The Death of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Fir?”

  I shrugged. “It’s softer, and it will get dented and banged up more easily, but you’ll save more than a stone in weight for a chest that size. That’s one of the reasons sailing ships’ masts are usually fir.”

  “Ah, weight. Yes, they must be light. And so must the chests.”

  “Fir,” I affirmed.

  Preltar twisted the green and white wool cap in his hands, and I noticed that the moisture pot needed refilling, although it would not be long before the real heat would begin. That meant letting the wood dry over the summer, not something I was thrilled with, but a necessary concession to the climate.

  “How soon could you finish these chests?”

  I frowned. I was still working on Antona’s desk, and Durrik’s chest, and I still hadn’t done much on Zeiber’s bookcase. The traveling chests would be easy, and I knew Faslik had plenty of fir. Besides, a good shop has half a dozen pieces working at one time. Of course, I wasn’t anywhere near that good. “Three eight-days, perhaps sooner.” I should have been able to finish them in half that, but I was learning to give myself some margin.

  “Three eight-days. Oh, that would be superb. Just superb.” The bushy eyebrows under the bald head knitted, and the hawk looked a lot less absentminded. “The price. We did not discuss the price.”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  “Fir is less expensive, is it not, and you did not mention ornamentation.”

  “True. A chest that size in oak or cedar, as you know, would run close to ten golds.”

  “But these are smaller than Hylera’s chest, perhaps two thirds that size, and the fir cannot cost what the cedar does. It cannot. No, it cannot.”

  “You are correct, Master Preltar, and I certainly never said that one of these chests would cost what Hylera’s chest will. I presume you would want brasswork for the lock plates and hinges, and good crafting.”

  “Ah, yes, good crafting. That was why I came to you.”

  I shrugged. “Five golds apiece.”

  He didn’t blink an eye, and that bothered me.

  “Five apiece, yes, yes, we find that fair. Very fair. And, Master Lerris, if they are ready in three eight-days or less, a gold extra for each.” He beamed at me.

  I liked that even less, but I bowed. “We will certainly do our best.”

  “And Hylera’s chest… when might that be ready?”

  “I might, might, be able to have that ready around the same time.”

  “Oh, superb… just superb. That would make matters so much simpler. Yes, simpler. Then, she could take… ah, but there’s no reason to bore you with the details. Not the details. A gold extra for that if you could have it ready in no less than four eight-days.”

  Preltar was in a hurry, a definite hurry.

  “I take it that the Hamorian traders are on the move.” I smiled politely.

  “The Hamorians? Their traders… terrible people, you know. Their cotton is cheap, not enduring like good Analerian wool, and they are so… demanding… very demanding.” He replaced his cap on his head, and bowed, then extended a gold to me.“A token, just a token deposit, but… yes, just a token.”

  I did take it, and nodded again. “I’ll be getting right on it, Master Preltar.” And I would be, in more ways than one. “These chests… there seems to be a certain urgency about them.”

  “Urgency. Well, Master Lerris, one must shear, yes, shear, when the wool is ready.”

  “I’ve heard some people are worried that Hamor may move beyond Freetown and Delapra. What do you think?” I tried to make the question offhand.

  “Me? Think? A mere wool factor, Master Lerris? How would I know?” He gave a jerky shrug. “The Empire keeps growing, they say… yes, growing, and the Hamorians have warships in Southwind and Freetown, and who knows… who knows where they may go. I’m sure I don’t. I’m sure I don’t.” He put the cap on his head and bowed.

  I inclined my head to him and followed him to the door.

  “A good day, yes, a good day to you, Master Lerris.”

  I tried not to shake my head until he was out of the yard on the big stallion. Then I walked back to the door of the shop and called for Wegel. “Come on. We need to finish the demon-damned henhouse.”

  “Master Lerris, ser… I’d thank you not to call down the white forces on our chickens…” Rissa stood by the kitchen door, broom in hand.

  “Sorry, Rissa.” I wiped my forehead. The day was already hot, and it wasn’t even midday, and still relatively early in the spring. And now the wool factor was worried enough to order shipping chests without really haggling over the costs.

