The Order War (7 page)

“You have to go?” The smith raised her eyebrows. “I thought the Council asked for volunteers.”

“One of the master engineers has suggested that it would do me good.”

“Altara?” mumbled Gunnar.

“Not with your mouth full, son,” suggested Horas, “even if you are a great and mighty Weather Wizard.”

“Of course.” Justen sipped the last of the hot cider and reached for the covered pot.

“I can’t say as I’m surprised. We’ve played too loose with the Balance for too long.” Cirlin coughed and took a mouthful of cider. “You know that Dorrin warned about that.”

“He did?” Elisabet sat up straight in her chair.

The smith nodded. “But it doesn’t matter. He knew that people wouldn’t listen. They never do. That’s why I’m glad I’m just a simple smith.”

“Simple?” Justen’s eyes darted to the wall and the interlocking black-iron circles that formed an image of the sunrise over the Eastern Ocean.

“When will you leave?” asked his mother.

“That hasn’t been decided.”

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” Gunnar said, tugging at his chin.

“Most adventures aren’t. I think Justen’s saying he doesn’t have much choice,” Cirlin said.

Justen chewed another mouthful of the warm, dark bread and cherry conserve, enjoying the taste before answering. “I don’t have to go. No one could make me go, but I don’t feel right about saying no. I can’t quite say why.”

“What do you think, Gunnar? Not in your heart, but considering your sense of order.” Cirlin held her mug in both callused hands, letting the warm vapor drift across her face.

Gunnar frowned before answering. “I trust Justen’s feelings. I don’t like his going to Sarronnyn. The whole business reeks of more than normal chaos.”

“If there’s much chaos at all there, that’s a problem,” added Horas.

Cirlin lifted her mug and drank slowly before lowering it. “It could be a problem for everyone in Recluce.”

Silence dropped across the table.

“Can you really catch the rain?” asked Gunnar, turning to Elisabet.

“Yes, I can.” Elisabet laughed. “But I get tired soon. There’s so much rain. I don’t know how you do it.”

“I don’t, silly little sister. I—”

“I’m not silly.” Elisabet looked at her father. “Is there another surprise?”

“I can’t keep anything a secret, I guess, not with four Order Wizards around this place. I had hoped you might be coming.” Horas grinned at his sons. “So I baked a couple of cherry-pearapple pies.”

Justen had to smile in return, trying not to think about engineering and Sarronnyn and the chaos that awaited him, looking at the golden-brown crust of the pie Elisabet set before her father.

Stones here and there had tumbled from the wall of the ancient causeway, but the structure across the gap from the Roof of the World to the ridgeline leading down toward Suthya and Sarronnyn remained sound enough that even the heavy steps of the Iron Guard neither shook it nor displaced another stone.

With its gray uniforms, gray banners trimmed in crimson, dark-gray boots, dark-hilted weapons in gray scabbards, the Iron Guard of Fairhaven marched northwest down the causeway. Behind the gray assemblage waved the crimson-trimmed white banners of the White Company, crackling in the chill winds that whipped off the snow-covered peaks encircling the high plateau and the rebuilt citadel once called Westwind.

Like a gray-headed white snake, the column wound lower.

In the narrow defile leading to Sarronnyn, behind heaped lines of stone and under blue-and-cream banners, waited groups of women and a few men.

No parley flags were offered or sought as the Fairhaven forces reached the rock-strewn narrow valley, where patches of snow and ice huddled on the north side of each boulder.

The wind howled, and the Iron Guard marched forward.

“Archers! Fire!” A wave of iron-shafted missles arced into the blue-green sky and dropped into the long column.

“Shields up!” The small iron shields of the gray-clad warriors rose. Men fell, those in gray mostly silent, those in white screaming as the iron shafts burned through them.

A dull rumbling echoed down the valley. A spray of boulders bounced toward the gray figures.

Hsssttt…hssstttt…
From behind the Guard, firebolts
lanced up the rocky walls. White rock dust sprayed down like rain.

Soldiers in gray, white, and blue coughed.

“Archers…”

“Shields…”

Hssstttt…

Soldiers continued to cough and die. Some screamed—either Whites struck with iron arrows, or Sarronnese burned with firebolts when their positions were overrun and they were forced from behind their stone barricades.

