The Order War (52 page)

They rolled past Shrezsan’s and Yousal’s house, and Shrezsan’s parents’ house, and into Wandernaught. The main street was clear of horses and wagons. Upstairs lamps were lit in the quarters above the cooper’s and above Basta’s, and two lanterns flared outside The Broken Wheel.

Three men stood under the lanterns, two of them gesturing toward the larger figure, who lifted a truncheon.

“…off with ye! Not another word!”

“Our coin’s good as any!”

“Light’s piss! What the frig is that?” The middle figure turned and dashed toward the alley, away from the inn and the passing land engine.

The other two watched openmouthed as the machine rolled up the street and past the inn.

“It’s something…”

“I know it’s something! Looks like a wizard’s nightmare.”

“Yousal said that wizard…Justen…”

The voices faded from Justen’s hearing, straining as he was, as the land engine passed the post house. He turned the tiller, and the craft headed toward the High Road.

“You only scared the shit out of one in three,” said Gunnar, “and they know it’s you. How long before Ryltar finds out?”

“A day after we get to Nylan. Maybe two. We’ll get there maybe two days ahead of the post.”

“How?” asked Gunnar warily.

“We’re going straight through. Where could we stop?”

“You can’t steer this thing that long.”

“I don’t intend to.” Justen laughed. “You’re going to learn how.”

“Me?” gulped the Weather Wizard.

“You,” affirmed Justen.

Beltar took a deep swallow from the goblet and immediately refilled it. “Here in the tower, you have to drink it quickly, before it sours.”

“The result of centuries of chaos, no doubt,” murmured Eldiren.

“No doubt.” The High Wizard set his goblet on the table and fingered the links from which the gold amulet hung across his white tunic. “No doubt.” He picked up the goblet and took another deep swallow.

“Being High Wizard isn’t as much fun as conquering places, is it?”

“No fun at all.” The High Wizard carefully set his goblet on the table again and glanced toward the half-open tower window. He wiped his forehead, for the stillness of the hangings revealed the lack of breeze on the hot, early fall day. “Everyone hates you, and each one tiptoes around. No one says anything but ‘Yes, High Wizard. Yes, High Wizard.’”

“Yes, High Wizard.”

“Eldiren! Just because I’m half-potted, it doesn’t mean I can’t think.”

“What would you have me say?”

“You could tell me what you found out about that wizard.”

“Which…wizard?”

“The one who exploded the screeing glasses. Twice…wasn’t it?”

Eldiren’s fingers brushed over the thin scar on his cheek. “Ah…yes. That wizard.”

“You know full well it was that wizard.” Beltar reached for the wine bottle again.

“I don’t know. He’s hard to even find. The glass isn’t clear, and it seems like there’s a mix of order and chaos around him, but it’s all ordered, except how can chaos be ordered?”

“Oh, frig you.” Beltar took another deep swallow from
the goblet before refilling it and setting down the empty bottle with exaggerated care. “You mean that we’ve got…a real, honest-to-darkness…Gray Wizard, the kind everyone says there can’t be?”

Eldiren fingered his goblet, whose contents he had not touched. “I couldn’t say for sure. I think so.”

“Frig! I got ‘Yes, High Wizard’ this and ‘Yes, High Wizard’ that, and now I’ve got to worry about a demon-damned Gray Wizard who goes around exploding screeing glasses so no one can even find him?”

Eldiren stared at the table.

Beltar downed the remnants in his goblet and set the glass aside. “You’re not drinking. Let me have yours. You look at it too long and it’ll turn sour. Like everything else round here.”

“Clever. Very clever.” Altara ran her fingertips across the parchment-thin black iron armor, backed with span-thickness black oak. “But then, you’ve always been clever with applications, Justen. How, might I ask, did you get through the gate in this contraption?”

“He told the guards that he was delivering it to you,” said Gunnar, “and that you’d be angry if it didn’t get there. When that didn’t quite convince them, he pointed out that either the device was good, in which case, they couldn’t stop him, or that it wasn’t, in which case, the engineering hall was the best place for it. Then he told them that he was the order-mad engineer. Quite a performance.”

