Modesitt,L.E. - Recluce 09 - The Order War

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THE ORDER WAR

by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet

A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue New York. N.Y. 10010

Tor® Books on the World Wide Web: http://www.tor.com

To Jeff,

for being there and being a true brother,

even when I failed to understand.

Part I - CHAOS-BUILDING

I

Justen watched from the smooth stones of the oldest pier in Nylan as the Shierra pulled away

and out into the channel. The black iron plate of the deckhouse and single turret glistened in the

morning sunlight, and the four-span gun pointed forward like a black staff aimed at chaos.

A thin line of white water flowed aft from the newest warship of the Mighty Ten as she eased

out into the Gulf of Candar between the twin breakwaters that dated back to the building of Nylan

itself.

The young man in engineers' black brushed a hand through his short and light brown hair before

glancing at the three students. "Watch closely, with just your eyes, after she clears the

breakwater."

"Watch what?" asked the thin, redheaded boy.

"The ship, silly," answered the stocky girl.

"Why?" questioned Norah, a petite and big-eyed blonde girl.

"Watch," repeated Justen.

As heat pulsed from the Shierra's funnel, visible only as a wavering of the greenish-blue sky

to the west, white streaks seemed to flow back from the bow as the black warship built up speed.

Suddenly, both wake and ship vanished, leaving only the heat lines across the western sky.

"What happened?" asked Daskin, the redhead, a hand raised to scratch his thick, curly hair.

"The Brother raised his shields, of course, just like we're going to be taught to do." The

stocky girl, Jyll, did not quite snort her disgust, but flipped her hair away from Daskin.

Justen stepped back to avoid swallowing long, black, loose tresses. He did not contradict her

statement about being taught shielding, but it would be years before any of these three were ready-

at least from what he could tell, but that, thankfully, was not his decision.

"Let's go." He turned uphill, and the three students followed, Norah trailing, her eyes still

turning seaward toward the heat lines that were the only trace of the Shierra. A light breeze,

bearing a remnant of chill from the later winter, ruffled his black overtunic.

As they passed the armory, a lanky, red-haired woman in green emerged.

"Krytella!" Justen waved.

"Justen. I'll walk up to the classroom building, if you're headed that way." Krytella smiled.

"Do you know if Gunnar's anywhere around?"

"No. He's up at Land's End, studying the Founders' records of the Change." Justen tried to keep

his voice level. Gunnar, always Gunnar, as if his older brother were the great Creslin himself.

"Are there any? Real records, I mean?"

"I suppose there must be. Dorrin certainly left records." Justen stopped outside of the long

and low black stone building that almost seemed part of the grassy hillside.

"But he was an engineer."

"He also wrote The Basis of Order. Most of it, anyway." Justen gestured at the three students.

"You can get something from the fruit table in the dining hall. Then we'll meet in the corner

room."

"Thank you, Magister Justen," the three chorused.

"I'm not a magister, just a junior engineer of sorts," Jus-ten observed, but the three had

already trooped off.

"How can you be happy offering beginning order-instruction to spoiled kids?" asked Krytella.

"Why not? Someone has to, and-" Justen stopped, realizing that once again Krytella had compared

him, unfavorably, to his older brother. He forced a grin and continued. "-and I'd better catch up

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with them before they eat all the fruit."

"Tell Gunnar I need to talk to him."

"I will, but you'll likely see him before I do."

"Have fun with your students."

"Thank you."

The three had not eaten all the dried fruit, having left at least half of it. In passing the

snack table, Justen grabbed several dried pearapple sections and stuffed them in his mouth. He

chewed and swallowed quickly. Then he walked down the stairs to the belowground corridor that

bisected the sunken indoor garden. The garden separated the dining wing from the classrooms.

The three looked up from their cushions as he closed the door.