The cold wind whipped the fine white rock dust across the valley long after the fires died.

Two White Wizards studied the overrun Sarronnese position.

“They know how to use the stone to block the firebolts.”

“It didn’t help them much.” The heavier man glanced at a charred body with mere blue tatters cloaking the black obscenity that had been a woman. Only the gray blade remained intact, almost untouched.

“Not this time. We still lost two score of the Guard and probably four times that in the lancers and the White archers.” Zerchas looked back east to the high peaks of the Westhorns. “And we’re barely into Sarronnyn.”

“We can replace the lancers and archers.”

“I know. That’s not what bothers me.”

“The Guard, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s the Guard. If I had my way, the White lancers would lead. They’ll be useless if we ever fight a really good Black force—like Westwind was, or like the legion of Southwind. That’s when we’ll need the Guard. Or if Recluce ever acts. But the Council seems to think that the Guard was developed to safeguard cowardly wizards. Or shirttail relatives in white coats.” Zerchas snorted. “Bah!”

“What could we do?”

“Bring up a couple of those young, impatient hotheads. Like Derba or—what’s the arrogant one’s name—Beltar, that’s it. Let them use themselves up.”

“I don’t know. That…what about the chaos reserves?”

“Why did Cerryl insist on them? So we’d have them to use. Besides, Recluce has cheated anyway. Their fleet prob
ably uses five times the order the first fleet did—the ships are three times bigger and almost of all-black iron.”

“Beltar doesn’t like you.”

“I don’t like him. But he’ll come. Just flatter him. Tell him he’s indispensable. Young, self-important men always like to feel that way. He’ll come.” Zerchas stepped around another pile of charred bodies. “Send a message to Histen. He’s good at that sort of flattery.”

“You think Histen will—He’s not overly fond of you, either.”

“Of course he will. Beltar’s a danger to him in Fairhaven. Ever since Cerryl, you’ll notice that damned few High Wizards leave powerful Whites in Fairhaven. They say that’s because concentrating chaos is dangerous.” Zerchas laughed. “It is, and not just because of the corrosive effect on the city. It’s also dangerous to the health of the High Wizard.”

“You’re a cynical bastard.”

“So?” The White Wizard leaned into the wind as he walked toward the white-oak coach that flew his banner.

Justen looked at the traveling clothes on the bed, wondering if he could get them all in his pack.

Thrap…

“Come on in, Gunnar.” It had to be Gunnar. Even Justen could sense the order in the figure out in the hallway.

The sandy-haired wizard stepped into the clutter of the room. “You’re still packing at the last moment, I see.”

“Why do it any earlier than I have to?” Justen shrugged and cleared off the desk chair. “Have a seat.” He began to fold a heavy pair of work trousers.

Gunnar turned the chair to rest his arms across the back. “I’ve been thinking, Justen.”

Justen folded the shirt and stuffed it into the big brown pack. “Now, where are those—”

“I don’t like your going off to Sarronnyn. It doesn’t feel right.”

“You want me to back out?” Justen pulled the trousers and shirt back out of the pack. The spare boots had to go in first.

“No. I know you can’t do that. I talked to Turmin. He agreed with me. You engineers could benefit from a good Weather Wizard.”

“You’re going with us?”

Gunnar shook his head. “I can’t leave that quickly. I’ll come with the next group.”

Justen folded the shirt over the toes of the boots, then refolded the trousers. “What changed your mind? You seemed to think we wouldn’t have much effect.”

“I don’t know if we will. But you need a Weather Wizard. So I’m coming.”

Justen folded a work shirt into the pack.

Gunnar stood up. “You’ve got a lot to do. I’ll see you in the morning.” He patted Justen on the shoulder before leaving.

The engineer looked at the mess on the bed, wondering what he would do with it all. Gunnar was right, of course. He should not have waited so long to pack. He shrugged. Weather Wizard, indeed. He swallowed, then picked up the clean underclothes. They would fit in the pack. Somehow.

Justen walked up to the tree, old but ungnarled. Its spreading, heavy limbs arched into the green-blue sky, and the ground around the trunk was flat and covered with a carpet of short green grass.

