The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Altara waved to the serving woman in the corner, a small woman in a blue cap who scurried over to the three.

  “There’s still sausage and eggs and fried white seaweed,” began the woman.

  “Do you have any bread, heavy conserves, and beer?” asked Justen. “And some white cheese?”

  “He hasn’t changed much,” whispered Altara to Gunnar.

  “Might as we could manage that, ser. And you?” asked the server, turning to Altara.

  “Just greenberry.”

  “I’ll have some of that bread, and greenberry,” Gunnar said.

  The serving woman nodded and turned, and Justen moved his chair slightly, looking down at his pack.

  “The ship?” asked Altara.

  “Why not let him begin at the beginning?”

  Justen watched as the serving woman brought his mug of beer and set it on the dark wood table with a thump.

  “Be a moment for the bread, ser, and the greenberries.”

  Justen took a small sip of the dark beer. It tasted more bitter than he remembered, but then he took a healthy swallow. “All right…” He held up a hand before the questions began again. “I’ll tell you the main points. First; I was so tired by the end of the battle in Sarron that I couldn’t hold the shields long, and I was on the wrong side of the hill, with all those wizards between us. Before I figured out what had happened, I couldn’t get back. So I thought I’d go upriver, try to find a horse and cross the Sarron and double back…”

  Between sips, Justen detailed his travels in Sarronnyn, outlining the problems with the White Wizard who had kept chasing him and telling how he never could get to a ford on the river. Then he began on the dreams.

  The serving woman set two mugs of greenberry on the table and left as quickly as she had come.

  “You had these dreams before you left Recluce?” asked Gunnar.

  “One. But I thought it was just a normal dream. Then, when I ended up trying to cross the Stone Hills…”

  The bread, the white cheese, and the cherry conserve arrived. Justen began to eat, interspersing words with food.

  “But you said the Sarronnese hill raiders killed your horse.”

  “I crossed the Stone Hills on foot. For the first part, I was alone. I had trouble finding water, and when I tried the gray cactus, it made me sick. The green ones weren’t too bad. But I just couldn’t find enough water. It was a good thing Dayala found me.”

  “Dayala?”

  “She’s a druid…”

  “From the look on his face, Gunnar, she must be something.”

  “How did she find you? She just went into the Stone Hills and found you? Why?” Gunnar pursued.

  Justen finished a mouthful of bread and cheese, silently reflecting that the cheese seemed heavy, and thicker than he recalled. “She was the one who sent the dreams, and she used the sands to find me. It took a while for me to heal. I wasn’t in very good shape, and of course we had to walk back to Rybatta, which is where she lives. The druids don’t ride animals, but the animals will carry loads for them- usually.” Justen described the slow trip back, but omitted his initial encounter with the great forest. When he reached the point where he was describing Dayala’s work, he lugged his pack onto his lap.

  “You two don’t believe half of what I’m saying. Poor Justen’s lost it all. He’s out of his mind. Here.” He handed the first box to Gunnar and the smaller, dark-grained one to Altara.

  Gunnar swallowed, and Justen could sense his brother’s awe and order-probing of the box.

  Altara just looked… and looked… before speaking. “There aren’t any joints.”

  “No. She grows them.” Justen grinned. “After all, she is a druid.” Then his face grew somber. “It’s not as simple as that. It really takes work. She was more tired after a day of working the trees than I was after a day of smithing.”

  “I thought the druids didn’t work metal.”

  “So did I, but her father is a smith. Uses bog iron, but he lives a bit away from the others. Only a few of the druids are comfortable with things like blades and knives.”

  “What-”

  “Hold it,” Justen interposed. “I’ve talked and talked. Now, it’s your turn.”

  “But you didn’t finish-”

  “I’ll finish later. What happened after the battle in Sarron? I felt the White Wizard shake down the city, but after that, I was too much on the run.”

