White Order
LXII
Under the clear skies and with the bright sun on his back, Cerryl still felt cold because of the chill wind that blew out of the northwest, almost into his face. He and Myral walked westward on the side avenue, followed by two of the white guards.
Next to a blank white granite wall-the side wall of a warehouse of some sort-Myral stopped and knelt by the bronze sewer grate. The older mage fumbled with his purse before extracting a large bronze key. “Cerryl.” Cerryl bent down.
“Watch what I do with the key. Use your senses.” Cerryl could sense a point of chaos within the heavy bronze lock, and he watched as a darkness built up around the lock before Myral turned the key and opened it.
“Lift the grate.”
Cerryl struggled and lifted the grate, discovering that it opened on a pair of hidden hinge pins nearly as thick as his wrists.
“Swing it back against the wall.”
When the grate was against the wall, another bronze ring protruding from the building wall extended through the bars of the grate. Myral relocked the grate in the open position and returned the key to his purse. The two guards stood back from the square opening.
“Did you see what I did?”
“You did something with darkness there.”
“Exactly.” Myral smiled. “All sewer locks are charged with chaos. I'll explain in a moment.” He turned to the guards. “Remain here until we return.”
“Yes, ser.” The older and grizzle-bearded armsman nodded.
Myral stepped onto the top stair within the circular opening and started downward.
Cerryl glanced over his shoulder, back at the bronze grate that Myral had locked open, and at the pair of white lancers guarding the entrance to the main sewer tunnel. A faint smile crossed the lips of the taller and younger guard, then vanished.
Looking back down, Cerryl followed the older mage into the darkness barely lit by the oil lamp Myral carried down the narrow and unrailed brick staircase. Their boots clicked on the hard bricks.
The first odors-a mixture of barnyard and fish and rotten meat, or worse-almost gagged Cerryl.
“You'll get used to it,” Myral called back over his shoulder.
Never... I hope not. Cerryl swallowed and kept heading downward, trying not to think about the source of the foulness.
At the bottom of the stairs, Myral took several more steps before he turned and waited.
The main sewer was a square tunnel of red glazed bricks whose braced and squared granite arches were a good two cubits above Cerryl's head as he stood at the foot of the narrow staircase. On the left side was a walkway, about two cubits wide, except where the cubit-wide stairs descended. To the right of the walkway was the drainage way that carried the sewage, the surface of the turbid waters another cubit or so below the walkway.
“In storms, the waters can rise halfway up the staircase.” Myral paused, then added, “You don't work in the sewers during heavy rains.”
The younger man looked back at the stairs, imagining all that filthy water rushing through the tunnels.
“The secondary sewers are just tall enough to walk in-sometimes-and the collectors for them are little more than covered and glazed brick trenches anywhere from one to two cubits square.”
Cerryl decided not to ask how he was supposed to clean the collectors.
“You won't be working the collectors to begin with. You'll start on the secondaries once I'm sure you can handle the work. Now ... we'll go a little farther, until the walkway starts to get slimy. It doesn't take long down here.”
A dozen cubits or so farther from the stairs, Myral halted. “I'm going to demonstrate how to use chaos to clean away the filth. Watch me, with your eyes and your senses.”
As the mage turned back toward the darkness, Cerryl could sense the buildup of chaos, a white unseen fire that seemed to flicker around the older mage, yet behind the white of chaos was a dark mist, a dilute blackness, the same as Myral had used with the lock, except there was more of it.
Whhhssttt! A line of flame splashed across the bricks of the walkway. Where there had been green-and-black slime there now were only powdery white dust and clean bricks.
“What did you sense?”
“A black mist and chaos force beyond it, going away.”
“The black was an order shield. Unless held back, chaos force will expand equally in all directions. That's why people seldom unlock the sewer grates. Someone usually dies if they do.”
“You pack chaos into the lock?”
“People would be using the sewers for everything if we didn't. Now watch again.”
Once more, Myral repeated the process, and Cerryl tried to capture the feel of it, the constriction and the release as the chaos-fire arced away from the older mage, leaving another circle of clean brick, perhaps a cubit in diameter.
