The Order War (43 page)

After wiping the sweat off his forehead, Justen walked out through the engineering hall and onto the side porch. A brisk, cold breeze blew out of the west, and his breath steamed in the late afternoon. The cold air helped him regain his Balance. Sometimes now, he almost felt suffocated in the hall in the presence of so much ordered metal, yet paradoxically, he was even better than before at ordering iron.

He took a deep breath, and he cooled quickly in the cold air, but he stood in the weak light and looked toward the sun, hanging low over the Gulf of Candar.

Dayala…are you looking into the twilight, or brooding over your boxes and trees? How long will it be?

He caught a hint of warmth…of something. But was it merely his own longing, his own desires reflected within himself?

After taking another deep breath and a swallow from the water pitcher, he returned to the hall, not to his forge but to the raised platform at the rear, where Altara sat at a drawing board.

He waited until she finally looked up from the schematics. “Yes, Justen?”

“I need to work late. Do you mind?”

Altara raised her eyebrows. “You’re ahead of schedule. You must have learned something in Naclos. Your work is better than when you left. I was thinking of letting you take over more of Fitzl’s work. He’s considering moving to the wagonworks in Alberth.”

“I need to work on some things.”

“Such as?”

“A model for a land engine.”

“Turmin said it couldn’t be done. Too much chaos without the stabilizing order of the ocean.”

“I have an idea.”

Altara mock-winced. “The most deadly words for an engineer. ‘I have an idea.’ So did Dorrin, and look at what a mess that caused.”

“I’m no Dorrin. I certainly couldn’t figure out something like
The Basis of Order
. What harm would making a model do?”

“If I recall,” began the chief engineer with a grin, “he started with a model, too.”

Justen spread his hands.

“I might, just might, consider it,” she relented.

“Oh?”

“If you would consider occasionally sparring with those of us less fortunate in our martial talents.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“It certainly is.”

“All right. I stand blackmailed.”

“We’ll see you after work tomorrow. Tonight,” concluded Altara with a broad smile, “you can start on your model. After, of course, you finish what you were working on for the recovery pumps.”

“Of course, honored Chief Engineer.”

“Will changing the impellers solve the problem?”

“I’ll have to see. I have a new design that might work.”

Altara nodded, and Justen knew that the conversation was at an end. He nodded in return and walked back to his forge, looking automatically for Clerve. His chest tightened.

Clerve—and for the year or so you worked for me, I never knew until the end that you could sing, or told you how much
I appreciated it when I heard your songs
. Was life always like that? Never saying what should be said until it was too late?

Justen pulled at his chin with his left hand and looked toward the forge. The problem with the recovery pumps for the new
Hyel
was simple enough. The rates of condensation and collection weren’t uniform, and the impellers tended to break when they switched from air or froth to more solid condensate.

Probably the best way to straighten things out would be to overhaul the condensation system, but the problem had been given to him as a pump problem. He sighed and looked at the rough templates for the new impeller blades.

A varying-speed pump would be another answer, but that made the system much more complex, which certainly wasn’t a good idea, not with too much of it already running at the order-chaos limits.

He frowned, his thoughts drifting toward the land engine, and whether a full water jacket around the condenser would even out the pump’s flow.

Finally, he shook his head and stepped toward the forge. One step at a time, and the current step was to rough-forge the redesign impeller blades to see how well they worked. Then he’d have to grind and polish them before annealing and ordering them and locking them into the black iron ring that was the heart of the pump.

He slid the iron into the forge, glancing around the busy hall, listening to the cacophony of hammers, grinders, mills, and cutters that overrode the lower hum of voices.

Justen wiped the dust off the battered staff—still in his cubby from well over a year before, when he had left Recluce for the oh-so-heroic expedition to help Sarronnyn. He snorted as he hung up the leather apron.

“I can’t believe it. You’re actually going to spar with
us—with the obsolete weapons.” Warin had deepened his voice almost into the bass range as he picked up a new, black iron-bound staff.

