The Order War (45 page)

Cirlin stepped out from the smithy while Justen and Gunnar were still easing the blocks under the wagon wheels. The mist that was not quite a drizzle flowed around both men and off the oiled canvas that covered the wagon bed.

“Justen, what on earth have you got there?” asked Cirlin.

“Iron…old parts, gear assemblies, engineering stuff.” Justen straightened and wiped the dampness off his forehead, a dampness mostly from sweat. “We’ll need to unload this somewhere, maybe in the shed.”

“You’ll need to unload the shed before you do. Your father has it filled with more lengths and sizes of wood than three generations would need.”

“Well, we could use the wood to build another shed…”

“With no two pieces the same size? Leastwise, you’d be giving him a reason to think about what to do with the wood.”

“What about the horses?” asked Gunnar.

“Where’s Elisabet?” asked Justen nearly simultaneously.

“There’s room for both in the end stall,” answered the smith. “Your sister is at Magistra Mieri’s for her lessons. You two do what you have to here, and I’ll finish Hruson’s harness. Then we’ll have hot cider or ale or whatever.”

“We’ll unload later, after we talk to Father about where to put it all.”

“Fine.” Cirlin turned back toward the smithy. “Let me finish, and you can tell me the rest then.”

Justen and Gunnar began loosening the harnesses, each working on one horse. After stabling the team, they walked through the increasingly heavy and cold rain toward the house.

“Justen…this is cold, and it feels like it could turn to snow.”

“You don’t know?”

“It’s right on the edge, and I haven’t paid much attention. With all your talk about creating chaos every time we put more order into the world, I’m not exactly encouraged to influence the weather.”

“A little bit won’t matter. I know…it’s hypocritical, but I’m already into deception. So what’s a little hypocrisy?”

“You’re also into sarcasm and bitterness, neither of which is particularly good.”

“You’re right on that. We also don’t have anyplace to put all this iron.” Justen gestured at the wagon as they passed it and turned onto the path to the house.

“Fine.” Gunnar’s face went blank, and he stood in the cold rain, the droplets no longer going around him but falling upon him for a moment, until Justen guided him away, waiting for Gunnar’s senses to return.

After some time, Gunnar staggered and took a deep
breath. “It’ll still snow at Land’s End, but from mid-Recluce south, it will be rain.”

“Thank you.”

Horas had four mugs of hot cider and a platter of shortbread squares on the dining-area table by the time they had taken off their waterproofs and damp boots.

“Your mother should be in shortly.”

“Good,” mumbled Justen, sipping the hot liquid.

Gunnar eased into a chair, then reached for his mug as Justen set down his mug and seated himself.

“I take it that Gunnar was ‘adjusting’ the weather?”

“Moving the snow a little north. Not much, only a little,” admitted the Weather Wizard.

“That’s just to give us some time. We need somewhere to put my supplies,” added Justen.

“Must be a lot of iron in that wagon,” observed Horas, lifting his mug and letting the steam curl around his face. “It should fit in the shed, I’d think. Need to be doing something with that wood, anyway. Your mother’s been saying I’ve collected it for too long.”

“I might need some of it,” Justen said. “Wood’s lighter than iron, and stronger, stone for stone.”

“You’re welcome to it.”

The outside door closed, and Cirlin stepped into the kitchen. “I thought it was going to snow, but it’s raining. That your doing, Gunnar?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I can’t say as I’m ready for snow, as long as the rain doesn’t freeze.” The smith eased into a chair and took the fourth mug.

“It won’t. It would melt before long, anyway. It’s too early in the winter for freezing.” Gunnar reached for one of the shortbread squares.

“We didn’t expect to see either of you for a time yet.” Horas set his mug on the table.

Gunnar looked toward Justen.

“I need everyone’s help, I think,” Justen answered.

“That’s a rare admission, Justen.” Cirlin leaned back in the chair. “What sort of help?”

“I need to build a land engine.”

“A land engine?”

“A small ship that travels on wheels. Just on the roads, though.”

The smith pursed her lips. “That would seem like a large order for a small smithy, even with an engineer such as you.”

“It’s not so bad as that. Altara will let me use some old parts and some spare plating, and I’ve figured out how to convert a steam pump.”

“How will you get them here…and what is the purpose of all this?”

“The first wagonload is what I brought.” Justen shrugged. “And the purpose is to build something that will stop the White Wizards.”

Horas rubbed his forehead. “I know you two are talented young men, even extraordinarily talented, but you’re going to try to build something in our little smithy that will defeat the White Wizards, when something like eight of you could not do this with the support of the Tyrant of Sarronnyn?”

“It does sound stupid.” Justen laughed once, almost harshly. “But I think I can do it.”

“Why here?”

Justen looked at the polished stone tiles of the floor. “The Council would oppose it.”

“Then they’ll come here and stop you.”

“Hardly…they think I’m mad, that my stay in Naclos has somehow disordered me. That’s why I’m here. They’re paying me a half-stipend in order for me to take a rest cure at home.”

“Mad?” Cirlin smiled wryly. “Exasperating, romantic, imaginative…still a bit of a scamp. But not mad.”