"Take out your Basis of Order. Let's take a look at the third section of the first part, page

fifty-the part about the concentration of order." Justen waited as they paged through the books

that were still too stiff, as if the only time they read was when Justen insisted. "Would you read

it, Norah?"

The wide-eyed blonde cleared her throat. "... a staff, or any other object, may be infused with

order. If the Balance is maintained, concentrating such order must result in a greater amount of

chaos somewhere else. Therefore, the greater the effort to concentrate order within material

objects, the greater the amount of free chaos within the world."

"What does that mean, Daskin?"

"I don't know, Magister."

"All right. You read the words, the same words."

"The same words?"

Justen nodded.

"... a staff, or any other object. .." Daskin repeated the words already read aloud by Norah.

"Now, what does it mean?" Daskin sighed. "I guess it's something about why the engineers don't

put order into everything they build."

Justen nodded at Jyll.

"Is that why there are only ten of the black iron ships?" she asked.

"How much order goes into building a ship like the Shierra?" Justen probed.

"Lots, or you wouldn't have asked," Norah said, grinning.

"How much iron would it take to build a hundred ships?"

"But iron's stronger, isn't it?" asked Daskin.

"You can grow more oaks and firs, but you can't grow more iron. Once you've taken iron out of

the earth, it's used. Once you remove that iron from the high hills . . . then what?"

All three looked blankly at the floor.

"What holds Recluce together?"

"Order," the three muttered.

"What does iron do?"

"Holds order."

"Fine. What happens if we take all the iron out of the high hills? Why do you think we try to

buy as much iron as we can from Hamor, or even from Lydiar?"

"Oh . . . That keeps more order in Recluce?"

"Right." Justen forced a smile. "Let's look at the question of limits. Where will you find

that, Jyll?"

The stocky girl shrugged.

Justen took a deep breath instead of yelling. He waited before saying, "Look toward the end of

the opening chapters. All of you. Tell me when you find something."

Justen walked from one corner of the room to the other. Had he and Gunnar been so slow?

The three students continued to page slowly through The Basis of Order.

Finally, Norah raised a hand. "Is this it?" She cleared her throat, then began to read slowly:

"If order or chaos be without limits, then common sense would indicate that each should have

triumphed when the great ones of each discipline have arisen. Yet neither has so triumphed,

despite men and women of power, intelligence, and ambition. Therefore, the scope of both order and

chaos is in fact limited, and the belief in the balance of forces demonstrated ..."

Justen nodded, "What does it mean?"

"I'm not sure."

The young engineer looked out the window, across the ridgeline and northward to the blackstone

walls that separated Nylan from the rest of Recluce. Then he looked downhill and out across the

Eastern Ocean. Maybe Krytella was correct. Someone had to teach, but was he the right one?

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II

"The road has reached the old domain of Westwind." The older counselor rubbed her forehead for

an instant, then dropped her arms onto the ancient black-oak table of the Council Room. The faint

sound of surf from the beach below the Black Holding hissed in through the half-open windows on

the early spring breeze.

"The road does not concern me so much as the troops that precede it," suggested the wispy-

haired man.

"Ryltar ... the road is the key to the troops, and to the trade that follows. When that road is

finished, it will be the only direct access to Sarronnyn."

The third counselor pursed her thin lips, then coughed. "So far, the Sarronnese have lost

nearly two thousand troops."

"The Spidlarians lost twice that, and there the Whites razed three cities, and we did nothing,"

responded Ryltar dryly. "No one can even precisely locate Diev to this day."

"At the time, we didn't exactly have too much with which to respond." The older woman, black-

haired and broad-shouldered, shook her head.

"You are so good at keeping me honest, Claris." Ryltar smiled.

"You're rather good at making me sick, Ryltar," added the younger woman. "The point is that

Fairhaven has taken the next step in implementing Cerryl the Great's master plan for conquering

Candar. The question is what we intend to do about it?"

"Ah, yes. The great master plan of which we have heard so much for so many decades. Thank you

for reminding me, Jenna."

