The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Justen wanted to bite his tongue. Instead, he said softly, “You’re right. We don’t always think of things that way.”

  “Excuse me, Justen. I need to find Ninca.” Krytella turned and headed aft.

  Justen watched until her green-clad figure disappeared down the ladder. He looked back at the sun hanging over the stone pillars marking the channel and then westward at the gentle swells of the Gulf of Candar.

  After he’d turned back and studied the twin funnels, which reached nearly fifty cubits above the deck, Justen eased past two seamen coiling a line and made his way aft to the ladder that led toward the huge steam engine. He climbed down and ducked through a narrow doorway.

  The metal boiler walls already panted like a spent dog, even as the Clartham’s engineman checked the wedges bracing the iron. The smell of hot oil permeating the space, the muted hissing of the huge pistons, and the low rumble of the gears assaulted Justen.

  “Who ye be?” shouted a heavy voice.

  “Justen.”

  ‘ lAh, you’re a Black engineer! We’ll have no secrets from ye!“ shouted the Clartham’s engineman. The wizened gnome grinned at Justen. ”What think ye, Engineer?“

  “Impressive.” Justen let his senses drift across the engine and the firebox, recoiling slightly at the high level of chaos and the small margin of safety between the order of the iron and the power it contained. “You run close to the limits.”

  “She’ll hold. Captain Verlew says trade goes to the swift, and the Clartham’s one of the swiftest, save for your ships, of course. But we’re close, leastwise, to your traders. Except for that demon Ryltar-he drives his ships closer to the edge than we do.” The engineman frowned. “Wouldn’t want to run engines for him. Black ship or no. Suppose that’s why he holds the east-west Hamor runs.” The engineman checked the gauge and added another wedge.

  Justen tried not to wince at the stresses on the boiler. Instead, he nodded and let his senses run over the gears and the shafts to the paddle wheels, much simpler than the turbines of the latest Recluce ships. But without order-strengthened black iron, the Nordlans were limited in what their boilers could handle.

  He frowned, recalling a passage from one of Dorrin’s old texts, claiming that anything other than low-pressure steam engines would be impossible without using black iron. Yet the Clartham’s boiler was certainly not low-pressure, not with a fifty-cubit draft on three funnels.

  As the engineman adjusted the steam flow and checked the bearings and lubrication, Justen leaned back against the ladder and continued to study the engine system.

  XIX

  The wind cut out of the northeast like a cold knife, slashing across Justen’s uncovered face. The morning sun, bright in the green-blue sky, provided light but little heat. Justen flexed his fingers inside his heavy leather gloves, thankful that he had brought both the warm sheepskin coat and the gloves.

  Altara stood on the lookout’s catwalk, halfway between the bridge and the port lookout’s station, one gloved hand on the railing, gesturing with the other as she talked to the blond cargo-master, who occasionally leaned out of the bridge house.

  Berol and Nicos hung over the starboard railing, clearly miserable from the twisting and pitching of the trader.

  Overhead, the sails billowed, occasionally cracking in the wind, and the engine beneath the deck lay silent, only enough heat in the boiler to allow for a quick firing up.

  North of the Clartham, a Black ship kept station, having joined the Nordlan trader as she passed north of the Sligan coast. The dark bow of the older Black ship-the Dorrin- cut through the chop of the Northern Ocean. White spray cascaded across the bow, occasionally reaching the single gun of the turret.

  “Some escort,” observed the Nordlan seaman who recoiled the line he had coiled the afternoon before. “Looks mean. Glad it’s on our side. Leastwise, we won’t have any boarding parties from the Whites this trip.”

  “Do they do that often?” asked Justen, grabbing the rail to keep from being tossed against the bearded sailor.

  “Nan…just to remind us that they’re the boss. You bow and scrape and they leave you alone.”

  “Like you do in Nylan?” Justen kept his face straight.

  “Well…”

  Justen grinned.

  “Yeah. We’re just traders, and we need to get along.”

  “Serren! Stop jawing..Get moving!” The lean female third mate gestured toward the mainmast, where a handful of men and women swarmed upward. “Looks like a bad squall’s moving in.”

