The Order War (2 page)

“The road has reached the old domain of Westwind.” The older counselor rubbed her forehead for an instant, then dropped her arms onto the ancient black-oak table of the Council Room. The faint sound of surf from the beach below the Black Holding hissed in through the half-open windows on the early spring breeze.

“The road does not concern me so much as the troops that precede it,” suggested the wispy-haired man.

“Ryltar…the road is the key to the troops, and to the trade that follows. When that road is finished, it will be the only direct access to Sarronnyn.”

The third counselor pursed her thin lips, then coughed. “So far, the Sarronnese have lost nearly two thousand troops.”

“The Spidlarians lost twice that, and there the Whites razed three cities, and we did nothing,” responded Ryltar dryly. “No one can even precisely locate Diev to this day.”

“At the time, we didn’t exactly have too much with which to respond.” The older woman, black-haired and broad-shouldered, shook her head.

“You are so good at keeping me honest, Claris.” Ryltar smiled.

“You’re rather good at making me sick, Ryltar,” added the younger woman. “The point is that Fairhaven has taken the next step in implementing Cerryl the Great’s master plan
for conquering Candar. The question is what we intend to do about it?”

“Ah, yes. The great master plan of which we have heard so much for so many decades. Thank you for reminding me, Jenna.”

“Ryltar, be serious.” Jenna held back a sigh.

“I am being serious. Why don’t we face the facts? First, with our ships, even if all of Candar falls to Fairhaven, just how could the White Wizards threaten us? Second, we scarcely have the trained troops to send an army to Sarronnyn, nor could we raise such a force without conscription, and conscription would destroy us more surely than Fairhaven would.” Ryltar turned toward Jenna. “Just tell me. What is the threat to Recluce? What can Fairhaven really do to us?”

“Destroy our basis of order, or reduce it to the point where our ships can no longer defend us.”

“Oh? Have you been talking to old Gylart again?”

“I don’t think that Gylart’s age automatically discredits his logic,” interjected Claris. “Jenna’s—or Gylart’s—point is valid. The Whites are creating ‘domesticated’ order to increase their chaos power. Once they take Fairhaven, what is to keep them from taking Hamor? Or for the Hamorians to follow the same example? How would that affect your most profitable trade routes then, Ryltar?”

“We are talking centuries. Besides, I return to my original point. Just what
can
we do?” Ryltar smiled again.

“Run up the ensign,” ordered the captain. On the staff above the iron pilothouse fluttered the black ryall on a white background. “Looks to be a Lydian trader.” Hyntal turned to the two engineers. “We’ll just pull alongside for a mite, Brother Pendak, and you see if you sense anything.”

Pendak nodded.

“Captain! She’s turning! Trying to run before the wind.”

“Shields!” snapped the captain. “Just between us.”

“Shit,” muttered Pendak.

“Want help?” asked Justen.

“Not now.”

Justen sensed the effort Pendak marshaled to create the barrier that blocked the Lydians’ view of the
Llyse
.

“Starboard a quarter.”

“Coming starboard a quarter,” echoed the woman at the helm.

The
Llyse
turned downwind, and heavy turbines whined beneath the plated decks, the sound so faint that Justen sensed the increased power rather than heard it. Ahead off the
Llyse
’s starboard bow, Justen sensed the Lydian ship, flying only the duke’s banner, not the crimson-trimmed white banner of Fairhaven, as it lumbered through the heavy swells. What he and the crew saw off the bow was a black emptiness. What the Lydians saw was an empty sea off their port quarter.

“Course bearing on the Lydian?” asked the captain.

“Steady on the starboard forequarter, Captain. Three cables and closing,” answered Pendak, the ship’s Brother.

“Bring her port an eighth. What devil’s trick are the Whites up to now?”

Captain Hyntal had never forgotten that his great-great-grandfather had captained the
Black Hammer
. Unfortunately, he had never let anyone else forget it either, reflected Justen.

“Coming port an eighth,” The woman at the helm eased the wheel port to parallel the Lydian’s course.

