The Order War (9 page)

“It’s getting better.”

“You should have practiced a few other antique skills, like riding,” suggested Altara. “Do you want to spar after supper?”

“No. I want to rest.”

“I’ll spar,” Quentel volunteered.

Altara winced. “Countering your wand or staff is like hitting an iron bar.”

“I could try,” suggested Krytella.

“I suppose it would be good for me,” Justen admitted.

Altara grinned. “You and Quentel together. I’ll work with the healer.”

“More bruises,” grumped Justen.

“I doubt it,” rumbled Quentel. “You never stand still long enough.”

“I’m not quite as nimble now.”

“Good!”

Justen groaned.

The serving girl slid a brown stoneware plate in front of Justen, and a second before Altara, sitting to his right, then continued around the tables, dropping the plates quickly. Last, she placed a still-steaming loaf of brown bread in the middle of each table.

Altara looked at her platter and then at Justen’s. “You do have a way with them, don’t you?”

Justen looked from his plate to the chipped stoneware before Altara, from the heaping stack of browned meat covered with a white sauce to the two slices before the senior engineer. A stack of green leaves rested next to Justen’s meat, compared to three small leaves on Altara’s plate.

“He certainly does.” Krytella glanced at her platter, nearly a mirror of Altara’s. Both women shook their head.

Justen speared a small section of the meat, sliced it in two and stuffed half in his mouth. He grabbed for the ale and took a quick swallow.

“I see you’re enjoying the burkha.” A hint of laughter pervaded Altara’s words. “Try the bread, if it’s too hot.”

Justen took another swallow from the mug, followed with a mouthful of warm bread. Then, still chewing, he held the empty mug aloft to catch the serving girl’s eye. “Bread
helps…didn’t realize it was
that
hot,” he mumbled.

“There are lots of things we often don’t realize,” added Ninca. The older healer leaned toward Altara from the adjoining table and asked the chief engineer, “Do you know what sort of quarters we’ll have in Sarron?”

“I’ve been assured that they’re more than adequate.” Altara’s tone was dry. “And there’s plenty of clean water, Merwha told me. They think we have some sort of obsession with washing.”

“We do,” laughed Quentel.

The serving girl took Justen’s empty mug, flipping her braid by his face as she left to get a refill.

Justen shook his head. The ones he didn’t want wanted him, and the one he wanted didn’t even seem to acknowledge that he was anything other than Gunnar’s younger brother. And, of course, Gunnar wasn’t interested in Krytella except as a friend, just as Krytella wasn’t more than friendly to Justen himself.
Is life always so perverse? Or is it that people always want what they can’t have?
He looked at the remaining chunks of meat and carved off a thinner slice, slipping it into his mouth carefully. His forehead still perspired, but he was beginning to enjoy the taste: a strange mixture of sweetness, nuttiness, and fire.

He ate another piece of burkha, nodding as the serving girl replaced his empty mug with a full one. Even the leaves in the burkha didn’t taste too bad.

“I think he actually likes that stuff, Krytella,” said Altara.

“Hot breath won’t help you in sparring,” added Quentel.

Justen thought about Krytella’s adoring looks at his absent brother Gunnar and took another slice of burkha. Sparring might be a relief of sorts.

Justen reined up the gray and looked uphill at the south wall of the smithy. Beside the wall ran an antique millrace. Was it still serviceable, or merely an ancient miller’s dream?

A jagged line of white planks contrasted with the weathered boards that comprised the majority of the smithy’s wall. He glanced toward the sprawling house, then at the outbuildings. All bore similar patterns of rebuilding, including a scattering of fresh red tiles on the house roof that stood out from the faded, almost rose color of the older tiles.

“Rather hasty repairs.”

“Ser?” asked Clerve.

Beyond the smithy was a single new building, low and long, a repetition of the Sarronnese barracks they had been quartered near for almost every night of their trip. The entire holding lay close to two kays below the outer wall to Sarron proper and stood by itself in the middle of hillside meadows that sloped up toward the pink granite of the city. Justen nodded. The Tyrant might accept help, but the Blacks of Recluce would be quartered outside the city.

“This is your…area, Chief Engineer,” announced Merwha.

“Safely outside Sarron, I see.” Altara’s tone was dry.

“The people of Recluce are known for their desire for privacy.”

“Far be it from us to disabuse that notion.” Altara nudged her mount toward the smithy.

Justen and Clerve followed, with the Sarronnese officers trailing.

After dismounting and tying her mount, Altara slid open the wide door to the smithy. Her eyes swept around the twin forges. Although the smithy had been recently cleaned and the hard-packed clay floor was swept bare, Justen could sense bits of metal buried deep in the clay. Both of the great bellows showed new leather and bright metalwork.

“Not used in years, then cleaned up in a hurry.” The chief engineer snorted. “Still, it’ll do for a start. We’ll need another forge, probably.” She turned to Nicos. “Let’s get everything unloaded. We’ve got work to do—lot’s of it, from what we’ve seen already.” She paused. “Justen, you and Clerve take care of the tools. Get them out and put together some racks and what have you.”

Justen nodded.

