The Order War (4 page)

The slight White Wizard inclined his head toward the man seated at the table. “Were you aware, Ser, that the Sarronnese have sent an envoy to Land’s End?”

“Sit down, Renwek. Don’t be so formal.” Histen gestured to the seat across the table, then poured wine from the pitcher into the second glass.

Renwek seated himself, nodded to the High Wizard, and took a small sip from the goblet. “You do not sound terribly worried.”

“At the present time, I doubt that the Black Council will commit any great presence to rescuing Sarronnyn.” Histen sipped his wine and looked toward the half-open Tower window and the pale white glow of Fairhaven in the darkness.

“How can you be sure your…”

“My spy…my agent? Is that what you mean?”

Renwek nodded. “How can you be sure that your ‘gifts’ will remain effective?”

“They won’t. One can never ensure that aid which is purchased will remain purchased. But these purchases are so re
cent that it’s most unlikely that the Black Council will act hastily on Sarronnyn’s request, or that Recluce will provide a great deal of assistance.”

“Are you certain that our…‘influence’ cannot be traced?”

“Gold, so long as we do not touch it, is actually order-based, Renwek. Honest and non-magical corruption does not require the touch of chaos.” Histen took another sip from the goblet. “And compared to the alternatives, buying even a season’s delay in action by Recluce is cheap at the price.”

“Would Recluce have acted in any case?” Renwek set his goblet on the table.

“With the Blacks, one can never be certain.” Histen shrugged.

“What about your…recruiting efforts?”

“They go well. The Blacks never should have abandoned their policy of exiling malcontents. They lack our discipline.” Histen laughed. “You see the irony of that? The mages of order lack discipline in governing themselves, while we masters of chaos champion discipline.”

Renwek looked into the depths of the red wine.

“Heresy, Renwek? Chaos is indeed heresy.” Histen lifted his glass.

Justen hung the leather apron on one of the pegs and pulled on the ragged exercise shirt. Then he took the battered red-oak staff from where it leaned in the back corner of his narrow, open closet.

“The armory all right?” asked Warin.

“Fine. It’s old enough.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” The older engineer pulled on a loose, padded tunic, then lifted a gleaming black staff, bound with recessed iron bands, from his closet.

“Practicing with staffs is good exercise, but it’s quaint, like the armory. What good is a staff when you’re faced with rockets or shells—or with that fire the White Wizards throw? It’s just a relic from the time when anyone who had a different thought was tossed into exile.” Justen twirled the staff close enough to Warin that the older engineer stepped back. Then he thrust the battered red-oak length theatrically toward his closet. “Take that, you White villain!”

Warin laughed. “Let’s go.”

With an exaggerated shrug, Justen followed him out of the engineering hall and onto the front porch.

“Going to get some exercise?” asked the tall, muscular woman. “Must be that you don’t work hard enough here. We’ll let you two take the place of the rolling mill, if you need the work.”

“You need a different kind of workout, Altara honey,” replied Warin.

“I’m willing, Warin, but you’d be in two kinds of trouble. Even if you could walk home, Estil wouldn’t leave enough of you to feed the crabs.”

The two apprentices behind the senior engineer laughed.

“You got me there, Altara. Even young Justen’s kinder and easier on me.” Warin took three dancing steps down the stone stairs to the stone walkway. A stiff breeze ruffled the wispy blond hair that remained on his head.

“Don’t let him fool you, Justen,” called Altara as Justen followed Warin down the stone-paved walk that led to and across the High Road, the grand highway that connected both ends of the island nation.

“Don’t let
her
fool
you
,” Warin said, then paused and looked up the long slope. The highway was clear in the spring twilight, no wagons, no horses, just stone blocks still close-fitted after centuries of use. “She’ll be over practicing with us before long.”

Justen suppressed a grin. Almost every day after work, he and Warin sparred while Altara made wise remarks before joining the dozen or so regulars working out with staffs or wands. And almost every day, Warin said that Altara would be following them to exercise. Was all life a long series of repeated words and actions? Shaking his head, Justen
twirled the staff, then dropped it against the stone and caught it on the rebound.

“Hard on the staff,” Warin commented.

“But it’s fun. After all, it’s not as though I’ll ever have to use a staff for anything serious.” Justen paused before the open doors of the armory, glancing at the black stone that showed no apparent age for all of the centuries that had passed since Dorrin or one of the other original engineers had ordered and laid it—except that probably the great Dorrin hadn’t done much of the stonework himself. He’d doubtless been too busy building the famous
Black Hammer
.

