The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  With a deep breath, he looked at the forge and eased a slip of iron into the coals.

  A tall figure slipped inside the hall and walked toward the single forge in use.

  “Justen?”

  Justen looked up. “Oh, Gunnar. How did you know I was here?”

  “Where else would you be? You’re not in your room, and you’re not in Wandernaught. Your druid is an ocean away, and you’re obsessed with something. This was a good bet.” The Air Wizard glanced at the model. “This your land engine?”

  “That’s it. Such as it is.”

  “You don’t sound terribly happy about it. Was Turmin right?”

  Justen frowned momentarily. “In a way, but it doesn’t matter.” He used the tool tongs to ease the slip of iron from the forge and set it on the bricks.

  Gunnar pulled up a stained and battered stool and sat down. “Why not?”

  “Well, I don’t think I could build a land engine that would run by itself the way one of the Mighty Ten does, but that wasn’t what I had in mind anyway. I just wanted one to run from somewhere in eastern Candar to Fairhaven-as sort of a threat to persuade the White Wizards to get together.”

  “If you can do it, what’s the problem?”

  “How would that induce the Whites to congregate?”

  “If you managed to get through all the forces they’d send to stop you… you’ll have to arm it, you know?”

  “I hadn’t thought about that, but you’re right. That will mean it has to be bigger .and heavier.”

  “With more order, I’d guess, just to hold it together,” added Gunnar.

  “Naturally.” Justen pulled at his chin.

  “Couldn’t you make something that just concentrated or radiated order? Black iron does that in a way, but you have to be close to feel it. What about whatever it was you did with the powder? Couldn’t you do something like that?”

  “I couldn’t keep exploding powder the whole way to Fairhaven.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

  “Since you’re here…” Justen pursed his lips. “Have you found out anything about the good Counselor Ryltar?”

  “Well…”

  “I’d appreciate it if you would. I’m getting word that he’s expressed more than a passing interest in me.”

  “All right. I still don’t know what you want.”

  “You’ll know when you see it. I trust your judgment, brother dear.”

  “I appreciate your trust… I think.” Gunnar lifted his shoulders. “I really came by for another reason. I wondered if you wanted to go home at the end of the next eight-day.”

  Justen frowned momentarily, then smiled. “Why not? Sure.”

  “Good thought, Brother. You can’t brood too much.” Gunnar stood. “Talk to you later.”

  Justen slipped the iron back into the forge. He still had to work out the power-train design.

  CXI

  The wispy-haired trader walked up the gangway and onto the dark-hulled schooner berthed at the end of the pier. “Hullooo…”

  A light breeze from nowhere wafted around him as a figure, barely revealed in the lamps hung by the head of the gangway, stepped forward. The two lamps flickered, even though the flames were shielded by the smoked-glass mantles.

  “Master Ryltar. We’d expected ye earlier.”

  “I was delayed. You’d indicated some particular… gems.”

  “Fire-eyes. From Hamor.”

  “Not exactly through the emperor’s trading house, I gather.”

  The two men walked forward on the deck, and the tight breeze shifted past them in the cool fall air.

  “Chill night. Even a little wind makes it colder,” offered the smuggler. “Just a score. Half seconds, half firsts.”

  “I’d have to see them.”

  “There’s a glim here.” The smuggler’s striker scratched, and he adjusted the wick of the small lantern on the hatch cover. Then he removed a cloth-covered case from his shirt and set it beside the lantern, easing back the cover.

  “Fair quality, if they hold up in daylight,” Ryltar observed.

  “Better than fair.”

  “A trace.”

  “More than a trace.”

  “I’ll grant a shade better than fair.” Ryltar paused, then added, “Fifty golds for the lot.”

  “Ha. No backwoods lout. You’ll not see these again for less than a hundred.”

  “Seventy’s the best I can do. It will take years to sell these without destroying the market.”

  “Eighty, then.”

  “Seventy-five, if they look as good in the morning light.”

  “We sail by mid-morning.”

  “I’ll be back with the coin before then.”

