“There’s enjoying being young,” added Kian, “and there’s stupidity.”
“It’d be stupid to have to consort a girl with nothing,” said Khorlya.
Left unsaid was the point that his father had little enough. Scriveners seldom did, especially those who did not work for the Council in Land’s End.
“A girl’s looks fade fast in life,” continued his mother.
“So you’d best find one with something other than looks. It’s better to find one with coins for a dowry, but even one who’s hardworking or one who can help with your scrivening would be better than Jienela. She’s sweet, but she has little enough in the way of brains and less than that in coins.”
Rahl understood all Khorlya was saying. He generally agreed with her, and he had no intention of consorting Jienela. He just wished his mother would stop hammering him with her words. She didn’t know when to stop.
“It only takes once to trap a young fellow,” Kian added.
Not in this case, thought Rahl, especially since he’d been careful and counted the days since her time of the month. He still had some time to enjoy her favors. Rather than argue or reveal anything, he just nodded and took a swallow of the weak ale, enjoying it since they often did not have it.
Despite the hearty meal, Rahl was more than glad to leave the table and follow Kian back to the workroom and the copying table. He settled himself on his stool and opened the book from which he was copying.
“How are you coming on that, son?”
“I’m about finished with the first part. Creslin and Megaera have been consorted by the” Duke of Montgren.“ Rahl paused. ”How come Montgren had a duke, but Sarronnyn has a Tyrant, and Hamor has an emperor? Aren’t they all just names for a ruler?“
“No. Rulers in different lands have different powers. The High Wizards of Fairhaven are the most powerful chaos-mages in the world, and they rule through those powers. The Duke of Montgren was not all that powerful. That is why there is no duke now, arid Fairhaven rules Montgren. The Tyrant is always a woman and takes her powers from the Legend—”
Thrap!
At the knock on the door, Rahl looked to his father. “You get it.”
Rahl rose from his copying table, then crossed the workroom and opened the door. He paused as he saw Sevien’s red hair. “I’m copying, Sevien.”
“I thought you would be. I’m on my way down to the main keep with the amphorae that the Guards ordered from Da. I just thought you might want to come by after supper. Thorkel sent a whole bushel of early redberries, and Mother’s made some pies…” Sevien grinned and lowered his voice. “Jienela might come.”
Rahl frowned, then smiled. “I’d love to.”
“Good. Till later.” Sevien smiled and turned, then hurried back toward the street.
The younger scrivener squinted in thought as he closed the door. How had Sevien found out about Jienela? Had she told Sevien’s sister? That wasn’t good, not at all.
“Who was that?” asked Kian.
“Sevien. He asked me over after supper. His mother is making some redberry pies.” Rahl walked back to his table. For a moment, he glanced out the window, looking out into the bright spring afternoon toward the gray stone wall beyond the corner of the garden.
“Suppose it’d be all right,” mused Kian, adding with a smile, “leastwise, if you don’t go by way of Dhostak’s orchard.”
Rahl managed not to flush. “I don’t plan to.” He didn’t have to, not if Jienela would be there anyway. Still, he’d have to ease away from her carefully. In time, but not yet.
“Best you plan not ever to go by way of that orchard.”
“You and Mother have made that very clear, ser.”
“I would hope so.”
Saying anything more would merely have prolonged an unpleasant topic, and one that got less and less pleasant for all the repetition. Rahl smiled politely and went back to copying Tales of the Founders. He finished another page before there was another thrap on the workroom door.
Rahl immediately got up to answer it.
A trim figure in a black tunic and trousers stood outside in the sunlight. His brown hair was cut short, and he was beardless. He also bore the aura of order.
“Magister Puvort,” Rahl managed, opening the door and stepping back. “Please come in, ser.”
“Thank you, young Rahl. It’s refreshing to hear such courtesy.” Puvort studied Rahl a moment, and the faintest hint of a frown appeared and vanished before the magister turned to Kian, who had risen from his .own copying table.
The scrivener bowed his head, then asked, “How might I help you, Magister?”
“I’ve been hearing things, Kian,” began the magister. “You wouldn’t have a copy of
The Basis of Order
, now, would you?”
Kian laughed. “Knowing how the Council feels about that, Magister Puvort, I’d not be foolish enough even to copy one belonging to another, let alone have one.”
“I thought not, but these days, we need to ask.” -
“Are the engineering devils making trouble again?”
“When haven’t they? A bad bargain it was the Council made with the cursed smith, but he was the only one who could turn the white demons away.” Puvort shook his head sadly. “More and more of the outland traders port in Nylan, and now…”
Both scriveners waited.
“Now… they’re asking the Council to let them handle the exiling for all of Reduce… as if we did not know who embodies chaos and who does not.”
“What will the Council do?” asked Kian.
Puvort shrugged. “It has not been decided.” Then he smiled. “I’d best be going. Thank you, scrivener, and you, Rahl.” With a nod, the black magister turned.
Rahl found that he was still holding the door. After Puvort was out of sight, he closed it. He didn’t think it had been his imagination that the magister’s eyes had lingered on him before Puvort had left.
“How can the Council agree to that?” Rahl finally asked.
“How can they not?” replied Kian. “The black devils build and crew the ships that protect all Reduce. They have weapons that we cannot match. These days more than half the trade goes through Nylan. The Council must accede to them more and more.”
“You’ve never spoken of that.”
“It’s not wise to do so. Being critical of the Council can put you on a ship to Hamor or Candar, or Brysta if you’re lucky—unless you can get to Nylan first.”
“Just for talking about them?”
“If you’re not talking favorable words about the Council these days.”
Rahl turned, and looked out the south windows. He already knew that no one was around. That was something he’d always been able to sense, but his father had never believed him. So it was just easier to look.