  “The Sarronnese, except for the people in Berlitos, pretty much just gave up after the Tyrant died.” Altara paused to lake a swallow of greenberry. “We managed to get back to Rulyarth. That was a mess. People were bribing… killing… anything to get out of Sarronnyn. A bunch went into Suthya, but no one thinks the Suthyans can hold out for long. We got passage back on The Pride of Brista-deck passage, and it rained the whole way. Two of the marines died from wounds and chill. That’s what happens without healers.”

  “What happened to Firbek?”

  “Last time I saw him, he was turning over our launchers to the Iron Guard. According to the Sarronnese troopers who escaped and came here last spring, he led a detachment in the sack of Rulyarth.” Altara’s voice was cold. “Gunnar was surprised. He thought you’d killed him.”

  Justen shook his head. “I stabbed him, but he slugged Gunnar and got away. Then all the lancers charged over the hill, and he turned the rockets… on the healers.”

  Altara exchanged glances with Gunnar. “Gunnar thought the White Wizard did that.”

  ‘ lNo. It was Firbek. It was partly my fault. He was trying to get me, but the rockets went past me and into the healers’ area.“ Justen looked at the table. ”Clerve, Krytella-none of them knew what happened. I’d still kill that bastard if I got half a chance.“ He waved to the serving woman. ”Another round of drinks.“ He looked at Gunnar. ”Can you pay for this? I’ll be able to repay you in a day or two.“

  “Don’t worry about it.” Gunnar touched his shoulder. “I’m just glad you’re back.”

  “After you got home…” prompted Justen.

  “The Council talked to us, one by one.” Gunnar pushed the empty mugs to the center of the table as the serving woman deposited three more and collected the empties. “Turmin asked me a lot about how chaos felt up close.”

  “And everyone pretends that nothing happened.” Altara snorted. “Except that Ryltar pushed through an increase in the tax levy on local merchants to beef up the marines in case they’re needed on the merchant fleet.”

  “Why not tariffs?” asked Justen.

  “Because higher tariffs cut trade,” snapped Altara. “Taxes here come out of our pockets. Where else can we go for food or goods? Oh, and traders were exempted, of course.”

  Justen sipped the second beer. Somehow, taxes seemed as unreal in Recluce as Dayala’s box-making had at first seemed in Naclos. “It sounds like nothing’s changed since before we left for Sarronnyn, except that next spring, the same thing will happen in Suthya.”

  “No, it won’t, because the Council won’t even send volunteers next time. They’ll just wring their hands,” Altara said.

  “Is that so bad?” asked Gunnar. “We weren’t exactly all that effective.”

  “No. You and Justen only cost them two armies and delayed them almost a year. But everyone’s convinced that we can do nothing.” Altara looked at the mug. “I’m almost ready to start drinking .beer- or brandy.”

  Justen shivered, thinking about Krytella, Clerve, and the dead Iron Guard. “There’s too much order and too much chaos…” he mumbled.

  “Too much order and too much chaos?” asked Gunnar.

  Justen shrugged. “Something one of the older druids said. I’m still thinking about it.” A twinge and a flash of light flared in his skull. “I’m thinking a lot about it.”

  Altara and Gunnar exchanged glances again.

  “You never did say how you got from Rybatta to Diehl and home, or why it took so long,” prompted Gunnar.

  “I took a boat downrive
r, but a lot happened before I did…” Justen began to describe Rybatta and the cooperative aspects of Naclos.

  Altara let out her breath slowly as he began to speak, and Gunnar leaned back slightly in his chair.

  Again, he tried to avoid discussing the coercive nature of the great forest, his trial, and his lies to Dayala. He also did not mention his feelings of order imbalance.

  In some ways, it was going to be lonely in Recluce, Justen thought, lonely indeed.

  CI

  Justen opened the door. Nothing had changed.

  The oil lamp still stood on the corner of the desk; there was not even a speck of dust on the bronze or the glass of the mantle. Only the narrow bed was different, with the coverlet and sheet neatly folded at the foot rather than in place on the pallet itself.

  After closing the door and setting his pack on the bed, Jus-ten walked to the window and eased open the inside shutters and then the window, so that the fall breeze whispered into the still air of the past.

