Cerryl’s eyes slipped toward his pallet and the hidden book he could not read.
“You know, Cerryl, the mines here, they’re older than places like Fairhaven…”
Nail’s mouth tightened, but she only cleared her throat, if loudly.
“Older than the trees on the hills,” Syodor added quickly. “When my grandda was a boy, the duke sent folk here, and they mined the old tailings piles, and then they dumped all the leftovers and the slag from their furnaces into the piles we got now.”
“Furnaces?” asked Cerryl, mumbling through the last of his second biscuit. “What happened to them?”
“The duke took the iron fixings back, and the bricks, well…” The gnarled man laughed. “See the hearth-that’s got some of the bricks. So’s the west wall. Good bricks they were, ‘cept some broke easy ’cause they got too hot in the furnaces.”
“Bricks, they got too hot?” asked the youth.
“Anything can get too hot, if there’s enough fire or chaos put to it. Too much chaos can break anything.”
“Anyone, too,” added Nail quietly.
“That, too.” Syodor sipped the last of the brew from his mug. “Ah… miss this the most from the days when I had two coppers a day from the mines. Now what have I… a patent to grub that any new duke can say be worthless.”
Nail nodded in the dimness of harvest twilight.
“Shandreth, I saw him this morning,” Syodor said after a time. “Said he’d be needing hands for the vines in an eight-day. Said you were one of the best, Nail.”
“Two coppers for all that work?” she asked.
“Three, he said.” Syodor laughed. “I told him four, and he said you were worth four, but not a copper more, or he’d be coinless ‘fore the grapes were pressed.”
“Four… that be a help, and I could put it away for the cold times.”
“Aye… the cold times always come.” Syodor glanced at Cerryl, his jaw set and his face bleak. “Remember that, lad. There always be the cold times.”
For some reason, Cerryl shivered at the words.
“These be not the cold times, lad.” Syodor forced a smile. “Warm it is here, and with a good meal in our bellies.”
Cerryl offered his own forced smile.
IV
Cerryl glanced over his shoulder, down the long, if gentle, incline toward the road that led from Hrisbarg.
Syodor pointed. “Over the hill, another three kays or so, the road joins the wizards’ road. A great road that be, if paved with too many souls.”
“Paved with souls?”
“Those displeasing the wizards built the great highway.” Syodor grunted.
Cerryl studied the distant clay road again, nearly a kay back from where he trudged on the narrower road up the slope to the sawmill. To the right of the road was a gulch, filled with low willows and brush, in which ran a stream, burbling in the quiet of midday. Puffs of whitish dust rose with each step of Cerryl’s bare feet and with each step of Syodor’s boots.
“How much longer?” asked the youth, looking ahead. The roofs of the mill buildings seemed another kay away - or farther. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face, and he wiped it away absently.
“Less than a kay. Almost there, lad.” Syodor smiled. “This be best for you. Little enough Nail and I can offer. Be no telling when this duke will come and take my patent, and open the mines one more time, and leave us with naught. Too old, they’d be saying I am, to be a proper miner.” He snorted softly. “Too old…”
Cerryl nodded, sensing the strange mixture of lies and truth in Syodor’s statement, knowing that Syodor was truthful in all that he said, but deceitful in some larger sense. So Cerryl concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
“Stand aside.” Syodor pointed toward the oncoming horse team and the wagon, then touched Cerryl’s shoulder. “Back.”
Cerryl stepped onto the browning grass on the shoulder of the road to the sawmill and lowered the faded and patched canvas sack to the ground. His feet hurt, but he did not sit down.
His gray eyes fixed on the four horses. Though each was a different color, all were huge, far bigger than those ridden by the duke’s outriders or the white mounts favored by the lancers of Fairhaven. He’d seen the white lancers only once. When he’d gone to Hewlett right after spring planting with Syodor and Nail, a company had ridden through, not looking to the right or left, every lancer silent.
The wagon driver grinned as he passed, and waved to Syodor. “Good day, grubber!”
“Good day to you, Rinfur!” Syodar waved back.
The long and broad wagon was piled high with planks and timbers, set between the wagon sides and roped down, and on the side board was a circular emblem with a jagged circular gray sawmill blade biting into a brown log. Under the oval of the design were symbols. Cerryl’s lips tightened as his eyes ran over the symbols-the letters he could not read.
He stood there long after the wagon had passed, the sun pressing down on him through the cloudless green-blue sky.
“Cerryl, lad? It be but a short walk now.” Syodor’s voice was gentle.
“I’m fine, Uncle.” Cerryl lifted his pack and stepped back on the road, ignoring the remnants of the fine white dust that drifted around them in the still hot air.