“Neither the engineers nor the Council know what to do. Even Turmin says there’s not a trace of chaos or disorder around me. In fact, he says I’m the most ordered man he’s ever studied. They’ve coined a new term for it—I’m ‘order-mad.’ I’m playing on that. I’ve started to work on ideas for a new type of order-machine to bring true order to Candar, and I really want most of the Council to dismiss what I’m doing. I can’t lie about it…so the next best thing is for them to ignore me.”

“I suppose I can see that.” Cirlin frowned. “But won’t some people be suspicious?”

“Probably. I think Counselor Ryltar already is. But that’s because he’s not quite right…somehow. Gunnar’s looking into him.”

“If it’s on the winds, Gunnar will find it.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Justen’s right, I think,” added Gunnar. “Ryltar’s involved with smugglers, and a few other things that I haven’t traced yet.”

“And if he’s corrupt?” asked Horas. “What does that change?”

Justen frowned.

“If he has been on the Council for these several years, do you not think that they feel the same things you do? And since he is still there…” Horas raised his eyebrows.

“They aren’t likely to do much even if there is proof of corruption?” asked Justen.

“I’m just a holder and a tree farmer.” Horas shrugged. “But since when have even the Councils of Recluce acted on charges of corruption when it is not in their interest to do so? Has not Ryltar advocated staying out of war in Candar? Who would call him corrupt for that?”

“I see your point,” conceded Justen. “If he’s smart enough to be on the Council, even if Gunnar discovers that he’s corrupt, how could we prove it, and who would listen to a young engineer who’s order-mad and his brother, the Air Wizard?”

“You want me to stop looking?”

“No. I still need to know the truth.”

“I think Justen’s right, Gunnar,” added Cirlin. “You have to know what is true and what is not, even if no one else does.”

“Great.” Gunnar looked into his mug.

“How about dinner?” suggested Horas. “Elisabet should be home before much longer.”

“So…you’re not going back to Fairhaven for the winter? You’re actually staying here in Rulyarth. How incredibly dutiful.” Eldiren blew on his hands. “You can freeze, together with Jehan and me.”

“Oh, stop it. You know it’s not dutiful in the slightest. If I’m in Fairhaven, that gives Histen the chance to accuse me of neglecting my duties. Also, like it or not, troop morale is not favorably affected by commanders who enjoy warm weather and luxury while the fighters don’t.” Beltar looked out through the mansion’s glazed windows at the fast-falling thick flakes of snow.

“You’re actually trying to become a well-loved commander?” asked Eldiren.

At the other side of the table, Jehan’s eyes darted from Eldiren to Beltar.

“What are my options? Be relieved or be less respected? No, thank you. Besides, unlike previous commanders, I intend to be ready to move with the thaw. Perhaps before, and that takes work now.”

“A great deal,” offered Jehan slowly. “It might be prudent, though.”

“How?” asked Eldiren.

“We need more supplies, and they need fewer supplies. We do have some winter troops.” Beltar nodded to Jehan, as if thanking him.

“You’re going to harass them in winter. That’s not exactly charitable,” suggested Eldiren, a touch of irony in his voice.

“I never said I was charitable. I intend to bring Suthya down quickly and with as few casualties to us as possible.” Beltar gestured at the snow outside. “We’ll have the winter troops train the others in groups—just enough to keep them from fighting and drinking too much, and I’ll let it be known that any section of levies or lancers that has too many fights will be rotated into extra training.”

“What kind of training?”

“Taking Suthyan border towns and farms with stores—that sort of thing.”

Eldiren shivered. “I suppose we’ll accompany these…expeditions?”

“Of course.”

“Cheer up, Eldiren,” offered Jehan. “You could have to stay here and listen to complaining troops, and have to execute this trooper or that for torturing some local wench.”

“Is that still happening?” snapped Beltar.

“Not since you turned the last lancer into a candle in the square,” said Jehan. “But some of them will be back at it once you leave.”

“No, they won’t. I’ll fry every trooper in any squad that lets it happen,” declared Beltar.

“You can’t say that.” Jehan sighed. “Then the locals will trump up something, and you’ll either have to fry an innocent squad or back down and look stupid. Either way, you’ll lose.”

Beltar looked from one to the other. “Then what do you suggest?”

“Don’t do anything,” said Jehan. “Anything that happens will be hushed up because they know you’ll fry them if you find out. A local woman or two will disappear. That’s the best you can hope for.”

Beltar took a deep breath.

“Power just doesn’t solve every problem,” added Eldiren.

“You can make up the training-rotation schedule, Eldiren.” Beltar gave the thin-faced wizard a crooked smile.

Eldiren shrugged. As Beltar stood and turned to depart, Jehan shook his head.

Justen studied the plans laid out on the bench, each corner of the drawings weighted down by stones. He glanced from the parts spread on the clean-swept smithy floor to the plans and back again.

“How do you intend to get the power to the wheels?” Cirlin looked at the axle parts, then at the model on the crude workbench.

“Warin helped me with that.” Justen riffled through the stack of papers before he came to the sheet he wanted. “See this?”

