The Order War

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The block-lettered sign above the doorway of the third building proclaimed “Ryltar and Weldon.” Beneath the name in smaller letters, in both Temple and Hamorian, were the words, “Factors for the Eastern Ocean.”

  He moved under the overhang and opened the door, stepping inside and closing it behind him.

  “Might I help you?” A young clerk dressed in brown stood up.

  “Captain Pesseiti for Master Ryltar.”

  “A moment, ser.”

  Pesseiti shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes traveled from the plain table where the clerk had been sitting through the half-open doorway and into the corner office, then back to the bookcase, filled with what appeared to be ledgers.

  “Please go in, ser.”

  The ship’s master nodded and walked past the clerk into the office.

  Ryltar stood to greet him. “What can I do for you, Captain?”

  “The Tylera is berthed at the end of the big pier.” Pesseiti extended a rolled parchment toward the factor. “I’ve got the transport for the Ruziosis’s woolens-the black and the tan.”

  Ryltar unrolled the parchment and read through the neatly lettered contract. His fingers brushed over the seal at the end. “Seems in line. How do you intend to pay?”

  The Tylera’s captain extended a flat but thick envelope.

  “Looks like a warrant on the Imperial Treasury of Hamor.”

  “Aye, and it is. How else.would old Kylen do it?”

  “How indeed,” murmured Ryltar as he slipped the folded document from the envelope and scanned it. “This time, he even remembered to include the conversion fee.”

  “Your woolens are the best.”

  “At least among the best.”

  “How soon can we ship?”

  “The woolens are baled, but they’ll need to be properly packed. Mid-afternoon for the first load. Day’s end for the rest.”

  “Could be better, but could be a lot worse.” Pesseiti nodded, then reached toward his belt. He laid a heavy leather bag on the table. “This is the bonus payment for the last consignment. ”

  Ryltar’s eyebrows lifted as a draft ruffled the papers on his desk. “Oh… ?”

  “For those special cargoes out of Sarronnyn… if you know what I mean. The customer was extraordinarily pleased.” Pesseiti straightened and tipped his cap. “Best I be going, Master Ryltar. We’ll be ready to load by mid-afternoon, rain or no rain.”

  “We’ll have the woolens there, under oilcloth if necessary.”

  “Good.” Pesseiti nodded and left.

  Ryltar picked up the bag slowly, hefting it gingerly and shaking his head. He wiped his forehead damp, despite the faint breeze and the coolness of the room.

  In the tavern two doors down, Gunnar wiped his own sweating forehead. Gold… and Ryltar was surprised. But not too surprised. He swallowed the last of the redberry in his mug and left four coppers on the table before slipping out into the snow showers.

  CXVIII

  Creaakkk… The sound of a heavy wagon echoed into the shed where Justen sorted old iron and black iron parts, looking for a yet smaller gear set. He straightened, wondering if the wagon were that of Cirlin’s ironwright or of someone else’s, and eased the shed door open, almost welcoming the cold air on his face. The black-bodied wagon, pulled by two large chestnuts, had entered the yard by the time Justen stepped out into the cold. On one wagon side-panel was the symbol of the black hammer outlined in white. Justen looked again at the black-bodied wagon and the two figures on the front seat.

  “Altara! Warin!”

  The balding smith flashed Justen a grin before dropping from the wagon seat. “Get out here, you lazy engineer, and help us unload. It’s your stuff, after all.”

  By the time Justen had crossed the short space between the yard and the shed, Altara had climbed down from the wagon and Warin was already unfastening the tailgate.

  “I didn’t expect you,” Justen admitted. “Why did you come?” Then he grinned. “But I do have some de-ordered iron you can take back.”

  “That would help.” Altara set the wagon brake.

  Warin tied the horses to the stone post.

  “You know, Justen, I still don’t know why I’m doing this. We’re running behind on the Hyel as it is, and here I am almost smuggling you parts and equipment.” Altara brushed a short lock of hair off her forehead.

