The Order War (48 page)

The tall, redheaded wizard climbed the stairs, a loosely rolled scroll in his hands, a tight smile fixed on his lips.

“Derba, what do you have there?” The slightly stooped figure of Renwek stepped forward on the landing outside the High Wizard’s chamber.

“A scroll for the High Wizard.” Derba bowed. “From Wizard Commander Beltar. That’s how he is styling himself.”

“Wizard Commander now,” mused Renwek. “Even Zerchas was not quite that presumptuous.”

Derba waited.

“Might I see that?”

“But of course. You are the advisor to the High Wizard.” The younger White Wizard offered a too-deep bow as he offered the scroll.

Renwek unrolled the parchment and began to read. Then he closed it. “Perhaps you should come with me.”

“I would not presume—”

“You already have, since it is clear that you read it first.” Renwek turned and rapped on the door.

“Yes?”

“I have a scroll from Wizard Commander Beltar.”

“Wizard Commander Beltar?” There was a pause. “Come on in, Renwek.”

“Derba is with me, ser.”

“Well, bring him in.”

The two stepped into the tower room.

“Beltar is on his way back, with a few picked squads of the Iron Guard and the White lancers.” Renwek bowed to the High Wizard.

“I had no doubt that he would be, not after he persuaded the Suthyan Traders’ Council to submit.” Histen snorted softly, his breath steaming in the chill of the spring morning that poured through the open window.

“Persuade is not exactly the word I would have employed, ser,” Renwek offered.

“Bah! He did not shake Armat to the ground, did he, the way he leveled Sarron. Nor did he burn it as he did Berlitos. What happened to our friend the firebrand?”

“I’m afraid he has begun to learn something about politics and statecraft, ser. He did boil the river and the harbor and a few hundred souls before suggesting to the traders that he could boil them as well.” Renwek handed the rolled parchment to Histen. “He took the liberty of sending copies of this to a few people.”

Derba kept a polite smile on his face.

“What does it say?” Histen demanded.

“Nothing.”

A faint frown crossed Derba’s forehead, and Histen looked at the younger wizard. “Perhaps you could tell us what it says, Derba.”

“Uh…I would not presume…”

“What does it really say? If you’ve taken the liberty of reading it, and you have or Renwek wouldn’t have brought you in, you ought to decide what it means.” Histen’s words were soft.

“Go ahead,” suggested Renwek.

“Well, ser…there are many fine words, but not much in the way of meaning. I would guess that there might be a veiled suggestion that when the time comes, he will be more than happy to lift the heavy yoke of duty from your aching shoulders.” Derba smiled nervously.

“Just as you had hoped to do, young fellow?” asked Histen. “And don’t tell me you wouldn’t presume. Never mind. Don’t answer that. You’ll either lie or make a fool of yourself.” Histen turned to Renwek. “What do you think?”

“Derba has the idea very clearly. Beltar only wishes to serve the Council and to ensure your long and healthy life.” Renwek smiled blandly.

“Ah…only to preserve me from the heavy yoke of duty that weighs me down so grievously. Perhaps it is time to retire to Lydiar for my well-deserved rest.” Histen snorted again, softly.

“Ser?” asked Derba involuntarily.

“Lydiar is long settled, unlikely to face revolts and the need for heavily armed troops, and close enough to return to Fairhaven within a handful of days. Besides, Flyrd would be more than happy to return to Fairhaven and take your quarters, Renwek.”

“My quarters?”

“You really don’t think you want to serve Beltar, do you?”

“Ah…no. I should think not.”

“Then perhaps we should make ready.”

“As you wish, ser.”

Derba glanced from one older wizard to the other.

Histen smiled at the younger wizard. “You, Derba,
should make ready to help Beltar when the time comes to lift the heavy yoke from his shoulders. After all, is not such altruism and service the highest ideal to which all young wizards aspire?” His laugh rang off-key.

Squinting against the unseasonably hot spring sun and sweating from the heat, although a hot spring midday in Nylan was nowhere near as hot as the winter middays in the Stone Hills, Justen stepped up around the corner and under the covered porch.

He paused before the small sign proclaiming “Hoslid—Trader.” According to Gunnar, Hoslid was as honest as any, or as dishonest, and owed less than most to Ryltar. Justen wanted to avoid Ryltar’s firm and Ryltar’s scrutiny. So, with a cough, he cleared his throat and walked into the building behind the main traders’ square.

