“Yes, ser.”
A creaking issued from the door to the barn.
“Dylert! Wagon's here. I got a long trip back,” called Erastus.
“Then, we be loading right now,” returned the millmaster before looking down at Cerryl, if not so far down as the fall before. “You can use the handcart. Get the best ten gold oak planks from the second barn. You got a good eye. He gets good seconds. Understood.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Better run back and tell Brental that I'll be there soon as we get Erastus off. Then get the oak.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Good.” Dylert smiled. “Off with you.”
Cerryl scurried out of the barn and toward the mill, half-sighing in relief as he ran to give Brental the message. Dylert hadn't said he couldn't keep learning his letters, and he hadn't forced Cerryl into an actual lie.