The Order War (10 page)

“So. The Tyrant has agreed to provide lodgings, supplies, and compensation for those whom Recluce sends to oppose us?” Histen laughed harshly.

“It would seem that is the case.” Renwek looked back toward the draped arches that led to the empty Council Chamber.

“And how many have been sent?”

“Only a few handfuls have volunteered, most of them engineers and healers. Just one young Storm Wizard.”

“Just one young Storm Wizard? Enlighten me, Renwek. Was there not just one young Black Storm Wizard in the time of Jenred the Traitor?” Histen’s lips turned at the corners as he waited for an answer.

“Ah…yes, High Wizard. But this one does not seem so great as Creslin.”

“Creslin could not stop Fairhaven in Candar itself for all his power, and I doubt he could do so even today. Clearly,
Recluce does not wish to offend Sarronnyn. Just as clearly, they do not intend to make a great commitment. Still, it is a good idea to be wary when Storm Wizards are involved.” Histen shook his head. “I had a message from Zerchas.”

“And what does the honorable Zerchas want?”

“He suggests that some of the stronger and more vocal young hotheads—like Derba and Beltar—be dispatched to help in taking Sarronnyn.”

“Is he that honorable? Or does he have something else in mind?”

“Probably, but he’s also being careful. He worries about casualties to the Iron Guard.”

“What about the lancers?”

Histen’s eyes narrowed. “Zerchas is absolutely correct. The Iron Guard is the key to our success, especially if those engineers from Recluce forge a great deal of black iron.”

“But the lancers routed the rebels in Kyphros…”

Histen sighed, once and loudly. “Renwek, please consider your words before uttering them. Others may not have my patience.” He half-turned, then looked back. “Find out exactly what Derba and Beltar have been doing lately. Let me know. I will be in the Tower this evening.”

Renwek bowed.

The High Wizard turned and walked toward the Tower.

Justen set aside the hammer as he saw Gunnar standing just inside the smithy. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and waited for his brother to step closer.

“What are you working on?” Gunnar asked.

“Part of a launching frame. Firbek thinks that the rockets will be very useful against the Iron Guard.” Justen stretched out his fingers, then ran them idly over the smooth wood of the hammer’s haft, his eyes drifting to the adjoining forge, where Clerve was helping Nicos. The apprentice lifted the hammer and struck. Justen smiled faintly and focused on his brother.

“Maybe.” Gunnar ran his thumb along his jaw. “Maybe. Do you want to go into Sarron?”

“When?” Justen wiped the dampness from his forehead again and glanced toward the rear of the smithy, where Altara had just straightened up from readjusting and leveling the shaft bearings for the still-unfinished hammer mill. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Later…right after you finish.”

Both men paused as Clerve delivered a series of blows to the metal on Nicos’s anvil. Justen wrinkled his nose to forestall a sneeze from the combined odors of metal, soot, and hot oil.

“That’ll be a while.”

“It certainly will be.” Altara had walked in behind Gunnar. “He’ll be on that section of the frame until the shadows have dropped on those pink walls. And he’s going to have to go with you on with that Sarronnese detachment the day after tomorrow. So here you are, cutting into productive—”

Gunnar looked apologetic. “I didn’t mean…” He paused. “But he would be helpful—”

“You two.” Altara shook her head. “All right. He can leave—this time—when that cross brace is welded and the brackets are set. That’s still going to be a while.”

“Thank you.” Gunnar inclined his head.

“Why do you…” Altara paused. “It’s not as though you’re exactly a drinker, young wizard. Did Justen put you up to this?”

“Not this time.” Gunnar closed his lips tightly for a moment, as if holding a grin.

“What are you up to that you need Justen?”

“I just want to get a feel for Sarron. If I go alone…” The blond man shrugged.

“I don’t know as that’s a good notion, going into Sarron itself, since it’s more than a little clear that the Sarronnese are not overly fond of our getting too close. Still, I couldn’t keep you here, Gunnar, if I wanted to, and maybe the two of you together will get into less trouble.”

“How about three?” asked Justen, looking toward the corner of the barracks building where the green banner flew. “Besides, having a lady with us—”

“You want to take the young healer, strip away all our talent?”

“It’s a good idea,” added Gunnar. “This is one of the last bastions of the Legend.”

“Fine. Assuming that Krytella wants to accompany you two young scoundrels. Just let Justen get on with his work for now.”

Gunnar nodded, bowed, and left.

Altara pursed her lips, then blotted her brow, leaving a damp streak of soot. She frowned and rubbed the smudge off with the back of one heavily muscled and lightly tanned forearm.

“When I look at you two…” she shook her head “…I just feel trouble. Not the ordinary kind of trouble. Something different.” The chief engineer coughed. “Then, maybe it’s this place.”

Justen nodded and swung the pieces of the cross brace back into the forge.

