The Order War (8 page)

The wind cut out of the northeast like a cold knife, slashing across Justen’s uncovered face. The morning sun, bright in the green-blue sky, provided light but little heat. Justen flexed his fingers inside his heavy leather gloves, thankful that he had brought both the warm sheepskin coat and the gloves.

Altara stood on the lookout’s catwalk, halfway between the bridge and the port lookout’s station, one gloved hand on the railing, gesturing with the other as she talked to the blond cargo-master, who occasionally leaned out of the bridge house.

Berol and Nicos hung over the starboard railing, clearly miserable from the twisting and pitching of the trader.

Overhead, the sails billowed, occasionally cracking in the wind, and the engine beneath the deck lay silent, only
enough heat in the boiler to allow for a quick firing up.

North of the
Clartham
, a Black ship kept station, having joined the Nordlan trader as she passed north of the Sligan coast. The dark bow of the older Black ship—the
Dorrin—
cut through the chop of the Northern Ocean. White spray cascaded across the bow, occasionally reaching the single gun of the turret.

“Some escort,” observed the Nordlan seaman who re-coiled the line he had coiled the afternoon before. “Looks mean. Glad it’s on our side. Leastwise, we won’t have any boarding parties from the Whites this trip.”

“Do they do that often?” asked Justen, grabbing the rail to keep from being tossed against the bearded sailor.

“Nah…just to remind us that they’re the boss. You bow and scrape and they leave you alone.”

“Like you do in Nylan?” Justen kept his face straight.

“Well…”

Justen grinned.

“Yeah. We’re just traders, and we need to get along.”

“Serren! Stop jawing. Get moving!” The lean female third mate gestured toward the mainmast, where a handful of men and women swarmed upward. “Looks like a bad squall’s moving in.”

The seaman gave a last twist to the rope and eased languidly toward the mast.

Justen turned back to watch the
Dorrin
. Would the first engineer have wanted a ship named after him? Somehow, Justen doubted it.

Clerve, Altara, Justen, Berol, and Krytella stood near the bow as the
Clartham
’s paddle wheels carried the trader into Rulyarth.

Once again Justen sensed the thin edge between chaos and order within the heavy iron engine below. He doubted that the ship would make more than a handful of trips before the
boiler or the cylinders or the steam lines—or something—blew apart. He wiped his forehead in the still air.

“It’s bigger than Nylan or Land’s End. A whole bunch bigger.” Clerve pointed toward the four long piers jutting out into the harbor. “Look at the ships. What’s the big one?”

“That’s a Hamorian trader.” The lean third mate paused by the Recluce group, a grin creasing her wide mouth. “Big and sloppy.”

The air over Rulyarth was clear, with the pink stone buildings of the port silhouetted against the blue-green sky.

“It’s pretty,” offered Berol. “They build mostly with stone, don’t they?”

Justen sniffed once, then again. The harbor smelled faintly of dead fish and seaweed.

“Everything important’s built of stone, and the stone’s just like Sarronnyn and the Sarronnese,” offered the third mate. “Pretty, hard, and backward. They don’t do much with steam or engines. That’s probably why they’re going to lose to Fairhaven.” Standing by Justen’s shoulder, she stopped, then nudged him. “What’s a handsome young fellow like you doing here? Just going out to throw your life away against those White devils?”

“The Whites aren’t exactly invincible.” Justen flashed a smile, then continued to study the heavy-timbered wharves as the paddle wheels reversed to kill the ship’s momentum. The words of the dream—“after Sarronnyn”—popped into his head. What would happen in Sarronnyn? Could they help the Sarronnese stop the Whites, or would it be a futile effort?

“Maybe not, but a handful of you are going to stop them when the best troops left in Candar aren’t succeeding? What a waste.” The third glanced toward the bowsprit, then marched toward a sailor. “Get that back in shape!” Her arm pointed at an uncoiled line. The seaman’s shoulders slumped.

“She’s rather sweet on you.” Krytella edged closer to the worn wood of the railing and looked at the gray harbor water churned up by the paddle wheels.

“She also has a tongue sharper than a blade.”

