“Yes, please.” Cerryl waited until Myral poured another mug of the steaming liquid and had reseated himself. He could see the faintest of white chaos residue around Myral, far less than he sensed around Jeslek or Sterol. Do other mages sense that around you?
“You were up in the old tanners’ section, along the old warehouses.”
Cerryl nodded, taking a quick sip of the spiced cider, so much better than the water or ale that were the morning choices in the meal hall.
“It’s been a while since it’s been scoured. How was it?”
“The drainage way was clogged, not more than a dozen cubits from the steps.” Cerryl managed another sip, despite the heat of the beverage.
“That happens a lot. People push things through the grates. The rubbish flows some distance, sometimes quite a distance, before it catches on something and creates a block.” Myral cocked his head slightly. “Did you find out what it was?”
“No, ser. I didn’t figure that out until I saw something sticking out of the scum and fired it. Then it was too late.”
“It burned, I take it.”
“The scum burned off and so did whatever jammed the drainage way.”
“It could have been worse. You can get quite a jolt if you hit polished iron or steel and you’re not expecting it. Quite a jolt.” Myral fingered his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Have you reached that cluster of third-level inlets on the south side?”
“No, ser.”
“How far did you get?”
“Not very far, ser. Yesterday, I’d guess maybe forty cubits. The slime was almost shoulder high on the walls.”
“That secondary hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned in three or four years, I believe. The cluster should be another fifty cubits or so beyond where you are now. When you get there, spend some time cleaning the inlets as far back as you can press with your chaos-fire.”
“How far should I be able to reach?”
Myral shrugged. “You have just begun to handle chaos-fire. I don’t have any idea. You ought to be able to press it fifteen or twenty cubits back, and the steam should clean it even farther. You can use the steam to your advantage, you know? Block the conduit with your shield, and the steam can only go the other way.”
“Ah. . yes, ser. I hadn’t thought of that.” How much else hadn’t he thought about?
“You’ll learn. You have to do things to learn.” Myral smiled politely and stood. “Oh, there’s one other thing I forgot to tell you. Never use all the chaos force you have.”
Cerryl nodded.
“No. I mean it. You can feel the force build up within you, right? Before you release it?”
“Yes, ser, in a way.”
“If you spray out everything each time, you get tired quickly. Also, unless you’re like Jeslek-with so much power to spare that it doesn’t matter-you’ll find that your ability to handle chaos diminishes over time.”
“Won’t holding chaos back. .?” Cerryl wasn’t certain exactly what he wanted to say.
“Mayhap. . I didn’t say that as well as I could have. Use the force you have, but don’t strain. Don’t try to push that last bit out that you may not have.”
That made more sense.
“Well, best you get to work. Stop by tomorrow-every morning, in fact-and give me a report.”
“Yes, ser.” Cerryl stood.
“Think about what you do. Do not just act.” Myral inclined his head toward the door.
Cerryl nodded and left, closing the door behind him and starting down the stairs, then pausing as he heard boots coming up from below.
He stepped back up to the landing as a blond-haired figure in green appeared. “Good morning.” He eased to one side of the landing to give the green-eyed young woman access to Myral’s door.
“Good day.” Leyladin smiled pleasantly but made no move to enter Myral’s quarters or to continue up the steps.
Cerryl felt tongue-tied, wanting to say something but not knowing what he could say-or dared to say. Finally, he forced a smile and said, “Good day.” He headed down the steps, conscious of her eyes on his back, wishing he had said something more profound-or less banal.
He’d dreamed of her for years, and all he could say was “Good day.” He looked back up the steps, but she had gone into Myral’s quarters. He took a deep breath. He had sewers to clean.
LXV
CERRYL TRUDGED DOWN the corridor toward his cell, feeling that his shirt, tunic, and trousers smelled of sewer, even though he’d washed thoroughly and brushed the surface of his garments with the hint of chaos-fire before redonning them-a trick he’d picked up from watching Myral. Then maybe the smell of sewage was too deeply imbedded in his nostrils for one stop in the washroom to rid him of it.
He’d been working nearly an eight-day on the one secondary sewer, and he’d cleaned the space between two access grates-all of perhaps three hundred cubits, more or less. The section he’d worked on had only a handful of small collectors entering it, and that was fine because he wasn’t very good at pushing chaos force away from himself and through the buried small glazed brick conduits. The slime and grime were coated on the brick walls more than half a handspan thick in some places, and Cerryl had to wonder when the collector had last been scoured.
He didn’t stop by his cell, knowing he was close to being late for the evening meal. As he stopped outside the meal hall, he felt again-as he had more and more frequently-that someone was watching him in a glass. But who?
He squared his shoulders and stepped into the room, glancing around and seeing Faltar and Lyasa at one of the round center tables. Lyasa was the one who motioned for him to join them.
“. . the sewer student. . say he’s spent an eight-day between two grates-two nearby grates.” Kesrik looked up and smiled blandly. Beside the stocky blond sat a redheaded youth in a new student mage’s tunic, the red stripes at the end of the sleeves bright and fresh. On the other side of the new student sat Bealtur.
Cerryl smiled back at Kesrik and continued toward the serving table. His stomach growled after the long day.
“. . be a long year for him.” Bealtur didn’t bother to look in Cerryl’s direction.
“. . supposed to clean at least one collector all the way,” murmured Kesrik. “At least one.”
Myral hadn’t mentioned that; he’d just told Cerryl to clean it out as well as he could and stop by every morning to report on his progress. Every morning, the rotund mage had answered Cerryl’s few questions and repeated the same instructions, not appearing either pleased or displeased.
Cerryl concentrated on filling his platter with stewed fowl, still checking for chaos in the food and finding none. Then he stepped toward the table with Faltar and Lyasa.
“They say you’re having a hard time of it,” Faltar said quietly as Cerryl slipped onto the stool.
“Trying to. .” Cerryl paused, wondering if he should even mention the means. “Yes, it’s hard, harder than I would have thought.” He took a bite out of the hot crusty bread.
“No one has an easy time in the sewers,” said Lyasa. “I didn’t.”
“. . finding that out. .” mumbled Cerryl, finding himself gobbling down his food.
“It takes a lot of energy, and you’re going to be eating a great deal more.”
Faltar glanced from Cerryl to Lyasa.
“It just does,” said Lyasa. “You’ll see.”
Cerryl would have smiled, if he hadn’t had a mouthful of stewed fowl, at the way Lyasa also avoided mentioning the use of chaos-fire.
“It’s hard work, and I imagine Cerryl got the filthiest secondary in the system.” Lyasa popped a last morsel of bread into her mouth.
Faltar brushed blond hair off his forehead. “You two are keeping secrets. I can tell.”
“When you go to work on the sewers, you can judge that.” Lyasa turned to Cerryl. “Did you know that the Council has worked out a trade agreement with both Certis and Sligo?”
Cerryl decided that Lyasa wasn’t just changing the subject, but thought he should know about the trade agreement, not that he knew anything about trade. “And? The way you say that means there’s something unusual about it.”