Spray flashed across the deck, and tiny droplets misted into the pilothouse where Justen stood beside Pendak. The older engineer’s forehead remained beaded with sweat from the effort of holding the single-edged shield in place.

Hyntal turned toward the gunnery chief. “Ready, weapons?”

“Turret’s ready, Captain. Shells and rockets on standby.”

“Drop the shields, Brother Pendak,” ordered Hyntal. “Let’s see what those devil Whites have added to this stew.”

The Lydian ship appeared off the starboard bow. The carved plate over the unused paddle wheel read
Zemyla
. Pen
dak wiped his forehead and reached for the water bottle. “Harder to keep a single-edge shield than a circular one, Justen.”

“I could tell,” Justen whispered back.

Hyntal glared at the engineers but said nothing as the
Llyse
edged up to the trader.

“She’s not furling those sails.”

“Put a signal rocket across her bow.”

Flssttt…
The signal rocket flared in front of the
Zemyla
.

The
Llyse
kept abreast of the trader until a blue-edged white banner floated on the aft jackstaff. Then a second parley flag flapped over the mainmast as the trader shortened sail.

“Grapples.”

“Aye, grapples.”

“Boarding party.”

The stern-faced, black-clad marines mustered on the starboard side, then swarmed onto the merchantman.

“It’s your turn, Brothers,” suggested the captain.

“You wanted to see what it’s all about, Justen,” Pendak said.

The younger engineer followed Pendak up the ladder and onto the gently pitching deck of the
Zemyla
, where the crew had already circled away from the boarders and were clustering either on the poop or near the bowsprit.

The black-clad marines marched the man in the captain’s jacket to the foot of the mast. “They say he’s the captain.”

“Have you always been the captain of this ship?” asked Pendak wearily.

“Yes, Master.”

The wrongness of the words twisted at Justen. He looked at Pendak. Pendak looked at the head marine, an intense-appearing young man named Marten. “Find the first mate.”

Marten and another marine turned, but even before they took a full step, a man jumped from the poop into the sea.

For a time, the marines and the two engineers watched the water below, but no head appeared and Justen could sense no one there.

“Was that the captain?” asked Pendak, turning to the pseudo-captain.

“No, Ser.”

The wrongness still turned in the man’s words.

“Find me the second mate.”

“I’m the second.” A burly man stepped up to the marines, his face and forearms tanned and leathery, his hair sun-bleached and his trimmed beard a mixture of blond and white. His words rang true to Justen.

“Is this man a convict?”

“Begging yer pardon, Master…but ye’ll put us all in a terrible stew if this goes on.”

“Do you want us to sink the ship?” snapped Pendak.

“We’d be fools to want that.”

Justen cleared his throat softly. Pendak looked at him, then nodded.

“Were all of you threatened if you didn’t agree to call this man the captain?” asked Justen.

“I wouldn’t say as it was a threat exactly.” Sweat appeared on the burly mate’s forehead.

“More like you didn’t have much choice?”

“I don’t know as how I could answer that.” The words choked forth, and perspiration coated the mate’s face.

The soaked shirt and red face made Justen’s decision. “That’s all.”

“We’ll need to look around,” Pendak added. “Not that we expect we’ll find anything.”

“As you wish, Order Masters.”

“You want to take forward?” Pendak pointed toward the bow.

“Fine.” Justen walked forward, and his senses ranged over the ship. Pendak was right. The ship felt orderly, too orderly. Before long, he walked back to the marines, where the older engineer waited. “Nothing. Baled Sligan and Montgren wool, dried fruits, perfume wood, and some big jugs of oil.”

Pendak shook his head. “Let’s go.” He nodded toward the marines, then turned to the burly second. “Good sailing, Mate.”

“Thanks be to ye, not that most will, Wizards.” The perspiring man half-saluted.

The dull clank of one hammer and yet another laid upon chisels echoed through the chill air of the deep canyon.