Wondering, he looked down at the grass, for most old trees had roots that visibly twisted into the ground, and grass seldom grew close to those roots. And Recluce had no lorken that old, not as slowly as the black-wooded trees grew.

“Some things are indeed what they seem.” A slender young woman, dressed in brown, appeared beside the tree.
Her hair was spun-silver, not the silver of age but a glowing silver, the color shown in the few portraits of the great Creslin.

“Are you Llyse?” he asked, thinking that the weather mage’s sister had had spun-silver hair, according to the legends.

“No.” The melody of her voice rang a melancholy silver. “She died a long time ago. For you.”

“She died for Creslin, I think.” Justen wondered why he was explaining. He swallowed. “Who are you?”

“You order-wielders always put such stock in names.” She smiled. “You will know me when the time comes.”

“When will that be?”

“After Sarronnyn, you will find me…if you choose the true way. You cannot continue to hold chaos at bay with black iron. Look to the trees.”

Justen glanced at the tree. When he glanced back, the silver-haired woman was gone.

Darkness fell then, and Justen found himself lying on his back.

“Mmmhhh…” The words tumbled from his mouth before he sat up in his bed. His packs waited on the desk, looming there in the predawn darkness like two small mountains.

After Sarronnyn?
He squinted. The dream had seemed so real: the silver-haired woman, the enormous lorken, the mysterious conversation.
After Sarronnyn. Look to the trees
. What had she meant?

He lay back on the bed, but his eyes remained open as the grayness of dawn seeped into the room. What was the meaning of the dream? Was there any? Or was he just worried about the trip to Sarronnyn?

The
Clartham
, almost two hundred cubits of red oak and fir, stretched nearly the length of the western pier, her brightwork glistening in the midday sun. She carried but two masts, and a pair of high funnels rose just forward of where the mizzenmast would be on most ships.

“That’s a big ship,” murmured Clerve. An overstuffed pack and a black-leather case bearing his guitar rested by his feet.

“The Hamorians have bigger vessels. It takes something that big or bigger to handle even the Eastern Ocean. The Great Western Ocean’s supposed to be wider and rougher, though.” Justen brushed his hair from his forehead, glad of the cool morning breeze as he stood in the bright sunlight.

While he waited for Altara to finish her discussion with the blond Norland cargo-master, he studied the side paddle wheels, protruding another five cubits from the gently rounded midships curve of the trader, forward of the funnels. The paddle wheels necessitated the use of longer, braced gangways to reach the ship’s deck, and even a special crane for cargo loading and offloading.

Beside Altara rested three large and heavy-looking crates. In front of the crates waited the other four engineers: Nicos, Berol, Jirrl, and Quentel. On the other side of the engineering group stood Krytella and the two other healers, an older, wide-faced man and a stocky woman. Beside the three were their packs and two small crates.

Justen motioned to Krytella.

“Where’s Gunnar?” Krytella mouthed the words to avoid interrupting the discussion between Altara and the cargo-master.

Justen provided an exaggerated shrug. “He said he would be here,” he mouthed back, trying not to frown. Gunnar was never late; without fail, he planned ahead, even if he didn’t always look as if his mind followed his body.

Krytella looked uphill toward the Brotherhood barracks,
then back to the pier stones at her feet. Justen admired the planes of her cheeks, the clear, glowing skin.

“How long will it take?” asked Clerve, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin throat, his straw-colored hair spraying in every direction.

“To reach Rulyarth? From what I’ve heard, a good ten days. That’s if they don’t port someplace like Tyrhavven or Spidlaria.”

“That’s a long time to be on a ship, isn’t it?”

Behind Clerve, the cargo-master grinned even as he listened to Altara.

Justen grinned back. “It takes three to four times that long on the trip west from Jera to the easternmost point of Hamor. It’s even farther if you go that way to Nordla.”

Clerve shook his head and glanced beyond the black stones of the breakwater and out into the nearly flat waters of the Gulf of Candar.

“Those crates of tools?” asked the blond Nordlan officer, his eyes moving from Altara to the wooden boxes.

“They’re about seven stones apiece.” Altara looked down at the Nordlan, a man well above the average height of most from Recluce.

Justen buried a grin. Altara overtopped the tall Nordlan, and he suspected that the man was finding it hard to look up to the older engineer.