Cirlin looked over her son’s shoulder. “It looks like a box in the middle of the axle.”

“It is, sort of. That’s where the drive shaft, just like the propeller shaft, joints the axle. But it lets each wheel be driven at a different rate when the land engine turns.”

The smith glanced toward the iron sections and odd-shaped parts stacked in the racks that Justen had built in the far corner of the smithy. “Will all of that go into this machine?”

“Most of the stuff here. The other parts I’m supposed to use for material or de-order and ship back to Altara.”

“How are you going to pay for all of this?”

“You want pay? That’s fair. How much?” Justen grinned at his mother.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I know. But I should pay. If you help me, you can’t do other things.”

“You could help me, too, you know. You’re a good smith in your own right.”

“I will. But I can pay. The druids gave me a half-interest in a cargo of lorken and sent me off with some ‘trinkets.’ That’s what they called them.”

“Trinkets?”

“Gems—all kinds. Dayala said that I’d need them, one
way or another. So far, I haven’t had to cash in any.”

“Why are the druids so willing to support you? That seems a little odd. Charity from strangers needs looking at.”

“It’s in their interests. They think the buildup of order in Recluce and the buildup of chaos in Fairhaven should be stopped.”

“Why not just stop chaos?”

“That was where I started. But they showed me more about how order and chaos are related, and I don’t think you can stop chaos without reducing order.”

“That’s a terrible thought, son.”

“I suppose so, but it makes sense.”

“Why do you believe them?”

Justen did not answer momentarily as he used calipers to measure the diameter of one of the possible axle shafts. “The Whites’ Iron Guard. Why else would a bunch of White Wizards build up order within their own domains unless it benefited them?”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“I know. The Iron Guard can stand up to things that the White lancers can’t. Why, I can’t tell you. On the surface, it’s probably not logical, but it feels right.”

Cirlin laughed. “I’ll accept that sooner than logic, Justen.”

Justen set the calipers on the bench. “This one is flawed on the inside. I’ll need to check some others in the shed.”

“Don’t track in too much mud.”

Justen shook his head and smiled as he started through the cold, light rain once again—rain that promised to become snow by night.

The burly sailor in the officer’s jacket walked up the stone-paved wharf of Nylan through light flakes of snow that would not stick to the stones or slate roofs. A brush of wind
tossed a few flakes into his face, and he wiped away the dampness with a gray rag that might once have been white. At the end of the wharf, he turned to the right, toward the trading houses set on the lower part of the hillside.

The block-lettered sign above the doorway of the third building proclaimed “Ryltar and Weldon.” Beneath the name in smaller letters, in both Temple and Hamorian, were the words, “Factors for the Eastern Ocean.”

He moved under the overhang and opened the door, stepping inside and closing it behind him.

“Might I help you?” A young clerk dressed in brown stood up.

“Captain Pesseiti for Master Ryltar.”

“A moment, ser.”

Pesseiti shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes traveled from the plain table where the clerk had been sitting through the half-open doorway and into the corner office, then back to the bookcase, filled with what appeared to be ledgers.

“Please go in, ser.”

The ship’s master nodded and walked past the clerk into the office.

Ryltar stood to greet him. “What can I do for you, Captain?”

“The
Tylera
is berthed at the end of the big pier.” Pesseiti extended a rolled parchment toward the factor. “I’ve got the transport for the Ruziosis’s woolens—the black and the tan.”

Ryltar unrolled the parchment and read through the neatly lettered contract. His fingers brushed over the seal at the end. “Seems in line. How do you intend to pay?”

The
Tylera
’s captain extended a flat but thick envelope.

“Looks like a warrant on the Imperial Treasury of Hamor.”

“Aye, and it is. How else would old Kylen do it?”

“How indeed,” murmured Ryltar as he slipped the folded document from the envelope and scanned it. “This time, he even remembered to include the conversion fee.”

“Your woolens are the best.”

“At least among the best.”

“How soon can we ship?”

“The woolens are baled, but they’ll need to be properly packed. Mid-afternoon for the first load. Day’s end for the rest.”

“Could be better, but could be a lot worse.” Pesseiti nodded, then reached toward his belt. He laid a heavy leather bag on the table. “This is the bonus payment for the last consignment.”

Ryltar’s eyebrows lifted as a draft ruffled the papers on his desk. “Oh…?”

“For those special cargoes out of Sarronnyn…if you know what I mean. The customer was extraordinarily pleased.” Pesseiti straightened and tipped his cap. “Best I be going, Master Ryltar. We’ll be ready to load by mid-afternoon, rain or no rain.”

“We’ll have the woolens there, under oilcloth if necessary.”

“Good.” Pesseiti nodded and left.

Ryltar picked up the bag slowly, hefting it gingerly and shaking his head. He wiped his forehead damp, despite the faint breeze and the coolness of the room.

In the tavern two doors down, Gunnar wiped his own sweating forehead.
Gold…and Ryltar was surprised. But not too surprised
. He swallowed the last of the redberry in his mug and left four coppers on the table before slipping out into the snow showers.