“I can bet.” Altara glanced from Gunnar to Justen.

“It really wasn’t,” Justen protested. “Besides, not very much of the land engine is original. I told them that, too—that it was just like a small ship. Most of the parts and assemblies are what we use on the ships, or small adaptations.”

“I recall that there was nothing terribly original about your black order-tipped arrows, either,” noted the chief en
gineer dryly. “I’d be terrified to think what you might do if you really got original. Something like this is bad enough.”

Justen decided not to mention the balloon or the beam of ordered-light created from the polished and ordered fire-eyes.

Gunnar glanced at the hard-packed clay beside the rear loading door leading into the engineering hall.

“So, what am I supposed to do with this…device?” Altara offered a wry smile.

“I thought that you and the others might wish to examine it for a day or so before—” Justen broke off.

“Yes. Spare me the details, Justen.” Altara glanced toward the early morning sun, just above the Eastern Ocean. “Do I understand that you want to hide this original needle in the haystack in the engineering hall for a day or so? Is that what you’re really asking?”

“Yes, honored and knowledge-seeking Chief Engineer.”

“And in that way, you will doubtless ensure that every engineer alive knows what you have done and how to replicate it. So either your design will endure forever or the Council will decide to banish us all?”

“I think it highly unlikely that the Council will banish you all,” said Gunnar.

“Maybe not. Then again, it may not be that improbable. The honorable Counselor Ryltar has inquired about your health only a half-score times over the past several eight-days. He seems to want to ensure that your rest cure is…thorough.”

“I don’t see it,” said Justen through a yawn.

“Who knows?” Altara looked at Justen. “You look tired. How much sleep have you had?”

“Not much lately.”

“And what are you really up to? As if I didn’t know.”

“You want me to tell you?” Justen forced a laugh. “We’re just trying to subvert the entire Brotherhood by showing how easy it is to build a land engine.” He tried not to wince at the stab of pain through his skull at this small lie.

Altara shook her head. “You really can’t keep this here long.”

“I know. But it is an engineering device. Two nights?”

“We’ll see.” The chief engineer looked toward Gunnar. “Can you keep him out of trouble? And get him some sleep?”

Gunnar shrugged.

“Are you going to sleep in Gunnar’s room?” asked Altara, turning back to face Justen.

“Not at night. I have some provisions so that I can sleep in the land engine, or next to it.” Justen looked at the rear wheel.

“I’m not sure which is worse, admitting you to the Brotherhood quarters or to the engineering hall.” Altara laughed nervously.

“I’ll stay away from the hall during the day,” offered Justen.

“Well, let’s get this land wagon, land engine—whatever you call it—inside, before too many people see it.”

Justen released the brake and used the last of the steam to start the land engine rolling.

“Over there,” suggested Altara. “We won’t be using the big mill for a couple of eight-days.”

“Do you want me to explain it—the land engine—to anyone before we go get something to eat?” asked Justen.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way before you leave—”

“Justen!” Warin walked past Altara and hugged the younger engineer. He paused. “You shouldn’t be back. You still look tired.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t. Here’s our project.” Justen grinned at Altara. “A land engine. See…we took the small boiler…”

Behind them, Altara glanced at Gunnar. Both shook their head.

After Warin left, Gunnar grabbed Justen by the arm. “I’m starving, and if you don’t get out of here, Altara will throw both you and the land engine out.”

They slipped out the back door and down the alley toward the harbor.

“Why did you say you wanted to sleep in the hall with the land engine? That isn’t going to be comfortable.” Gunnar looked at the shops ahead.

“I probably won’t sleep.” Justen yawned. “After we get
something to eat at Houlart’s, I’m going to sleep on the floor of your room.” He glanced toward the morning sun. “Tonight and for the next few nights, I’m going to try to stay awake…or merely doze with some wards.”

“I doubt that wards will work well around so much iron. Maybe Martan could spare someone to help.” Gunnar yawned, too. “Houlart’s is around the next corner.”