The whole idea of building a balloon was ridiculous, but how else could he get the lens high enough that he could gather enough sunlight and focus it where he needed? There weren’t any real peaks near Fairhaven. And what fabric was strong enough and light enough?

Justen paused inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the comparative gloom and the squat figure in brown who lumbered toward him.

“I am Hoslid. How may I help you?”

“I’d like to obtain a thousand squares of Naclan silk blanket cloth.”

“You want what?” Hoslid asked.

“I want a thousand square cubits of thin silk blanket fabric from Naclos.”

“What’s that? Never heard of it.” The trader scowled.

Justen frowned, glad he had brought the small cloth Dayala had slipped into his box, but reluctant to part with it. Finally, he took out the piece. “This.”

Hoslid fingered it and nodded. “The silksheen. It comes from Naclos.”

“That’s what I said.”

“It is very costly.”

“How costly?”

“It is a copper a square cubit. And I would need a deposit. Ten golds.”

“No more than five golds, and that would be for two thousand squares.”

“Seven for two thousand.”

“Six and five.”

“Done.”

“And a receipt.”

“But of course.” Hoslid offered a broad grin.

“When can you deliver it?”

“Five or six eight days.”

“That’s good.” Justen lifted his purse and waited.

Hoslid turned and lumbered toward the empty table in the corner. Justen followed and watched as the trader inked out a contract. Then he read it and changed Hoslid’s written deposit of seven golds back to six and a half golds, getting Hoslid to initial the changes before Justen counted out the coins.

“You bargain hard,” the trader said.

“Not hard, just fair.”

“You don’t bargain fair, and we don’t trade.” Hoslid grinned again.

Justen smiled and looked at the trader, then gathered his own order about him, projecting even greater solidity than he felt.

Hoslid stepped back. “You’re a wizard? You didn’t say.”

Justen smiled. “Does it matter? You got your deposit, and you know you can’t cheat me.”

“I would not think of it.” A faint sheen of perspiration coated the trader’s forehead.

“Good.” Justen smiled broadly as he rolled up the contract.

“Histen! Where in darkness are you?” Beltar pushed back the white-oak door and marched into the topmost quarters in the White tower, the rooms reserved since before the time of Cerryl the Great for the High Wizard.

The stocky White Wizard studied the room. A wide bed stood in the alcove to his left. A white blanket and a set of sheets were neatly folded on the mattress next to a white embroidered coverlet, also folded with the seal of the High Wizard showing.

The screening table contained a blank glass, and the desk next to the empty bookcases contained only a piece of parchment, weighted down by a set of golden links attached to an ancient amulet.

“He’s gone.” Beltar turned to Eldiren, who stood in the doorway, Jehan behind him.

“Histen? I am not surprised.” Jehan’s voice was calm.

Beltar walked to the desk, lifted the amulet and set it aside, his fingers caressing the links for a moment before he picked up the parchment and began to read aloud. “…in the interests of my health, I am hereby relinquishing the amulet of the High Wizard to my successor, Beltar, subject of course to the vote of the White Council. I will be attempting to regain a portion of my former vigor by undertaking less-taxing duties in Lydiar, as wizard to the duke…”

He set the parchment back on the desk.

“He felt that a peaceful transfer of power was for the best. That’s clear,” observed Eldiren with a faint smile.

“Either that, or he feels that such a transfer will be only temporary,” suggested Beltar.

“Did you notice the way Derba watched as you came in?” asked Jehan.

“I can’t say that I did. I was looking for Histen. What about it?”

“Derba’s almost as powerful as you are,” pointed out Eldiren.

“Does it matter?”

Eldiren and Jehan exchanged glances.

Beltar glanced around the tower rooms, vacant now except for the basic furnishings, before answering his own question. “That might be why Histen left. He just might be waiting to let us destroy each other. Histen’s shrewder than I am, and he has a lot more experience.”

“At times, Beltar, experience defers to raw power,” added Jehan.

“Perhaps, but that means I always have to maintain that power, as you keep pointing out.”

“Very true.” Jehan’s voice was even, almost disinterested.