  The seaman gave a last twist to the rope and eased languidly toward the mast.

  Justen turned back to watch the Dorrin. Would the first engineer have wanted a ship named after him? Somehow, Justen doubted it.

  XX

  Clerve, Altara, Justen, Berol, and Krytella stood near the bow as the Clartham’s paddle wheels carried the trader into Rulyarth.

  Once again Justen sensed the thin edge between chaos and order within the heavy iron engine below. He doubted that the ship would make more than a handful of trips before the boiler or the cylinders or the steam lines-or something- blew apart. He wiped his forehead in the still air.

  “It’s bigger than Nylan or Land’s End. A whole bunch bigger.” Clerve pointed toward the four long piers jutting out into the harbor. “Look at the ships. What’s the big one?”

  “That’s a Hamorian trader.” The lean third mate paused by the Recluce group, a grin creasing her wide mouth. “Big and sloppy.”

  The air over Rulyarth was clear, with the pink stone buildings of the port silhouetted against the blue-green sky.

  “It’s pretty,” offered Berol. “They build mostly with stone, don’t they?”

  Justen sniffed once, then again. The harbor smelled faintly of dead fish and seaweed.

  “Everything important’s built of stone, and the stone’s just like Sarronnyn and the Sarronnese,” offered the third mate. “Pretty, hard, and backward. They don’t do much with steam or engines. That’s probably why they’re going to lose to Fairhaven.” Standing by Justen’s shoulder, she stopped, then nudged him. “What’s a handsome young fellow like you doing here? Just going out to throw your life away against those White devils?”

  “The Whites aren’t exactly invincible.” Justen flashed a smile, then continued to study the heavy-timbered wharves as the paddle wheels reversed to kill the ship’s momentum. The words of the dream- “after Sarronnyn” -popped into his head. What would happen in Sarronnyn? Could they help the Sarronnese stop the Whites, or would it be a futile effort?

  “Maybe not, but a handful of you are going to stop them when the best troops left in Candar aren’t succeeding? What a waste.” The third glanced toward the bowsprit, then marched toward a sailor. “Get that back in shape!” Her arm pointed at an uncoiled line. The seaman’s shoulders slumped.

  “She’s rather sweet on you.” Krytella edged closer to the worn wood of the railing and looked at the gray harbor water churned up by the paddle wheels.

  “She also has a tongue sharper than a blade.”

  The faintest hint of sulfur and cinders mixed with the odor of dead fish as a gust of wind whipped across the deck. The paddles slowed, and the Clartham eased against the rope-covered bumpers of the pier; a strained creaking joined the whistle of the wind and the muffled splashes of the paddle wheels.

  “Lines tight! Now!” The third’s voice rasped over the background noises like a file across cold iron.

  “Her voice is more like a file,” observed Altara from behind Justen.

  “Justen has such charm.” Krytella laughed gently, openly. “Especially with the savage beasts.”

  “Thank you.” Justen bowed, then grasped the railing to catch his balance as the ship, after rebounding from the pier, shuddered at the end of the taut mooring lines.

  “Double up, and walk her in!”

  “Get your gear on deck.” Altara walked toward the ladder below without waiting for an acknowledgment.

 
; The others followed.

  In time, the Recluce contingent marched down the gangway to the pier. Justen’s pack rested easily on his back, cushioned by wide straps. He carried Warin’s black staff in his left hand. Already the staff had begun to feel as though it belonged to him. After stepping onto .the pier, he shook his head at the thought-an obsolete staff, his?

  An officer in a gold-braided jacket, accompanied by two Sarronnese troopers-all of them in the traditional blue and cream-waited on the weathered planks of the wharf. The officer’s eyes darted from Justen’s black staff to Altara. Then she bowed slightly to the senior engineer. “Section Leader Merwha.”

  “Altara. I’m the chief engineer of the group. This is .Ninca. She is the chief healer.”

  The dark-haired and stocky healer nodded curtly.

  “Only ten of you?” the officer asked.

