White Order
XIX
The gray and the dun plodded slowly across the hill, dragging the log harness. Rinfur guided the big horses, his eyes watching them, the log they dragged toward the wagon ramp, and the road ahead.
Dylert, Viental, and Brental stood waiting until the last log was dragged up the ramp. Then they rolled it sideways onto the wagon.
While the four men loaded the cut logs onto the wagon, Cerryl had continued sawing the smaller lengths of pole pine branches into sections a cubit long, wood for cooking and heat, stacking each length neatly in the pile.
Despite the leather gloves Dylert had given him, Cerryl's hands were blistered, and his fingers ached-along with his arms, legs, and back. He kept sawing, stopping only to blot back the sweat that continually threatened to run into his eyes. His shirt was soaked, and his feet felt like they rested in pooled sweat inside the heavy boots.
“Cerryl, lad,” called Dylert as Viental and Brental wedged the last log in place on the wagon bed, “rack that saw back on the side of the wagon and take a breather.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Looks to be dry for a day or so. Rinfur and you can come up tomorrow and pile all the hearth wood in the small wagon.” Dylert grinned at the teamster. “A little lifting would not harm you, Rinfur.”
“So long as Cerryl does most of it.” Rinfur grinned and continued unhitching the two horses he had used for dragging the logs so that he could reharness them to the full team to bring the log wagon down to the mill.
Brental picked up the log harness and slipped it into the panel under the wagon seats.
Dylert looked at Cerryl, who had just racked the handsaw. “Takes more than just a strong back.”
The brown-haired youth nodded.
“Have to gauge the trees.” Dylert wiped his sweating forehead in the late afternoon sun as Rinfur switched the horses' harnesses from the log-dragging rig to the wagon. “Watch 'em year by year. Cut them too soon, and you lose coins. Wait too long, and the heartwood gets too brittle and tough. You can break a blade and get nothing but firewood and kindling. We got the widest blade this end of Candar, but it be good but for two cubits and a span on a single pass...”
Cerryl nodded. That explained why Dylert's woods had few trees more than three cubits thick.
“... need some of the old trees, so as to anchor the woods,” the millmaster continued. “No matter what they ask in Lydiar, I cut but what be ready to cut.” He shrugged and wiped his forehead again. “If the trees go, then what will Brental's children have?”
“Course, that's one reason for the pole pines. They grow faster, and some folk don't care how long their timbers last, so long as they don't have to lay out much in coins.”
“Some figure they'd not be living when the roof or the flooring fails,” added Brental sardonically.
“Master miller, the team be ready when you are,” said Rinfur.
“Time to go, then.” Dylert hopped onto the wagon seat beside the teamster. Viental clambered onto the pile of logs on the wagon bed.
Brental looked at Cerryl and shook his head. “Fools and madmen ride the logs.”
“The fools be those who walk when they could ride,” quipped Viental.
“Until the log rider never walks again,” murmured Brental under his breath.
Cerryl studied the logs but could see no sign of the reddish white that had warned him when something was stressed and ready to break. Still, the wagon bed seemed bowed under the weight of the pine logs.
“Only take less than half that were it oak,” commented Brental, stretching his legs and hurrying to catch up to the wagon. “An' less than that for black oak or lorken.”
Cerryl had to scurry to match the readhead's pace.
“You be mighty silent, young Cerryl,” said Brental, glancing sideways at the youth as the two walked downhill behind the wagon. Dylert talked in a low voice to Rinfur, and Viental continued to perch on top of the logs, laughing with each sway of the wagon on the rutted road.
“I am tired,” Cerryl said carefully.
“You sound like Erhana, with her fancy language,” Brental said with a chuckle.
The youth stiffened inside but did not answer.
“Cerryl... I meant no harm, young fellow.”
Ahead of them the log wagon slowed and groaned as Rinfur eased it through a depression in the logging road.
“I beg your pardon,” Cerryl replied softly. “I know you did not.”
“You know, Cerryl, that folk reckon Da as more prosperous than most of the merchants in Lydiar? He doesn't talk fancy. Never had a velvet cloak nor even a fine linen suit...” Brental let the words trail off. “He also reckoned-Da does, I mean-your uncle as a good man. Means a lot from Da. He not be saying that 'bout many.”
“I know. He has been good to me, and I'm most grateful.”
“You be grateful from the first, and we all know that, but it not be what I meant.” Brental shook his head. “Fancy words be just fancy words, not the man. You work hard, and that makes you, not the words.”
Cerryl nodded. “That's true here, but uncle ... Syodor ... he always said that away from the mines, people judged on how one dressed and spoke.”
“You be thinking of leaving?”
“I have nowhere to go.” Cerryl blotted more sweat to keep it from his eyes and tried not to limp from the strained muscles in his legs.
Brental frowned slightly.
Ahead, the wagon creaked going around a wide turn in the road through a space of oaks and maples not much taller than the horses' ears.
“Can it hurt to listen to Erhana and try to speak better?” asked Cerryl.
“No ...” answered Brental with a laugh, “not so long as you keep working hard. Da nor I, we watch the work, not the words.”
Cerryl offered a faint smile.