Natural Ordermage

LXXXII

After finishing the last of his breakfast, Rahl left the mess and began to walk toward the mage-guard duty areas…and the copying room, but he stopped beside the east-facing window because streaks of rain had created paths in the dust on the outside of the glass. He realized that he had seen no rain since early spring, not even the faintest of drizzles. The past eightdays since his sparring match in the mill had brought nothing new, just more copying, more rounds accompanying various mage-guards, more studying of the Manual and the abbreviated Codex, more questions from Taryl, and more and harder sparring with Khaill and others-although he had sparred only once more at the mill, and that had been with Taryl.

Outside, the rain was light, but it had dampened the dust and left traces of rivulets on the stone paving. Rahl studied the barren landscape to the east of the mage-guard complex for a moment. Although it had rained in Swartheld, he preferred to remember the last true rain he’d seen in Nylan, perhaps because it reminded him of Deybri, even though he really couldn’t explain why he linked the rain to her.

Had he been too forward in his letter? Had she even received it? If she had, it would only have been in the past few days. He would like to have sent another, but he had only saved a little more than a silver from his less-than-modest pay since he had written her. He could but hope that she would find a way to let his parents know he was alive and well.

After a few more moments, he turned from the window and walked toward the copying room, nodding politely to the handful of mage-guards that he passed in the corridor.

Once at the copying table, Rahl settled into his chair at the front and picked up the report on the top. He couldn’t help but smile, if wryly. Someone had switched the reports to be copied around. Those in his stack included the largely illegible and longer patrol reports, particularly those of Shaelynt and Sostrost. There was the faintest touch of chaos on Shaelynt’s report, and that suggested that Rhiobyn had been at it again, probably late the afternoon before, when Rahl had been sparring with Khaill.

Rahl started in on Shaelynt’s report and had struggled through deciphering the first few lines when Rhiobyn walked in, trying not to look in Rahl’s direction.

“I see you didn’t want to copy Shaelynt’s report,” Rahl said mildly.

“What do you mean?”

Rahl smiled pleasantly and continued to look directly at the other mage-clerk. “It’s the oldest in the stack, and it has a touch of mage-chaos on it.”

“I can’t read what he writes. You can. I would have asked you…”

“I’d be happy to do it, but I do like to be asked.”

“It might be nice,” added Talanyr, who had followed Rhiobyn. “Even if Rahl is a trained scrivener, it might help your skills if you took on the harder copying once in a while.”

“That just shows how backward Recluce is. Scriveners…what a waste. Why don’t they print books?”

“They do in Nylan,” replied Rahl, “and they have circular presses there.”

“How do you know that?”

“They had me learn about one there. I helped operate it for a little while.”

“A pressman…lowbred…” muttered Rhiobyn.

“Better lowbred and able than wellbred and condescending,” suggested Talanyr.

“You have a comment for everything, Talanyr, and someday you’ll choke on your words.”

“That’s possible,” admitted Talanyr, as he settled into his chair at the copying table, “but at least I’ll enjoy the taste of them.”

Rhiobyn’s only reply was a muffled snort.

Rahl returned his full attention to Shaelynt’s report on having to remove an overseer for cruelty to a slogger team. The more he thought about it, the more seeming contradictions there were in Hamor. Men were used as laborers, even beasts of burden, and yet the mage-guards protected them. Hamor reveled in its fleets and commerce, but prohibited mages from taking any part in commerce. Good mage-guards-like Taryl-were stationed in places like Luba, and evil ones, like the one who had attacked him in the merchanting building, were stationed in Swartheld.

Would he ever make sense of it? Could he accept all the contradictions?