  That meant another trip to see Merrin, and more brasswork to pay for, and who knew what else.

  LXX

  Freetown Port, Freetown [Candar]

  “HAMOR! HAMOR!” THE chants rock the marketplace.

  The dark-haired man in the tan uniform bows and raises his right hand as he steps forward onto the stones of the public stage. His wide brown leather belt bears only a short blade on the left, a small purse, and, on the right, a heavy short pistol in a leather holster that matches the belt perfectly. He is flanked by two soldiers carrying the cartridge rifles of Hamor. Behind him flutters a pale blue banner bearing the orange starburst of Hamor.

  “Hamor! Hamor!…”

  Less than twenty cubits away stands a slighter, fairer man, under a thin traveling cloak that covers also the uniform of Hamor. Unlike the man upon the stage, Leithrrse carries no knife, but both pistol and shortsword, and he studies the crowd for a time before turning his eyes to the stage. “… strut and prance your time upon the stage, Rignelgio.”

  “Friends! Friends! This is a great day for Freetown and for you. No more endless wars between Freetown and Hydlen, no more conscriptions by yet another plotter calling himself the Duke. From here on, the forces of Hamor will protect you and yours…”

  The light wind off the Great North Bay brings the smells of the sea, drying seaweed, sewage, and the smoke from the engines of the Hamorian warships.

  Leithrrse snorts quietly as the speech continues, and his eyes study the crowd. He squints for a moment, as the scene beneath the market stage appears to waver before his eyes. He rubs his forehead, then blots away the sweat brought on by the intensity of the midday sun, despite the light breeze that sweeps through the square.

  He looks back to the stage.

  “… clothing that does not cost a fortune… goods that every family can purchase…”

  “Hamor! Hamor!…”

  WHHHHSSSTTT! A miniature sun flares from the crowd beneath the stage and explodes across the chest of the Emperor’s regent, leaving an instantly charred mass of flames, that wavers, and then pitches forward into the crowd, which scatters away from the feebly flailing column of charcoal.

  “Eeee… eeee…”

  “Magic!”

  “Demonspawn!”

  Leithrrse flings off the cloak and bounds up the stone steps.

  “Fire! There!” He points toward the slight wavering in the air that seems to flow even faster than the fleeing crowd.

  “Ser?”

  “NOW!” His pistol is in his hand, and he cocks and fires the weapon in the direction he has pointed. Crack!

  … crack… crack… crack…

  The volleys go on for a time, and bodies fall across the marketplace under the searing sun.

  Then, when all that remain beneath the stone stage are a charred corpse and half a dozen bodies strewn across the stones, Leithrrse nods to the guard, and, accompanied by three guards, the envoy and now-acting regent walks the marketplace, finally stopping and standing over one figure-a black-clad blond woman still clutching a stubby, wide-nozzled device that looks like a miniature cannon of sorts-the same sort of rocket gun he has seen on the white wizard’s cottage wall.

  “Demon-damned Brotherhood… they’ll pay for this.”

  “What… ser?” asks the guard serjeant.

  “Recluce. Their black marines, sent by t
heir black Brotherhood. Their turn will come.” He ignores the looks that pass between the guards.

  “Tell Marshall Dyrsse that we need to make some changes.”

  The guards exchange another look.

  LXXI

  DESPITE THE HENHOUSE, the chores, and woodworking, Wegel, with some help from me, got his own narrow room finished enough to use. He would have plenty of chances to improve his craft, since he needed just about every item of furniture, although Faslik brought over a nice single bed. I did provide a lamp, and the oil, which was another item getting dearer by the eight-day. A lot of the increased prices and shortages weren’t the result of real shortages, but of greed and fear. It would be seasons, if ever, before the Empire could take over Candar, although the black Brotherhood of Recluce had done precious little. Somehow, I didn’t think that would last.

  I’d managed to ride down to the south side of Kyphrien and commission some more hinges from Merrin-far less elaborate and expensive. I hadn’t seen Yense or his accomplice, but I’d left Merrin’s door open just in case.