“Seven stones?”

“Metal-working tools. You can certainly handle a mere three crates on this monster. And don’t stick them in the bilges where they’ll rust. Then you can put the healers’ two small crates on top of ours.”

“And where, Honored Engineer, would you have me place them?”

“Never mind.” Altara squatted and picked up one of the crates, slinging it up onto a broad shoulder. “I’ll just put it where it belongs. Then you can put the others next to it.”

“Uh…”

“Engineers! Get your gear. You, too, Justen, Clerve. Don’t gape like some backhill type from Mattra.”

“We’ll follow the engineers.” Ninca, the chief healer,
picked up her pack, as did the wide-faced man. Then she looked at Altara. “You’ll make sure the supplies—”

“I’ll make sure,” Altara affirmed.

Krytella bent down for her pack.

Justen stooped and picked up the pair of heavy waterproofed canvas packs, wondering how he had gotten suckered into volunteering to stand off Fairhaven and the fearsome Iron Guard. The strange dream still lingered. Who or what was the silver-haired woman?

“Let’s get moving.” Altara marched toward the gangway.

Justen looked at the cargo-master trailing Altara and grinned. Even the Nordlans were finding it hard to deny her, and it was their ship.

“Justen!” Both Justen and Krytella looked up as Gunnar’s lanky figure marched along the pier. He waved a black staff.

“Get on board after your good-byes.” Altara shook her head. “Clerve…follow me.”

The apprentice looked at Justen. Justen nodded, then turned.

After a moment, Ninca inclined her head to Krytella before following the engineers.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Gunnar began, “but Turmin caught me at the dining hall…and then Warin stopped by to give me this for you.” Gunnar handed the shining black-iron-and-lorken staff to Justen. “He said you’d need it, even if you do think personal weapons are obsolete antiques.”

“But…” Justen shook his head as he took the staff. Warin? Giving up his prized staff? “I can’t take this.”

“You have to. He said he’d build a black-iron rocket and aim it at me if you didn’t. Anyway, that’s why I was late.”

“You’re here.” Justen grinned at his older brother. “And I’m sure that whatever Turmin said was important, too.” He shook his head again. “Warin…I can’t believe it.”

“What did Turmin say?” asked Krytella.

“He thinks it’s important that I take the next ship to Rulyarth.” The sandy-haired wizard shrugged and looked along the pier, where a half-score of port workers and Nordlans loaded boxes and bales into the cargo net of the crane, and
lowered his voice. “He’s talked to Gylart, and the old counselor told him something that has Turmin stirred up. Turmin wouldn’t tell me what, but he’s switched from reluctant agreement with my going to Sarronnyn to something like enthusiasm.”

“How do you feel about it?” Although Justen felt Krytella at his elbow, smelled the soft scent of trilia, and sensed her warmth, he continued to face his older brother.

“Worried, I guess.” Gunnar kept looking straight at Justen. “But you, younger brother…just take care of yourself.”

“At least until you get there?” Justen chuckled.

Gunnar hugged Justen for an instant before releasing him. “At least that long,” admitted the Black magician before looking at Krytella. “And you, Healer…make sure he takes care of himself.” He smiled quickly.

“I will, Gunnar.” Krytella’s eyes flicked to the stones of the pier for a moment. “And you take care of yourself on your trip.”

Justen swallowed at the not-so-hidden worry in the woman’s voice.

“We weather types have a little advantage there, but I’ll do what I can to see that your trip isn’t too rough.” Gunnar grinned, then added, inclining his head toward the gangway, “You’d better go.”

Justen glanced toward the ship and saw Altara striding back down the railed gangway, still trailed by the Nordlan cargo-master. “I suppose so.”

Gunnar stepped forward and gave Justen another hug, a quick one, which Justen returned. Then the weather mage patted Krytella on the shoulder and stepped back, watching as the two shouldered their packs. Justen held the staff in his left hand.

Altara marched up to the remaining crates. “Clerve’s waiting up there to show you our spaces.” She lifted another crate and turned to the cargo-master. “Can you or your boys get the last one of ours and the two for the healers and put them all together?”

“We can manage, Engineer. We have loaded the ship a few times.”