  The case disappeared, and the lantern flickered. The two men walked silently back midships to the gangway.

  “Good night, Master Ryltar.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Behind the corner of the harbormaster’s building, Gunnar wiped his steaming forehead, glad for the cool air. That Ryltar was involved with Hamorian smugglers wasn’t exactly wonderful news… but he doubted that simple smuggling was all that Justen had in mind. And if Ryltar routinely dealt with smugglers, might he deal as well with others even less… orderly?

  The weather mage wiped his forehead again, then turned and walked slowly up the hill toward his room.

  CXII

  With short, heavy tongs, Justen eased the old and cracked pump shaft into the de-ordering forge at the rear of the engineering hall. This was an older forge, tucked behind the rolling mill and the gear cutters, both unused for the time. He looked toward the front, but he could see only a corner of the hall past the unused mill. In the limited space within view, he could see Quentel and Berol worked on the lathe.

  Justen used the foot treadle to pump more air through the bellows and into the forge. He hated de-ordering black iron, because it was a single-handed job, and because it meant heating the iron to the white-hot burning point, which was even hotter than necessary for welding. When iron got that hot, even black iron, anything could go wrong. Yet the Brotherhood couldn’t afford to tie up too much order in scrap metal, nor to waste the iron.

  Justen frowned. Why couldn’t he adapt the ordering process that Dayala had shown him and turn it into a de-ordering process? Since the black iron was artificially ordered, and the idea wasn’t to create chaos, something like that ought to work.

  He took a deep breath and concentrated on the iron, trying to nudge the order bonds back out of place. The iron in the de-ordering forge continued to heat, but nothing happened to the long and cracked pump shaft as the one end started to turn cherry red.

  Justen tried again, and felt a dull clunk in his mind. A cracking sound followed the mental clunk, and Justen blinked. His tongs held only about a third of the former pump shaft. Two other pieces of dull iron lay on the bed of cold gray ashes that had been a forge fire. All three pieces of de-ordered iron were cold-that he could tell.

  He shook his head, letting his order senses scan the iron and the forge. The fragments were no longer black iron, and the forge fire was stone cold, as if it had burned out days earlier.

  Justen eased the iron left in the tongs onto the fire brick shelf, set the tongs aside, and placed his hand near the iron rod that had been part of a pump shaft. No heat. Were his thoughts and senses deceiving him? He looked around and finally peeled a sliver of wood from the bench, then set the tip of the sliver against the iron. Nothing. He repeated the process with the forge fire ashes, and with the other fragments. All were cold.

  He pulled at his chin. What had happened?

  “Now what have you done?” Altara stood at his -shoulder. “This forge was raging hot when I passed here a bit ago.”

  “I don’t know exactly. I was just trying to de-order the black iron without using so much heat.”

  “Well…” Altara surveyed the forge, looking at the cold ashes. Then she stepped forward and passed her hand through what sho
uld have been a wall of heat. “You managed the de-ordering far quicker than I’ve ever seen it done, but how did you manage to chill an entire forge in moments?”

  “It was an idea, but it didn’t quite work out the way I thought it would.” Justen pursed his lips.

  “Why do I suspect this sort of thing with you?” Altara gave a gentle half-laugh. “Even when you come up with the most deadly weapons, like those order-tipped arrows, something else, like those White cannons, shows up to counter them.”

  “It’s the Balance, I think,”

  “Dorrin talked about it, but I don’t know that everyone took him that seriously.”

  “They should have,” Justen blurted.

  “Why do I think you know more than you’re saying?”

  The junior engineer looked at the forge again, his forehead knitting, before returning his eyes to Altara.

  “I’ve been thinking about our sparring match die other day.”

  “Yes?” Justen said warily, his eyes flicking back to the cold ashes of the forge.

  “So has someone else.”

  “Warm?”

