The Order War (3 page)

“The Iron Guard has secured the Roof of the World, and Zerchas is studying the remains of the Westwind archives…” The tall, older wizard at the speaker’s podium coughed.

“Couldn’t be much left after ten centuries.” The sotto voce murmur echoed through the momentary silence before the tall wizard continued.

“…and has discovered that the Sarronnese garrisons had preserved some of the original manuscripts, Cerryl’s name be praised.”

A young, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven and black-haired White Wizard stood just inside the doorway. He pursed his lips and motioned to another young wizard before stepping through the archway and walking down to the row of couches in the antechamber.

The second wizard, round-cheeked and fair-haired, followed.

“Cerryl’s name be praised, Cerryl’s name be praised! It wants to make me puke, Eldiren. Did you know that Cerryl was a fifth-rate White Wizard, if that? He wasn’t fit to carry the great Jeslek’s boots.” The young black-haired White Wizard who spoke glanced toward the archway to the Council Chamber. “Let’s walk down to Vislo’s.”

“It’s scarcely fashionable, Beltar.” Eldiren scuffed a white-leather boot on the granite floor.

“Fine. Then no one fashionable will be there.”

The two young men walked out into the warm spring and the white light of Fairhaven, out into the shadow cast by the Tower. Beltar paused momentarily, then marched across the short, wiry grass of the new Wizards’ Square, for all that it was three centuries old. Eldiren scurried to keep up.

“Why are you so upset by old Histen?”

“First, he’s playing games with Lydian ships. What good will that do?”

“He’s trying to force the Blacks into being seen as tyrants.”

“Has that ever worked before?” snorted Beltar. “And then all this praise of Cerryl the Great—Cerryl the Great! I can raise the chaos springs from the rock beneath Candar and no one cares. Worse than that, Zerchas and Histen have threatened to turn the Iron Guard and the White Company on me if I try.” Beltar halted at the far side of the square and took several quick breaths. “Forget Vislo’s.”

A young boy sitting on a passing farm wagon pointed toward the white-clad wizards. “There’s one! And another one. Real White Wizards!”

Eldiren raised a hand and waved.

“He waved. He waved!”

“That’s it,” muttered Beltar. “Play to the peasants.”

“Why not? It doesn’t hurt, and it certainly costs nothing.”

“You sound like Zerchas and Histen and Renwek.”

Eldiren touched Beltar on the shoulder. “Sometimes…what they say makes sense.”

“Oh?” The black-haired wizard turned and looked back at the glittering White Tower.

“You’re bitter because they don’t need your powers now. They will.”

“They don’t think so.”

“Does it matter what they
think?
Do you really believe that Recluce will stand idly by as we finish the Great Highway through the Westhorns and take over the entire west of Candar?”

“Why not? They didn’t do a damned thing after Spidlar or south Kyphros, or the islands.”

“They weren’t ruled by the Legend. They also weren’t the home of Megaera. Besides, once we take Suthya, Southwind will fall—”

“Suthya! We haven’t even attacked Sarronnyn.”

Eldiren shook his head. “Recluce can’t stop us in Sarronnyn. You know that. What’s really left after that? Suthya, Southwind, and a bunch of druids in Naclos. No one lives in the Empty Lands or the Stone Hills.”

“No one ever will.”

“When Recluce finally marshals order, then they’ll need you. Don’t throw it away by giving them any excuses now. That was your idol Jeslek’s problem. He forced his power on them, and that made him a target too early. Let Histen and Zerchas be the targets.”

Beltar pursed his lips. “I don’t know.”

“Think about it. You have time. They don’t. Anyway, you might as well enjoy Fairhaven now. Look at the Council members. They meet, and then they have to go back to their posts all across Candar.”

“Another one of Cerryl the Great’s wonderful ideas. Scatter the able away from Fairhaven.” Beltar scuffed a boot against the curbstone.

Eldiren shook his head, then waved back to another small boy.