“You see?”
“I think so.”
Myral turned to Cerryl. A tip of flame flickered on his index finger. “We'll start with the shield. Try to replicate the black mist. Squeeze the flame up into a thin line.”
Cerryl concentrated. Nothing. Why was he trying to control Myral's chaos force?
“No. Order is not an absence of chaos. Try this. If chaos is fire, flaming where it will, order is ice. You have seen snowflakes, have you not?”
“Yes, ser.” Hot in the tunnel despite the cold wind above, Cerryl wiped his forehead.
“If you look at a snowflake, each one is an ordered pattern, a repeating lattice.”
Cerryl didn't know what to say.
Myral blotted his forehead, streaming sweat, with the back of his sleeve. Then he sighed. “Pure chaos has no pattern, only power. Pure order is like death or ice, with a perfect structure and no life. Think about a pattern, any pattern. Build it in your mind-a net, a web, a lattice...”
Cerryl nodded.
“... and pattern it around the chaos.” Myral continued to sweat as the chaos-flame danced on his fingertip.
The second time, the student mage created the image of a black net shrinking around the chaos-fire. He blinked as the point of chaos-fire winked out.
“Again.” This time Myral manifested a brighter line of fire, bright enough that Cerryl could see the rivulets of sweat streaming down the older mage's face.
Cerryl put his mind back to the dark net-and the light vanished.
“Good. You try it. The smallest amount of chaos-fire you can raise. The very smallest.”
Cerryl obeyed, trying to form a candle tip of white fire just above his upraised index finger.
The faintest point of light appeared.
“Good. Now ... try to use order to move it away from you.”
Cerryl managed the black lattice mist-and the chaos-fire flicked out. So did the lamp Myral held.
“Order may be harder to hold than chaos,” said Myral dryly, “but it is stronger than most white mages realize.” The lamp flickered back to life, sparked by a touch of chaos-fire. “Unless they've already run into one of the blacks from Recluce.”
Cerryl wiped his forehead, realizing that even the small efforts asked by Myral were tiring. “If order is so strong, why did Creslin leave Candar? I've always wondered ...”
“And were afraid to ask?” Myral laughed gently. “If the accounts are halfway correct, he was the greatest weather mage ever known and possibly the greatest blade of his time. Yet he ran. Is that what you're asking?”
Cerryl nodded just the slightest bit.
“Because the man had brains, young Cerryl. He'd offended the Guild, with reason ... How many mages are there in the Guild?”
“I don't know.”
“Good. How many do you know?”
“I've seen close to a score, maybe even twice that. I'm not sure.”
“And how many mages supported Creslin?”
“One-Megaera.”
“Actually, there were two other blacks at first, but it doesn't matter. Would you have stayed in Candar with fivescore times your number of mages seeking you, and all the armsmen east of the Westhorns seeking your head for a price?”
“Oh...”
“He was smart. An isle is about the only place that could have stopped that many white mages-all that water, and, worse for poor Jenred, he picked an isle with an iron core.” Myral shook his head. “This history isn't improving your handling of chaos-force. A stronger touch of chaos-just a little stronger, mind you.”
Cerryl let more chaos-force glimmer from his fingers, until it exuded enough light to match the lamp. Then ... slowly, he wove his black net around it, turning it into a long glowing taper.
“Now ... push the force away from you, toward the bricks on the side of the tunnel or the walkway.”
Cerryl tried ... and the wormlike chaos-fire flopped onto the bricks almost at his feet.
Whsst.
“It's harder to propel it away from you. That's why you need to work on the shield first. You can get burned by your own fire.”
Cerryl glanced at the small patch of ash and clean brick beneath.
“Chaos-fire is hard on boots-and toes.” Myral's voice took on the dry tone again.
The student mage swallowed.
“Again. You need to keep practicing until you hardly have to think about what you're doing.”
Cerryl wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then took a deep breath. He had the feeling the day was going to be long-very long.