The Death of Chaos (37 page)

Nylan, Recluce

THE FORMER TRADER strides into the Council Room.

   “You look upset, Marts.” Heldra pours greenberry into her mug, then wipes her forehead with a white cloth. “Darkness, it's hot this spring.”

   “I am upset. Worrying about the weather! At times like this?”

   “It's hot everywhere, Gunnar says. Underlying chaos, he claims.” Talryn fingers his mug.

   Maris turns and steps up to the window. Beads of sweat ooze from his forehead, but he does not wipe them away. Finally, he turns back to face the other two. “Those Hamorian warships... now, they're intercepting traders from Candar.”

   “And what might they be doing with those traders, eating them for breakfast?” The short and broad mage sets down the mug.

   “This is serious.”

   “Oh, I agree,” says Heldra, before taking another long swallow of the cold juice.

   “They're paying half the declared value of the shipments to Nylan-or throwing them overboard.”

   “That is serious.” Talryn leans back in his chair.

   “You two, you don't understand,” snaps Maris. “That means Hamor gets the goods at half price and the traders from Candar still make some coins. They'll bitch, but they won't risk smuggling or breaking the embargo.”

   “I said it was serious,” points out Talryn. “I might as well joke a little. There's not much humor anywhere right now.”

   “They sank the Grestensea.”

   “I presume because the captain didn't want his cargo tossed into the Gulf and tried to outrun them.” Talryn takes the greenberry pitcher.

   “Everything he owned was on the ship. You think it's funny? I don't understand you two. I really don't. Enough is enough.”

   “Oh, I see,” says Talryn. “You want us to send our mighty trio up against-what is it now?-fivescore armored warships, and say, 'We won't put up with this anymore'?”

   “You're saying we can't match their ships?”

   “We've had the trio there for half a season, and we've gotten four of their ships. They've added a score more. You can figure the arithmetic,” answers Talryn.

   “Or perhaps,” adds Heldra, “you think we should take our two thousand-odd armed Brothers and marines and send them out against the close to ten thousand Hamorian soldiers already in Candar? They should charge the Hamorians-using good black steel swords-and let themselves get cut down by those nasty new Hamorian rifles? That's good arithmetic, too.”

   “What are we going to do?” demands Maris. “All you do is ask impossible questions.”

   “You want direct action, like everyone new to the Council does,” points out Talryn, “like I once did. But we don't have the resources for the actions you want. We can whittle away at Hamor, but we never have had the resources to take on the Empire directly, at least not since the fall of Fairhaven.”

   “Impossible questions are important.” Heldra smiles. “They lead to answers.”

   “Sometimes,” adds Talryn. “But we try.”

   “What have you two come up with now? Do I want to know?” Maris slams his hand on the table.“No. I'd be a fool to want to know.”

   “We'll have to take the fight to those who count.” Heldra draws her blade, almost carelessly, and sights along the edge.

   “Your black squads?” demands Maris. “Is that wise?”

   “Hardly, but we're beyond wise choices.” Heldra looks at the blade and replaces it in the scabbard. “We were selected, like you, Maris, to preserve order with a minimum of taxes and resources, and to avoid changing our society much. Every time we suggest something, you ask how we'll pay for it. Until it affects you traders, and now you want us to act-immediately. Well... we'll act, as best we can, with three ships and a relative handful of troops.”

   “You're going along with this?” Maris asks Talryn.

   “Rignelgio or Leithrrse?” Talryn asks Heldra, his tone somewhere between disgusted and idle, as his eyes ignore Maris.

   .“Both, and the commander of the Hamorian forces in Freetown. Also the Hamorian fleet flagships. Of course, it will require pulling one of the trio off station for nearly a season. You'll recall”-she turns to Maris-“that was why we didn't send another set of black squads against Sammel. It would have taken one of the trio away from Dellash for three eight-days, and we thought that destroying Hamorian warships had a higher priority. We might have been wrong, but”-she shrugs-“it's so much easier to decide that after you've made the wrong decision.”

   “What are you two talking about?” asks Maris. “Holding those who make decisions or who are responsible for carrying them out personally accountable for those decisions,” says Heldra. “You're mad.”

   “No,” says Talryn slowly. “Not mad. Just late.”

   “Would you mind explaining? I'm just a dumb trader, here because the Guild would like to know what happens before it happens-at least once in a while.”

   Talryn leans forward, and his eyes darken. “One of the problems in dealing with empires and large countries is that those who make the decisions never suffer the consequences. One way or another, we have been moderately successful in visiting consequences on those in Candar who create unfortunate circumstances, such as the previous Duke of Freetown. You may recall that Duke Colaris did not attempt to repeat the policies of Duke Halloric toward us. Unfortunately, Hamor is more than a third of the globe away. Now that the Emperor has sent senior commanders and envoys, they shall have the opportunity to experience the same treatment as they have visited on others.”

   “You are mad,” whispers Maris. He turns to Heldra. “You're going to lead them, I suppose?”

   “No,” says Talryn. “Before long, we'll probably still face an attack here. We don't need counselors running all over the Eastern Ocean. We'll also probably have to explain this to the Guild and the Brotherhood. Everyone wants explanations when there's trouble. They can't be bothered otherwise.”