  “Because,” suggested the younger engineer, “you know that something has to be done about Fairhaven, and this is one way of easing your conscience. Especially since the Council continues to do nothing.”

  “You should have been a wizard, not an engineer.”

  “He is both, I think.” Warin grinned at Altara. “At least after his adventures in Naclos-whatever they were. You notice that somehow we never quite get all the answers when we ask him about Naclos and the druids, except that there’s clearly a very special druid mixed up in all this.”

  “Ah, yes, the one called Dayala.”

  Justen felt himself flushing. “I’d better help unload this. I really do appreciate it.”

  “See! There he goes again.” Warin grinned.

  “Well… you don’t exactly talk much about Estil,” countered Justen as he struggled to hoist a box containing a matched gear set.

  “I think he’s in love, really in love.” Warin grunted as he followed Justen toward the smithy with a second box. His breath was a cloud in the cold winter air.

  “You think?” Altar eased a section of thin plate onto a dolly she had unloaded and wheeled it slowly along the path after the others.

  “Either that or he’s spoiling for a fight.” Warin paused. “Justen, I almost forgot. I ran into Martan the other night, and he asked me to tell you that he was ready any time you are. He’s even dumber than I am, to want to spar with you.”

  Justen frowned momentarily. Martan wasn’t reminding Justen about sparring. Then he asked, “Can you stay for dinner?”

  “For your father’s cooking? That might be one reason we came.”

  Cirlin joined the unloading brigade, and the four carried in the supplies Altara had brought, including gear sets, shaft blanks, and a small condenser. Justen noticed several more sheets of thin plate yet to be taken to the shed.

  “Why the plate?”

  “With your skills, you could turn it into black iron armor, but anything that travels roads has to be light.” Altara grunted as she eased the plate onto the dolly. The dolly’s wheels sank slightly into the hard-frozen ground.

  “You should be designing this machine.”

  “I just might look at your designs. You’re the demon’s best on application, Justen, but design… I don’t know.”

  “I like you, too.”

  “Estil still thinks you’re imagining that druid, Justen,” Warin interjected. “She says no one real could turn your head that much.”

  “Tell her,” grunted Justen as he helped Altara ease the plate against the heavy beams on the side wall of the smithy, “that she could have if you hadn’t tied her up first.”

  “Lusting after another’s man’s woman… why, Justen, I do believe you actually show a human side.”

  Cirlin laughed. So did Altara and, finally, Warin.

  “I presume,” added Horas’s voice from the smithy door as the laughter died, “that we will be having company for dinner.”

  “We certainly will, and for the evening as well,” added Cirlin.

  “We wouldn’t-”

  “Where would you stay? At the Broken Wheel, where you’d freeze? Nonsense!” snapped Horas.

  Altara and Warin exchanged glances.

  “We’re not that hard to persuade,” said the chief engineer.

  “Besides,” added Warin, “I might be able to find out more about this mysterious druid.”

  “Good luck,” said Cirlin. “I’m his mother, and beside the fact that she’s wonderful, beautiful, green-eyed, silver-haired, and saved him from many fates worse than death, I know almost nothing. Oh,
and yes, she somehow coaxes trees into producing beautiful boxes and other wooden items.” The smith looked at Altara, who returned the smile.

  “It’s going to be an interesting evening,” ventured Jus-ten.

  “Stop jabbering,” suggested Altara, “and we’ll get this junk in sooner. Also, Where’s this supposed de-ordered iron? You did mention it, you know.”

  “In that bin in the corner. There.” Justen pointed.

  Warin walked over and looked down. “Darkness… he really did it, Altara. Those are turbine rings, but they’re only soft iron now.”

  Altara followed Warm’s eyes, and her fingers caressed the iron. “You could make a business out of this.”

  Justen shrugged. “Call it return for value… in a way.”

  “It would take three eight-days to undo that with a forge, and I’ll bet it didn’t take you that long.”

  “No.” Justen did not volunteer that the bin contained only an afternoon’s worth of effort or that the shed had turned into an ice house, with heavy sheets of ice across everything.