“Good.” In turn, Justen yawned again.

Only two tables in the public room were occupied, and the brothers took a corner table, one from where Justen could study the entire room. As he sat down, he glanced at the doorway by the kitchen, where Houlart was speaking to a young woman. He strained to catch the words, but could catch only a few fragments.

“…Yersol…street opposite…engineer’s back…”

He frowned. Where had he heard the name Yersol? Did it matter? It had something to do with Ryltar. He leaned toward Gunnar and whispered, “You were right.”

“Huh?” Gunnar jerked fully alert.

“Never mind. I’ll tell you later.”

“What’ll it be, gents?” asked Houlart, standing by the table.

“Food, good hot food,” mumbled Gunnar.

Houlart smiled the professional smile of all innkeepers.

“Who’s in port?”

“The
Yalmish
, and our
Viella
, and Slyak’s bunch—I don’t recall what the current name of his rig is.” Yersol set the mug of warm ale on the worktable between them.

“We need a little fire work. The
Yalmish
and Slyak’s group ought to be enough.”

“Here? That’s crazy.”

“We need to get rid of that thing in the engineers’ hall. Besides, if the hall goes, the engineers won’t get in the way for a while. I don’t trust that Altara. She and Jenna are too
close.” Ryltar shifted his weight on the cushion of the wooden armchair. His fingers toyed with the base of the black crystal goblet, still half full of ale.

“Why are you so worried about this engineer?”

“Don’t you see? He almost won in Sarronnyn, and he’s managed to get the demon-damned druids behind him. Now he’s got this land engine that travels on roads like a steam ship does on water. But according to the engineers I know, it takes an engineer to run it.”

“The ones you pay to tell you what’s going on?” Yersol took a last swallow of the ale, grimacing at the warm taste. “No other trader could use it, and engineers don’t trade.”

“This one does. He’s got a deal going with the Naclans. Or the Naclans are using him. First it was lorken, and then that cloth that no one had except the Tyrant of Sarronnyn. Now he’s got something that will cross Candar faster than the fastest ships.”

“He does?”

“Seldit watched him leave Wandernaught. He arrived here less than a full day later. The machine is up there in the engineering hall. Before long, they’ll all be able to build one like it, and where does that leave us?”

“I told you, engineers don’t trade, Ryltar.”

“You still don’t see. What happens if he goes back to Candar?” Ryltar’s fingers tightened on the base of the goblet.

“You’re rid of him.” Yersol half-filled his mug.

Ryltar gave the younger trader a look of disgust. “Would you think for once? Just once?”

“So I’m stupid. Would you explain what the problem is?”

Ryltar glared at Yersol before his expression softened. “All right. Where do we make the most profit?”

“On the east-to-west Hamor trips.”

“Why?”

“You know—” Yersol paused, then continued. “Because Hamor’s bigger than Candar, and it’s a long trip by land. Our ships are a lot faster than theirs, and we don’t pay all their duties.”

“Do they have good roads?”

“Sure. But they’re a bitch on wagons and pack animals.”

“And aren’t there Order Wizards in Hamor?”

“Not many, but some.”

“If this engineer could run a land engine, could they?”

“Oh. Shit.”

“Now do you see? This damned land engine gets out, and we lose—”

“I’m slow, but I do get it.” Yersol frowned. “But he wouldn’t even think about this. You know that. Why would anyone think about taking a land engine to Hamor?”

“Look, Yersol. One thing I do know is that
nothing
in this world stays a secret, and the emperor of Hamor would do just about anything to stop us.”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to Slyak. Have him talk to the
Yalmish
. It’s going to cost probably double or triple.”

“It’s worth it.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“Even if it fails, the attempt will get Claris upset enough to get this Justen put away for a long time—for a permanent rest cure. She’s almost there now.”

“I hope so.”

“It will work.” Ryltar nodded. “It will.”

“Fire!”

At Gunnar’s yell, Justen bolted upright out of his blankets and yanked on his boots even as he was trying to clear his head. Two nights of less-than-restful sleep, even with the naps he took in Gunnar’s room, had left him sluggish.