The faintest hint of sulfur and cinders mixed with the odor
of dead fish as a gust of wind whipped across the deck. The paddles slowed, and the
Clartham
eased against the rope-covered bumpers of the pier; a strained creaking joined the whistle of the wind and the muffled splashes of the paddle wheels.

“Lines tight! Now!” The third’s voice rasped over the background noises like a file across cold iron.

“Her voice is more like a file,” observed Altara from behind Justen.

“Justen has such charm.” Krytella laughed gently, openly. “Especially with the savage beasts.”

“Thank you.” Justen bowed, then grasped the railing to catch his balance as the ship, after rebounding from the pier, shuddered at the end of the taut mooring lines.

“Double up, and walk her in!”

“Get your gear on deck.” Altara walked toward the ladder below without waiting for an acknowledgment.

The others followed.

In time, the Recluce contingent marched down the gangway to the pier. Justen’s pack rested easily on his back, cushioned by wide straps. He carried Warin’s black staff in his left hand. Already the staff had begun to feel as though it belonged to him. After stepping onto the pier, he shook his head at the thought—an obsolete staff, his?

An officer in a gold-braided jacket, accompanied by two Sarronnese troopers—all of them in the traditional blue and cream—waited on the weathered planks of the wharf. The officer’s eyes darted from Justen’s black staff to Altara. Then she bowed slightly to the senior engineer. “Section Leader Merwha.”

“Altara. I’m the chief engineer of the group. This is Ninca. She is the chief healer.”

The dark-haired and stocky healer nodded curtly.

“Only ten of you?” the officer asked.

“That’s seven engineers and three healers.” Altara looked down on the officer. “Dorrin was only one, and he managed to destroy half of the White forces in Spidlar.”

“He also failed to win.”

“You have a point.” Altara grinned. “There will also be
a Black marine detachment following, as well as a Weather Wizard.”

“How soon?”

Altara shrugged. “Whenever the next ship from Nylan gets here.”

“Trusting the Legend, let’s hope it won’t be too long. Now a Weather Wizard, one like the great Creslin—that would be a help.”

Justen shook his head. Trust the Balance to set Gunnar up as the saving hero.

“So when will this great wizard be arriving?”

“When the great winds arrive, of course,” added Justen with a faint grin.

Altara shook her head, half in affirmation.

“Can you all ride?” Merwha gestured toward a stone-and-timber building standing on a rise behind the pier. “That’s where we’re headed. The horses are stabled there.”

“One way or another,” responded Altara. “Some of the engineers, I suspect, haven’t had much practice lately.”

“Practice they’ll get. It’s a seven-day ride to the capital at Sarron. How much cargo did you bring?”

“I’d guess about a wagon’s worth. Twenty stone-worth of tools and materials, and—” Altara gestured toward Ninca. “How much in the way of healing goods and equipment?”

The green-clad healer inclined her head. “We did not weigh it all, but we have two large crates and two small ones. Certainly less than the twenty stone of the engineers.”

“Sirle, have them bring the wagon here,” ordered Merwha.

The darker of the two Sarronnese troopers turned from the
Clartham
and began to walk shoreward, her steps light on the weathered timbers despite her heavy boots.

Merwha shifted her attention back to Altara. “Once they have your crates unshipped, the wagon crew can load while we get you mounted and ready to travel.”

“There is one thing,” Altara added. “According to the agreement, there is a stipend for food…and, of course, all iron and charcoal are to be supplied.”

“You sure you’re not from Nordla?” asked Merwha.

“I’d rather have it straight before we’ve ridden six days.”

“The Tyrant suspected you might.” Merwha unstrapped a leather purse and offered it. “That was for a larger contingent. I trust it will last somewhat longer.”

“We always stick to our agreements.”

Merwha nodded. “Unlike some.”

“Unlike some,” Altara agreed.

Justen glanced back at the
Clartham
before studying the pier: a long structure anchored on round wooden posts—logs stripped and planed roughly into shape—nearly a cubit across. He tapped his staff on the heavy planks, weathered and gray. The dull thud and vibration of the staff against his hand confirmed the pier’s solidity.

At the end of the pier, Trooper Sirle reached the waiting wagon, and with a flick of a whip, the teamster on the seat started the two-horse team toward the
Clartham
.

