The Order War (17 page)

After securing the black staff in the lance holder, Justen swung into the gray’s saddle and rode across the dry clay and scattered clumps of grass in the yard until he reached the half-dozen marines. One of the chickens clucked from a perch on the lower railing of the rickety fence around the healers’ garden. Absently, Justen wondered why, wherever healers went, they had gardens, or nurtured the gardens of others.

Firbek’s eyes flicked over the cart and its marine driver, then settled on Justen. “Ready, Engineer?”

“Whenever you are.” Justen nodded and lifted the reins. The gray sidestepped, then carried him up beside the marine officer.

“Where is this spring, or whatever it is?”

“According to the directions from Merwha—”

“Merwha?” Firbek interrupted.

“She’s the Sarronnese officer assigned to help with our supplies. According to her, we take the back road, the one that skirts the east side of the city, until it forks, and then we take the right fork for about five kays, maybe six. About halfway up that road, we’ll run into the yellow branch—that’s what they call it. Smells like brimstone. The brimstone comes from the springs…”

“I have the idea.” Firbek turned his head toward the marines. “Head out. Uphill to the second fork.”

Justen let the gray keep pace with the bigger man as Firbek led the group onto the main road heading toward Sarron itself.

A blue-painted coach, leather bags strapped to the roof, rolled past Justen on its way downhill to the river road. The coachman held the well-oiled reins of the two matched bays. Beside him sat a guard dressed in blue-and-cream livery, holding a cocked crossbow.

“A copper…just a copper, noble Sers.” A boy in a ragged loincloth held out his hand to Firbek. One leg, bent and twisted, dragged in the dust as he limped downhill, away from the city. “Just a copper…a poor copper.”

Firbek ignored the beggar, edging his horse into the center of the highway. Justen slipped a copper from his purse and flipped it to the boy.

They had ridden less than fifty rods uphill before they had to edge to the side of the road again, this time because an empty farm wagon was drawing past a small cart piled high with household goods, and drawn by a small donkey. A white-haired woman and a white-bearded man walked beside the donkey. Neither looked up at the mounted soldiers from Recluce, or even at the farm wagon as it rattled by.

Justen brushed his fingers across the black wood of the staff, then swallowed.

“Make way…make way!” shouted the tall woman rid
ing at the head of nearly a dozen mounted guards. Behind the guards, rolling downhill from Sarron, rumbled two wagons, each covered with canvas bound over loads that reached a good four cubits above the heads of the teamsters. Six horses strained to pull each wagon, and the heavy wheels powdered the dirt scattered across the stone slabs of the roadway leading into Sarron.

Creaakkk…

Justen followed Firbek and the rest of the squad off of the granite paving and onto the shoulder, eyeing the curve in the heavy timbers of the wagon bed.

“Damn!” muttered the redheaded marine driving the cart as it rattled and bounced through deep ruts on the shoulder.

Because he wondered exactly what lay under the canvas, Justen reached out with his order-senses to touch the passing wagons. Fabric—heavy, woven fabric, bound in rolls—rested under the canvas. Fabric? Rugs? The Sarronnese were known for their rugs, and rugs were certainly heavy. But the wagons bore enough rugs to fill a small warehouse.

Justen frowned.

“What are they carrying, Engineer?” asked the woman marine behind Justen.

“Rugs.” His voice was distant as he pondered the significance of the wagon-loads of rugs, and of the second dozen guards who followed the wagons.

“The weaseling merchants are abandoning Sarron,” snapped Firbek. “They beg for our help, but they won’t even stay in their own city.”

“We haven’t exactly been all that successful in stopping them.” Justen’s voice was dry.

“Turn at the fork!” Firbek pointed to the side road on the right, which branched off to the southeast just before the main road widened into the causeway that entered Sarron.

The narrow, packed-clay road followed the pink granite outer walls of the city, roughly a kay from the outermost stones.

“No moat,” offered Firbek after they had covered another kay.

“Not that much water here, I suspect.” Justen frowned as he looked up and recognized the stone arches of the main
aqueduct. “No…that’s not it. Probably the heat.”

“What’s the heat got to do with it?”

“You put water in a moat someplace that’s this hot and it gets all stagnant, scummy, green. You get lots of mosquitoes, flies, bugs. Lots of diseases.”

“Hmm…” Firbek pursed his lips. “Walls aren’t high enough. No more than fifteen or twenty cubits. I don’t think the gates would hold off a ram for long, either.”