A ruddy glow came from the front of the hall, accompanied by a faint crackling as flames seemed to race toward the back.

Justen glanced around. Martan and his two marines were dressed. “Open the door,” yelled Justen. “That one!” He pointed to the rear loading door, then threw his pack and blankets into the backseat of the land engine, even as he
disengaged the brake and clutch and began to push, trying to rock the heavy machine forward.

Gunnar followed Justen’s example, throwing his gear in the second seat and trying to push the engine toward the door that Martan and one of the marines had slid open.

Flames also licked up a rear corner of the building, and a dark-clad figure dashed away from the loading door.

“Someone…set…the fire…” grunted Gunnar, his shoulder almost touching Justen’s. “Threw oil…struck it…”

“Bastards,” grunted the marine pushing on the other wheel.

Martan joined them, and the land engine began to roll. Justen put one hand on the tiller to keep it lined up and headed toward the door.

Behind them, sounds of crackling and waves of heat rose. Flames also began to spread on the downhill side of the hall.

“Ugghhh…” The sides of the craft’s armor scraped on a massive boiler section just inside the door, but Justen turned the tiller and the five pushed the land engine out through the rear loading door.

Nearly a dozen dark-clad figures stood a good thirty cubits beyond the door. Most of them bore staffs or weapons. One carried a torch.

“There’s the demons’ machine!”

“Destroy it!”

“No White evil in Nylan…”

Justen scrambled into the driver’s seat and pulled on the brake lever to stop the land engine, then scrambled to the rear seat and the space beyond to open the firebox. He shoved some shavings and chips into place and lifted the striker.

“Get the demons!”

As the dark figures moved toward the land engine, Justen edged several small chunks of coal next to the wood and shavings and closed the firebox door, opening the draft vents.

Gunnar stood rooted just outside the hall, eyes closed.

The winds began to whine, to whistle, and the stars began
to blink out as sudden clouds thickened.

“Send them back where they belong…”

From the road before the hall came the sound of more figures running.

“Get the steam pumps…cool it…”

“…take too long…”

“Weather Wizard…maybe rain.”

“Turmin…find him…”

The dark-clad group moved toward the land engine; less than twenty cubits separated them. Justen could sense the fear within the group, a fear that had slowed its advance, and he bent down and fanned the fire in the firebox, trying to build up steam pressure.

The crackling of timbers beginning to burn rose. So did the sound of the wind, and cold droplets began to pelt down.

A flash of lighting illuminated the back of the engineering hall and revealed the three marines…and Gunnar, who stood apparently oblivious to the commotion, trying to direct the storm onto the fire. As the rain increased in intensity, the intermittent hissing of steam began to replace the crackling of the flames.

“There, by the door!”

“Stop him. He’s a weather mage!” screamed a short man in the front of the dark-clad group. The man beside him lifted a bow, the short type used generally by traders.

In the shadows behind the land engine, Martan raised his bow and nocked an arrow, then released it. The opposing bowman collapsed, a dark shaft driven through his chest.

Martan nocked another arrow.

“Marines!”

Gunnar shook his head, saw the dark-clad group, and concentrated again. Justen shoveled more coal into the firebox.

Cracckkk!

A thin, jagged lightning bolt smashed into the stone before the attackers, and a wave of hail rattled behind the flare of light. Justen blinked and shook his head, trying to clear his vision.

“Get the frig…out of here…”

“…not paid to…fight magic…”

“Run!”

The attackers scattered, leaving one body on the hail-strewn and wet stones.

Martan lowered his bow and glanced at Justen. “Some trader wants you dead and your machine destroyed.”

Justen nodded, then saw Gunnar begin to totter. He vaulted out of the driver’s seat and half-skidded, half-ran, toward his brother even as Gunnar stumbled into a sitting position.

Three engineers wheeled a hand pump to the rear corner of the building, and a thin stream of water played against the flames on the wood-framed windows.