The chief engineer turned to Quentel. “Can you unload
the wagon and get the crates in there for Justen to organize?”

Justen looked toward the healers and watched Castin unstrap a large bag, which he lifted single-handedly. Justen frowned, then grinned as he realized that the bag held flower petals for the chickens that Castin insisted he would be raising.

Clerve sighed. His fingers strayed across the leather guitar case.

“It’s not that bad.” Justen grinned. “Do you want to sweep out the old farmhouse?”

“I’ll help with the tools, Ser.”

Justen tapped on the flatter, trying to smooth the plate on the anvil. He wished Clerve would get back with the charcoal. Working with a striker was far easier than working alone to fuller the plates into the thin sheets necessary for the rocket casings.

Toward the back of the smithy, Altara and Quentel wrestled with the big wheel they were attempting to install as part of a makeshift hammer mill. Justen took a deep breath. Having a hammer mill might help in the rough fullering. But without the use of a blast furnace, the hammer mill would be essentially cold-forming, even with the power from the small millrace, and almost as tedious as hot fullering.

Berol and Jirrl were alternating use of the small lathe, truing the rocket heads and waiting for Justen and Nicos to form more casings. Then they would slip the flush-riveted casings over the molding frame and true and smooth the outsides to reduce the chaos created by the air when the rocket was fired.

Justen lifted the hammer and repositioned the flatter. Maybe the hammer mill would help.

Hoofbeats drummed into the smithy between the strokes of the hammer, and some of the red dust of Sarronnyn
seemed to precede the Sarronnese messenger. She strode into the smithy, glanced around at the engineers, then drew herself up. “I seek Chief Engineer Altara.”

Altara set aside the tongs and wiped her forehead. “Yes?”

“You are…the chief engineer?”

“None other. We’re working. Engineers’ work is dirty work. What would you like?”

“Ah…Ser…Section Leader Merwha would like to inform you that the detachment of Recluce marines and the Weather Wizard will be here shortly. They have just turned off the river road onto the Tyrant’s Highway.”

Altara nodded. “Thank you.”

The messenger waited.

“Thank you,” Altara repeated. “I can’t do much until they actually get here. Convey our thanks and respects to Section Leader Merwha.”

Justen grinned as the messenger looked at the packed clay floor, then saluted and departed.

“No wonder they can’t win a war…always interested in announcements…” mumbled Nicos from the adjoining forge.

“That goes for all of you. You can greet them when they get here.”

Justen lifted the hammer again…and again.

Even after the clopping of hooves and two blasts from a trumpet, Justen continued to hammer out the last casing section until it needed another heat. Then he set aside the hammer and wiped his dripping forehead on his ragged upper sleeve.

“You don’t believe much in formalities and ritual, do you?” asked Quentel.

Justen jumped, so silently had the big engineer slipped up beside him.

“Wish I could get that kind of jump on you in sparring,” Quentel joked.

“You did well enough.” Justen fingered the still-healing bruise on his shoulder.

Quentel laughed. “I have half a dozen. For a man who says that personal weapons are obsolete, Master Justen, you
do rather well. Darkness help us if you took them seriously.”

“But I do.” Justen shrugged. “I have to, since everyone else does.” He blotted his face on his sleeve. “Shall we go greet the new arrivals?”

The two were the last to leave the smithy.

Krytella was already talking to Gunnar.

“…Sarronnese…don’t even understand how much astra adds to the effect of boiling water…and…”

“Justen!” Gunnar looked over the healer’s head toward his brother. “You look like you’ve been sweating up a good storm.”

“We’ve been busy. How was your trip? Not that you’d let it get too rough.”

“Turmin insisted that I not meddle with the weather unless the ship was threatened.” Gunnar shrugged. “It was fine, so I enjoyed the sunshine.”

“Our crossing was too chill to enjoy any warmth.” Justen gave his brother a wry smile. “How was the ride from Rulyarth?”

“Horses are horses. I’m sore.”

“So was I. It passes.” A figure in marine blacks caught Justen’s eye, leading a horse toward the stables at the end of the recently built barracks. Justen studied the marine for a moment before turning back to Gunnar.

“Why’s Firbek here?”

“He’s a marine, and this is the first real fight in centuries.” Gunnar glanced toward the barracks, where the marines continued to unload. “I also understand that the good Counselor Ryltar prevailed upon Firbek.”

“But why?”

“I thought you knew,” interjected Krytella. “Firbek and Ryltar are cousins. He wanted Firbek to be here so he could get a firsthand report he could trust. Ryltar’s not at all in favor of anyone from Recluce being here. People say there was quite an argument in the Council.”

“Hmmm…” Justen pursed his lips.

“Well, Council politics aren’t going to get this beast curried and watered.” Gunnar laughed.

“I’ll help,” offered Krytella.

“I suppose I’d better get back to the forge.” Justen took a deep breath. “I’ll talk to you at dinner—supper, I guess they call it here.” He watched for a moment as Gunnar and Krytella led the the bay toward the stables. He cleared his throat and headed back into the smithy.

Thankful for the high clouds that reduced the midday heat from oppressive to merely uncomfortable, Justen crossed the yard from the smithy to the old house that quartered the healers and held the makeshift dining room—public room for both the marines and the engineers.