“And very difficult,” said Eldiren.

“You two are such comfort.” Beltar shook his head and looked at the amulet again before turning back toward the stairs. “We’ll need to convene the Council.”

“Of course.”

Justen rolled the uncompleted land engine out of the smithy, the iron bars and oak-framed sides barely clearing the wide door, although the door was fully open. At first glance in the early summer sun, the land engine’s framework looked like a haphazard assembly of iron rods, oak struts, and bars, all set amid four iron-tired wheels. The circular, heavy lifting rings in front of the driver and behind the space where the third seat would be rose above the rest of the frame—but not above the squat boiler and funnel that dominated the rear of the machine.

“Ugghhh…” Justen strained to push the engine the last few cubits out of the smithy as the front wheels rolled up the slightest of inclines. Despite his grunting, the wheels turned easily enough. Justen’s lips twisted at the thought, considering that he had used marine shaft bearings designed for far greater weight and stress. The drive systems were overengi
neered, and that meant he was going to have to really work on keeping the armor lightweight.

“Good work on the wheels.” Cirlin stood watching from behind Justen, and even Horas had turned from the garden to look. “They don’t bind at all, and the axles are solid—no bowing, even with all that weight.”

“It’s ugly-looking,” ventured Elisabet.

“It’s not done yet.” Justen slipped a chunk of wood behind one wheel, then straightened. He walked to the other rear wheel and eased a second block in place before heading to the well with a bucket.

Elisabet shook garden dirt from her hands and crossed the yard to the engine. She walked around the framework, her fingers occasionally brushing a rod or a strut. “It feels solid. It just doesn’t look solid.”

Justen returned with the first bucket of water, which he slowly poured into the machine’s reservoir. Then he walked back to the pump. With a last look at the land engine, Cirlin slipped back into the smithy.

Across the yard, Horas returned his attention to a row of beans.

“That’s going to take a lot of water.” Elisabet peered at the reservoir and then at the bucket Justen carried.

“Not that much,” answered Justen, filling the second bucket. “It’s a ship system, and most of the water is recovered. It would have been lighter without the condenser, and I had to keep the pressures higher…well, a lot higher, because I can’t use a seawater cooling system.”

He carried the second bucket back to the engine and poured it into the reservoir. Then he pointed. “There are spaces for the air to come in, and when the engine’s moving, the air goes past all those tubes. That helps to cool the condensate.”

“That’s why you want Gunnar to help, isn’t it?” asked Elisabet.

“Huh?”

“I’m not stupid, Justen. I’m your sister, remember? This engine can’t go that fast. If you want this cooling to work, you need a lot of air, and Gunnar’s an Air Wizard. I could even do that. Can I come?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. It’s going to be dangerous, isn’t it?” Elisabet continued to study the spaces around the condenser-radiator. “I’ll bet this gets really hot.”

“It does. Not too hot, I hope.” Justen clamped the reservoir cap shut and walked around the smithy to the coal bin, returning with a full scuttle. After several trips into the shed and the smithy for shavings, he touched the striker to the small pile in the firebox, waited for the flame, and began to feed in coal.

Horas gestured to his daughter, and Elisabet finally drifted back to the garden and her weeding, while Justen built up the fire and used both the few gauges and his own senses to measure the system’s performance.

Wheeee…

For a time, he let the steam moan through the open safety valve in order to check the piping at lower pressures. Then he closed the valve and shoveled more coal into the firebox, letting the pressure build. He checked the clutch system again to make sure that the drive shaft to the wheel was disengaged. He didn’t need the land engine rolling off on its own.

While the steam pressure built, he continued to examine the steam lines and the heat distribution, wondering how he would be able to armor the land engine without cooking its operators.

But first he needed to make sure that the systems worked, before he worried about armor and weapons, both of which he was certain would be necessary. Then he had to decide whether the systems needed to be reworked, and if so, how much.

With a sigh, he pulled the blocks from one wheel, then from the other.

“He’s going to see if it runs!” squealed Elisabet.

Justen looked toward his sister, who covered her mouth and looked to their father.

“It is a momentous time,” she said in a low and serious voice.

Horas covered his mouth, but his eyes twinkled.

Justen slipped into the single seat that was in place, then engaged the clutch.

Clunnnkk!