The rain continued and the hissing subsided as the rain, and the finally operating steam pumps, poured water on the engineering hall.

Justen lugged the semiconscious Gunnar to the land engine and set him in the seat next to the driver’s place.

Martan and the other two marines continued to survey the area around the back of the engineering hall. Finally, Martan asked, “Justen, do you know who’s after you?”

“Ryltar, I think. But there’s no way to prove it.”

Martan spat away from the land engine. “Scum. Everyone on the docks whispers about it. No one wants to say anything. Bet those were sailors hired from his ships for some extra coins—or else they were some smuggler’s bravos.”

Gunnar groaned and held his head.

“Everything’s fine,” Justen reassured him.

“Fine? Head hurts…fire in the hall…arrows…and it’s fine?”

Justen and Martan laughed.

“Fine? Some sense of humor you have. Ohhh…” Gunnar rubbed his forehead again.

As the rain continued to fall, Justen put up rain canvases over the seats, and the three marines climbed into the third seat. Justen stoked up the firebox and checked the steam pressure.

“The
Llyse
should be in this morning. Anyone up for a ride down to the pier?”

“Uh…”

“I won’t make you ride,” Martan grinned at the other two
marines, “but it’s probably safer than walking, or worrying about who’s out there.”

“Yeah…” mumbled one marine.

“We can’t get shot with an arrow, either,” added the other, a fresh-faced young woman.

“Ready?” asked Justen, his hand on the throttle.

The three marines looked at each other.

Justen released the brake and eased the throttle forward, and with an initial creak, the land engine headed out of the alley.

A look back as he turned onto the main road reassured Justen that the rain and the pumps had saved most of the building. Still, more than a score of engineers scurried around the steaming facade of the hall even as the rain continued to fall on the blackened roof timbers.

“Good thing most of the building’s stone,” said Martan, following Justen’s quick glance.

“They weren’t after the building,” said Gunnar, still massaging his forehead.

“What were they after, then?”

“I could guess, but I really don’t know.” Justen shook his head. Why was Ryltar after him? Was it just a question of coins?

A tall figure on the uphill side of the hall stood and watched. Justen waved to Altara before turning the tiller to guide the land engine down toward the harbor.

The machine puffed up onto the stones of the harbor causeway as a faint gray seeped out of the Eastern Ocean.

The command “Cast off!” rang from the end ship on the short pier.

“Didn’t want to stay around, I see,” said Martan as he watched two crewmen loosen and release lines from the bollards. Then the crewmen scrambled onto the black-hulled schooner, whose colors and lack of flag almost certainly announced her as a smuggler.

Justen turned the land engine onto the main pier.

“That’s one of the ships Ryltar was dealing with,” said Gunnar.

“He knows every smuggler east of Hamor,” laughed the woman marine.

“Lurena?” Martan glanced down the pier.

“Yes, ser?”

“Get the squad down here by full dawn and bring Jislik’s kit and mine.”

“Yes, ser.”

Justen brought the land engine to a stop to let Lurena out, then eased the engine out to the spot on the pier where the
Llyse
was supposed to dock.

“How are you going to get this on board?” asked Martan.

“Very carefully.” Justen laughed. “With a heavy crane attached to the lifting posts.” He pointed to the circular heavy rings in front of the driver’s seat and behind the third seat. “All the Mighty Ten have short cranes, and the land engine isn’t as heavy as it looks.”

“Hyntal will love it.” Martan grinned.

“Why?” asked Gunnar.

“He hates the Whites, and anything that would upset them…”

“I hope so,” murmured Justen.

Gunnar raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Martan leaned back in the third seat.

Even before dawn, the remaining ten marines had marched out to the end of the pier.

“Let’s go, Jislik.” Martan smiled at Justen. “This will be fun.”

“Fun?” muttered Gunnar from the seat beside Justen. “Marines have a strange sense of humor.”

“That’s why they’re marines,”

“Form up!” snapped Martan as he stood on the pier before the land engine. “This is a special engine that’s going on the
Llyse
. Last night some smugglers tried to fire the engineering hall to destroy it. Your job is to make sure that no one—except members of the Council, if they should appear—gets close to this part of the pier until this engine is loaded on the
Llyse
. Is that clear?”