"Ryltar, be serious." Jenna held back a sigh.

"I am being serious. Why don't we face the facts? First, with our ships, even if all of Candar

falls to Fairhaven, just how could the White Wizards threaten us? Second, we scarcely have the

trained troops to send an army to Sarronnyn, nor could we raise such a force without conscription,

and conscription would destroy us more surely than Fairhaven would." Ryltar turned toward Jenna.

"Just tell me. What is the threat to Recluce? What can Fairhaven really do to us?"

"Destroy our basis of order, or reduce it to the point where our ships can no longer defend

us."

"Oh? Have you been talking to old Gylart again?"

"I don't think that Gylart's age automatically discredits his logic," interjected Claris.

"Jenna's-or Gylart's- point is valid. The Whites are creating 'domesticated' order to increase

their chaos power. Once they take Fairhaven, what is to keep them from taking Hamor? Or for the

Hamorians to follow the same example? How would that affect your most profitable trade routes

then, Ryltar?"

"We are talking centuries. Besides, I return to my original point. Just what can we do?" Ryltar

smiled again.

III

"Run up the ensign," ordered the captain. On the staff above the iron pilothouse fluttered the

black ryall on a white background. "Looks to be a Lydian trader." Hyntal turned to the two

engineers. "We'll just pull alongside for a mite, Brother Pendak, and you see if you sense

anything."

Pendak nodded.

"Captain! She's turning! Trying to run before the wind."

"Shields!" snapped the captain. "Just between us."

"Shit," muttered Pendak.

"Want help?" asked Justen.

"Not now."

Justen sensed the effort Pendak marshaled to create the barrier that blocked the Lydians' view

of the Llyse.

"Starboard a quarter."

"Coming starboard a quarter," echoed the woman at the helm.

The Llyse turned downwind, and heavy turbines whined beneath the plated decks, the sound so

faint that Justen sensed the increased power rather than heard it. Ahead off the Llyse's starboard

bow, Justen sensed the Lydian ship, flying only the duke's banner, not the crimson-trimmed white

banner of Fairhaven, as it lumbered through the heavy swells. What he and the crew saw off the bow

was a black emptiness. What the Lydians saw was an empty sea off their port quarter.

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"Course bearing on the Lydian?" asked the captain.

"Steady on the starboard forequarter, Captain. Three cables and closing," answered Pendak, the

ship's Brother.

"Bring her port an eighth. What devil's trick are the Whites up to now?"

Captain Hyntal had never forgotten that his great-greatgrandfather had captained the Black

Hammer. Unfortunately, he had never let anyone else forget it either, reflected Justen.

"Coming port an eighth." The woman at the helm eased the wheel port to parallel the Lydian's

course.

Spray flashed across the deck, and tiny droplets misted into the pilothouse where Justen stood

beside Pendak. The older engineer's forehead remained beaded with sweat from the effort of holding

the single-edged shield in place.

Hyntal turned toward the gunnery chief. "Ready, weapons?"

"Turret's ready. Captain. Shells and rockets on standby."

"Drop the shields, Brother Pendak," ordered Hyntal. "Let's see what those devil Whites have

added to this stew."

The Lydian ship appeared off the starboard bow. The carved plate over the unused paddle wheel

read Zemyla. Pendak wiped his forehead and reached for the water bottle. "Harder to keep a single-

edge shield than a circular one, Jus-ten."

"I could tell," Justen whispered back.

Hyntal glared at the engineers but said nothing as the Llyse edged up to the trader.

"She's not furling those sails."

"Put a signal rocket across her bow."

Flssttt. . . The signal rocket flared in front of the Zemyla.

The Llyse kept abreast of the trader until a blue-edged white banner floated on the aft

jackstaff. Then a second parley flag flapped over the mainmast as the trader shortened sail.

"Grapples."

"Aye, grapples."

"Boarding party."