  “Good. Then I can report honestly that we’re saving time and labor by sending you junk. Now let’s get this stuff out to the wagon.”

  Even before they had Finished stacking the incoming parts and scrap and reloading the wagon, Elisabet was waving from the kitchen door.

  “We still need to stable the horses.”

  “Altara, go talk to Elisabet. We’ll do the horses.”

  The chief engineer shrugged and walked through the late afternoon light toward the house while Justen and Warin unharnessed the two draft horses and led them into the stable.

  “The brushes are on the shelf there.”

  “Altara said you never learned to ride, really, until you went to Sarronnyn. So how did thai happen, since you grew up with horses and a stable?-” Warin wiped horse hair off his face with his free hand as he finished one of the chestnuts.

  “We had horse teams, not riding horses. I could care for a horse. I just couldn’t ride well. Are you about done?”

  “More than done. It’s cold here.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “I grew up in Nylan. It’s lower and warmer than in mid-Recluce.” Warin watched as Justen poured several scoops of grain into the manger.

  “You took long enough,” said Elisabet when the two engineers walked into the kitchen and took the two last places at the big table.

  “Hot cider, ale, or redberry?” asked Horas.

  “Hot cider.”

  “Ale.”

  “Ale?” Warin shivered.

  “How he can be so ordered and drink ale and dark beer?” asked Altara.

  “It’s just superficial order.” Justen laughed.

  “How can order be superficial?”

  “Don’t get him started,” warned Cirlin.

  “What about the druid, then?” asked Warin.

  “Dayala?” Elisabet smiled broadly. “She’s a druid who doesn’t have a tree-not one that, she lives in anyway, except that her house is sort of grown out of trees, and she always goes barefoot, even in the desert, but she wears clothes.”

  “Is that all?” asked Warin plaintively. “A real druid who doesn’t live in a tree? Why does she go barefoot?”

  “She is a druid,” answered Justen dryly. “And she did manage to outwalk me and my boots across the Stone Hills and the grasslands. I never did manage walking barefoot through the great forest or the grasslands, let alone the Stone Hills.”

  “Do they use iron?” asked Altara.

  “Of course,” answered Justen. “Some of them do have problems with edged things like blades, and even with knives. But some of us do, too. I understand that Dorrin couldn’t deal with blades.”

  “I want to hear about the silver-haired druids,” protested Warin, grinning sideways at Elisabet.

  “Well…” began Justen’s sister.

  “Elisabet…”

  “You’re no fun, Justen. You tell them, or I will.”

  “I know I’m no fun. Wait a moment.” Justen took a sip of the dark ale.

  “Here’s some fresh-baked bread and cheese!” announced Horas, setting a long platter on the table. “Ought to hold you until dinner’s ready.”

  “Don’t get this in the engineering hall, do you?” asked Warin, looking at Altara.

  “Don’t get that at home, do you?” countered the chief engineer.

  “No, but he gets a few other things…” suggested Justen.

  “You should talk, from what I’ve heard about your druid. And from that cow-eyed look you get when you think about her and you think no one’s looking.”

  Altara coughed, trying not to choke on her hot cider, shaking her head at the same time.

  “What can I say?” Justen laughed. “What can I say?”

  “Probably nothing,” suggested Cirlin. “Try the bread before it gets cold. And try not to look too cow-eyed.”

  “What’s cow-eyed?” asked Elisabet.

  Altara choked again, then managed to swallow her cider.

  CXIX

  “I’m still concerned about that engineer-the order-mad one.” Ryltar leaned forward across the black-oak table.

  “Order-mad? That’s an odd choice of words.” Claris coughed, then sipped from her mug before setting it back on the ceramic coaster bearing a replica of the seal of Recluce. “What do you mean?”

  “Yes, Ryltar, please enlighten us.” Jenna’s fingers cupped her mug lightly, almost as if caressing the smooth black finish.

  “Well… Turmin said that this engineer, this Justen, is clearly the most highly ordered man he has observed. Perhaps too highly ordered. I understand that he is convinced that he must build some sort of land engine that travels the roads the way our ships travel the seas.”