“What about the dockers, ser?”

“Let them do their work, but keep them clear of this engine.”

“Yes, ser!”

Justen leaned back in the driver’s seat and let his eyes close.

“Justen?”

The engineer straightened with a jolt. “Huh? What? Is the
Llyse
here?”

“No, but young Yersol is, and he doesn’t look too happy. And I think Altara is walking up the pier.” Gunnar peered around. “And Martan has that smile that says he’s just waiting to turn his attack cats on Yersol.”

Justen yawned and struggled to clear his mind. He managed to brush his hair back and smooth his clothes, but his unshaven chin itched and his eyes felt like they contained half the sand of the western beaches. He climbed down and stood beside the land engine and waited for Yersol to speak. Altara had stopped a good twenty cubits behind the trader.

“I don’t believe that this…device…should be leaving Recluce without the approval of the Council,” stated the young trader.

“Oh? Are you a member of the Council?” asked Justen.

“I am certain that Counselor Ryltar will be here shortly to…reinforce that concern.”

“I’m sure he will be,” Justen admitted. “I’m sure he will be. But there are a few problems with your statement.” He smiled faintly and waited, trying to keep his expression calm even while his heart had a disturbing tendency to pound.
What have I started? And why is everyone so upset over something as simple as the land engine?

“I fail to see any problems,” announced Yersol.

“First, you are not a member of the Council. Second, Counselor Ryltar is only one of three, and he is not the senior member.”

Yersol swallowed.

Justen glanced out past the breakwater. Was there a puff of smoke heralding the
Llyse
? He hoped so, and hoped that they could get the engine on board. Still…would Hyntal agree, and how long would the
Llyse
have to stay in port?

“We’ll see, Justen. We’ll see. You won’t pull this off.” Yersol turned and marched back down the pier.

“He’ll be back with Ryltar before long,” Gunnar prophesied.

“Not for a while. If Ryltar were around, he’d have already been here.”

Justen walked toward Altara, conscious that his legs felt like lead weights.

“Do you think you can get away with this, especially without getting Hyntal and Martan in trouble?” asked the chief engineer, her voice low.

“I don’t know. But it has to be done.”

“Has to? Are you deciding the fate of the world, Justen?” Altara’s eyes blazed.

Justen returned Altara’s intent expression. Then he smiled faintly. “Me? A junior and very order-mad engineer? How could I possibly do anything that would change the world?”

“You? You’ve made a frigging good start. The Brotherhood is about ready to close the gates and wall Nylan off from the rest of Recluce for the first time in three centuries. The only question is whether they turn the cannon and rockets of the Mighty Ten on all the smugglers first.” Altara lowered her voice. “The only thing that hasn’t come out is Ryltar’s name, maybe because Yersol—” her hand gestured toward the end of the pier after the departing trader “—started talking really quickly about the problems of smugglers and Ryltar’s efforts to keep them in line—and offering to pay for all the damage to the engineering hall.”

“None of that changes anything,” Justen responded quietly.

“And what about this? And what are you going to do with the
Llyse
? I can’t believe you’re just going to dump this in the Gulf or the Eastern Ocean.”

“Why not?”

“Justen.”

“I’m going to do what has to be done.” Justen’s gray eyes—abruptly as black and as deep as the great forest—turned full on Altara.

The chief engineer stepped back involuntarily. “You
are
dangerous. Ryltar was right about that.”

“All change is dangerous,” Justen affirmed.

Wheeee…
The steam whistle on the
Llyse
announced the
ship’s entrance into the channel and called for dockers.

“Just about everyone around Dorrin died or suffered, Justen. Remember that. And Creslin was blind for most of his life. Are you up to that kind of sacrifice?”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Justen swallowed.
Can I…ask…this…?

The thin but clear response seemed to follow:
Can you not, dearest?

He shook his head.
Am I imagining the answer? Or am I answering myself?