  After wiping my forehead and looking around the too-dusty shop, I took a long drink from the pitcher-the dry heat of Kyphros pulled water out of my body like an oven-dried bread dough. I offered the pitcher to Wegel, but he shook his head. He didn’t seem to need the water as much as I did, but then he’d been born in Kyphros.

  “Sweep up the chips and the damned red dust, first…”

  “B-but… M-m-master Lerris… it’ll just…just g-g-get d-d-dusty again.”

  “I know, but I believe in struggling against disorder even when it’s futile.”

  The blond young man shook his head sadly and picked up the broom. I picked up a soft rag. The red dust was gritty, and it had a tendency to stain the light-colored woods if it got damp. The way I was sweating, even wiping my forehead continually wasn’t enough to keep some moisture from hitting the wood. I was making it a habit to dust anything I worked on before I started.

  After the dust from the sweeping settled, I was going to put a finish coat on Durrik’s chest. I shook my head. The finish coat should be the last work of the day, when no more dust was being raised, and when the wind died down. Thinking? What about thinking, Lerris?

  Instead of working on finishing the chest, I smoothed the inside lids of the dowry chest until there was space enough for a finish coat there.

  Plane and wipe my forehead. Plane and wipe; plane and wipe… the pattern was tedious, but it worked.

  After that, we cut the last of the planks for another set of traveling chests-not that we had a buyer, but if Preltar were that nervous, there had to be others, and the chests weren’t that difficult to make. Wegel could do a pair while I did more finish work on Antona’s desk and on Zieber’s case. “J-J-Jahunt b-be here,” said Wegel. “Jahunt?” I set down the plane on the bench and walked out onto the porch where the one-eyed peddler stood. Even with the light breeze, the morning was hot, nearly as hot as in midsummer, and the grass in the meadow beyond looked more like midsummer, and ready to brown. “Greetings.”

  “Greetings, Master Lerris.” The peddler looked down at the stone underfoot, then back at me. “I was a-thinking… ye being a mastercrafter… well… would ye be having small things I could peddle for ye?”

  “Small things?”

  “Breadboards? I seen those at the craft fairs, years back. Or napkin rings, carved ones?”

  “M-m-master Lerris…” stammered Wegel. “You have some things like that, Wegel?”

  “A f-few.”

  I pursed my lips. “Jahunt. Most of what we craft here is furniture. I don’t do many things that small. Wegel does a few…”

  “But… an apprentice, beggin‘ your pardon…”

  “Wegel is better at carving than I am. If he’s willing to let you hawk what he has, count yourself lucky.” I cleared my throat, dry from the heat and the dust. “Why are you asking us? You used to hawk scissors for Ginstal.”

  “Ginstal went to Hrisbarg, ser.”

  “Hrisbarg?”

  “Now that the Empire has Freetown, and the regent there has reopened the old iron mines… Ginstal said they’d be needing a good ironmaster who knew the mines, and that’s where he learned the trade. His brother lives there, someplace called Howlett…”

  I recalled Howlett, not exactly favorably.

  “… Ginstal was saying that the new steam pumps would let them dig deeper, and he was a-tired of wondering what the Empire would do… or who was going to attack Kyphros next.”

  I wondered how many people in Candar felt that way. Was that what the Empire counted on?

  “Begging your pardon, ser?” said Jahunt.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “You had that faraway look, ser.” The peddler shivered and looked at Wegel.“He looks like that, young Master Wegel, and I’d not be in his way.”

  “N-not me…”

  The squawks from the henhouse told me that Rissa was feeding chickens or collecting eggs. A crow from the young cock-perched on the top rail of the fence by the henhouse- confirmed that someone had invaded his territory.

  “Young cocks…” I muttered.

  “Not being so old, yourself, Master Lerris,” cackled Jahunt.

  Maybe not, but at times I didn’t feel all that young, either.

  “I’d guess I’d be pleased to have any woodwork things young Wegel might offer, leastwise till the Hamorians show up,” Jahunt offered.

  “You may have a long wait,” I suggested.

  “You going to take them on, then? Folks say you be a mighty mage.”

