The Order War (5 page)

Justen adjusted the lamp wick. Although gas lamps were coming into vogue, the quarters of the Brotherhood still used oil, generally from the carnot nut.

A rapping sounded on his door.

“Yes?”

“It’s your big brother.”

“Come on in.”

Gunnar eased into the room, carrying a pitcher. “I can tell you’re getting ready for a big night. I’ve got some redberry here.”

“I thought you and Turmin were headed back to Land’s End.”

“That’s tomorrow now. Counselor Ryltar asked Turmin to his house for dinner. He wanted to get Turmin’s opinions on the mess in Sarronnyn.” Gunnar set the pitcher on the lamp table. “You have any mugs?”

“Over on the second shelf.” Justen finished adjusting the lamp’s wick. “Doesn’t Ryltar live somewhere near Feyn? Why Turmin? From what I heard, Ryltar isn’t exactly fond of the Sarronnese, and Turmin’s mother was born in Sarronnyn.”

“Ryltar lives on the ridge just outside the black wall. It’s toward Feyn, but not that far.” Gunnar shrugged. “You know as much as I do. I suppose Turmin will tell me sooner or later. Anyway, I’ll have to leave early tomorrow to meet him there, but it’s better than playing lap cat at Ryltar’s.” Gunnar took the mugs and filled them. “Let’s play Capture.”

Justen grinned. “Why not?” He walked over to the small bookcase and took the board and the box containing the black and white tokens from the top. “What are you doing this time?”

“Turmin thinks the weather’s still changing, but more slowly.” Gunnar handed a mug to his brother. “He thinks that there will be signs in the plants on the high hills to the west of Land’s End—something about places where the weather is right on the edge.” Gunnar pulled one of the two straight-backed chairs up to the desk.

After setting down his mug, Justen put the board on the desk and the token box beside it. Then he pulled his chair up and sat down while Gunnar divided the white and black tokens.

“White or black?” asked the older brother.

“White this time.”

Gunnar nodded, and Justen set a token in one of the
depressions in a rear lattice—the three-token one. Gunnar ignored the lattice and placed his first token in the center point of the main lattice on his side of the board.

Justen dropped a token in the four-point lattice to the rear of Gunnar’s.

“You’re doing it again.” Gunnar added a second token to his lattice.

Justen put his second token in the three lattice and added the third to complete it.

Gunnar added the third to his main lattice. “Shouldn’t have let me get this far. Now you can’t catch me.”

Justen frowned, then set a white stone in the other three lattice behind Gunnar’s lattice.

Gunnar added another token, and they continued until Justen had both three and four lattices, and Gunnar had six tokens in one twelve and five in the other.

Gunnar smiled and dropped a black stone into place, followed by five to complete the first, and the bonus that allowed him to complete the second.

Justen shrugged. “It’s yours.”

“You don’t want to play it out?”

“Why bother?”

“I still don’t understand why you build three or four groupings rather than concentrate your efforts.”

“It seems to make more sense. Nothing in life lets you concentrate on just one thing.” Justen laughed. “Besides, it’s only a game. Life’s serious enough.”

Gunnar frowned momentarily, then lifted the pitcher. “Some more redberry?”

“Certainly. Why not? Another game?”

“Of course.” Gunnar finished pouring the redberry and took a sip from his mug.

“Tryessa D’Frewya, the envoy from Sarronnyn,” announced the young man in black who had opened the dark-oak door to the Council Chamber, once the study shared by Creslin and Megaera, the Founders, whose joint portraits framed the wide window behind the table.

The Sarronnese envoy entered and bowed deeply, her emerald silksheen trousers and blouse rustling. “Honored Council members.” She straightened.

Claris motioned to the table. “Please have a seat. Would you care for some of the green brandy?”

“I would be delighted. Tradition or not, it is always a treat.” Tryessa slipped into the oak armchair. The young man in black carefully poured the pale green liquid into the crystal goblet beside her, then retreated to his position by the door.

The youngest counselor brushed a strand of red hair off her forehead and took a sip from an identical goblet.

“What brings you to meet with the Council?” asked Ryltar, his casual tone a contrast to the order of his dress and his precisely brushed, thin blond hair.

“Surely you must know, honored Counselor. As we speak, the White Company and its Iron Guard have taken the old domains of Westwind—”

“As you took them in the time of Dorrin,” countered Ryltar lightly.