“But you do good welds, and your casings don’t need much polishing, Berol tells me.” Altara looked straight at the young engineer. “Don’t let that go to your head. You’re still not that good at really fine work, like turbine blades.”

“Yes, Chief Engineer.” Justen grinned. “Do you want to help me with the…fine work?”

“Justen, your work there probably isn’t that fine.” Her lips quirked before she turned toward Nicos and Clerve. The apprentice set down his hammer as the chief engineer approached and passed him.

When the metal sections in the forge began to glow even brighter than the cherry red needed for fullering, Justen let his perceptions wash over the metal, waiting until the temperature eased slightly higher. Then he swung both pieces into position and completed the scarfing before the metal cooled. Following that, he slipped the sections back into the forge. After watching and adjusting the sections through another reheating, waiting as the iron reached even higher temperatures, he replaced them on the anvil and with three even strokes of the hammer, completed the first weld.

The sun was still above the horizon, if only by a few hands, when at last he left the smithy, washed, and changed.

Gunnar and Krytella sat on stools on the narrow porch of the old farmhouse that the healers—and Gunnar—shared. The engineers, Justen reflected, had the dubious privilege of smaller, if newer, cubicles in the roughly constructed barracks provided by the Tyrant. In the rain, all the rooms smelled of the stable at the north end.

“Sorry,” Justen offered as he stopped at the bottom step. “The braces took longer. Most iron work does, I think.”

“No matter. Got your weekly pay?” asked Gunnar.

“All five pennies’ worth? That won’t go far. The Tyrant is so generous…”

“We’re supposed to be helping them, not behaving like mercenaries for hire.” Krytella stood and adjusted her belt, the green tunic, and the knife. She also carried a short staff, half the length of the black one Justen had left in his room.

“I sometimes think help means different things to different people.” Gunnar climbed off the stool, which rocked on the warped and uneven planks until he put out a hand to steady it.

“It’s a long walk.” Justen’s eyes flicked from the dusty road up the hill toward the granite walls of Sarron, shaded even more toward the pink by the late-afternoon sun.

“It’s better to leave the horses here, and you could use the exercise, anyway.” Gunnar headed toward the road.

“You haven’t been hammering heavy iron all day.”

“I rode out past the Klynstatt Marshes and spent half the day grubbing through the ironwood forests.”

“Would you two stop trying to convince each other that you had the harder day?” Krytella stopped at the edge of the road to let a horse cart pass.

“Men…they’re all the same.” The driver, a flaxen-haired older woman, grinned at the healer, then flicked the reins, and the cart full of rushes wobbled past the three, the left axle squealing so painfully that Justen winced at the lack of order in even that simple mechanical device.

“You can sense disorder in machines as well as healers do in people.” Gunnar pulled at his chin as he resumed his long strides uphill.

“At times.” Justen shrugged his shoulders, trying to relieve some of their tightness.

By the time the three reached the stone causeway leading to the walls, they were damp from the effort and the humid air.

The sentry studied the two men in black and the woman in green. “Recluce types? From down there?” He gestured down the long incline toward the Recluce enclave, whose roofs just peeked above a grassy hill.

“Yes.” Gunnar smiled politely. “We’ve never been in a city this large and prosperous.”

The woman in stark, dark-blue leathers ignored Gunnar and turned toward the healer. “Where are you bound?”

Krytella swallowed and then grinned. “To the market. The boys have never seen a real market. Then for a good dinner. Is there anyplace you’d recommend?”

“Any of the taverns off the traders’ square are pretty good…except for the Brass Bull. I wouldn’t take two nice young fellows there.”

“The square? Is that just off—”

“Take the main way until you get to the Guard barracks. The traders’ square is just past there to the left.” The sentry stepped back and motioned them on. “Take care of those two, lady. We don’t want trouble here.” She nodded to Krytella as the three passed.

“I’m beginning to understand why Creslin didn’t think much about the idea of coming to Sarronnyn.” Justen grinned.

“Or why he worried about being tied up with a redhead?” asked Gunnar.

Krytella blushed.

Even late in the afternoon, the avenue toward the main square was half-filled. They eased past a wagon full of tanned hides that were being unloaded into a large building. Justen wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell that seeped from the wagon bed.

“They must have used it for more than tanned leather,” Gunnar observed.

Justen let his perceptions touch the wood. “It feels similar to some quenches, except with an edge.”

Krytella and Gunnar exchanged a quick glance that Justen
ignored as the three stepped into the market square, still nearly filled with vendors despite the nearness of twilight.

“Carpets…carpets from the best midland wool…”

“Blades…the best blades this side of Hamor…”

“See the best carpets in Sarron…soft as a baby’s cheek…stronger than spun brass.”

“Spices…fresh spices. Get your astra here…fresher than the Blacks’ best…”

At the last boast, Krytella paused and turned toward the hawker, her eyebrows raised for a moment. The woman who stood before a small, dark-wood cart with nearly a dozen cloth bags spread out on the sale board fell silent.