  “That might seem impractical, but scarcely mad.” Claris pursed her lips before continuing. “Everyone thought Dorrin was mad, but we’d scarcely be here if he hadn’t built the Black Hammer.”

  “You don’t think that running chaos along our roads, particularly the High Road, is not mad?”

  “He isn’t doing that, is he?”

  “He will be.”

  “Ryltar… don’t you notice a little inconsistency in your arguments?” Jenna’s mild tones barely rose above the rain that pelted against the windows. “You tell us not to worry about Fairhaven, because they’re not yet invading someplace, but we’re supposed to worry about an excessively ordered engineer who has done far less than Fairhaven has. I’m frankly a great deal more concerned about the increased levies that were marched across the Westhorns and into Sarronnyn before the snows. Now it seems that each eight-day we receive reports of yet another town or hamlet falling to the Whites-and this has been during the winter. The ice has cut off Suthya from sea trade, and the Whites surround the Suthyans. By the spring thaw, only Armat, Devalonia, and a few coastal towns will remain in Suthyan hands.” Jenna looked at her short and square-cut fingernails, then laid her hands on the table.

  “Most of Suthya’s people are on the coast, and most of their troops are safe,” pointed out Ryltar in a reasonable tone.

  “That’s true enough, Ryltar,” countered Jenna, “except that this winter campaign means that the Suthyans will have no territory left to shield them from immediate attack after the thaw, and not enough time to bring in supplies or mercenaries, or anything much by sea.”

  “The wizards are fighting among themselves.” Ryltar smiled crookedly.

  “One power-hungry wizard destroyed another, and the stronger one has shown himself far more able and dangerous. Suthya will fall even before summer.”

  “I still must ask the same question, dear colleagues. What on earth can we possibly do about it?” Ryltar steepled his fingers and waited for a response. “What, honestly, can we do? We cannot even get ships to Suthya at the moment.”

  Jenna and Claris exchanged glances.

  CXX

  The cold and late winter rain, interspersed with occasional fat flakes of sn
ow, plastered Justen’s hair against his skull. He hefted the rock hammer and tapped around the stone, looking for traces of the heavy yellowish powder that when order-sorted, became grayish false lead. Order-sorting the heavy stuff was harder work than forging black iron. Wizards who handled too much of it for too long, Justen knew, died, but he felt that his control of the order-chaos balance within his own body would help protect him.

  Even the powder emitted unseen flashes of chaos, like white embers, and the small traces of false lead seemed like black isles holding chaos; it was almost a miniature replica of the way the great forest of Naclos had felt. Somehow, finding the yellowed, powdery stuff was easier in the rain, even rain mixed with snow, perhaps because the falling water blanked out the more distant chaotic impulses.

  Justen lifted the hammer again, wishing he were back in Naclos with Dayala, water lizards, forest cats, Stone Hills, and all. What was she doing? Immersing herself in her work, visiting her parents and friends, worrying about him? He shook his head. Dayala couldn’t afford to pine away after him, and the sooner he got on with his work, the sooner he could sort out the mess and head back to Naclos. But what would he do there? Be a smith?

  He shrugged. There were worse things, far worse things.

  He shivered as cold water seeped down his neck. At that moment, he even would have settled for being back in his mother’s smithy in Wandernaught. He lifted the hammer again, moving across the rocky pile.

  After a time, he sat down on a stone to rest his legs after the hard work he had done. As he sat there on the north side of the small slag pile, he gently rubbed a bruise on his calf, trying to send an extra touch of order into the injury, and absently wondered what he was doing foraging around the iron mines of Recluce when his land steamer still needed so much more work.

  “Simple…” he mumbled as he stood and followed his senses through the small piles of rocky wastes that had yet to be broken and turned back into hillsides and forests. “Trying to trigger an order-chaos collapse, that’s all.”

  He picked up the hammer and tapped it against another stone, then slid the flap of the oiled-leather gathering bag underneath the stone.