A fly buzzed past, then circled Cerryl. He looked hard at the insect, and it wobbled away. As he and Syodor neared the flat below the hillcrest, Cerryl’s eyes darted ahead. The sawmill consisted of three buildings-the mill itself and two barnlike structures. Above the mill on the hillside were a house, what looked to be a stable, and a smaller structure.
The mill was of old gray stones and sat beside a stone dam and a millrace. The waterwheel was easily four times Cerryl’s height but stood idle.
“Slow at harvest time,” Syodor said, gesturing at the dry stone channel of the millrace below the wheel. “Folks don’t think about building or fixing now.”
The road they walked continued uphill and past the millrace, where it intersected a stone-paved lane that extended perhaps a hundred cubits from the open sliding door in the middle of the side of the mill facing the two lumber barns. Beyond the stone pavement, the road narrowed to a lane winding past the mill on the right and uphill toward a rambling long house, with a covered front porch. The wooden siding had been freshly oiled, and the house glistened in the midday sun.
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, “Geeahh!”
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,” Sy
odor 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, mill master. Cerryl’s a good boy.”
“He is slight, Syodar, but he looks healthy. You and Nail 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. Nail 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 and boots that matched the sandals.
“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.”
“Yes, Papa.” Erhana slipped back into the house.
Dylert led Cerryl back down to the nearest of the lumber barns to the west-or uphill-side, where three doors had been cut into the siding and rough-framed with half-planks. “These are the hands’ room. The far one-that’s Rinfur’s.”
Cerryl nodded.
“You know Rinfur?”
“No, ser. Uncle… Syodor… offered him a good day. He was driving the wagon.”
“Your uncle said you listened.” Dylert pointed to the second door. “That’s Viental’s.” Dylert grinned. “You know him?”
“No, ser.”
“He’s the one does stone work and helps with the burdens. You’ll know Viental when you see him. Let him go off and help his sister with the harvest. He’ll be back in an eight-day. Now,” continued the mill-master, opening the door nearest the mill, “this be yours.”
Cerryl glanced around the bare room, scarcely more than four cubits on a side, and containing little more than a pallet, a short three-legged stool, and three shelves on the wall to the right with an open cubicle under them on the wall.
The bottom of the window beside the door was level with Cerryl’s chin and a cubit high and half a cubit wide. It had neither shutters nor a canvas rollshade, just a door on two simple iron strap hinges with a swing bolt on the inside.
“Nothing fancy, but it be all yours. Put your stuff in the cubby there, boy, and I’ll show you around the mill. You need to know where everything is.”
Cerryl stepped inside and slowly eased the sack into the cubby, his eyes going to the bare pallet on the plank platform.
“Be sending down some blankets for you after
supper. Mayhap have some heavy trews, too. Yours are a shade frail for mill work.”
Cerryl swallowed, then swallowed again. “Yes, ser.”
“Don’t be a-worrying, boy. You work for me, and I’ll see you’re fitted proper. ‘Sides, I owe your uncle. Little enough I can do. He be a proud man.”
Cerryl kept his face expressionless.
“Not so he’d talk of it, but when he was the masterminer-that was years back, mind you-he was the one. Insisted that the timbers be right, and no shaving on their bearing width. Saved many a miner, I’d wager. Saved the mill, too.” Dylert shrugged. “I offered him a share here. He’d have none of it.” The millmaster looked at the youth. “Be ready to see the mill?”
“Yes, ser.”
“Said, he did, that someone had to look after the mines, old or not, and that was his duty.” Dylert led Cerryl around the back corner of the lumber barn and toward the mill.
A brief shadow crossed the hillside. Cerryl glanced up but the small cloud passed the eye of the sun, and he had to look away quickly as the light flooded back.
Cerryl glanced toward the second lumber barn. The oxen stood placidly, still yoked in place, without their driver.
They stepped through the wide door to the mill. The entire mill was floored with smoothed stone, worn in places, cracked in others, but recently swept. An aisle of sorts-wide enough for the oxen and lumber cart-ted to the far wall, where a raised brick-based platform stood.
Dylert gestured to the racks on either side of the cleared space. “Holding racks. Be where we sort the planks and timbers after cutting. Use some of the racks for special cuts. Special cuts-that’s for the cabinet makers or the finish carpenters. Takes special work; charge ‘em special, too.”
Cerryl waited.
“There be the brooms. When the blade’s cutting, you sweep, unless tell you otherwise. Have to keep the mill clean. You know how fast sawdust burns? Goes like cammabark-faster maybe. Poof! Helps sometimes if’n you dip the end of the broom in water-specially if we’re cutting the hardwoods. The dust there, it be specially fine.” Dylert strode toward the platform. Cerryl followed.
“This be the main blade, boy.” The dark-bearded man pointed to the circle of dark iron. “Don’t you be touching it. Or the brake here, either.” His hand went to an iron lever.
The White Order Page 2