Only the faintest vibration traveled up through Justen’s boots. Even with the heavy wagon rolling out to the ship, the pier felt nearly as solid as if it had been built of stone.

“Easy, horse. Easy…” Justen patted the beast’s neck, taking care not to lean too far forward. According to his limited order-senses, his mount was old, docile, and without even a rudimentary sense of self-identity. Justen’s lips twisted. He’d known statues with more awareness, but at least the gray had no interest in contesting who might be master—a contest Justen felt he probably wouldn’t win with a more spirited mount such as the one Altara rode.

The chief engineer edged the bay up beside him. “How are you doing?”

“That depends on how far we have to go.” The junior engineer glanced at the hard-packed clay that ran in a gentle curve roughly south for about a kay before swinging southwest toward what appeared to be a bridge. His eyes flicked to the heavy gray sky. “I just hope it doesn’t rain for a while.”

“I’m no Weather Wizard, but it probably won’t rain until later, not until after we’re off the road. Merwha says we’ll be staying in the inn next to the barracks in that town ahead.”

“What town?” snorted Nicos. “There’s a bridge and a wide spot in the road.”

“It’s at least as wide as Turnhill,” quipped Jirrl. “Maybe even wider, and this place has a river worthy of the name.”

Nicos opened his mouth, closed it, and grinned. “Fair enough. I suppose I deserved that, even if…” He shook his head. “But Turnhill is a prettier sight, I daresay.”

Clerve, riding behind Nicos on a mare even more swaybacked than Justen’s, smiled broadly. Altara urged the bay forward to rejoin the Sarronnese officer.

Justen’s smile slipped as he swatted at a large fly that buzzed around his right ear. The fly evaded the motion and headed for the other ear, but Justen’s fingers were quicker. “Got you!” He wiped off his fingers on the gray’s shoulder. The horse plodded on.

Another fly buzzed toward him. Justen swatted, but missed.

“Why don’t you set a ward?” suggested Krytella, riding up beside him.

“Wards aren’t exactly that easy when you’re moving. Besides, I’m an engineer, not a mage or a healer.”

“It’s not that hard. It didn’t take Gunnar very long to learn. Let me show you.” Krytella eased her mount closer to Justen and brushed a stray red hair back off her forehead. “Just let your senses feel the pattern.”

Justen closed his eyes and tried to block out visual distractions and the conversations of the other riders. Even so, he couldn’t help but overhear parts of what was being said.

“…not see a lovelier stream than the Eddywash…not like this flowing brown bog they call a river…”

“…Iron Guard and the White lancers…isn’t much left of Deneris…”

Justen wrenched his senses back to the patterns Krytella wove.

“Do you see?” the healer asked.

“Can you do it again?”

As she repeated the gentle order-spinning, Justen tried to mimic her manipulations.

“You almost had it! Try it again.”

Justen tried once more.

“Not quite. I’ll do it again.”

After several more demonstrations by the redheaded healer, Justen finally wove a thin order-web around the gray and himself.

“Thank you ever so much, Master Justen.” Clerve swatted at several flies and nearly fell from his swaybacked mount, his hand swinging past the guitar case as he regained his balance.

“I’m sorry.” Justen concentrated, then sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he set a second ward around the apprentice engineer.

“That won’t last,” warned Krytella. “He didn’t set it himself.”

“I know, but maybe the flies will bother someone else and forget about Clerve.”

“How did you do that, Justen?” asked the apprentice.

“I followed the healer’s instructions. But it won’t stay too long, so enjoy it.” Justen pursed his lips. Something about the wards bothered him, not that he could exactly understand why.

“I told you that you could do it.”

Justen grinned.

“You might make a mage or a wizard yet.”

“Hardly.”

“Here comes the bridge. Will we really get to stop?” asked Clerve.

“Of course.” Krytella glanced to her right, where the sun still hung well above the river and the western horizon. “We might even get to see what we’re eating for dinner.”

“It’s supper here.” Berol’s voice drifted forward above the muffled thuds of hooves on the damp clay of the road.

Less than fifty cubits from the bridge stood a kaystone bearing a single name: Lornth. Merwha reined in until the Recluce contingent closed up, then eased her chestnut forward.