   “You're both mad.”

   Talryn shrugs. “No. If we do nothing, Hamor will own Candar over the next five years. If we try to fight directly, we will be overwhelmed. So... we fight those who make decisions, and those who command.”

   “But there are others who will take their places.”

   “For how long?” asks Heldra.

“THAT'S IT. HOLD it there.” I hammered the plank in place, and the back wall of the henhouse was complete. After taking a deep breath, I wiped the sweat off my forehead on my ragged sleeve.

   The braawkking of one of the hens seemed but cubits away, even though all were somewhere on the other side of the stable.

   “Th-this side?” asked Wegel, brushing away a large horsefly. The horsefly circled back in for another nip, and Wegel smashed it flat against the bracing timber, then wiped his hand on his trousers.

   “Might as well. I'm tired of tripping on chickens, even if I do like eggs. Maybe we'll have enough to eat a few by fall. Chickens, not eggs.”

   Wegel grinned.

   “Get another plank.”

   He kept grinning, but we only got two more planks done before we heard hoofs.

   I recognized the small man with the peaked cap of green and white plaid wool, even before he vaulted from his mount-a big white stallion of the kind I never wanted to ride. Preltar tied the horse to the post with quick turns of the leather reins.

   “Master Preltar. Have you come to inquire about the progress of your daughter's dowry chest?”

   “Quite so. Quite so.” He rubbed his hands together, then followed me into the shop where he pulled off the wool cap and held it in both hands.

   Wegel followed us inside and looked at his carving. I nodded. He might as well do some work on it while I talked to the wool factor. He couldn't put the heavy planks for the henhouse in place by himself.

   Wegel wiped his hands on a rag, sat on the stool, then looked back down at the wood in his hand, without moving the knife.

   I pointed to the chest, such as it was. “I've refined the plans and set up the framing here, and cut the wood. Here are the inside sections...”

   Preltar nodded as I explained. “You're coming along well, Master Lerris. Yes, well. I must be frank. Frank, of course. The chest will be superb, I'm sure, but I would like something quite different. Quite different, and as soon as you could do it practically. I would pay a bit of a bonus. A bonus, you see.” He gestured with the cap, his bushy white eyebrows and unfocused expression giving the look of an absentminded hawk, were there such a bird.

   A bonus I could deal with. “What is this you would like?”

   “A traveling storage chest, and I would like two of them. Two, if you please, and very functional, and light, but strong.”

   “How large?” I went over to the drawing board. “Most of the time they would be carried by wagon-but a horse should be able to carry one in an emergency.”

   “Probably not much more than two cubits by a cubit and a half, and a cubit deep?” I used my hands to indicate a rough size.

   “A shade bigger. Could they be a shade bigger?”

   I laughed. “They can be any size you wish. I was thinking about a horse having to carry one. I'd use fir, I think. That's the best for strength when you're worried about weight.”

   “Fir?”

   I shrugged. “It's softer, and it will get dented and banged up more easily, but you'll save more than a stone in weight for a chest that size. That's one of the reasons sailing ships' masts are usually fir.”

   “Ah, weight. Yes, they must be light. And so must the chests.”

   “Fir,” I affirmed.

   Preltar twisted the green and white wool cap in his hands, and I noticed that the moisture pot needed refilling, although it would not be long before the real heat would begin. That meant letting the wood dry over the summer, not something I was thrilled with, but a necessary concession to the climate.

   “How soon could you finish these chests?”

   I frowned. I was still working on Antona's desk, and Durrik's chest, and I still hadn't done much on Zeiber's bookcase. The traveling chests would be easy, and I knew Faslik had plenty of fir. Besides, a good shop has half a dozen pieces working at one time. Of course, I wasn't anywhere near that good. “Three eight-days, perhaps sooner.” I should have been able to finish them in half that, but I was learning to give myself some margin.

   “Three eight-days. Oh, that would be superb. Just superb.” The bushy eyebrows under the bald head knitted, and the hawk looked a lot less absentminded. “The price. We did not discuss the price.”

   “No, we didn't.”

   “Fir is less expensive, is it not, and you did not mention ornamentation.”

   “True. A chest that size in oak or cedar, as you know, would run close to ten golds.”

   “But these are smaller than Hylera's chest, perhaps two thirds that size, and the fir cannot cost what the cedar does. It cannot. No, it cannot.”

   “You are correct, Master Preltar, and I certainly never said that one of these chests would cost what Hylera's chest will. I presume you would want brasswork for the lock plates and hinges, and good crafting.”

   “Ah, yes, good crafting. That was why I came to you.”

   I shrugged. “Five golds apiece.”

   He didn't blink an eye, and that bothered me.

   “Five apiece, yes, yes, we find that fair. Very fair. And, Master Lerris, if they are ready in three eight-days or less, a gold extra for each.” He beamed at me.

   I liked that even less, but I bowed. “We will certainly do our best.”

   “And Hylera's chest... when might that be ready?”

   “I might, might, be able to have that ready around the same time.”