“Probably not,” Justen returned. “It’s been more than a thousand years, maybe longer, since anyone threatened Sarron.” He brushed away a fly once, then again, before concentrating and setting a gentle ward against the insects, thankful that he’d at least picked up that art from Krytella.

“Can’t forget that the Whites think a long ways ahead. Not these Sarronnese. Ha! Rug merchants, all of them.”

Justen rode on without responding, occasionally looking back at the city walls as they receded, occasionally wincing as the cart wheels squeaked. The right-hand fork in the road appeared not more than two kays beyond the east side of the walls.

In time, still before midday, the faint odor of brimstone began to drift from the water beside the road, a stream beside which grew no large trees, for all of the age of the stone fences.

“Smells like rotten eggs.” The marine driving the cart screwed up her nose.

“Eggs smell better,” answered a rider behind Justen. The comments seemed to loosen tongues that had been silent.

“…what’s this stuff for…”

“…the engineers use it…rockets…”

“…smells so bad. Sure it’s not chaos-touched?”

They rode another kay and more before they reached the stone walls of the healers’ enclave. The red-oak gates had been swung open and chained in place.

Inside the walls there was an open, paved courtyard, almost free of the smell of brimstone. To the right was a stonewalled but thatched building that appeared to be a stable, while a garden with sculpted trees stretched from the courtyard to a long, low building with a red-tiled roof.

Justen dismounted and tied his gray to the hitching rail
that doubled as a fence between the stone-paved courtyard and the garden. A light breeze carried a slight hint of brimstone across the grass and ruffled the long-stemmed blue flowers that bordered the courtyard’s paving stones.

A figure in a green tunic and trousers walked from the tile-roofed building and down the stone walk that split the garden. Justen looked up to Firbek.

“We’ll be happy to wait here,” the marine said.

Justen walked toward the green-clad woman. At an angle to his right, between the stable and the main building, he could see the drying pans filled with the orange-yellow of brimstone. He halted several paces from the gray-haired healer.

“You must be the engineer from Recluce. I am Marilla, healer leader of Gyphros.” She bowed to him.

Justen returned the bow, noting the deep, dark circles around the woman’s eyes. “As the Tyrant may have informed you, we have come for some brimstone.”

“We wish it were otherwise.”

“So do I,” confessed Justen.

“It is already bagged, Ser.” The woman pointed down the path to Justen’s right. “The bags are stacked just beyond the far corner of the stable, this side of the drying pans. I regret that there is no cart path, but each of the bags holds only about a half-stone of brimstone. We also bagged what little nitre we had. There are five bags of that.”

“How many bags of brimstone?”

“Four score.” An apologetic look crossed the healer’s face. “We did keep what we thought absolutely necessary for healing, just a stone or so.”

“That’s more than we could have asked.” Justen bowed again. “And bagged, no less.”

“We had an outpost at Middlevale, Engineer. The Whites killed all score and five, even though they offered no resistance. We all have sewed for the past eight-day.” The healer’s face hardened. “Though you do not follow the Legend in the way we do, you have come when few have. Direct your weapons well toward the legions of accursed light.”

“We will do what we can.” Justen looked toward the pile of what he had thought stones, then back toward the cart.
“May I have the marines load the brimstone?”

“Of course. Afterward, we will have laid out bread and meat and cheese on the table under the tree there.” Again, the healer looked apologetic. “We have only redberry and water.”

Justen smiled. “That will be more than adequate. And I thank you.”

“No thanks are necessary.” The healer turned.

Justen walked back to the marines.

“What was all that about?” Firbek, still mounted, glared down at Justen.

“The brimstone is all bagged, about four score half-stone bags. There are five bags of nitre as well.” Justen coughed, then continued. “After your troops load the cart, the healers will be laying out a full meal on the outdoor table next to where the brimstone bags are stacked.”

“Four score?” asked Firbek, a frown crossing his face.

“Four score,” repeated Justen. He repressed a smile as he watched the words about the food pass among the mounted marines.

“All right. Follow the engineer! And no slacking if you want to enjoy that meal!”

Justen patted the gray on the shoulder and glanced toward the healer, who watched from the corner of the garden as the marines carried the bagged brimstone from the enclave and as three other healers, two men and a woman, carried out large platters that they set on the table, followed by pitchers and crockery mugs.

After watching the last bag of brimstone as it was loaded and tied in place, Justen gave the gray a pat and started toward the table. He was as hungry as the marines.

