The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

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 comer, 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 hilled 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 run, 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 t
he 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.

  X

  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 lime, 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.

  XI

  Justen adjusted the lamp wick. Although gas lamps were coming into vogue, the quarters of the Brotherhood still used oil, generally from the carnot nut.

  A rapping sounded on his door.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s your big brother.”

  “Come on in.”

  Gunnar eased into the room, carrying a pitcher. “I can tell you’re getting ready for a big night. I’ve got some redberry here.”

  “I thought you and Turmin were headed back to Land’s End.”

  ‘“That’s tomorrow now. Counselor Ryltar asked Turmin to his house for dinner. He wanted to get Turmin’s opinions on the mess in Sarronnyn.” Gunnar set the pitcher on the lamp table. “You have any mugs?”

  “Over on the second shelf.” Justen finished adjusting the lamp’s wick. “Doesn’t Ryltar live somewhere near Feyn? Why Turmin? From what I heard, Ryltar isn’t exactly fond of the Sarronnese, and Turmin’s mother was born in Sarronnyn.”

  “Ryltar lives on the ridge just outside the black wall. It’s toward Feyn, but not that far.” Gunnar shrugged. “You know as much as I do. I suppose Turmin will tell me sooner or later. Anyway, I’ll have to leave early tomorrow to meet him there, but it’s better than playing lap cat at Ryltar’s.” Gunnar took the mugs and filled them. “Let’s play Capture.”

  Justen grinned. “Why not?” He walked over to the small bookcase and took the board and the box containing the black and white tokens from the top. “What are you doing this time?”

  “Turmin thinks the weather’s still changing, but more slowly.” Gunnar handed a mug to his brother. “He thinks that there will be signs in the plants on the high hills to the west of Land’s End-something about places where the weather is right on the edge.” Gunnar pulled one of the two straight-backed chairs up to the desk.

  After setting down his mug, Justen put the board on the desk and the token box beside it. Then he pulled his chair up and sat down while Gunnar divided the white and black tokens.

  “White or black?” asked the older brother.

  “White this time.”

  Gunnar nodded, and Justen set a token in one of the depressions in a rear lattice-the three-token one. Gunnar ignored the lattice and placed his first token in the center point of the main lattice on his side of the board.

  Justen dropped a token in the four-point lattice to the rear of Gunnar’s.

  “You’re doing it again.” Gunnar added a second token to his lattice.

  Justen put his second token in the three lattice and added the third to complete it.

  Gunnar added the third to his main lattice. “Shouldn’t have let me get this far. Now you can’t catch me.”

  Justen frowned, then set a white stone in the other three lattice behind Gunnar’s lattice.

  Gunnar added another token, and they continued until Justen had both three and four lattices, and Gunnar had six tokens in one twelve and five in the other.

  Gunnar smiled and .dropped a black stone into place, followed by five to complete the first, and the bonus that allowed him to complete the second.

  Justen shrugged. “It’s yours.”

  “You don’t want to play it out?”

  “Why bother?”

  “I still don’t understand why you build three or four groupings rather than concentrate your efforts.”

  “It seems to make more sense. Nothing in life lets you concentrate on just one thing.” Justen laughed. “Besides, it’s only a game. Life’s serious enough.”

  Gunnar frowned momentarily, then lifted the pitcher. “Some more redberry?”

  “Certainly. Why not? Another game?”

  “Of course.” Gunnar finished pouring the redberry and took a sip from his mug.

  XII

  “Tryessa D’Frewya, the envoy from Sarronnyn,” announced the young man in black who had opened the dark-oak door to the Council Chamber, once the study shared by Creslin and Megaera, the Founders, whose joint portraits framed the wide window behind the table.

  The Sarronnese envoy entered and bowed deeply, her emerald silksheen trousers and blouse rustling. “Honored Council members.” She straightened.

  Claris motioned to the table. “Please have a seat. Would you care for some of the green brandy?”

  “I would be delighted. Tradition or not, it is always a treat.” Tryessa slipped into the oak armchair. The young man in black carefully poured the pale green liquid into the crystal goblet beside her, then retreated to his position by the door.

  The youngest counselor brushed a strand of red hair off her forehead and took a sip from an identical goblet.

  “What brings you to meet with the Council?” asked Ryltar, his casual tone a contrast to the order of his dress and his precisely brushed, thin blond hair.

  “Surely you must know, honored Counselor. As we speak, the White Company and its Iron Guard have taken the old domains of Westwind-”

  “As you took them in the time of Dorrin,” countered Ryltar lightly.

  Claris cleared her throat.

  Jenna half-turned. “I don’t think that was the questio
n, Ryltar. Tryessa was attempting to suggest something, I believe. Were you not?”

  “I was suggesting that Fairhaven’s efforts are a matter of concern.”

  “To whom?” inquired Ryltar politely.

  Claris raised her eyebrows but did not speak. Jenna turned toward the blond man.

  “It is certainly a concern to all of us in western Candar,” Tryessa said. “Even the Naclans sent us an envoy suggesting that we ask for the aid of mighty Recluce.”

  “The reputed druids of Naclos? They actually exist?”

  “They have existed for centuries, perhaps even from before the time of the Angels.” Tryessa’s voice was wry. “They produce exquisite woodworking, although it’s not carved. Apparently they can persuade the trees to grow in a certain way. I have a bench I inherited. It doesn’t age much. It was my great-grandmother’s. But I wander. When the druids are interested, it is clearly due to a concern that goes beyond Sarronnyn.”

  “You make a strong case for the concerns of western Candar,” admitted Ryltar.

  “Ryltar…”

  “I believe that the envoy has clearly stated the urgency of the matter, Ryltar,” declared Claris coldly.

  “Thank you, Counselor. In view of those concerns, the Tyrant would hope that you would recall Sarronnyn’s steadfast support of the open-trade policies long espoused by Recluce.”

  “The Tyrants have always been fair in matters of trade.” Claris kept her voice level.

  “Although it is certainly of mutual benefit,” Ryltar added smoothly.

  “The Tyrants of Sarronnyn have been more than scrupulous in dealing with Recluce,” responded Tryessa.

  “What would you have us do?” asked Claris. “You know we do not maintain a standing army large enough to send much in the way of troops. And our ships cannot help you with a conflict in the Westhorns.”

  “Not directly, but Fairhaven still must use the oceans.”

  “Are you suggesting that we employ our ships to restrain trade to Fairhaven? After all the years of working to ensure fair and open trade on the seas?” inquired Claris.

  “The Tyrant understands the difficulty of such a suggestion.”