Claris cleared her throat.

Jenna half-turned. “I don’t think that was the question, Ryltar. Tryessa was attempting to suggest something, I believe. Were you not?”

“I was suggesting that Fairhaven’s efforts are a matter of concern.”

“To whom?” inquired Ryltar politely.

Claris raised her eyebrows but did not speak. Jenna turned toward the blond man.

“It is certainly a concern to all of us in western Candar,”
Tryessa said. “Even the Naclans sent us an envoy suggesting that we ask for the aid of mighty Recluce.”

“The reputed druids of Naclos? They actually exist?”

“They have existed for centuries, perhaps even from before the time of the Angels.” Tryessa’s voice was wry. “They produce exquisite woodworking, although it’s not carved. Apparently they can persuade the trees to grow in a certain way. I have a bench I inherited. It doesn’t age much. It was my great-grandmother’s. But I wander. When the druids are interested, it is clearly due to a concern that goes beyond Sarronnyn.”

“You make a strong case for the concerns of western Candar,” admitted Ryltar.

“Ryltar…”

“I believe that the envoy has clearly stated the urgency of the matter, Ryltar,” declared Claris coldly.

“Thank you, Counselor. In view of those concerns, the Tyrant would hope that you would recall Sarronnyn’s steadfast support of the open-trade policies long espoused by Recluce.”

“The Tyrants have always been fair in matters of trade.” Claris kept her voice level.

“Although it is certainly of mutual benefit,” Ryltar added smoothly.

“The Tyrants of Sarronnyn have been more than scrupulous in dealing with Recluce,” responded Tryessa.

“What would you have us do?” asked Claris. “You know we do not maintain a standing army large enough to send much in the way of troops. And our ships cannot help you with a conflict in the Westhorns.”

“Not directly, but Fairhaven still must use the oceans.”

“Are you suggesting that we employ our ships to restrain trade to Fairhaven? After all the years of working to ensure fair and open trade on the seas?” inquired Claris.

“The Tyrant understands the difficulty of such a suggestion.”

“What of Suthya and Southwind?” asked Jenna.

“They have sent significant commitments of troops and supplies. “But…” Tryessa shrugged.

“You doubt that such troops will be adequate?” Ryltar
cleared his throat and sipped his brandy.

“The White Wizards have over five thousand troops in the Iron Guard alone.”

“That does make it difficult,” observed Claris. “Yet you suggest we give up a long-held belief in the freedom of trade. Are there not other options?”

The Sarronnese envoy sipped from the goblet once more before speaking. “Even some sort of token would help. Perhaps a group of Order Masters, healers, a small squad of warriors—they are the descendants of the Westwind Guards.”

“We see your concerns, and we share many of them. What you ask is difficult, and we must consider—”

“I see.” Tryessa rose, leaving most of her brandy within the glass. “I see. Then I will retire and allow you to discuss the matter freely. I will be at the old inn. It is one of the few lasting memorials to the commitment to and belief in someone of Sarronnyn. Except, of course, your Black Holding here.”

“You are sharp for one seeking favors.” Ryltar smiled.

“I do not seek favors. I seek justice and perception. I seek those who would look beyond blind devotion to custom to a deeper meaning and belief.” Tryessa returned the smile with one equally false.

“We will indeed discuss this, Envoy Tryessa,” declared Claris as she rose from her chair behind the table. The two other Council members rose with her.

“My thanks to you.” Tryessa bowed and departed.

The three reseated themselves. Claris motioned to the trainee in black. “You may go, Mryten.”

As the door closed, Ryltar said, “Rather demanding, your envoy.”

“Rather accurate.” Jenna sipped her brandy. Her lips tightened as she set down the goblet.

“Without principle, we have nothing.” Claris’s fingers brushed the stem of the goblet before her.

Jenna glanced through the window at the whitecaps rising far out on the Eastern Ocean. “If we follow that principle, Fairhaven will take all of Candar…and then who will stand between the wizards and us?”

“No one else has ever stood between us. No one ever will. You’re both deluding yourselves if you think that’s a possibility.” Ryltar looked only at the dark oak before him.

“Then perhaps we should change our devotion to principle and let our use of principle serve us instead of binding us,” snapped Jenna.