The engineer winced at the stress on the reduction gears. He’d have to do something about that initial engagement, or ensure that he could feed steam to the turbine at lower rates, or he wouldn’t have any gears left before long. Still, the land engine crept across the yard toward the lane.

Justen turned the steering tiller, and the land engine eased to the left, into the center of the narrow lane leading past the garden and the house and down to the main road.

Sssssss…

A fine jet of steam sprayed from a joint between the steam-return line and the condenser-radiator assembly. Justen shifted his concentration for a moment, but the leak did not appear to be growing. While his attention was on the leak, the engine had veered toward the house, and he corrected with the tiller, overdoing the change in direction so much that the engine lurched as the heavy wheel caught in softer soil on the edge of the lane.

Justen held his breath momentarily, but the front wheel found firmer ground and the engine straightened. Another problem: soft ground.

Should he consider widening the wheels? How much weight would that add? Could he avoid that?

The engine almost veered off the other side of the lane before Justen eased the tiller back in order to keep the machine on the packed surface of the lane.

Justen took a deep breath, realizing that he had better concentrate on directing the machine and worry about the engineering changes later.

At the end of the lane, he turned the engine onto the road and then throttled back so that it was barely moving while he turned it around to head back up the gentle slope of the lane to the smithy. His forehead was pouring sweat despite the summer breeze that blew past him.

Creaakkk…

Wincing at the stress on the iron-shod wheel, he eased the tiller, gauging whether the wheels would stay on the road.
The left front tire gouged a track in the softer shoulder of the road, and the land engine lurched again but stayed upright.

Ssssssssss…

The joint leak was louder, and a second leak was bathing Justen in warm mist as he tried to line up the land engine on the lane to avoid running over the garden or hitting the house or getting mired in soft ground.

The soft ground bothered him because the armor would make the whole thing that much heavier. As it was, he wasn’t even carrying the weight of a full load of coal or water.

The land engine lurched toward the garden, and Justen corrected, trying to keep his mind on steering and not on engineering, even while the hissing leaks and various creaks and stresses reminded him of too many engineering problems.

And he was going to travel hundreds of kays in it…when he couldn’t even get the thing down the lane and back?

He sighed, then eased the tiller back again to avoid the softer ground.

By the time he had disengaged the clutch, eased in the converted wagon brake, bled off the steam, and blocked the wheels, his clothes were as soaked as though he’d stood in a summer rainstorm—dripping both from his own sweat and the leaking steam and water lines.

He looked at the water-coated framework and shook his head.

“It works. It really works!” Elisabet hugged him, then let go. “You’re soaked! Ugghhh.”

“Very impressive, son.” Horas looked at the land engine.

“But one of a kind, I think,” added Cirlin from the smithy door.

“I’m not sure where to start in reworking it.” Justen slowly paced around the machine, seeing the other problems he hadn’t had time to notice when he was driving: the leak in the waterline joint from the reservoir to the boiler, the need to reposition the steam-return line…He shook his head again. Why did he even need a clutch? Why not just change the design so the throttle controlled the steam flow directly to the turbine?

“Looks to me like most of your problems are the kind that can be fixed,” added Cirlin. “Doesn’t the design work?”

Justen half-smiled. He’d been so absorbed in the little glitches, he’d forgotten that the land engine in fact worked.

“Yes…it actually does.”

“Has anyone else built one?” pursued Cirlin.

“Not that I know of.”

“I think you’d know.”

“It works, Justen,” affirmed Elisabet. Then she looked at his damp shirt and trousers. “But you sure did get wet.”

Cirlin smiled. “We can fix the little things. Remember…it works.”

Justen nodded, but his eyes flicked over the mass of iron and ordered oak and pine, thinking about all the improvements he should have considered earlier. His gaze halted on the area behind the boiler, and he realized that somehow he would have to add more space for coal.

“He’s not here,” said Elisabet. “He’s already thinking about how to fix everything.”

“He wouldn’t be Justen if he weren’t,” Cirlin responded.

“He still ought to change into some dry clothes,” added Horas.

“I imagine he will…when he thinks about it.”

Justen reached out with his senses toward the condenser-radiator joint.

“That may be some time…”

There was so much to do, Justen reflected, and he really hadn’t even gotten very far with the lenses, either.