The wide porch of the house low on the hill and its location in the older section of Nylan—barely above the armory and practice fields, and overlooking the warehouses that served the port—were the only aspects that confirmed the structure’s age. The varnish on the recently refinished red-oak flooring of the porch was clear, and the oil-stain preservative on the wood framing the wide windows was fresh. The black stones of the exterior wall shimmered with calm and order.

“Is this the place?” asked Gunnar, oblivious to the straggly nature of his fine, sandy hair.

Justen grinned. “We’ll find out.” He rapped on the door, then waited.

After the sound of scuffing footsteps, the door opened. “Oh…you must be Krytella’s friends. Let’s see. The tall one is Gunnar. That’s you, young man. And you must be Justen.” The gray-haired and round-faced woman smiled. “I’m her Aunt Arline. She’s down at the port-master’s getting Dagud. He’s the assistant port-master, you know.”

“I am very pleased to meet you.” Justen gave a slight bow to Arline.

“We appreciate the invitation. Home-cooked meals are a treat for us,” added Gunnar.

“Do come in. Come in.” Arline stepped back into the front hallway. “There’s the parlor. Now just have a seat. It won’t be a moment, I’m sure, before Krytella is back. And this is Wenda. Her task is to entertain you fine young gentlemen.” Arline continued through the parlor and past the archway into the large kitchen with its long table.

Wenda, whose short red hair cascaded in every direction, stood next to the lamp table on the right side of the window overlooking the harbor, striker in hand. She wore a linen shirt, and faded brown trousers over scarred and scuffed brown boots. “It’s early, but you’re company, and that means I can light one lamp.”

The parlor contained a low, padded bench with a back and
armrests, three wooden armchairs, a rocking chair, several straight chairs, and two narrow lamp tables. The red light from the setting sun cast a deep, reddish shadow across the room.

“I’m Justen, and this is my brother Gunnar.”

“I know. He’s the Storm Wizard. Krytella talks about him when she thinks I’m not listening.”

Justen grinned as Gunnar blushed.

Wenda squeezed the striker twice before the lamp wick caught, and she deftly adjusted the flame to keep it from smoking. She set the striker next to the base of the lamp and plopped into the rocking chair.

Gunnar took one of the armchairs, while Justen sat sideways on the corner of the bench, from where he could see the front porch.

“I like it when Aunt Arline’s here and when we have company. Then I don’t have to help as much in the kitchen.” Wenda looked straight at Gunnar. “Can you make storms, big ones?”

Gunnar coughed and shifted his weight in the oak chair. “There hasn’t…well, making big storms isn’t a very good idea. Lots of people died all over the world when the great Creslin did that.”

“I know. I just wanted to know if you could. Can you?”

“I suppose so…if I had to.”

Justen caught sight of two figures and a glint of red hair turning from the walk beside the highway onto the stones that led to the house. “I think your sister and father are home.”

“She always comes home too soon when we have company. So does Father.” Wenda rocked forward in the chair and stood.

Justen rose, and Gunnar followed his example as Krytella entered the parlor. “This is my father, Dagud. Father, this is Gunnar, and Justen.” Krytella smiled at both young men. “Did you meet Wenda, and my mother, Carnela, and Aunt Arline?”

“Not your mother,” Justen responded as he nodded. “She’s been in the kitchen.”

“I see you lit the lamp.” Krytella’s eyes pinned Wenda.

“We have company.”

“I made that rule.” Dagud grinned. “Besides, we don’t have company that often.” He looked at the two guests. “Would you care to wash up?”

“Yes, if you please.”

“Yes.”

Dagud led the way to the alcove off the kitchen, where there was a second sink, clearly added after the original house had been built. He leaned back toward the kitchen. “How soon before dinner?”

“You can sit down as soon as you wash up,” answered a tall, thin, dark-haired woman standing before the stove.

“Go ahead,” suggested Justen, nodding to Krytella after Dagud had dried his hands.

“You are always the gentleman, Justen.”

Justen wished she saw more than that in him, but smiled in return.

“Wenda…” called Krytella as the smallest redhead headed toward the table.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes,” chorused Dagud and Krytella.

Wenda washed her hands after Gunnar, then trailed the others to the table.