“Ser?” The older healer nodded toward the gray.

“Yes?”

“Is that staff yours?”

“Ah…well, yes. It was a gift, but it is mine.”

“You are far more than an engineer, young man. But do not place too much trust in the staff.”

Justen flushed.

The healer smiled. “I know your book says that—”

“My book?”

“The one by your patron
—The Basis of Order
. Our bodies may live in the hills, but that does not mean our minds do.” The older woman gestured toward the table, where the marines had begun to eat. “You need to eat also. But remember that a staff is to be used, not leaned upon.”

Justen tried not to shake his head. First, Firbek and his displeasure at the amount of brimstone, and now this? He’d have to talk to Gunnar. He definitely would.

Justen leaned back and let the cool evening breeze—coming out of the east and off the Westhorns—blow over him. On the other end of the porch, Clerve struggled with a battered guitar and an old song.

Justen listened to the words that dated back to the founding of Recluce. He did not look toward the steps where Gunnar and Krytella sat and talked in low voices. Although they
were close enough that he could have called the words on the breeze with his senses, he did not. The cool breeze ruffled his hair, hair that had gotten too long.

“How about something a little more cheerful?”

The whispered request carried even against the rustling of the breeze, and Clerve resettled himself on the stool brought outside for the night.

“That’s better. Got anything about the White devils? Or these fancy Legend holders?”

Justen grinned at Quentel’s flat tones.

“You know, if it weren’t for the Legend…” began Berol.

“I know,” rumbled Quentel. “I wouldn’t be here hammering out rockets for the Tyrant.”

“It would be better if we had more of them.” Firbek’s cool tones rode over Clerve’s strumming.

Justen turned to see Firbek. Somehow, the big marine had slipped onto the corner of the porch almost silently. The young engineer frowned, unseen in the darkness, at the sense of wrongness in Firbek’s words.

“We’re forging too late into the night already. We don’t need any more accidents.” Altara’s voice was as cold as Firbek’s.

“Can’t we just enjoy the music?” asked Castin. “Let this poor old cook who’s been cooped up in a kitchen hotter than your forges just enjoy the young fellow’s playing.”

“By all means. By all means.” Firbek sauntered down the steps and across the darkened yard, barely missing the garden fence as he headed back toward the marine barracks.

“…always spoiling things.”

“Sing another one, boy!” commanded Castin.

Clerve’s fingers crossed the strings, and his clear voice brought the others into silence.

“Just like the young, always moaning about how sad love is.” Castin slipped an arm around Ninca’s waist. The head healer pretended to ignore his gesture, but Justen caught the sense of her smile, even in the darkness.

“One more, and then…”

“And then what?”

“Never mind…”

Even as Clerve touched the strings again, Quentel slipped into the darkness, followed shortly by Altara.

As the last silvered notes died away, Castin and Ninca rose, then Berol and Jirrl.

Krytella stretched and stood. “Clerve sings well. I enjoyed listening. But I’m tired, and tomorrow I have to go check on the Sub-Tyrant’s daughters. Again,” the healer added with a mock groan.

“Tribulations of being a good healer.” Gunnar chuckled, his right hand on the railing of the porch steps.

“It was a nice night.” Justen stretched and stepped toward Krytella.

“Good night, Gunnar…Justen.” The healer stepped around Justen, who watched as she slipped inside. He swallowed, wishing the words had really been for him. He turned as Clerve approached. “Thank you. You sing well.”

“Thank you, Master Justen.” Clerve nodded as he eased down the steps and headed toward the end of the barracks, where the engineers had their rooms. Gunnar and Justen stood alone on the steps.

“There won’t be that many more good nights.” Gunnar glanced toward the south. “The Whites have fought clear of the Westhorns and have reached the upper river road.”

“The Tyrant hasn’t said anything.” Justen coughed.

“Have you seen all the levies marching in? Or all the people fleeing?”

“You make it sound like the Tyrant is staking everything on Sarron. It’s still a seven-day ride, for darkness’ sake, to Rulyarth.”

“Their belief in the Legend isn’t so strong as it once was.” Gunnar shrugged. “And everyone fears the terrors of the Whites. If Sarron falls, so will Sarronnyn.”

Justen shivered at the cold certainty in his brother’s voice.

If Sarron falls, so will Sarronnyn
. He heard the words again and again, long after he had climbed onto his pallet, until, sometime in the early hours, he drifted into a troubled sleep.