A line of bent figures trudged back from the pile of rock that marked the edge of the construction. Each worker passed the deep, straight clefts that separated one foundation block from another, each foundation block a stone cube thirty cubits square.

Behind the laborers stretched the knife-edged raw slashes that marked the great Westhorn Highway. The base of that highway had been formed from the mortared and fitted stones that linked the foundation blocks. Each long section was as straight as a quarrel, a segment of the road that would run from Fairhaven to the Western Sea through Sarronnyn and to Southwind.

A wall of solid stone terminated the western end of the canyon. The trees and soil more than two hundred cubits above had been removed, and the dust and white ash from that removal sifted downward into the chill depths. Workers coughed, squinted, and blinked away the ash and grit. But they kept walking, lugging their baskets of fractured stone from the pile at the end of the canyon back to the unloading station.

Three figures in white—white boots, tunics, and trousers—stood halfway between the unloading platform and the mountain wall that marked the end of the road.

Their breath floated like white steam above the cold stone and over the scattered patches of snow and ice.

Behind them, the stone-master directed the spout to spew the smaller granite chunks into the space between two foundation blocks. The yet-unlined watercourse beside the leading edge of the road held no water, nothing except powdered rock, grainy snow, and scattered ice fragments.

Tweet! Tweet!
A whistle split the chill.

“Stand clear! Stand clear!” The warning shrilled from
the thin lips of the overseer, a woman in white leathers who also wore a sword and a white, bronze-plated skullcap.

“Close your eyes! Close your eyes!”

The nameless workers huddled behind the movable plank barriers, eyes closed.

Crack! Crackkk!

A flash brighter than the noonday sun, sharper than the closest of lightnings, flared across the stone wall that faced the end of the highway. Rock fifty cubits deep splintered, separated, and slid into a rough pyramid at the base of the canyon. Rock dust mushroomed, adding a powdered white mist to the air, blurring the sharp edges of the canyon walls.

“Head out. Load up,” called the overseer.

Two of the three wizards walked slowly, tiredly, back toward the amber coach that waited where the smooth-finished paving stones ended.

The workers staggered from behind their barricade toward the pile of granite that would be removed for fill, or for reshaping by the stonecutters before the masons came and fitted and mortared the stones together.

“Load up!” came the command again.

The workers’ steps carried them once more toward the tumbled rocks, as workers’ steps had carried nameless prisoners for centuries on the great highway to the west. Even before the dust had settled, those steps carried them, as so many before them, forward toward the loading rack that other prisoners had slid into place beside the tumbled stones.

“Just the gray stones…”

The long line of workers edged forward, men and women bearing identical baskets.

Clink…clink…
Behind them, the stonemasons resumed their work, crafting the flush-fitted gray walls and storm drains that linked the base blocks of the road.

The loading crew began to place the squarish stones into the loading bin, and the first porter eased his basket into the rack.

“Next!”

The workers shuffled forward, their leather boots scraping on sharp-edged stones.

“Next!”

“What’ll you have, gents?”

Gunnar coughed, cleared his throat, and motioned to Justen.

“Dark beer.” Justen glanced past the serving woman toward the new gas lamps by the door, still unlit in the afternoon light pouring through the half-open windows of the inn.

The woman looked at his black tunic and trousers.

“Dark beer,” he repeated.

“I don’t even want to know about your day, Engineer.” The heavy, gray-haired woman shook her head and glanced toward Gunnar.

“Greenberry.” The sandy-haired man’s fingers drummed idly on the polished dark oak.

“That’s not much better. You like anything to eat? The mutton pie’s tasty, and even the chops are good today.”

“No, thank you,” the brothers said, almost in unison.

“Well…” murmured the woman, turning toward the kitchen. “No telling with wizards and engineers…just no telling, but what they’ve done today, who’d really want to know? Dark beer and greenberry…”

Justen grinned.

“The beer’s not good for you. Why do you drink it? Just to make Father angry, or to annoy me?” Gunnar smiled faintly.