Warin continued into the armory, and Justen hurried his steps to catch up.

“You never know.” Warin stepped onto the open expanse of the practice floor, setting his staff against the wall and beginning a limbering routine.

“Know what?” asked Justen, following the older man’s example and swinging his arms to loosen the tightness in his shoulders.

“When you might need that staff, young fellow.”

In the far corner, a group of ships’ marines exercised, led by Firbek, a big blond giant with the build of a Feyn River farmer. Justen paused and checked his boot laces, then watched as the marines swarmed up the ropes hung from the high beams.

He snorted, thinking to himself:
It’s been years, maybe centuries, since we’ve had to board anyone’s ships in real force
. Then he frowned, recalling his adventure on the
Llyse
, before chuckling as he realized how grumpy and serious his thoughts were.
And what are you doing, Justen, old man? Waving around an oak toothpick that’s just as obsolete
.

He continued stretching, grunting as the exercises pulled at muscles tightened by his work at the engineering forge.

“Already you’re showing how out of trim you are. You should be easy pickings,” gloated Warin before walking toward the empty northeast corner, farthest from the marines.

Justen picked up his staff and followed. He wiped his hands dry, squared his feet and raised his battered staff, nearly a cubit shorter than the shimmering black wood lifted by Warin.

“How you manage with that little twig, I don’t know.” The black staff whistled around.

Justen parried, then slid his staff and countered.

Warin stepped back, off balance, and Justen eased forward, feet balanced. For a time, the thrusts, blocks, and parries alternated.

“Darkness…good…for a young fellow. Who…says it’s…useless…”

“Need…the exercise…” Justen panted in return, barely managing a parry of Warin’s thrust, sliding under the older man’s guard and tapping his ribs.

“Ooooo…that could have hurt.” Warin straightened and took several deep breaths.

Justen bent forward and gasped for air. As he repositioned himself, his eyes flicked to the open armory door to see Altara enter, alone and carrying both a staff and the hilted wand used for blade practice.

“Ready?” asked Warin.

“All right.”

Warin’s staff swept forward, and Justen danced backward, his eyes half on the other side of the armory.

The blond marine had detached himself from his troops and walked over to Altara. “Altara?” Firbek bowed deeply. “Would you care to spar?”

“Not with staffs.”

“I’d be honored to use wands.”

At the word “wands,” Justen glanced toward the center of the armory, then dropped his shoulder and barely managed to deflect Warin’s staff.

“Justen? Are you all right?”

“Sorry…just wasn’t paying attention.”

“We can stop.”

“For a moment…” Justen let the end of his staff rest on the clay floor, packed hard by the feet of generations of practicing engineers.

Warin followed Justen’s eyes toward the pair in the middle of the armory.

“Wands?” mused Altara. “I suppose so…if you’re not out for blood.”

“Would I attempt that against a master engineer?” Firbek smiled broadly.

Justen shook his head. Firbek’s words felt wrong.

Warin looked from Justen to the center of the armory. “They’re just sparring.”

“I hope so.” Justen lifted his staff and walked toward the marine and the engineer as their wands crossed, uncrossed, and crossed.

With a sudden thrust-and-slash motion, Firbek’s wand brushed past Altara’s and slammed into her right shoulder.

Altara dropped her wand, stepping sideways involuntarily.

Firbek’s follow-through continued as if he had not been able to halt the motion, and the wand snapped toward Altara’s leg.

“Oooo…” The engineer glared at Firbek. “That’s enough. I won’t be able to lift the arm without hurting, and probably won’t walk straight for weeks.”

Justen turned and handed his staff to Warin. “Hold this.”

Warin opened his mouth, then shut it and nodded. “Be careful.”

“Nonsense. I’m never careful. That would get me in trouble.” Justen bent and picked up Altara’s wand. He inclined his head toward her. “Might I borrow this?”

“I’d prefer to fight my own battles.”

Justen smiled politely. “I’m scarcely fighting. You know that I think swords and staffs are totally obsolete, Altara. They’re only good for exercise.” He flipped the wand into the air, catching it by the hilt and making a mock thrust, all in the same smooth motion. Almost without stopping, he completed the thrust, then grinned at Firbek and saluted the marine with Altara’s wand. “Here’s to you, and to obsolete weapons and traditions, Firbek. A friendly match.”