More of the hard pink stones formed the two-span bridge over the River Sarron, now scarcely a hundred cubits wide. The paving blocks that comprised the roadway were hollowed with use. An old man with a broom watched from the far end as the Sarronnese officer led her charges across.

Justen glanced over his shoulder after crossing. The sweeper was back at work. “I wonder if each bridge has a sweeper.”

“Probably,” said Nicos. “They’re all clean, and that’s more than I could say about the ones I saw in Lydiar last year. Most of them filthy and grimy.”

On each side of the road stood single-storied buildings. Each building’s walls were smooth-finished, as if plastered, in a pink so pale that it was almost white.

Justen extended his senses to discover that each wall was in fact brick covered with a hard surface. “How do they finish the walls?” He turned in the saddle toward Nicos.

The other engineer shrugged.

“It’s a local cement, I think.” Berol’s voice carried over the echo of hooves on the stone pavement of the town street leading toward a square. “Clay and burned limestone crushed together into a powder. Some of the red clays allow it to dry even underwater. They probably use it for the bridge piers.”

Nicos shrugged; Justen grinned.

The murmur of voices in the central square died away as Merwha led the contingent around to the right. Neither grass nor sculpture graced the square, which was merely an open, stone-paved expanse surrounded by two- and three-storied buildings. Justen saw a chandlery, a cooper’s shop, and a dry-goods store—where one of the traditional maroon Sarronnese carpets, showing four-pointed curled stars, hung in the window. A handful of carts stood in a rough rectangle on the stones in the middle of the square. Less than a score of Sarronnese—peddlers and their customers—were scattered about. All remained silent as Merwha led the double line of riders out of the square and down another stone-paved street.

“…Black bastards.”

“Hush…maybe they’ll help…”

“…don’t know who’s worse…”

Once they had left the square, the murmurs behind increased.

“And they want more of us?” Quentel’s voice carried back from near the head of the column.

A small boy darted from an alley, saw the horses and the seven black-clad riders, and dashed back into the shadows.

Merwha reined up before a long timber-and-brick building. “Your mounts will be stabled here.” She pointed across the street to a two-story building whose facade bore the image of a tilted bowl with liquid flowing out. Under the faded image were the words,
The Overflowing Bowl
, in Temple script. “You’ll stay there tonight. The Tyrant pays for your lodging, but your meals are yours.”

Justen nodded at the almost ritualistic phrases that Merwha had uttered every night.

“We leave at the second morning bell. Tomorrow night, with luck, we’ll be in Sarron itself.”

Gingerly, Justen dismounted. His legs did hold him, although the muscles above his knees cramped for a moment.

“Use the end stalls!” Merwha added with a motion toward the section of the stable farthest from the inn.

Justen flicked the reins and walked tiredly toward the end of the stable. The gray lumbered after him.

“It feels good to walk.” Altara fell in beside the younger engineer.

“It will feel better to sit down…I think.” Justen turned toward an open stall, leading the gray to the manger and tying the reins. Then he unfastened his pack and the black staff and leaned them against the wall before beginning to loosen the saddle girth.

By the time he had unsaddled, watered, fed, and brushed the placid gray, thrown his gear over his shoulder, picked up the staff, and closed the stall door, most of the others were waiting, except for Nicos and Clerve, who straggled out as he watched.

“Men…always bringing up the rear.” Altara smiled after she spoke, then gestured toward the inn. “Let’s go.”

“You’d rather we brought up…the front?” asked Justen with a wide smile.

“Justen…you might be promising more than you can deliver.”

“It could be fun to see,” added Jirrl.

Even before they reached the sign above the double doors, a young woman in trousers emerged and bowed to Altara. Her eyes flicked from Altara’s blade to Justen’s black staff. “You are the travelers from far Recluce?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” answered the chief engineer.

“If you would follow me…”

“Lead on.” Altara’s voice was cheerfully resigned.

“They expect miracles,” muttered Quentel.

“Then we’ll have to deliver them,” answered Jirrl.

“Easy enough for you to say, woman,” retorted Nicos. “Most of us can’t charm the iron the way you can. We need hammers.”

Justen grinned. The only things soft about Jirrl were her manners and her voice. Her arms were as hard as the black iron she forged with such apparent ease.

The entry foyer was vacant except for those from Recluce and their guide.