  “Just mighty enough almost to get killed a few times. No… I wasn’t thinking about that.”

  “If’n folks like you don’t stop them, who will?” asked the peddler.

  Wegel looked at me, and I didn’t have an answer.

  “A good question, but I don’t have the answer.” I turned to Wegel. “You can work out something with Jahunt, but it’s on your free time, not mine.”

  “T-t-thank you.”

  I smiled. “I don’t know thanks are necessary. Double work isn’t much fun.” While Wegel stammered and Jahunt dickered, I went back to the shop, where it was already hotter than outside, despite the open door and windows that meant more dust and grit. Again, I felt as if I couldn’t get ahead.

  There I began on the notching and dovetailing for the traveling chests. With the way Jahunt was talking, there might be quite a market for traveling chests, though I still didn’t see the Hamorian sunburst entering Kyphros anytime soon, not with Krystal holding and fortifying Ruzor.

  Wegel came back before long, smiling, at least until I put him to work on a traveling chest-a simpler version.

  Later, just before dinner, I had him clean the shop, and then I did the finish work on Durrik’s chest so that it could set undisturbed overnight.

  Dinner was some type of chilied eggs, wrapped in peppers. Even Wegel was sweating after two of them, but like all youngsters, he ate five. I stopped at three, and ate more maize chips than I should have, and drank a lot more water than was wise.

  I curried Gairloch after dinner, and he was skittish, probably because of the early summerlike heat that was creating a high haze in the sky and large numbers of hungry flies that seemed to buzz everywhere.

  The chickens… they just brawwked and generally made noise and messes, but we did have eggs.

  The night was warm, but dry as it was, falling asleep wasn’t that hard. Staying asleep turned out to be somewhat harder. Grrrurrrr… eeeeeeeEEEEEE! I sat up in bed, shaking from the mental force of the rever- berations of chaos. Without probing, not that my senses would travel that far, even underground, even if I were a reluctant earth wizard, I knew that the brimstone spring had exploded in chaos-that fire and steam cascaded down the Yellow River into Hydlen.

  I huddled on the bed, suddenly cold in the warm evening, with the quilt gathered around me.

  Where would chaos strike next? Would it all form around Sammel? Could he avoid it? More
important, how could he refuse such power? But if he were accepting it, why was it erupting in Hydlen? And where was all that chaos coming from?

  Unbidden, the words of my father’s letter slipped into my thoughts: “… the Balance works both ways… it does not matter whether order or chaos comes first…”

  I knew Recluce wasn’t creating that much additional order, not unless things had changed more than I could believe, and I was in Candar, and neither Justen, nor Tamra, nor I were adding that much to the order forces. So who or what was?

  Hamor? But didn’t there have to be order to make steel or black steel? Not if my father were right. Justen, if he and Tamra weren’t still traveling somewhere in Certis or wherever, could have confirmed that, but I really didn’t need confirmation.

  I took a deep breath, and shuddered under the quilt, while hundreds of kays away fire and steam cascaded down the Yellow River.

  LXXII

  Northwest of Renklaar, Hydlen [Candar]

  BERFIR WAITS BEHIND the heavy earthen revetment as the latest barrage from the Hamorian long guns walks its way up the left side of the trenchworks. The shells are lofted, falling from the heavens like the thunderbolts of the long-dead angels-or like the spears of the demons of light.

  The screams and moans of the Hydlenese troops are lost in the pounding explosions of the cannon.

  Crumpt! Crumpt! Crumpt!

  With each explosion, dry soil geysers into the sky, and a plume of dust drifts back almost into each shell crater in the hot stillness of midday.

  Overhead, the white-gold sun burns in the bright blue-green oven of heaven, and the dust drifts slowly southward in the light wind, over the red-clad troops, bringing with it the odor of dust, of blood, and corruption.

  A rocket arches into the sky, then drops toward the western Hamorian gun position, falling short by a dozen cubits, and spraying flame across the earthworks. Soldiers duck, then reappear, untouched.

  Nearly a dozen rockets arc toward the Hamorian guns before one hits, and a wedge of flame and black smoke flares skyward on the west flank of the Hamorian position.