“There’s no one here.” He closed the door and walked back to the copying table, where he sat down and looked at his father. “What is
The Basis of Order
?‘
“It’s the book of the Black Engineers in Nylan. They’re forbidden outside the Black City.”
“Why did Magister Puvort think you had one?”
“He probably didn’t,” Kian said. “But the magisters can tell when someone tells the truth or lies. If he asks, and I I don’t, and I’m telling the truth, then he’s done.”
Rahl frowned. “But… if you had had one, and you hid it away from the house, and said you didn’t have it, you’d be telling the truth, too.”
“I wouldn’t be telling all the truth, and many magisters can sense that also.”
“But why don’t they like the engineers? They’re part of Reduce, and they protect all of us, you said.”
“They build machines, great creations out of metal and black iron, and when they build those machines, that creates more chaos and more of the white demons. Fairhaven gets stronger every year. Now, the white mages effectively rule most of Candar east of the Westhorns.” Kian shook his head. “There’s, no point in saying more. Just don’t talk down the Council or praise the engineers.”
Rahl nodded. What his father had said didn’t make total sense. Without the ships of the engineers of Nylan, the mages of Fairhaven would have conquered Reduce years and years ago, yet the Council was complaining that using the ships strengthened the white demons? It sounded to him like the Council was more afraid of losing power to the engineers than of the dangers of the white mages.
Still… there wasn’t much a scrivener could do about that. Other things were another matter.
He smiled, thinking of redberry pies and what well might follow.
Rahl could hardly wait to finish dinner, but he forced himself not to appear hurried as he washed and dried the platters and replaced them in the narrow cabinet against the kitchen wall.
“You won’t be late, now.” His mother’s words were not a question.
“Not too late,” he replied with a grin. “But I wouldn’t want to leave too much redberry pie behind.”
“Don’t make a hog out of yourself, son. Folks’ll excuse a picky eater and one with a healthy appetite, but hogs aren’t welcome anywhere.”
Rahl forced another grin. “I think you’ve told me that before.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
He smiled pleasantly, wishing that she wouldn’t keep dishing up the same old sayings, time after time, as if he had no brains or memory.
When he finally finished helping his mother, he washed up in the stone-walled area just outside the kitchen, then set off. He was careful not to take the shortcut and instead to turn at Alamat’s, where he could be seen by Quelerya— even in the growing twilight—as being on his way to
Sevien’s. What a wretched old biddy Quelerya was, watching everyone, then telling if she saw anything she thought might cause someone trouble.
The dwelling attached to the pottery works was at least three times the size of the dwelling in which Rahl had grown up, although Rahl had felt fortunate enough to have his own room, small as it was at four cubits by six, with his pallet bed against the outer wall. Many children slept in the common room or with their parents.
Rahl stepped onto the low stone stoop before the front door. The stoop was almost wide enough to be a small porch under the wide eaves. He knocked.
Sevien opened the door. “Rahl! Come in. You’re the first one here.”
The front door opened into a common room with a long dining table at one end, nearest the kitchen. Chairs stood at each end of the table, with long benches at each side. Two brass lanterns—each in a wall sconce on opposite sides of the room—provided a steady low light. Facing the hearth, where a brick heating stove stood, unneeded on the comfortable spring evening, were two upholstered and low-backed benches. There were even high-backed chairs flanking the benches, rather than stools, and a sideboard for platters and bowls and tankards—and several real glass goblets.
Even from the front door, Rahl could smell the aroma of baking and spices. His mouth watered, but he swallowed and smiled.
Sevien closed the door behind Rahl. “Mother, Rahl’s here.”
The gray-haired Nuelya turned from where she stood beside the kitchen sink. “Rahl… I set aside one pie for you to take home to your mother. She was so kind to bring all that fresh asparagus by the other day—and even some early brinn. It helps with burns, and handling a kiln, they do happen.” She shot a brief glance to Sevien, who glanced away from his mother. “Now… you won’t forget it, will you?”
“No… ma’am. I certainly won’t.” He wouldn’t, either, because he’d get at least two pieces out of it at home, and they didn’t get redberry pie—or any pastries—that often.
“It’s the one in the corner here, covered with the cloth.” Nuelya turned to check something on the stove, then added to her daughter, who had stepped inside the rear door, carrying a large crockery pitcher, “Did you run the spigot a bit first?”
“Just a little.” Delthea glanced at Rahl offering an all-too-knowing smile.
Rahl smiled back blandly. “Good evening, Delthea.”
‘The same to you, Rahl.“
“If you’d get the small plates, Delthea?” Nuelya gestured toward a tall triangular cabinet in the corner closest to the dining table.
“Yes, Mother.”
“What did you do today, besides cart amphorae down to the keep?” Rahl turned to Sevien, trying to change the unspoken subject quickly.
“Mixed and blended clay. Then I shoveled the coal that Muldark delivered into the bin, except for the last bushel. I had to break that into the right-sized chunks before I loaded it into the kiln.” Sevien shook his head. “Waltar used to do it. I think he slaved to get his own works in Alaren just so someone else had to handle the coal. Clendal just went to sea, and that leaves no one but me. Anyway, someone’s got to do it. Mother and Da need to light it off tomorrow so that they can start firing the day after tomorrow for the next shipment for the Guards.”
“That far ahead?”
“We have to preheat the kiln. Otherwise, the‘ -temperature’s uneven.”
All that sounded like even more work than copying books—and a lot dirtier, reflected Rahl.
“Cold water doesn’t take off the coal easy. It takes, forever to get clean,” said Sevien.
“That’s because you’re not careful,” suggested Delthea from the kitchen area.
“And you don’t take long enough,” added Nuelya.