“I suppose that annoying my terribly superior older brother is as good a reason as any. Except that it’s not true. I just happen to like the taste. Besides, I am not a great Order Master, a superior Air Wizard such as you. I’m just a lowly engineer who toils in the workrooms under the scathing eye of Altara.”

“Is she really that bad?”

“No. She pays no attention when you do it right, and she gets hotter than the Little Easthorns the day they were raised when you don’t.”

“Justen! Gunnar!” a bright voice interrupted.

Both men looked up as a black-haired young woman paused near their table.

“Oh, Aedelia. How are you?” asked Gunnar. “How’s your brother?”

“His leg’s much better, and Mother said to tell you hello when I saw you.”

“What are you doing in Nylan?” asked Justen.

“Father was bringing in some timber for the shipwrights and I was waiting, when I thought I saw you two come in. So I told Father I’d be back in a bit and came to say hello.” Aedelia smiled broadly.

“Could you join us?” Justen motioned to one of the two empty chairs, trying not to be too obvious in his admiration of her endowments.

“I wish I could, but Father’s already delivered the timber and it’s a long drive back, even with an empty wagon…or mostly empty. We did get some fresh fish and a bolt of Austran linen.” Aedelia straightened up. “I really do have to go.” With a last smile, she was gone.

Clunk…clunk…
The two heavy mugs came down on the table. “There you be, honored young gents. And that’ll be five for the both of you, three for the beer and two for the green stuff.”

Gunnar extended a half-silver. The woman nodded and took the coin.

Justen lifted his mug and took a deep swallow. “Ah…that’s good.”

“Do you do that just to annoy me?”

“No. I do it because it tastes good, and it
was
a long day. And because—Leave it at that.” Justen stopped and glanced into the corner, where two white-haired men sat hunched over a Capture board. The game had clearly only just begun, since most of the white and black tokens were still stacked beside the board. He looked back at Gunnar. “Krytella was looking for you the other day, when you were at Land’s End.”

“And you’re telling me now?”

“I haven’t seen you since then,” Justen pointed out before taking another swig of the dark beer.

“You’re drinking that too fast.”

“So? Drink your damned greenberry.”

“Justen…I haven’t done anything to you, have I? We are brothers, you know.” Gunnar’s voice was lower, softer.

“No, it’s not you. It’s just…” Justen shrugged.

“Women problems?”

“I suppose so.” Justen took another swallow from the mug. “And student problems.”

“I told you that teaching wasn’t all that Verdel said it was.”

“You’ve told me a great deal.”

“Sorry.” Gunnar sipped the greenberry. “Are you going for a ship’s Brother slot?”

“I went out with the
Llyse
the other day—”

“I know.”

“I know you know. You know everything. Just let me talk, all right?”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, I watched Pendak. He seems pretty good with the shields, and he can tell when someone’s not telling the truth. But I don’t know. The whole business really bothered me. That poor crew had been manipulated. They didn’t even know who the captain was.”

Gunnar nodded. “Pendak told me about that. He was upset.”

“Why would someone do something like that?” Justen took another swallow of the dark beer.

The blond man shook his head. “Maybe the White Wizards are trying to provoke us again.”

“Why would they do that? It’s never been terribly effective before.”

“People’s memories are short.” Gunnar paused. “What did Pendak do?”

“What could he do? The real captain jumped overboard. And the ship hadn’t really done anything.”

“I don’t like this,” Gunnar muttered, slowly sipping his greenberry.

“That’s what Pendak and Captain Hyntal said. Why would a merchant ship try to get away when we were just on a routine patrol? It doesn’t make sense.” Justen took another
swallow of the dark beer, licking the remnants off his lips before setting the mug on the table.

“It has to make sense. We just don’t know how.” Gunnar looked up. “There’s Krytella.”

“Of course.”

Gunnar frowned, but stood and waved. “Krytella!”

The redhead smiled broadly and hurried across the room, gracefully stepping around the unoccupied tables. “I was looking for you.” She leaned forward and kissed Gunnar on the cheek.