“We could take a middle course,” interposed Claris. “We could ask for volunteers to help Sarronnyn. I think many would wish to help. It is an adventure, and many seek adventures, especially since we no longer need to use exile as a tool.”

“That would be acceptable to me, certainly.” Ryltar smiled. “Let those who wish to get involved with the White devils do so.”

“That’s not enough,” said the youngest Counselor. “Even those the most interested could not do so without some compensation.”

“I’m sure that if the Tyrant is so concerned, she would provide supplies and a modest stipend,” suggested Ryltar mildly.

“That would seem agreeable to me. Then we could offer this as a first step and wait to see what happens, or if a greater commitment is needed.” Claris’s fingers tightened around the goblet’s stem.

Finally, Jenna nodded.

“You need to study the preface again.” Justen fixed his eyes on Daskin.

“But it’s boring. The stuff in the back’s more interesting. I can’t wait until I can do that.” The boy squirmed on the leather pillow, his eyes finally resting on the polished graystone floor.

“Have you tried any of it?” Justen continued to stare at the student.

Daskin flushed.

“It doesn’t work for you, does it?”

“I’m not grown up…not full wise, anyhow.”

“Daskin…” Justen’s voice was soft. “Not everyone can be an Order Master. And for some, it takes years.”

“You just won’t teach me.”

“Don’t be silly, Daskin. He’s paid to teach you.” Jyll flipped her long black hair back over her shoulders with a practiced gesture.

Norah’s fingers continued to rub the smooth gray worry stone, her eyes vacant while her senses focused on the clouds above Nylan.

“If everyone can’t be an Order Master, why do we have to learn this stuff? It’s boring!” Daskin threw the black-covered book on the floor.

“Now you’ve done it,” whispered Jyll.

“I don’t care! It’s stupid. It’s boring…and I hate it.”

“It’s going to rain all day and all night, and maybe tomorrow,” announced Norah, her words and the glint in her eyes proclaiming her mental return to the classroom.

“How come stupid old Norah can find the clouds and I can’t?” Tears streaked from Daskin’s eyes.

Justen knelt in front of the boy. “We’re all different, Daskin. My brother can find the clouds over Lydiar and play in the winds that flow from the Roof of the World. I can’t. I can forge things and work black iron, but every time Gunnar picks up a hammer, we’re all afraid he’ll smash his fingers. Even Dorrin’s brother was a fisherman. And without his brother, Dorrin would never have founded Nylan. We have to do what we can.” The engineer patted the youth’s shoulder.

“It’s still stupid,” muttered Daskin, but he wiped his face on his sleeve and scooped up the book.

“Read the first part again. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Daskin trudged out the door, lagging behind Jyll, who had hurried out first. Justen slipped his own copy of
The Basis of Order
into the pack he still carried rather than the satchel that some of the older engineers affected.

“It is going to keep raining,” insisted Norah.

Justen smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry, Norah. I should have paid more attention to you. You’re very talented with fol
lowing the weather, and you should be pleased that you do so well.”

“It might even rain for two days.”

“We’ll have to see. You can already do that better than I can.”

“I can?” Norah stood, still rubbing the worry stone.

Justen nodded. “I’m an engineer, not an Air Wizard. I can make black iron, and rockets, and parts for engines and cannons, though.”

“I like the clouds, especially the misty ones.” Norah bent and picked up her pack. The heavy brown canvas, battered and scuffed and stained, had been new when Justen had begun to teach her a season earlier. “What are we supposed to read?”

“The preface again.”

“That’s fuzzy, like the soft clouds.” Norah shouldered the pack and half-walked, half-skipped, toward the open door. There she stopped and turned. “Good-bye, Magister Justen.” Then she was gone.

Justen shook his head. Why were all the Air Wizards so…he groped for a word, then decided that Norah’s term “fuzzy” fit as well as any. Even Gunnar was fuzzy sometimes, as if he weren’t there even when he was. Then again, who could tell where an Air Wizard really was? He snorted, closed his pack and lifted the heavy leather pillows onto the table before picking his dark-gray waterproof from the peg beside the doorway. After closing the door, he walked down the half-dozen steps and along the sunken corridor until he reached the stairs to the west wing.

He took the steps two at a time. The smell of mutton stew oozed from the dining hall that served the older students, many of whom would have been candidates for exile in Dorrin’s time.