“You sit there, Justen, and Wenda will be next to you…”

Justen followed Krytella’s directions, although he wished he were the one sitting beside the healer instead of Gunnar.

Carnela set two baskets of warm bread and a huge tureen of stew on the long, polished-oak table. “Sit down, for darkness’ sake. Things are hot.”

When the two guests had been introduced to Carnela and everyone had been seated, Dagud cleared his throat for silence, then spoke. “In the spirit of order, and in keeping with the Balance, those of us gathered together this evening dedicate ourselves and our souls to the preservation of order in our lives and thoughts.” Dagud looked up from his plate and smiled, reaching for the ladle in the off-white pottery bowl before him. Steam rose from the stew. “It’s been a long day.” He dipped twice and filled his bowl nearly to the brim, then served Carnela.

In turn, she broke off a chunk of the fresh and crusty bread and laid it beside his bowl before taking a chunk for herself and passing the basket to Krytella. The tureen of stew followed.

Justen found himself swallowing from the aroma of spices, especially those of ryall and pepper, overlaid with something else. When the huge serving tureen arrived, he followed Dagud’s example, carefully ladling the thick fish-and-vegetable mixture into his bowl. Then he turned to Krytella’s younger sister. “How much would you like, young lady?”

“My name is Wenda, and I would like it half full.”

“Then you shall have it exactly half full, precisely half full, as only an engineer can ensure.”

“I would hope so.”

Gunnar coughed, and Krytella grinned before speaking. “Good luck, Justen.”

Justen ladled the stew, extending his order-senses and trying to ensure that the bowl was precisely half full.

“That was pretty good,” conceded Wenda.

Justen smiled.

“You just might be a good engineer,” she teased.

“Wenda. Do you wish to have the remainder of dinner with us?” Carnela glanced at her daughter, and Justen felt the chill.

The littlest redhead turned to Justen, her words earnest. “I beg your pardon, Magister Justen.”

“Thank you, Wenda.” Justen nodded.

In turn, Carnela nodded at her daughter.

“Might I have some bread, please?” asked Wenda in a small voice.

“Just a moment, dear.”

Justen broke off a chunk from a fresh loaf and offered the basket to Wenda.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

“The white pitcher is redberry, and the gray one is dark beer,” announced Krytella.

Justen waited until the gray pitcher arrived before filling
his mug. Gunnar watched and shook his head minutely. Justen grinned. Krytella frowned momentarily. Justen stopped grinning.

“How is the port business?” asked Gunnar, looking at Dagud.

Justen took a mouthful of the hot stew, followed by a quick swallow of the lukewarm beer. His second spoonful of stew was smaller, and he chewed off a corner of the warm, crusty bread.

“It’s slowed down a bit, maybe because of the problems in Sarronnyn. Haven’t seen a spring this slow in a mess of years. Only ones with the same number of ships are the Hamorians.”

“All they care about is the gold in their pouches,” sniffed Arline. “No sense of propriety or decency there.”

“Well, some of ours trade that sharp,” laughed Dagud.

“The good Counselor Ryltar and his family, you be saying?” asked Arline.

“He beats the Hamorians at their own. Fastest on the east-west Hamor route. They say he makes a devilish lot there.” Dagud sipped from his mug.

“What about the Nordlans?” pursued Gunnar. “Some say they still prefer to trade at Land’s End.”

“Aye, some say that, and a few more ships put in there, but that’s as much because of the winds from Nordla as because of the port facilities.” Dagud paused to take several mouthfuls of stew and a chunk of bread.

“They say the Council’s talking about expanding the old port at Land’s End, but that’s foolishness, chaos-tinged foolishness at that. You look at the weather records and you’ll see that the number of days you can’t get in there goes up every decade. It was only two years ago when that Lydian side-wheeler got her back snapped on the breakwater.” Dagud took a noisy slurp of the dark beer.

Justen took a quieter sip, his eyes lighting on Krytella’s flashing green eyes and wide, mobile mouth.

“Would you like some more of the stew?” Arline lifted the deep bowl and handed it to Justen.