  “Hardly,” laughed the dark-haired woman. “Warin knows you couldn’t do anything evil. Unfortunately, doing good can often be more disruptive than doing evil. Look at our great predecessor, Dorrin. Anyway, it appears that one of the engineers mentioned your skill to someone, and that someone mentioned it to another someone, and, lo and behold, one Yersol, junior factor in the noted establishment of Ryltar and Weldon and cousin of old Weldon himself, stopped me the other day to inquire about the ‘change’ in your sparring. Then Hyntal asked me the same thing. Apparently, his cousin Martan had watched also, except young Martan wants to go on your next ‘adventure,’ and Hyntal wanted to put in a good word for the young fellow. Adventures? You’re barely back, and the word is out that you’re going on adventures?”

  “I doubt that Martan told anyone but Hyntal.” Justen shook his head as he considered the other aspects. “Ryltar put Yersol up to it.”

  “Of course. You are well on the way to proving that you are totally and utterly order-mad-whatever that meaningless term means. I really think that you need some time off to rest from your ordeal.”

  “Time off? Are you telling me I’m crazy?” Justen tried to keep his voice level as he studied the older engineer.

  “No. You’re probably saner than any of us. But cold sanity isn’t recommended in the land of the mad.” Altara’s face was somber. “You could do almost anything on your mother’s forge that you could do here, couldn’t you?”

  “Not some of the delicate work, and there’s no way I could do gears.”

  “I’m sure that there must be some old gears that the Brotherhood has no use for, or some scrap you could pick up for a few silvers.”

  Justen nodded, finally understanding. “I suppose so… and the rest would do me good. Ryltar also wouldn’t have to cast aspersions on all the engineers, would he?”

  Altara nodded.

  “You’re worried? Really worried?”

  “Wouldn’t you be? He’s one of three Counselors, and mostly the Council does what he wants, at least so far as the engineers and Candar go. He’s already suggested that you’re a druid spy.”

  “So… if you’ve been told, and do nothing…?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Darkness,” muttered Justen. “Can’t you do something?”

  “Do you have any idea? We’re not the White Wizards of Candar. Or even if we did have that kind of power, how would one assassinate a counselor without the tracks being traced right back to those with the most reason?”

  “So I’m on my own?”

  “Justen… you’ve been on your own since before we went to Sarronnyn. The rest of us just didn’t know it.”

  The junior engineer took a deep breath.

  “I also think you’ll have more time and freedom to do what you need to do. The word is out that you have enough coins so that you don’t need much. But the Brotherhood will pay half your stipend because you are on a rest cure. Ryltar will appreciate that touch, and it’s the best I can do. Except I know we have a great deal of ‘scrap’-a great deal, and some of it just can’t be easily de-ordered.” Altara smiled broadly.

  Justen looked at the cold ashes of the forge. “I don’t think there’s an easy way to de-order anything.”

  The chief engineer shrugged. “If there is, let us know. We’ll be pleased to lend you a wagon to carry some of that scrap to Wandernaught for your experiments. After all, if we could find a cheaper way… Ryltar would have to be pleased.”

  “Yes, he would.” Justen tried not to sigh. Despite Altara’s offers of under-the-table help, he had the feeling that what had seemed merely difficult in Naclos was getting closer to being almost impossible.

  “I’ll make sure the word gets to the Council about your rest cure.”

  “Thanks.”

  CXIII

  Justen looked around the room before opening the wardrobe and pulling out his pack and setting it on the end of the bed, right above the single wooden crate that would hold his personal items.

  After opening his pack, he put the pair of new boots in first. He really hadn’t had a chance to break them in, and his old spare boots had long since been lost in Sarronnyn. Then he folded the brown shirt and the trousers he had not worn since returning to Nylan and slipped them inside.

  Thrap!

  “Come on in, Gunnar.”

  “I just heard. I came as soon as I could,” gasped Gunnar. His forehead was damp with sweat.

  “It’s not that bad-not that you had to run all the way.” Justen forced a laugh.

  “You’re being forced out of the Brotherhood! That’s not bad?”

  “It’s not the Brotherhood. I’m taking a rest cure. I would have had to leave sooner or later.” Justen picked up the razor he had forged in Naclos and wrapped it in an old work shirt before sliding it into the side of his pack. ‘ “This way, I get a little more time. Sit down.” He gestured toward die chair. “There’s even some redberry in the pitcher.”