  “That’s seven engineers and three healers.” Altara looked down on the officer. “Dorrin was only one, and he managed to destroy half of the White forces in Spidlar.”

  “He also failed to win.”

  “You have a point.” Altara grinned. “There will also be a Black marine detachment following, as well as a Weather Wizard.”

  “How soon?”

  Altara shrugged. “Whenever the next ship from Nylan gets here.”

  “Trusting the Legend, let’s hope it won’t be too long. Now a Weather Wizard, one like the great Creslin-that would be a help.”

  Justen shook his head. Trust the Balance to set Gunnar up as the saving hero.

  “So when will this great wizard be arriving?”

  “When the great winds arrive, of course,” added Justen with a faint grin.

  Altara shook her head, half in affirmation.

  “Can you all ride?” Merwha gestured toward a stone - and - timber building standing on a rise behind the pier. “That’s where we’re headed. The horses are stabled there.”

  “One way or another,” responded Altara. “Some of the engineers, I suspect, haven’t had much practice lately.”

  “Practice they’ll get. It’s a seven-day ride to the capital at Sarron. How much cargo did you bring?”

  “I’d guess about a wagon’s worth. Twenty stone-worth of tools and materials, and-” Altara gestured toward Ninca. “How much in the way of healing goods and equipment?”

  The green-clad healer inclined her head. “We did not weigh it all, but we have two large crates and two small ones. Certainly less than the twenty stone of the engineers.”

  “Sirle, have them bring the wagon here,” ordered Merwha.

  The darker of the two Sarronnese troopers turned from the Clartham and began to walk shoreward, her steps light on the weathered timbers despite her heavy boots.

  Merwha shifted her attention back to Altara. “Once they have your crates unshipped, the wagon crew can load while we get you mounted and ready to travel.”

  “There is one thing,” Altara added. “According to the agreement, there is a stipend for food… and, of course, all iron and charcoal are to be supplied.”

  “You sure you’re not from Nordla?” asked Merwha.

  “I’d rather have it straight before we’ve ridden six days.”

  “The Tyrant suspected you might.” Merwha unstrapped a leather purse and offered it. ‘ That was for a larger contingent. I trust it will last somewhat longer.“

  “We always stick to our agreements.”

  Merwha nodded. “Unlike some.”

  “Unlike some,” Altara agreed.

  Justen glanced back at the Clartham before studying the pier: a long structure anchored on round wooden posts- logs stripped and planed roughly into shape-nearly a cubit across. He tapped his staff on the heavy planks, weathered and gray. The dull thud and vibration of the staff against his hand confirmed the pier’s solidity.

  At the end of the pier, Trooper Sirle reached the waiting wagon, and with a flick of a whip, the teamster on the seat started the two-horse team toward the Clartham.

  Only the faintest vibration traveled up through Justen’s boots. Even with the heavy wagon rolling out to the ship, the pier felt nearly as solid as if it had been built of stone.

  XXI

  “Easy, horse. Easy…” Justen patted the beast’s neck, taking care not to lean too far forward. According to his limited order-senses, his mount was old, docile, and without even a rudimentary sense of self-identity. Justen’s lips twisted. He’d known statues with more awareness, but at least the gray had no interest in contesting who might be master-a contest Justen felt he probably wouldn’t win with a more spirited mount such as the one Altara rode.

  The chief engineer edged the bay up beside him. “How are you doing?”

  “That depends on how far we have to go.” The junior engineer glanced at the hard-packed clay that ran in a gentle curve roughly south for about a kay before swinging southwest toward what appeared to be a bridge. His eyes flicked to the heavy gray sky. “I just hope it doesn’t rain for a while.”

  “I’m no Weather Wizard, but it probably won’t rain until later, not until after we’re off the road. Merwha says we’ll be staying in the inn next to the barracks in that town ahead. ”

  “What town?” snorted Nicos. “There’s a bridge and a wide spot in the road.”

  “It’s at least as wide as Turnhill,” quipped Jirrl. “Maybe even wider, and this place has a river worthy of the name.”