Justen looked at his empty bowl, grinning sheepishly. “I guess I would.”

“And have some more bread, too.”

Justen accepted the bread, took a chunk and passed the basket back toward Gunnar, who had also taken a second helping of stew. “The stew is wonderful. Thank you.” He inclined his head to Carnela.

“It’s a real treat,” Gunnar added.

“Is your mother a good cook?” asked Arline. “She must be. You boys—pardon me, I know you’re older than that—you appreciate good food.”

“Actually,” Gunnar ventured, “our father is the cook, and he’s very good.”

“Well, I’ve heard of that. It’s good to know.” Arline took a small chunk of bread from the loaf in the basket.

“What do engineers do, Magister Justen?” asked Wenda in a high voice that squeaked between wide-gapped front teeth. “You wear black…does that mean an engineer is like a magister?”

“Engineers make things for ships.”

“You’re too old for me. Do you have any other brothers, younger ones?”

Krytella grinned as Justen shifted his weight in the red-oak chair. “No. We do have a little sister. Her name is Elisabet.”

“Why isn’t she here?”

“She lives in Wandernaught with our parents,” interjected Gunnar.

“If your father cooks, what does your mother do?” asked Wenda politely.

“She’s a smith.”

Carnela raised an eyebrow.

“She could have been an engineer,” explained Justen after swallowing more stew, “but she said she wasn’t interested in building ships or living in Nylan.”

“Sensible woman,” offered Arline.

“She has been called that,” Justen said.

Krytella glanced sideways at Gunnar, who continued to watch Justen. The young engineer looked at the red-haired healer before finishing the last of his stew and turning his eyes to Dagud. “Do you think trade here in Nylan will pick up?”

“Trade always picks up. Just a matter of time. Could be years. But then, it could be seasons, too. Might take until the nastiness in Sarronnyn’s over.”

“What will happen there?” asked Wenda. “Will the Whites win?”

A silence fell across the table. Arline coughed softly. Justen took a small sip from his mug.

“I don’t know that anyone can say, child,” Dagud finally answered. “That’s a matter for the Council, I’d guess.”

“It is getting late, and we mustn’t keep you out too late,” said Carnela, rising from the table.

Gunnar followed her lead and stood. “You’ve been very thoughtful to have us.”

Justen gulped down the last of the beer in his mug and swallowed too rapidly, the liquid hurting his throat as it went down. He stood as quickly as he could. “Very thoughtful,” he echoed, trying not to cough…or to laugh as he saw the glint in Krytella’s eyes as she stood.

Carnela and Krytella followed the brothers through the parlor and to the front door.

His hand on the heavy iron of the door handle, Gunnar bowed to Carnela. “Thank you again for the dinner. I enjoyed it very much.”

Justen looked at Krytella’s mother, seeing the same lanky figure and mobile mouth that so resembled her eldest daughter’s. “It was delicious, and I had a very good time.” He glanced back toward the parlor. “And a delightful dinner companion.”

“I won’t tell her that,” replied Krytella. “It would make her insufferable. More insufferable,” she added. “I’m glad you could come.”

“So are we,” Gunnar said, taking another step back on the porch.

Justen nodded and followed.

Then the brothers turned and began to walk toward the Brotherhood quarters.

“They’re a nice family,” mused Gunnar.

“Yes,” agreed Justen.
Especially the older daughter
. He kept pace with his long-legged brother as they passed under the lamp that neither needed to make his way in the dark.

Finally, Justen spoke again. “Do you think everyone in Recluce is trying to avoid thinking about Sarronnyn?”

“What can we do? We don’t have an army. Besides, what can they really do to us?”

“I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“It probably isn’t. That’s why people don’t want to think about it. It’s troublesome and far away. They hope it will stay away. But we wear the black, and they don’t want to talk about it.”

“Krytella’s a healer.” Justen paused to look toward the harbor, empty in the starlight except for the
Llyse
.

“Healers are different.” Gunnar kept walking.

So is Krytella, thought Justen. He turned back and hurried to catch up with Gunnar, not that he had more to say at the moment.