Before he went outside into the rain, Justen pulled on the dark-gray waterproof but left the hood down. Stepping carefully around the puddles in the road, he walked downhill toward the engineering hall.

The soft, warm rain had plastered his hair to his skull, and he was sweating by the time he climbed the four stone steps to the building. Stopping under the wide porch, he brushed
the water from his face with the back of his left hand. Then he stamped his boots and wiped them on the rush mats before stepping into the anteroom that contained the open closets where the engineers left their aprons, gloves, and work clothes.

Justen pulled off his tunic and the good shirt he used for teaching and hung them on the pegs in one of the doorless and narrow closets. Then he took down his leather apron, fastened it on, and stepped through the archway into the hall and walked toward the smaller forge in the right rear corner of the hall. His apprentice, Clerve, was working on bolt blanks.

Justen grinned. He’d hated making bolts. The cutters made threading them easy, but the bolts were still a pain—even when using the metal lathe to true the blanks. Threading the nuts had been worse…and still was.

“How soon will you have the new evaporators worked out?” asked Warin, pushing his too-long wispy hair back off his forehead with his forearm.

Justen grinned ruefully. “When we figure out how to keep the cooling side from corroding the system so badly. They still leak too quickly.” The idea of using seawater evaporators to get continuous fresh water had been used on only the last two black ships, and the Brothers on both ships, including Pendak, were spending more time and order-mastery on holding the evaporators together than on the rest of the power plants, including even the newer turbines.

“Good luck.” Warin turned back to the milling table.

“Thanks.”

Clerve looked up from the anvil toward Justen.

“Yes…you can stop working on the bolts for now,” Justen told him. “Lay out the plans on the board there.” He nodded toward the inclined drafting board set back from the forge, then walked over to his bench, where he checked his tools.

As Clerve laid out the drawings of the flash chamber, Justen checked the hoist and crane that held the flash-chamber assembly, then lowered the circular, black iron structure another two cubits so that the curved base rested less than a cubit above the packed clay floor. He checked the space where the
vapor separator would go, using his calipers, locking them and setting them on the full-scale drawing. The actual length between the flange brackets designed to hold the separator was a tenth of a span smaller than the measurements on the parchment sheet. Justen nodded, suspecting that the cold iron had contracted more than calculated, as it usually did. The question lay in calculating the contraction that would take place on the smaller vapor-separation assembly.

Clerve watched as Justen measured again.

“We’ll need a half-span thickness in the two-cubit-square plate.” As Clerve started toward the plate storage room behind the hall; Justen added, “Use a cart. That’s four-and-a-half-stone worth of iron.”

“Yes, Ser.”

While he waited for his apprentice to return, Justen added more hard coal to the forge, readjusted the air nozzle with the long iron rod, and pumped the bellows slowly, checking to ensure that the sprinkling can was full. Charcoal would have been easier to use, but Recluce still had insufficient forests for resupplying all its charcoal needs. The compromise was the use of charcoal by the town smiths, while the engineers bought coal from Nordla or Sarronnyn, despite the high shipping costs.

Justen watched the glowing of the coals. At least he didn’t have to work on resmelting the plate from the old
Hyel
. In a way, the Mighty Ten were really the Mighty Eleven, with the oldest warship being broken, resmelted, and recycled to provide the materials for the warship under construction.

The cart creaked across the floor; Clerve used a leather harness to pull it easily.

After taking a deep breath, Justen took the calipers and transferred the measurements to the iron plate. With a light hammer and a chisel, he marked the rough-cut lines. “There. Swing the crane…”

Clerve positioned the forge crane.

“Easy now,” cautioned Justen as the two swung the plate into position over the forge fire.

Then Justen wrestled the special cutting plate into place over the anvil, wiping his forehead with the back of his forearm. The way things were going, finishing the one flash
chamber would probably take half a season, not that the engineers were in any hurry. The new
Hyel
was not planned for launching for another four years.

After ensuring that the special hot set was laid by the long anvil, he checked the heat of the iron, watching as the area he had marked turned dull red, then began to lighten slowly. Justen waited until the iron along the cut line was nearly orange-white before he nodded to Clerve. They swung the plate over and lowered it onto the anvil.

Clung…clung…
Justen’s hammer strokes were even, steady, splitting the iron along its grain.