   “Oh, superb... just superb. That would make matters so much simpler. Yes, simpler. Then, she could take... ah, but there's no reason to bore you with the details. Not the details. A gold extra for that if you could have it ready in no less than four eight-days.”

   Preltar was in a hurry, a definite hurry.

   “I take it that the Hamorian traders are on the move.” I smiled politely.

   “The Hamorians? Their traders... terrible people, you know. Their cotton is cheap, not enduring like good Analerian wool, and they are so... demanding... very demanding.” He replaced his cap on his head, and bowed, then extended a gold to me.“A token, just a token deposit, but... yes, just a token.”

   I did take it, and nodded again. “I'll be getting right on it, Master Preltar.” And I would be, in more ways than one. “These chests... there seems to be a certain urgency about them.”

   “Urgency. Well, Master Lerris, one must shear, yes, shear, when the wool is ready.”

   “I've heard some people are worried that Hamor may move beyond Freetown and Delapra. What do you think?” I tried to make the question offhand.

   “Me? Think? A mere wool factor, Master Lerris? How would I know?” He gave a jerky shrug. “The Empire keeps growing, they say... yes, growing, and the Hamorians have warships in Southwind and Freetown, and who knows... who knows where they may go. I'm sure I don't. I'm sure I don't.” He put the cap on his head and bowed.

   I inclined my head to him and followed him to the door.

   “A good day, yes, a good day to you, Master Lerris.”

   I tried not to shake my head until he was out of the yard on the big stallion. Then I walked back to the door of the shop and called for Wegel. “Come on. We need to finish the demon-damned henhouse.”

   “Master Lerris, ser... I'd thank you not to call down the white forces on our chickens...” Rissa stood by the kitchen door, broom in hand.

   “Sorry, Rissa.” I wiped my forehead. The day was already hot, and it wasn't even midday, and still relatively early in the spring. And now the wool factor was worried enough to order shipping chests without really haggling over the costs.

   That meant another trip to see Merrin, and more brasswork to pay for, and who knew what else.

Freetown Port, Freetown [Candar]

“HAMOR! HAMOR!” THE chants rock the marketplace.

   The dark-haired man in the tan uniform bows and raises his right hand as he steps forward onto the stones of the public stage. His wide brown leather belt bears only a short blade on the left, a small purse, and, on the right, a heavy short pistol in a leather holster that matches the belt perfectly. He is flanked by two soldiers carrying the cartridge rifles of Hamor. Behind him flutters a pale blue banner bearing the orange starburst of Hamor.

   “Hamor! Hamor!...”

   Less than twenty cubits away stands a slighter, fairer man, under a thin traveling cloak that covers also the uniform of Hamor. Unlike the man upon the stage, Leithrrse carries no knife, but both pistol and shortsword, and he studies the crowd for a time before turning his eyes to the stage. “... strut and prance your time upon the stage, Rignelgio.”

   “Friends! Friends! This is a great day for Freetown and for you. No more endless wars between Freetown and Hydlen, no more conscriptions by yet another plotter calling himself the Duke. From here on, the forces of Hamor will protect you and yours...”

   The light wind off the Great North Bay brings the smells of the sea, drying seaweed, sewage, and the smoke from the engines of the Hamorian warships.

   Leithrrse snorts quietly as the speech continues, and his eyes study the crowd. He squints for a moment, as the scene beneath the market stage appears to waver before his eyes. He rubs his forehead, then blots away the sweat brought on by the intensity of the midday sun, despite the light breeze that sweeps through the square.

   He looks back to the stage.

   “... clothing that does not cost a fortune... goods that every family can purchase...”

   “Hamor! Hamor!...”

   WHHHHSSSTTT! A miniature sun flares from the crowd beneath the stage and explodes across the chest of the Emperor's regent, leaving an instantly charred mass of flames, that wavers, and then pitches forward into the crowd, which scatters away from the feebly flailing column of charcoal.

   “Eeee... eeee...”

   “Magic!”

   “Demonspawn!”

   Leithrrse flings off the cloak and bounds up the stone steps.

   “Fire! There!” He points toward the slight wavering in the air that seems to flow even faster than the fleeing crowd.

   “Ser?”

   “NOW!” His pistol is in his hand, and he cocks and fires the weapon in the direction he has pointed. Crack!

   ... crack... crack... crack...

   The volleys go on for a time, and bodies fall across the marketplace under the searing sun.

   Then, when all that remain beneath the stone stage are a charred corpse and half a dozen bodies strewn across the stones, Leithrrse nods to the guard, and, accompanied by three guards, the envoy and now-acting regent walks the marketplace, finally stopping and standing over one figure-a black-clad blond woman still clutching a stubby, wide-nozzled device that looks like a miniature cannon of sorts-the same sort of rocket gun he has seen on the white wizard's cottage wall.

   “Demon-damned Brotherhood... they'll pay for this.”

   “What... ser?” asks the guard serjeant.

   “Recluce. Their black marines, sent by their black Brotherhood. Their turn will come.” He ignores the looks that pass between the guards.

   “Tell Marshall Dyrsse that we need to make some changes.”

   The guards exchange another look.