As he worked, he wondered if it would be just too cold-blooded to ask Perulan what he wanted to know about the City and the lands beyond. He liked Perulan, and he didn't want to make trouble for him, and Kellen had already come to realize that there were some questions meant never to be asked—or answered.
But even without asking outright, Kellen found out some things that, just as Perulan had warned, he would have been happier not knowing.
'SO you're from a Mage family, young Kellen?' Perulan asked. 'I would not have thought it. You haven't the look, as you are no doubt long tired of hearing.'
Kellen choked on his lunchtime cider, managing (with an effort) to swallow decorously. 'But how did you know?' he asked when he was able.
'Come come, young sir. A writer must be observant, and I was born .into a Mage-family myself, as you are certainly aware. While you have a talent for hard labor, you're no laborer, and a member of a Trade family would be hard at his apprenticeship at your age. What does that leave?'
'Mages,' Kellen said bitterly.
Perulan raised his eyebrows and smiled faintly.
'Ah, speak softly of our beloved rulers—or else they'll find what you love best and cherish most, and turn it to ash before your very eyes.'
Kellen stared at him.
'I'm Perulan the Writer, as you know—only Perulan the Writer's last and greatest work was denied a publication license, and so it was destroyed by the High Council before his very eyes. For the good of the City, of course. It is always for the good of the City.' The smile faded, and Perulan stared bleakly off into space, contemplating something Kellen couldn't see.
'Do you think it really is?' Kellen asked before he could stop himself. 'How can they know! Aren't they just trying to—well—make all of us quiet and fat and not think, just so we'll want to keep things as they are, like them? So we won't want to even think about leaving the City? But the City isn't the only place in the world!'
'No,' Perulan agreed. 'There are other places—across the sea, across the forest—and they do things very differently there. To be different is not to be wrong, or even inferior. Only… different.'
'Can you—' Kellen said, and stopped himself.
'Can I tell you about them?' Perulan asked. 'Yes, and perhaps I will, if you are certain that is what you wish. But not now. Think about whether you really want to know, Kellen-of-a-Mage family, and ask me again. Perhaps you will come to dinner, and we will talk, once you have finished with my cistern.'
IT was the backbreaking work of several more days, but at last Kellen had dug down to bare stone, and then filled in the cistern again. From somewhere a load of old brick appeared to greet him one morning, and on another day, an iron-bound cistern cover cut to size—Perulan's doing, Kellen supposed. Kellen tumbled the bricks into the hole, layering them in with fresh-dug clean dirt from the lot and stamping on each layer to pack it tight as he put it in. He buried the muck and trash he'd dug out of the cistern in the hole he'd dug to get the fill dirt, and stacked the bigger pieces of trash to be hauled away.
Last of all, he used the back of the shovel to bang the heavy wooden stakes that would hold the cover in place into the dirt around the edges of the cistern, then stepped back to admire his work.
No more rats, no more garbage, no more stink.
He was done.
'Excellent work, young Kellen,' Perulan said. The older man came to stand beside him, gazing down at the cistern cover. It was the first time Kellen had seen Perulan leave his house. 'I suppose now that your task is done, our fair neighborhood will no longer be graced with your presence?'
'I…' In truth, Kellen hadn't thought much past getting the cistern filled in.
'No matter,' Perulan said graciously. 'I think I shall not be here much longer myself. And now, the time grows late. Would you care to join me in my evening meal?'
Looking around, only now did Kellen realize that he had grown so engrossed in his task that he had not even heard the sound of Evensong Bells. In fact, he had stayed later at Perulan's house than ever before. The sun was westering, and it was already almost too dark to see. But his father wouldn't be home yet—and even if he was, what would it matter? Whether Kellen tried to do what Lycaelon wanted or not, the end result was the same: these days, it seemed, they always ended up arguing.
'Sure. I mean, I'd like that, gentlesir.'