“The five rooms on the second floor are yours. No one else is staying here tonight, but the public room—” she turned and pointed through the archway—“serves some of the officers from the Tyrant’s forces. Some others, too. Supper begins at the first bell. That’s not long.” She bowed to Altara.

“Thank you.” Altara returned the bow. “Put your gear in your rooms, and wash up, if you’re so minded. Then we’ll eat together.”

The narrow stairs creaked, and the dark wood, although recently restained, was worn.

Altara and Krytella took the corner room, while Clerve and Justen ended up in the one that resembled a large pantry and contained just two beds and an open cabinet with three shelves. An empty basin and pitcher stood on the cabinet, and two worn towels were folded beside them.

After testing the beds, Justen tossed his pack on the one that seemed marginally harder and set the staff in the corner. Then he opened the shutters and looked out at the back wall
of the barracks, then down at the narrow alley separating the two buildings.

“I’ll get the water, ser,” Clerve offered.

“Thanks.” Justen nodded and sat on the edge of the bed. He really wanted a shower, or even a bath. Neither seemed popular in Candar, although his nose was slowly becoming accustomed to the local variety of odors, most of them vaguely disagreeable.

He stood up and took two steps back to the window, trying not to sneeze at the dust raised when his sleeve brushed the dusty sill. If he sat, his buttocks ached. If he stood, his legs ached.

“Here’s the water.” Clerve grinned. “I brought a bucketfull, too.”

Justen turned and smiled back, reaching for the bucket.

Cold as the water was, he not only washed, but shaved, and felt almost rested by the time he tossed the last of the wash water out the window and descended to meet the others in the foyer.

Even though the first bell had sounded, only two small tables were occupied, one by a Sarronnese officer, the other by a local couple.

Altara studied the public room. “No large tables. Those two in the corner…”

Nicos, Berol, and Jirrl sat with Ninca and her husband Castin at the corner table. Krytella joined the other engineers—Altara, Clerve, Justen, and Quentel—at the next table, set along the wall of rough-hewn pink stone. A fresh-faced serving girl, her flame-red hair braided into a single pigtail that fell between her shoulder blades, stepped up to the table. “We have dark ale, pale beer…some redberry, and red wine.”

“What about food?” asked Altara.

“We have fish stew or burkha. There might be a mutton chop or two still left…” She looked toward the kitchen and lowered her voice. “But the chops are a mite strong, if you know what I mean.”

Justen nodded wryly. Strong mutton chops would have him tasting sheep for days.

Altara pursed her lips. “What’s best—the burkha or the stew?”

“They are both tasty, although our…travelers…often prefer the stew. The burkha is spicy. They’re both three pennies, and so are the drinks, except for the redberry. That’s two.”

“Does the fish stew taste like fish?” asked Justen.

The serving girl smiled. “It is a fish stew, Ser.”

“I’ll have the burkha and the dark ale.”

Altara raised an eyebrow, but added, “The fish stew and the redberry.”

All the others had redberry, and only Castin, in addition to Justen, chose burkha.

“Redheads are rare here,” observed Krytella as the serving girl headed for the kitchen.

“She’s got hair more flamed than yours, Healer,” said Jirrl. “Would you not say so, Justen?”

Justen fingered the battered edge of the table and nodded. He preferred the darker red of Krytella’s hair.

In the far corner, the local couple, a gray-haired man and a younger woman, glanced again toward the Recluce tables, then stood abruptly and walked out.

The Sarronnese officer grinned and shook her head before taking a last swallow from her mug and raising it to indicate the need for a refill.

“Dark ale.” The words accompanied the thump as the serving girl set a heavy mug before Justen. “Redberry the rest of the way around.” She looked at Justen. “Three for you, Ser, and two for each of the others.”

Justen fumbled in his pouch for a moment before extracting the three coins. The serving girl scooped up the coins in a swift, sweeping movement, then turned and recovered the empty mug from the Sarronnese officer.

After taking a sip of the warm and bitter brew, the junior engineer massaged the muscles above his left knee. They had stopped aching for the moment, at least. For the first days of the trip, he hadn’t been sure if they ever would.

“Still sore?” Quentel set his mug—almost completely hidden by his massive hands—back on the table.