“That’s what Justen told me. It took a while to wind up the search of the archives.” Gunnar gestured toward one of the empty chairs.

Justen took a last sip of the dark beer and motioned to the serving woman. Gunnar was so damned noble. He hadn’t even tried to point out that Justen had waited three days to mention Krytella’s inquiry.

“Thank you for remembering, Justen.” Krytella’s smile was warm, her pleasure genuine. That Justen knew even with his merely average—for an engineer—order-senses.

“Yes, folks? Would the healer like redberry or greenberry?”

“Redberry,” Krytella answered.

“Another dark beer,” Justen added.

The serving woman raised her eyebrows but only said, “Coming up—one redberry and a dark beer.”

“You shouldn’t—” began Krytella.

“I know. Good engineers and good wizards don’t drink alcohol because it’s bad for their order-senses.”

“Oh, Justen…I didn’t mean to be short with you. But I am a healer, and…” The redhead shrugged.

Clunk…clunk…
Two more heavy mugs arrived. “That’ll be another five for the two.”

Justen handed over a half-silver.

“Thank you.” Krytella inclined her head, then took a swallow of her redberry.

“Just before you arrived, we were talking about how the White Wizards were playing games with a Lydian ship.” Gunnar sipped from his greenberry as Krytella waited for him to continue. “They planted some illusions in the crew’s
minds about who was captain, and then they conditioned the crew to run from the
Llyse
.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“The real captain jumped overboard and drowned. He never came up.”

“Are you sure?” Krytella set her redberry down.

“I was there,” Justen answered. “There wasn’t any sign of life. I suppose that could have been an illusion, too. But it really doesn’t matter, does it? The damage was already done.”

The redhead nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. Recluce drove a poor captain to suicide. But I still don’t see why the White Wizards would bother.”

“It has to have something to do with their effort to take over western Candar.” Justen looked at the mug without lifting it. He really hadn’t wanted a second dark beer.

“But what?”

“It doesn’t matter,” suggested Gunnar. “They can’t control the sea. There’s too much basic order in the oceans.”

“Maybe that’s not their objective,” Justen pointed out, all too conscious of how alive and vibrant Krytella seemed, sitting there between them…even as she leaned toward Gunnar.

“What other aim would they have?” Krytella took a small sip from her mug.

“If they build distrust of us…and then if we do commit any forces to Sarronnyn or Suthya, wouldn’t the Sarronnese be worrying as much about Recluce as about Fairhaven?”

Krytella looked at the older brother. “What do you think, Gunnar? Is that possible?”

“It could be.” The blond man shrugged, then grinned. “But we certainly won’t solve that one this afternoon.” He took a deep swallow of the greenberry.

Justen glanced toward the Capture game in the corner. “Is that old Gylart over there?”

“The Gylart who’s Counselor Jenna’s uncle? Or the fisherman?” Krytella asked.

“The former counselor.” Justen took a sip of the second beer. It did taste good, he decided.

Gunnar nodded. “It’s the old counselor.”

“He’s good at Capture.”

“How can you tell?”

Justen lifted his shoulders and smiled sheepishly. “He just is.”

“Would you two like to come to dinner?” Krytella smiled. “I think it’s a fish stew, but it smelled good, and there’s plenty of it. Mother and Aunt Arline baked pearapple bread, too.”

Justen’s stomach growled. “I think that’s my answer.”

“Justen…” Gunnar sighed.

“Fine. I need to help them. Just show up after the second evening bell.” Krytella flashed another smile and pushed back her chair.

“Do you have to go?” asked Gunnar.

“If I’m having company, I do.”

Justen watched as the redhead left the public room. Then he took another sip of beer before turning to his brother. “You lucky bastard.”

“Why?”

Justen shook his head. For all that he could see storms an ocean away, Gunnar was sometimes so dense. Was that why the girls swarmed around him? Justen took another sip of the second beer that he hadn’t wanted at first. At least a home-cooked dinner would be better than eating in the engineers’ mess.