“All right.” The engineer and his apprentice used the crane to lift the plate, which they rotated and swung back over the fire. “Next line is a crosscut.”

“How many heats, do you think?” asked Clerve.

“Two, I hope.”

Once again Justen watched the iron color until he nodded and they positioned the metal on the cutting plate.

“I was wrong. Three,” the engineer added as they replaced the iron over the forge fire.

Two heats later, the oblong shape that would be one side of the base of the vapor separator lay on the cutting plate. Justen used heavy tongs to set it on the brick annealing shelf at the back of the forge, not wanting it to cool too slowly.

Then they readjusted the brackets on the plate, and Justen measured the metal for the second cut.

“Why don’t we use something like the bench shears?” asked Clerve.

Justen grinned. “Forget already?” He swung the metal over the forge fire once more.

Clerve blushed. “It seems so silly.”

Justen silently watched the iron heat for a time, then nodded. In moments, the orange-white section of the iron rested on the cutting plate and Justen’s hammer lifted and fell…lifted and fell…until they swung the iron back onto the forge.

“The reason for not using shears on engine parts isn’t silly. It’s a question of what works. You cut the iron with something like that and you twist the fiber too much. We have the same problem with casting iron, or even steel. You
need a wrought-iron base for black iron.”

“They say the Nordlans can make a steel that’s almost as good as black iron,” ventured Clerve.

“Almost as good isn’t always good enough.”

They swung the iron back onto the cutting plate, and Justen took up the hammer again. “A little better this time. Only two heats.” He set aside the hammer and used the tongs again to set the second iron section next to the first on the forge bricks. “Let’s readjust the brackets. A couple more sections and we won’t need the crane.” He wiped his forehead, but did not swing the metal onto the forge.

“I suppose I’m like an old magister, but I need to finish what I was telling you about the shears. After using shears or some sort of wrenching cut, when you try to order the metal into black iron, the order bonds don’t match and you have to tear the whole thing apart. That’s why it took ten years to build the
Dylyss
.”

Clerve shook his head. “Just because they used shears?”

“No…because they used violence to cut the metal. There’s a difference between force and violence.”

“Teaching again, Justen? Here in the engineering hall?” Altara stood behind Clerve, who stepped aside with an averted glance.

Justen blushed.

Altara smiled at Clerve. “I don’t eat apprentices, Clerve. Really, I don’t. Nibble perhaps.”

Clerve, in turn, blushed.

“You can take a break.” Justen nodded at the apprentice.

“Are you where you can stop?” asked the master engineer.

Justen nodded. “It’s slow going.”

“Most engineering is.”

The two engineers watched as Clerve trudged toward the side porch, where both a breeze and the water spigot provided cooling and where the apprentices usually gathered.

“Have you thought about joining the engineering group that’s going to Sarronnyn?” asked Altara.

“No.” Justen blinked, trying to dislodge a speck of grit from his left eye.

“Do you want to come with us?” asked Altara.

Justen looked at the thin-faced master engineer with the muscular shoulders and dancing green eyes. “Why are you going? Dorrin couldn’t stop the Whites. How do you think you can?”

“Do you want to sit around Nylan for the rest of your life mooning after Krytella while she hunts down Gunnar?” Altara grinned and waited.

“Hunts down? You make her seem like a mountain cat.” Justen felt himself flush again, and not from the heat of the forges.

“I know women, Justen. After all, I am one, you know.”

“You don’t let most of us forget it.” He managed a grin.

“That’s what I like about you. You can say something like that and it doesn’t sound nasty. You almost—almost—make it sound like a compliment. I also enjoyed your little match with Firbek.”

“How’s the arm?”

“Still a bit sore.” Altara paused. “Why didn’t you join the marines? You’re certainly officer material, and you’re the kind that people would follow.”

“You know what I think about hand weapons.”

“I know.” Altara sighed. “That’s one of the few things I think you’re wrong about.”

“Why?”

She gestured around the engineering hall. “We’re cheating on Dorrin. We still have only ten ships—except that we don’t. We have eleven for purposes of the Balance. And if you—Have you ever compared the size and tonnage of the
Black Hammer?
”

“How could I? I’m not a master engineer with access to the most venerable records.”

“Sorry. Well, take my word for it. The new
Hyel
will displace nearly three times what the original
Black Hammer
did.”