  He opened the pack and took out the remaining half-dozen boxes, each wrapped in the soft, husklike leaves that protected them, and set each box, still-wrapped, on the side of the desk. His fingers tingled as they brushed the smooth grain of the last box where the leaf had not quite covered the wood; the grain spoke of silver-hair, long fingers, and green eyes.

  For a time, Justen stood over the desk, eyes closed. Then he took a deep breath and turned to his personal toiletries: the razor he had forged at Yual’s, some soap from Rybatta, a soft cloth for his face, a small, bronze-framed mirror.

  He shook out the brown trousers and tunic, softer cloth than the blacks he wore again, and hung them on the pegs in the wardrobe. The pack went into the bottom of the wardrobe, leaving space for boots, assuming that he got another pair of black ones.

  After closing the doors of the tall cabinet, he went to the small bookcase and lifted the Capture board and the box containing the black and white tokens. Then he set the board down and studied the box, all too aware of the joints in the wood, all too aware that even the finest craftsmanship seemed somehow like violence, as though the woods had been forced together. He set the box down and shook his head. If Naclos had seemed so unreal, why was he seeing everything differently here?

  His eyes turned to the stones of the outer wall, but they seemed set in order. Was it that the wood had been shaped with edges? Was he getting to be like Dayala, unhappy with edged tools? Or was he merely more perceptive now?

  With a last look around the room, he turned and opened the door to begin the short walk to the engineering hall and the work that, presumably, awaited him.

  The slight depression in the center of the stone steps leading down to the main floor and the street again reminded him of the generations of young engineers who had lived in these quarters, and he could almost sense the men and women of the past looking over his shoulder, their order-stem countenances fixed in time.

  Shaking his head, he stepped into the cool, bright afternoon and turned downhill.

  An empty horse-drawn wagon clattered past on the street. Justen frowned at the sight of the driver seated on the wagon rather than walking beside the horse. He blinked and took a deep breath.

  Halfway down the hill, he paused opposite the classroom building that had always seemed to form a part of the hillside, but now it seemed to stand out rather than blend. A handful of students had gathered around a stone bench by the statue of Dorrin, chattering like rare birds. For several moments, he stood and watched before turning and continuing down to the engineering hall.

  He paused at the bottom step, looking up at the shadowed porch and sensing the ordered masses of metal within the walls, more solid and hulking than he had ever recognized. With another deep breath, he took the low steps and entered the hall, stopping just before the workroom floor.

  A young woman whom he did not know worked the forge and occupied the space he had once called his own, and her strokes on the anvil were clean and sure-as were all the strokes of all the engineers.

  The dull grinding of the gear-cutters echoed in his ears as he watched.

  “Justen? What are you doing here?” The dark-haired chief engineer walked toward him.

  He shrugged. “I am an engineer, I guess.”

  “We’ve gotten along without you for a time, Justen.” Altara laughed.“ And from what Gunnar says, at least your sister would like to see you. So, I expect, will the Council, once they find out you’ve returned.”

  He had wanted to see his family. So what was he doing in the engineering hall? Justen’s eyes darted from one mass of heavy iron to another, from anvil to iron casing to finedrawn turbine blade.

  “If they want to see you, I’ll ride up to Wandernaught and fetch you. If not, you can come back here in a few days. And don’t worry. You’ll get paid, such as it is.”

  Justen smiled guiltily with the realization that he was far wealthier than he had ever expected to be. The smile faded as he recalled the reason for that wealth.

  “You’ll have to bring a mount, or I’ll take the post coach,” he added.

  “I’m sure that the Brotherhood or the Council could spring for a mount if they need to see you. Now… go on and tell your family that you’re safe and in one piece.”

  “Thank you.” Justen slowly turned. Why was he so slow? Of course his parents and Elisabet wanted to see him, and he wanted to see them. So why hadn’t it really crossed his mind? Why had he just followed his old habit patterns? He slowly walked down the steps to the street, his fingers idly stroking his chin.

