The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “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. Jus-ten 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 r
oute. 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 Whiles win?”

  A silence fell across the table. Arline coughed softly. Jus-ten 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.

  VIII

  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 hi 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 recent 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.

  IX

  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.”