“Ah, Justen…you clown too much. You need a lesson—or three. Even in a friendly match.” The tall marine smiled and lifted his wand, returning the salute with far greater formality than Justen had offered.

The wands crossed. With his greater height and reach, Firbek attempted to keep Justen beyond striking range. Justen
stepped inside, pressing the more heavily muscled marine back with the quickness of his wand.

The wands continued to cross, uncross, and slide across each other, Justen’s moving ever so slightly faster than Firbek’s.

Then, with a burst of speed, Justen stepped completely inside the marine’s guard and knocked the wand from his hand, almost casually. “Got you that time.”

Firbek massaged his hand for a moment, then retrieved his wand. “Another round?”

“Why not?” Justen offered the semi-mocking salute again, but cut it short as Firbek slashed at him with the oak wand. Instead of pressing the attack as before, Justen concentrated on defense, on weaving a web that Firbek was unable to penetrate.

The wands continued to cross and recross. Sweat beaded on Firbek’s brow, and he slashed wildly, leaving his chest exposed. Justen smiled but merely continued to hold the marine at bay, deflecting each thrust or slash. Firbek’s slashes became wilder, stronger, until he appeared almost as though he were hacking at Justen.

The smaller man danced aside, letting his wand slide the other’s aside or down, or merely avoiding the heavier wand.

“You…seem to…feel you’re pretty…good, Engineer…”

“I’m all right…for an engineer playing…with obsolete toys…”

Firbek slashed again.

This time, Justen’s wand slipped behind the hilt of Firbek’s and twisted. The marine tottered, then stumbled and pitched forward.

“I’m so sorry, Firbek.” Justen grinned. “I need to be going, but perhaps we could have another round at some other time. Just for fun, of course.” He turned and extended the wand to Altara, who frowned. “My thanks for the loan, Master Engineer.”

“My pleasure, Justen.” Altara’s words were low as she accepted the practice wand. “But you still have to be in the hall tomorrow. We’re going to start work on the new heat-
exchangers that Gunnar and Blyss designed.”

Justen forced a smile. Gunnar even showed up in the armory, for all that he never deigned to lift a blade or a staff. “I’ll be there.”

He turned, but Firbek had vanished.

“That was…interesting, but Estil’s probably expecting me by now.” Warin handed Justen the battered red-oak staff.

“I’ll walk back with you.”

Outside, the clouds had moved in from the Gulf, and a light, drizzling rain seeped over Nylan. Justen stopped on the stones halfway to the road and wiped his dripping forehead on his sleeve.

“That was dangerous, Justen.” Warin looked back at the armory. “He is Counselor Ryltar’s cousin.”

“What can he do?” Justen shrugged. “It was just a friendly match. He said so himself.”

“Do you ever take anything in life seriously?”

“Not much. After all, we’re not exactly going to get out of it alive.” Justen bounced the staff off the road stones and caught it. “Might as well try to enjoy things along the way.”

“You have a warped sense of enjoyment.” Warin paused. “Estil’s probably waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow. And I’ll lay a staff on you yet.”

“Only if you catch me watching a pretty girl.”

“I’ll make sure one walks in.”

“Who?”

“I could have Estil stop by.”

“That’s not fair.”

“So?” Warin half-waved and began to trot uphill toward the line of houses along the ridgeline south of the black stone wall that marked the edge of Nylan.

Justen twirled the staff, then turned downhill.

Jagged-edged, red-sandstone upthrusts formed a circular amphitheater between the gray stone hills to the north and west and the rolling dunes to the south. A narrow strip of browned grass wound eastward from the red sandstone, gradually widening and greening as it neared the great forests.

Within the small, natural-appearing theatre were three women. The three rested upon knee-high stones, smoothed either by nature or by hand into shapes comfortable for sitting. The silver-haired woman in the center rocked slightly, eyes closed. The red granules within the square formed by the five-cubit-long sandstone border stones shifted, slowly rearranging themselves.

In time, the map appeared, the granules faithfully depicting in miniature the very peaks of the Westhorns themselves. A white line arrowed through the peaks, the whiteness tinged with the dull ugliness of dried blood.

Slowly, white-sparkled granules of sand dotted the tiny peaks and valleys, growing and spreading westward until the entire map glimmered an ugly white.

After a time, the mapmaker in the center released a deep breath and the depiction lost its sharpness as the sands slumped into their natural state. But the whiteness remained.