“You know…you Nordlans didn’t invent the steamship.”

“But we’re the best long-haul traders in the world, Honorable Engineer.”

“Well said!” Altara grinned, turned, and paused, looking at the three still standing on the pier. “I said to stop gawking.”

Justen motioned to Krytella, and the healer led the way up the gangway.

Clerve stood just forward of the funnels and waved as he saw Justen. “Over here, Ser.”

Krytella and Justen followed the apprentice down an open staircase.

“It’s a ladder, they say,” explained Clerve.

The Recluce contingent shared three narrow rooms, each with four bunks. The forward bunk room was for Altara and the chief healer, Ninca, and her consort Castin, the broad-faced healer. Justen found himself assigned the bunk over Clerve in the room with Nicos and Quentel. Krytella shared the aft-most cabin with Berol and Jirrl, the two women engineers.

After stuffing his packs into a doorless cubby at the foot of his too-short bunk and laying the black staff to one side, Justen made his way topside, where he joined Krytella at the starboard railing of the
Clartham
, midway between the bowsprit and the paddles. They watched silently as the lines were singled up, then reeled in, and as smoke poured from the funnels and the paddles slowly turned.

The vibration from the heavy iron engines crept through the timbers of the ship and through Justen’s heavy boots. Slowly, slowly, the
Clartham
pulled away from the pier and eased into the channel.

“I wish Gunnar were coming with us instead of traveling later.” Krytella watched the pier from where Gunnar had waved before turning and walking back up the hill, apparently oblivious to Krytella’s tears and her eyes focused upon him.

How could Gunnar know the weather hundreds or thousands of kays distant and not see the love in a woman’s eyes
from less than two cubits away? Justen refrained from shaking his head.

“To begin with, he hadn’t planned on coming at all.”

“I know. He decided to come because he worries about you.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can.” Krytella sniffed. “But caring about someone doesn’t have to make a lot of sense.”

Justen wanted to bite his tongue. Instead, he said softly, “You’re right. We don’t always think of things that way.”

“Excuse me, Justen. I need to find Ninca.” Krytella turned and headed aft.

Justen watched until her green-clad figure disappeared down the ladder. He looked back at the sun hanging over the stone pillars marking the channel and then westward at the gentle swells of the Gulf of Candar.

After he’d turned back and studied the twin funnels, which reached nearly fifty cubits above the deck, Justen eased past two seamen coiling a line and made his way aft to the ladder that led toward the huge steam engine. He climbed down and ducked through a narrow doorway.

The metal boiler walls already panted like a spent dog, even as the
Clartham
’s engineman checked the wedges bracing the iron. The smell of hot oil permeating the space, the muted hissing of the huge pistons, and the low rumble of the gears assaulted Justen.

“Who ye be?” shouted a heavy voice.

“Justen.”

“Ah, you’re a Black engineer! We’ll have no secrets from ye!” shouted the
Clartham
’s engineman. The wizened gnome grinned at Justen. “What think ye, Engineer?”

“Impressive.” Justen let his senses drift across the engine and the firebox, recoiling slightly at the high level of chaos and the small margin of safety between the order of the iron and the power it contained. “You run close to the limits.”

“She’ll hold. Captain Verlew says trade goes to the swift, and the
Clartham
’s one of the swiftest, save for your ships, of course. But we’re close, leastwise, to your traders. Except
for that demon Ryltar—he drives his ships closer to the edge than we do.” The engineman frowned. “Wouldn’t want to run engines for him, Black ship or no. Suppose that’s why he holds the east-west Hamor runs.” The engineman checked the gauge and added another wedge.

Justen tried not to wince at the stresses on the boiler. Instead, he nodded and let his senses run over the gears and the shafts to the paddle wheels, much simpler than the turbines of the latest Recluce ships. But without order-strengthened black iron, the Nordlans were limited in what their boilers could handle.

He frowned, recalling a passage from one of Dorrin’s old texts, claiming that anything other than low-pressure steam engines would be impossible without using black iron. Yet the
Clartham
’s boiler was certainly not low-pressure, not with a fifty-cubit draft on three funnels.

As the engineman adjusted the steam flow and checked the bearings and lubrication, Justen leaned back against the ladder and continued to study the engine system.