“I actually am.” Justen looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry about your staff. I really am. But it got buried when the Whites’ cannons targeted us, and I know you liked it. I wanted to bring it back.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The balding older engineer touched Justen’s shoulder. “I know you would have if you could. Did it help?”

Justen nodded, thinking not of the battles, or of the order embodied in the staff, but of the concern with which it had been given. “Yes. Sometimes…a lot.”

“That’s good. Maybe this afternoon you’ll be so out of shape that you won’t have a chance.” Warin tapped his staff on the stone tile floor. “Come on.”

“I’m coming, and I probably won’t have. I haven’t picked up a staff since I lost yours on the battlefield.”

Justen followed the older engineer out to the near-empty highway across from the ancient armory.

Warin glanced up the long slope, but the highway was clear in the fall twilight. The close-fitted stone blocks remained solidly in place after centuries of use. “Altara’s probably over there practicing already.”

Justen shook his head. Why had Altara insisted on his resuming his old habits of sparring? Trying to see if action would return him to a shadow of his former devil-may-care attitude? Did she think that repeated words and actions could re-create the past? He twirled the staff, then dropped it against the stone and caught it on the rebound. But he had to jump to catch it, and he almost dropped it.

“You’re out of practice.”

“So it seems.”

Warin paused before the half-open main doors of the armory, looking back to see if anyone had followed them, then marched into the black stone building that showed no apparent age, for all of the centuries that had passed since the original engineers had built it.

Justen eased out onto the open expanse of the practice floor. He placed his old staff against the wall and began to
stretch, feeling tightness and the continuing awareness of the imbalance between order and chaos, an awareness that was becoming easier to handle, although it had not faded. He continued to stretch, glad that his muscles were not nearly as tight as he had feared. How much had Dayala’s reordering of his body changed him? He swung his arms to loosen the tightness in his shoulders.

“You don’t look that out of shape.” Warin eyed Justen.

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

In the far corner, several other engineers, with Altara at their center, were also exercising. In the near corner was less than a squad of marines.

“Where are the rest of the marines?”

“Some of them moved to the new armory. Don’t know why, but it happened after Gerol took over. I suppose they didn’t want to associate with mere engineers,” panted Warin from a knee squat. “Those are Martan’s squad. He’s Hyntal’s young cousin.”

“Hyntal—the captain of the
Llyse?
”

“Do you know any other Hyntals?”

“Hyntal the cooper; Hyntal the silversmith in Alberth.”

“Don’t be so patronizing, Justen. We all know you can do the impossible and know the unknowable. Just give us credit for doing what we do and know.”

“I’m sorry.” Justen looked at Warin. “I really didn’t mean to sound that way.”

“It still bothers people, you know,” added a new voice. “You about ready to show us how out of trim you are?” Altara swung a long staff as she crossed the floor.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” Justen wiped his hands on his exercise trousers and picked up his staff. Then he squared his feet and lifted his old and battered staff, more than a cubit shorter than the black length held by Altara.

“You still using that little thing?” Altara brought the black staff whistling around.

Justen slid her staff off his and countered.

Altara stepped back, feet balanced, and brought her staff back in a half-parry. Justen eased forward, ducking the longer staff. The blocks, counters, thrusts, blocks, and parries alternated.

“You haven’t…slowed…down.”

“Don’t…know…why,” Justen puffed, barely managing to slip Altara’s thrust and avoid a
thwack
to his ribs. “That would…have…hurt.”

Altara eased back and took several deep breaths.

Justen took a deep breath himself before repositioning his feet and waiting for the next attack. Idly, he tried to touch the flow of order and chaos, both within himself and around him.

Altara started forward, and Justen let his body react to the order-balance and watched as his staff flickered and twisted.

“Darkness. What was that?” Altara looked at her staff, which lay on the exercise floor.

“Are you all right?” Justen asked.

“Fine. Didn’t even touch my hands.” Altara picked up her staff and looked at Justen. “Again?”

Justen reached for the sense of order once more, but he had to dance aside twice, awkwardly, before finally slipping into the patterns required. Within instants of his feeling the under rhythm of order-chaos, Altara’s staff was flipped from her hands and crashed into the near wall.