  “But why? And why now?”

  “Counselor Ryltar is trying to use me either to discredit Altara and the Brotherhood or to get them to discredit themselves by standing behind me.” Justen folded the last pair of underdrawers and stuffed them into the top of his pack. “Is this the order-madness idea?”

  “That’s what Altara led me to believe. She’s worried about Ryltar. Did you find out anything?”

  “You were right, Justen. He’s not chaos-corrupted-not yet. But he is corrupt. He’s taking smuggled gems from Hamor, and probably counterfeiting the seal of the Imperial inspectors.”

  “You saw this?”

  “Last night on the Versalla. She left port a bit ago. Ryltar offered some eighty golds for what looked to be a lot more in gems-fire-eyes.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is that the Council puts up with it.” Justen leaned over and picked up the Capture board, setting it on the bed beside the filled pack. “Don’t want to put that on the bottom…” he muttered as he opened the small drawer in the desk, almost dropping it as the long-ago violence with which it had been formed burned his fingers. He grasped the wood more firmly for an instant and lifted out the leather case that contained his drafting kit.

  “Coin,” offered Gunnar. “What sustains the Council, and the Brotherhood, are the trade levies and contributions of the traders. Some of the traders, like Ryltar’s family, make significant contributions to the Council coffers. Those contributions keep the levies lower, and in turn, that keeps the smaller merchants happy with the Council.”

  “I see. So that’s why Ryltar’s on the Council, and why the Council is reluctant to cross him?” Justen picked up the box Dayala had given him, felt the warm tingling in his fingers, and momentarily looked out into the chill gray beyond the window.

  “It’s never that simple.”

  “Probably not.” Justen reordered his pack, looking for someth
ing soft in which to wrap the box, though it was probably tougher than it looked-like Dayala herself.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Go quietly order-mad at home. Altara says that no one will be very interested… not in the beginning anyway.”

  “Buying time. For what?” Gunnar looked directly at Jus-ten. “There’s a lot you still haven’t explained. Just what were you doing that caused Altara, out of the blue, to give you a rest cure? And what do you intend to do in Wander-naught? I can’t believe mat you’ll be content to just take up smithing with Mother or cultivating apple orchards with Father.”

  “I think some original smithing will do me good.”

  Gunnar theatrically put both hands on his forehead, then thrust his arms toward the plastered ceiling and rolled his eyes. “Oh, darkness save us. Is it thy will that the Temple of Order endure such profanity in the name of sanctity, or is it such sanctity in the name of profanity, or-”

  “Enough!” Justen shook his head, trying not to laugh.

  The Air Wizard bounded onto the chair and thrust his right arm toward the window. “Light! Let there be light! From disordered light, let there come ordered darkness that will shine into the souls of women and-the Angels of- what is it?-ah, yes, the Angels of Naclos forbid-even into the dark and dreary souls of benighted men…”

  Justen shook with silent laughter at Gunnar’s antics.

  “… but let us also not forget the beneficent Council of Recluce. Include them, too, in the warm and ordered darkness, lest they see the world as it is and not as they wish it to be, unless, of course, there is a profit in seeing true. For which, in that case, let them find the means to charge those in light for the privilege of seeing what they have already seen…”

  Gunnar dropped off the chair, coughed, and downed the remainder of the redberry-right from the pitcher. “I can’t do it as well as you used to… but it’s all horseshit. The druids want something. The ancient Angels want something. The Whites want something. The Council wants something. And every last one of them thinks they have a lantern that shines truth only for them. And, yes, none of them want to listen to the lowly engineer, Justen, who just might have discovered something.” Gunnar coughed again. “Of course, the even lowlier and more insignificant wizard, Gunnar, has yet to discover what that something the less-insignificant Justen has discovered, even though he uses his poor talents to skulk around ships and spy on esteemed members of the Council. Even though the insignificant Gunnar has yet to receive the confidence of the showered-with-order-and-mystic-knowledge Justen…”