Cheeep…eeeep…eeeppp…

On the north side of the house was the small pen that had held the chicks. Now half-grown and half-feathered, they pecked in the claylike soil between their feedings. One came up with a fragment of a dried flower petal, cheeping with success.

“How long do you think before we can have some fowl?” asked Clerve.

Justen glanced at the parti-colored birds. “A while yet, I’d say.”

“I’m getting tired of potato soup and noodles and dried beef.”

Justen nodded, then wiped his forehead. Clouds or no clouds, it was still hot, and much hotter than on Recluce. His eyes flicked toward the garden, flourishing despite the heavy, clayey soil. He clumped up the steps onto the porch and toward the open door, stepping aside as one of the younger marines left, shaking water from his hands.

“Good luck, Engineers. More noodles and spiced beef, if you can call it beef.”

The engineer nodded politely at the marine. Castin’s cooking wasn’t nearly so bad as the marine said, but Justen suspected that some of the judgment lay in the marine’s assignment to clean-up duty. The marines always ate first,
since, even with two long trestle tables crammed into the room, it wasn’t really big enough for the score of marines alone, let alone the engineers and healers.

Most of the engineers and the others had already seated themselves by the time Justen and Clerve entered. With the heat from the hearth that Castin had converted to a makeshift stove, and with the inevitable burning grease, the ends of the two long trestle tables nearest the kitchen remained empty. Justen suspected that in winter, the ends by the drafty windows would be empty, not that any of the engineers really anticipated being in Sarronnyn through the winter—one way or the other.

“Well, if it isn’t Justen.”

Justen tried to keep from blushing, but failed. It wasn’t his fault if there were always more things to do than he had time for. He seated himself next to Jirrl and across the table from Gunnar and Krytella. Clerve sat on his left.

Eyes turned toward Castin as he set a large bowl of noodles on the end of each table.

“Noodles again?” asked Berol.

“They’re egg noodles. They’re good for you. My hens are laying now.”

“They’re still noodles,” said Nicos.

“I know, I know,” expounded Castin. “It’s only noodles and seasoned beef. But the noodles are much better than you’ll find in Sarron—”

“That’s not saying much, Master Cook.” Quentel’s voice was gruff, but his eyes smiled.

Castin shrugged and turned back toward his kitchen, returning almost immediately with two more bowls filled with a steaming brown gravy in which swam small chunks of meat.

Justen poured the lukewarm water into his mug, wishing for a dark beer, or even for redberry. Still, the water cut through some of the dust.

In his last trip, Castin brought back two large baskets filled with fresh-baked bread and sat down at the end of the table, next to Ninca.

“Are you sure this stuff is beef and not seaweed? And how do we know your noodles are real noodles and not some
strange form of quilla beaten into the shape of noodles?” Nicos mock-glared at the dark-haired and broad-faced older healer.

“No engineer has ever had to eat cactus roots at my table.” Castin paused, frowning. “Still, it
is
an idea…”

Gunnar guffawed.

“How about those chickens?” asked Clerve.

“Those are not chickens, young man. They are the most delicate of fowl, with a tenderness you will not believe.”

“I’ll believe it when I get to eat one,” cracked Nicos.

“Could we just let Master Castin eat?” Altara’s voice was acerbic. “Or would you like to help grind some quilla roots into noodles? Or would you rather run the kitchen for Firbek and the marines?”

“Not me, thank you,” muttered Clerve, his voice barely loud enough for Justen to hear.

“Castin does very well, and he’s awfully good-hearted to put up with all this.” Jirrl reached for the noodles and served herself before passing them to Krytella.

The healer served Gunnar and took a smaller portion for herself before handing the bowl to Justen.

“Noodles again?” asked Berol, sliding onto the bench beside Clerve.

“Of course. But they’re egg noodles, not just plain noodles.” Justen filled the chipped crockery plate before him and grinned at the big woman. “Actually, his sauces are splendid. With those sauces, even quilla would taste good.” He handed the bowl to Clerve.

Krytella doled out a small amount of the sauce and raised her eyebrows. “I believe you also like burhka, and…ah…spice…”

Gunnar swallowed hard, then coughed. “It’s a good thing she’s a healer, Brother.”

“Now what did you do, Justen?” asked Berol.

“Nothing. I just said that Castin makes good sauces.”

“Are you sure you didn’t say that you liked things saucy?”

Justen felt himself flush. Was all the teasing because of that tavern girl in Lornth?

“He must have a guilty conscience, Krytella. Look at him.” Berol slapped the table.

Justen finally gave an exaggerated shrug and turned to Clerve. “This is what you have to look forward to.”

“Only if you like it spicy and saucy.”

Justen claimed the bowl with the meat and sauce and ladled a liberal amount across the pile of noodles.

“He does like the sauce.”

“Don’t all men?”

“Even wizards…I’ll bet,” added Jirrl.

Justen grinned as he watched Gunnar flush.

Clerve ladled only a small portion of the sauce, but fished out several chunks of beef.

“At least the younger men are more…choosy about their sauce.”

Justen and Gunnar began to laugh.