  CII

  “Well… we’re almost there.” Severa tightened the reins slightly, and the post wagon slowed as it neared the post house. The Broken Wheel, the two-story stone-and-timber inn, looked almost the same as the last time Justen had been home, except that the cracked wagon spokes on the sign were now a darker brown. A man not much older than Jus-ten, paint pot in hand, waved at Severa. She waved back.

  “Who’s that?” asked Justen, grabbing the edge of the seat as Severa levered the wagon brake and the wagon lurched to a halt.

  “Rildr. He’s old Hernon’s nephew. They’re slowly fixing the old place up. It wasn’t terribly run down, but you either fix inns up or they fall apart.”

  “I think that’s pretty much true of everything.” Justen handed her the two coppers, slipped off the leather seat and reached into the wagon bed for his pack. He looked up at the high, thin clouds that cooled the afternoon without providing rain.

  Severa put the coins in her purse, then lifted one of the leather post bags out and onto the stone walk beside the post house just as the young postal worker came scurrying out. “I’m sorry, Severa. I didn’t hear you.”

  “If I woke the demons. Lorn, you still wouldn’t hear me.” Severa grinned at the young man, who looked sheepishly at the paving stones underfoot.

  Justen shouldered his pack and lifted his hand to Severa. “Thank you.”

  “I enjoyed the company, Justen. Give my best to your mother.”

  “I will.” Justen turned and began to walk westward along the main street, past the coppersmith’s, and then past Basta’s Dry and Leather Goods.

  Another wagon stood outside Seldit’s, where the cooper and the driver were lifting a large barrel up alongside three others in the wagon bed.

  “Good afternoon, Seldit,” Justen said pleasantly as he passed.

  “Justen! We… no one… when did you get back?”

  “Yesterday… that’s when I got to Nylan.” Justen stopped.

  “Your dad will be glad to see you.” The heavy-armed cooper coughed. “Your mom and sister, too.”

  “I’ll be glad to see them.” Justen grinned. “Don’t let me keep you. I’ll be around for a few days, I think.”

  “Just goes to show…” Seldit shook his head and glanced at the driver. “Engineers and wizards… never tell…”

  “That’s right.” Justen forced another grin. “You never can. Just like bad coppers, we keep coming back.”


  “Off with you. You’re still a young scamp… sort of.” Justen waved and turned. Seldit, at least, was the same, even if Wandernaught felt somehow shallower, just as Diehl, and even Nylan, had-although Nylan was the most solid of the three. Yet, it was the most imbalanced, nearly drowning in a surfeit of order.

  After he passed the house where Shrezsan had once lived, he came to a smaller structure, one that seemed so new that it was almost not there, where a blond young woman and a child were working in a small garden plot. So, Justen reflected with a smile, Shrezsan and Yousal had moved next to her parents’ house, to be close enough to carry on the family wool-and-linen business. Neither Shrezsan nor the child looked up as he strode past and toward the hills that held the cherry and pearapple groves.

  Once beyond the first set of groves, its trees certainly as solid as any in Naclos, Justen began to look westward for a sight of the house. When he passed the last cherry grove, the familiar black-stone and slate-tiled house he neared looked no different. It, like Nylan, felt more solid. Was that because of those who lived there? Or because it had stood for longer than many? Justen could see his father’s wiry figure on a ladder at the far end of the grove, picking apples. Elisabet’s slender figure stood at the base of the ladder, handing up a basket.

  She turned toward Justen and dropped the basket, breaking into a pell-mell dash toward her brother. “Justen! Jus-ten! Father! He’s back! He’s back!”

  The violence of Elisabet’s hug almost knocked Justen into the low stone wall by the roadside.

  “I knew! I knew you were coming!” She buried her face in his shoulder.

  Absently, Justen realized that she was nearly as tall as he was, that she was no longer a gawky girl, but a young woman. He hugged her. “I’m glad I came.”

  Horas had followed his daughter more deliberately, and he stood at the edge of the road, waiting. Justen disentangled himself from his sister’s hold and gave his father a hug.

  “You’ve changed,” were Horas’s first words. “A lot.”