“Some defense.” The chief engineer shook her head. “Your attacks aren’t as sharp…but I don’t think anyone could touch you now.”

“I don’t know. You almost got me twice.”

“You seemed to be struggling, like you were trying to find something, but when you found it, I couldn’t get close.”

“Guess it was something I picked up in Naclos.” Justen shrugged.

Altara looked intently at him. “I don’t think you just picked it up somehow.”

“Maybe not.” Justen managed a half-smile.

“I think I’ll try Warin for a round, if you don’t mind.” She inclined her head to the balding engineer.

“My pleasure, Chief Engineer,” said Warin. “But be kind. I’m not his mightiness, Justen. And he said that he was out of practice.”

“Then let us hope he never gets into practice.” Altara bowed and waited for Warin.

Justen watched, wondering, as their staffs interlinked and
whirled. Even more now than before, the staff and weapon play seemed like a game. A game where one could get hurt, but a game. He pursed his lips, then took a deep breath.

“How did you do that?”

Justen turned to face the marine who stood beside him. “Do what? Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Justen.”

“I know. Everyone, I think, knows who you are, if not by sight, at least by reputation.” The black-haired and square-faced marine grinned. “I’m Martan. I was watching your work with the staff. It has to be technique. You’re not in specially good condition, and Altara is, and you made her almost look silly.”

Justen looked at the packed clay underfoot.

“I was curious, that’s all,” added the marine.

“I don’t know…exactly. It’s a combination of my old training and of order-sensing, of matching actions to the flow of order and chaos.”

“Chaos?”

Justen gave an embarrassed shrug. “Whether or not anyone wants to admit it, there’s chaos everywhere. Even our bodies have some chaos inside. So there are always flows.”

“Hmmm. I don’t know how practical that is for someone who’s not a mage.” Martan grinned again.

Justen looked sheepish. “Probably not very, except that there’s not much difference between really good training and what I did.”

“Do you ever think you’ll go back and fight the Whites?”

Justen pursed his lips, not wanting to lie or to admit what he had in mind.

“If you need some marines, ser, let me know.” Martan laughed. “But I can keep a secret…except from Hyntal. He can find out anything.” He looked toward Warin and Altara, who had stepped away from each other for a break. “It was good to meet you.” He inclined his head and trotted back toward his squad.

Justen frowned for a moment. Was it that obvious that he was thinking about returning to Candar?

“You know, Jenna. I’ve done a little checking on that young engineer.”

“I’m sure you have, Ryltar. Darkness forbid that anyone be termed more orderly than you.”

“Jenna, I believe you are being somewhat unduly hard on a fellow counselor,” interposed Claris. “What did you find out, Ryltar?”

“He brought back a cargo of lorken from Diehl on that Bristan ship. Half of the sale price went to him. There was no credit to be paid back.”

“You’re the trader, Ryltar. Please explain the subtleties to us.” Jenna brushed a strand of red hair off her forehead.

“This young engineer is lost in Candar. He supposedly travels the Stone Hills on foot, walks through Naclos untouched, and loses everything but the clothes on his back—even his horse and his blade. Yet he arrives in Nylan with some well-made clothes and half-owner of an unmortgaged and valuable cargo that nets him more than a hundred golds.” Ryltar spread his hands. “Does not this seem rather odd, to say the least?”

“You can’t be accusing him of chaos-corruption, I hope,” said the oldest counselor, “unless you’re willing to accuse Turmin of lying, or of incompetence.”

Ryltar shook his head. “I have another question. What scheming are the Naclans doing? Is this a plot to get us to protect them after Suthya falls?”

“Oh, you admit that Suthya will fall?”

“Why not? The Whites will attack either before the snows or first thing in the spring after the thaw. It’s clear that we cannot stop them, and Southwind cannot spare the resources now.”

“So, you feel that the druids have somehow influenced this young engineer?”

“Do you have a better explanation?”

“No. But that does not mean there isn’t one.”

“I intend to keep watching our young friend.”

“By all means, Ryltar. By all means.”