  Nicos opened his mouth, closed it, and grinned. “Fair enough. I suppose I deserved that, even if…” He shook his head. “But Turnhill is a prettier sight, I daresay.”

  Clerve, riding behind Nicos on a mare even more swaybacked than Justen’s, smiled broadly. Altara urged the bay forward to rejoin the Sarronnese officer.

  Justen’s smile slipped as he swatted at a large fly that buzzed around his right ear. The fly evaded the motion and headed for the other ear, but Justen’s fingers were quicker. “Got you!” He wiped off his fingers on the gray’s shoulder. The horse plodded on.

  Another fly buzzed toward him. Justen swatted, but missed.

  “Why don’t you set a ward?” suggested Krytella, riding up beside him.

  “Wards aren’t exactly that easy when you’re moving. Besides, I’m an engineer, not a mage or a healer.”

  “It’s not that hard. It didn’t take Gunnar very long to learn. Let me show you.” Krytella eased her mount closer to Justen and brushed a stray red hair back off her forehead. “Just let your senses feel the pattern.”

  Justen closed his eyes and tried to block out visual distractions and the conversations of the other riders. Even so, he couldn’t help but overhear parts of what was being said.

  “… not see a lovelier stream than the Eddywash… not like this flowing brown bog they call a river…”

  “… Iron Guard and the White lancers… isn’t much left of Deneris…”

  Justen wrenched his senses back to the patterns Krytella wove.

  “Do you see?” the healer asked.

  “Can you do it again?” As she repeated the gentle order-spinning, Justen tried to mimic her manipulations.

  “You almost had it! Try it again.”

  Justen tried once more.

  “Not quite. I’ll do it again.”

  After several more demonstrations by the redheaded healer, Justen finally wove a thin order-web around the gray and himself.

  “Thank you ever so much, Master Justen.” Clerve swatted at several flies and nearly fell from his swaybacked mount, his hand swinging past the guitar case as he regained his balance.

  “I’m sorry.” Justen concentrated, then sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he set a second ward around the apprentice engineer.

  “That won’t last,” warned Krytella. “He didn’t set it himself.”

  “I know, but maybe the flies will bother someone else and forget about Clerve.”

  “How did you do that, Justen?” asked the apprentice.

  “I followed the healer’s instructions. But it won’t st
ay too long, so enjoy it.” Justen pursed his lips. Something about the wards bothered him, not that he could exactly understand why.

  “I told you that you could do it.”

  Justen grinned.

  “You might make a mage or a wizard yet.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Here comes the bridge. Will we really get to stop?” asked Clerve.

  “Of course.” Krytella glanced to her right, where the sun still hung well above the river and the western horizon. “We might even get to see what we’re eating for dinner.”

  “It’s supper here.” Berol’s voice drifted forward above the muffled thuds of hooves on the damp clay of the road.

  Less than fifty cubits from the bridge stood a kaystone bearing a single name: Lornth. Merwha reined in until the Recluce contingent closed up, then eased her chestnut forward.

  More of the hard pink stones formed the two-span bridge over the River Sarron, now scarcely a hundred cubits wide. The paving blocks that comprised the roadway were hollowed with use. An old man with a broom watched from the far end as the Sarronnese officer led her charges across.

  Justen glanced over his shoulder after crossing. The sweeper was back at work. “I wonder if each bridge has a sweeper.”

  “Probably,” said Nicos. “They’re all clean, and that’s more than I could say about the ones I saw in Lydiar last year. Most of them filthy and grimy.”

  On each side of the road stood single-storied buildings. Each building’s walls were smooth-finished, as if plastered, in a pink so pale that it was almost white.

  Justen extended his senses to discover that each wall was in fact brick covered with a hard surface. “How do they finish the walls?” He turned in the saddle toward Nicos.

  The other engineer shrugged.

  “It’s a local cement, I think.” Berol’s voice carried over the echo of hooves on the stone pavement of the town street leading toward a square. “Clay and burned limestone crushed together into a powder. Some of the red clays allow it to dry even underwater. They probably use it for the bridge piers.”

  Nicos shrugged; Justen grinned.