“All the way from Hamor, and they’re fresher than from Recluce?” probed Krytella.

“They are fresh…lady.”

Krytella smiled faintly, then nodded first toward Gunnar, then toward Justen. She began to walk toward the far side of the square, toward a narrow, gray building that topped the two beside it by a handful of cubits.

Justen held back a frown, but turned and followed the other two.

“Look at that lady…two hunks like that!”

“Like the blond one…”

“No…the darker one’s got a nicer ass. The blond’s a little thin.”

Justen glanced sideways at Gunnar, grinning, but his brother’s thoughts were off somewhere, certainly not focusing on the local conversation.

“A little thin? He makes your Friedner look like an underweight calf. Bet you wouldn’t turn him out of your bed, Cerla. Of course, the dark one’s definitely something…”

Justen felt himself flushing and turned to catch Krytella’s eyes. The healer was also flushing.

“They’re rather…direct here.” Justen caught sight of a tasteful inn board displaying a silver shield rimmed in black. “There’s an inn, and it’s not the Brass Bull.”

The Silver Shield’s public room, despite a faint smokiness that recalled burned grease, had unshuttered windows and a faint breeze that Justen appreciated on a close afternoon.
Most of the tables were empty, and the three sat in the corner at a circular table that offered each of them a view of the doorway.

Gunnar gestured to a serving boy, thin and younger than most apprentices on Recluce. “Could we have some drinks?”

The serving boy ignored Gunnar and turned to Krytella. “Yes, my lady?”

Krytella grinned at Gunnar, then looked to the youth. “What do you offer?”

“We have red wine, dark beer, lager, and redberry.” The youth’s voice almost squeaked. He cleared his throat and waited.

Krytella nodded toward Gunnar, then toward Justen.

“I’d like a dark beer,” Justen said, trying not to grin.

“I’ll have a redberry,” Gunnar said.

The youth looked to Krytella, then finally asked, “Your wish, lady?”

“A redberry.”

The youth looked from her to the two men, raising an eyebrow.

“Two redberries and a dark beer,” Krytella told him.

“Thank you.” The youth hurried toward the back room, his slippered feet whispering on the worn and wide-plank floors.

Two white-haired women sat at a table along one wall with a game board between them, nursing mugs of something. Justen glanced toward the pair, trying to determine the game, which seemed to employ red and black counters.

“Are you finding out anything?” Krytella lowered her voice.

“Besides too much chaos for a home of the Legend?” Gunnar’s voice was equally low. “No.”

Justen licked his lips and tried to let his thoughts go blank, to let his perceptions pick up a sense of what might be happening in Sarron.

Near the door, a single woman, dressed in the blue leathers that indicated a soldier in service to the Tyrant, sipped from a chipped, gray-crockery mug. Her gray-and-black hair was cropped short, and a white scar crossed her left cheek
bone. Two empty mugs stood on the corner of the table.

As his perceptions drifted past the older soldier, Justen caught a sense of regret, almost of emptiness, but the emptiness was honest, close to ordered sadness.

Justen could catch hints of something out in the square, like a faint but unseen white mist that tugged at the corners of buildings and drifted along the gutters and peered from the covered sewers.

“Your beer, ser.” The serving boy set a mug before Krytella.

“That’s for my friend.” She nodded toward Justen, who sat up with a twitch at the thump of the mugs on the table.

The youth smiled politely and set one redberry before the healer, and the other before Gunnar. “That will be a silver and four, ser.” The beer stayed put.

“A silver and four?”

“With the White devils coming through the mountains, there’s been some hoarding. They say they burn anyone who’s a Legend-holder.”

Justen handed Krytella a half-silver, as did Gunnar. The healer handed the server three half-silvers. “The extra is yours.”

“My pleasure, lady.” He blinked long, sooty eyelashes at the healer. “My pleasure.”

Justen watched as the boy minced back toward the kitchen.

“Don’t glare, Justen, dear. It’s not becoming.” Krytella’s voice was pitched loud enough to carry to the other corner table, where two round-faced traders—one in gray, the other in brown—gestured at each other across a tray of glittering stones. Both women paused for an instant and studied the three from Recluce. Then the one in brown flashed a quick smile to Krytella before turning back to her dickering.

“Was that totally necessary?” Justen didn’t know whether to grin or be annoyed.

“Absolutely.” Krytella winked, then looked at Gunnar.

“There’s too much chaos under the surface here, but I haven’t been able to really link it to any one place.” The Air Wizard lifted his mug to his lips and sipped. “There’s also a lot of fear.”

Krytella slid the beer in front of Justen, who decided to say nothing about his own, obviously far weaker, attempts to track the underlying chaos. Instead, he took a long swallow from the mug and listened to the low-voiced conversation.