The stern-faced, black-clad marines mustered on the starboard side, then swarmed onto the

merchantman.

"It's your turn, Brothers," suggested the captain.

"You wanted to see what it's all about, Justen," Pendak said.

The younger engineer followed Pendak up the ladder and onto the gently pitching deck of the

Zemyla, where the crew had already circled away from the boarders and were clustering either on

the poop or near the bowsprit.

The black-clad marines marched the man in the captain's jacket to the foot of the mast. "They

say he's the captain."

"Have you always been the captain of this ship?" asked Pendak wearily.

"Yes, Master."

The wrongness of the words twisted at Justen. He looked at Pendak. Pendak looked at the head

marine, an intense-appearing young man named Marten. "Find the first mate."

Marten and another marine turned, but even before they took a full step, a man jumped from the

poop into the sea.

For a time, the marines and the two engineers watched the water below, but no head appeared and

Justen could sense no one there.

"Was that the captain?" asked Pendak, turning to the pseudo-captain.

"No, Ser."

The wrongness still turned in the man's words.

"Find me the second mate."

"I'm the second." A burly man stepped up to the marines, his face and forearms tanned and

leathery, his hair sun-bleached and his trimmed beard a mixture of blond and white. His words rang

true to Justen.

"Is this man a convict?"

"Begging yer pardon. Master ... but ye'll put us all in a terrible stew if this goes on."

"Do you want us to sink the ship?" snapped Pendak.

"We'd be fools to want that."

Justen cleared his throat softly. Pendak looked at him, then nodded.

"Were all of you threatened if you didn't agree to call this man the captain?" asked Justen.

"I wouldn't say as it was a threat exactly." Sweat appeared on the burly mate's forehead.

"More like you didn't have much choice?"

"I don't know as how I could answer that." The words choked forth, and perspiration coated the

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mate's face.

The soaked shirt and red face made Justen's decision. "That's all."

"We'll need to look around," Pendak added. "Not that we expect we'll find anything."

"As you wish, Order Masters."

"You want to take forward?" Pendak pointed toward the bow.

"Fine." Justen walked forward, and his senses ranged over the ship. Pendak was right. The ship

felt orderly, too orderly. Before long, he walked back to the marines, where the older engineer

waited. "Nothing. Baled Sligan and Montgren wool, dried fruits, perfume wood, and some big jugs of

oil."

Pendak shook his head. "Let's go." He nodded toward the marines, then turned to the burly

second. "Good sailing. Mate."

"Thanks be to ye, not that most will, Wizards." The perspiring man half-saluted.

IV

The dull clank of one hammer and yet another laid upon chisels echoed through the chill air of

the deep canyon.

A line of bent figures trudged back from the pile of rock that marked the edge of the

construction. Each worker passed the deep, straight clefts that separated one foundation block

from another, each foundation block a stone cube thirty cubits square.

Behind the laborers stretched the knife-edged raw slashes that marked the great Westhorn

Highway. The base of that highway had been formed from the mortared and fitted stones mat linked

the foundation blocks. Each long section was as straight as a quarrel, a segment of the road that

would run from Fairhaven to the Western Sea through Sarronnyn and to Southwind.

A wall of solid stone terminated the western end of the canyon. The trees and soil more than

two hundred cubits above had been removed, and the dust and white ash from that removal sifted

downward into the chill depths. Workers coughed, squinted, and blinked away the ash and grit. But

they kept walking, lugging their baskets of fractured stone from the pile at the end of the canyon

back to the unloading station.

Three figures in white-white boots, tunics, and trousers-stood halfway between the unloading

platform and me mountain wall that marked the end of the road.

Their breath floated like white steam above the cold stone and over the scattered patches of

snow and ice.

Behind them, the stone-master directed the spout to spew the smaller granite chunks into the

space between two foundation blocks. The yet-unlined watercourse beside the leading edge of the

road held no water, nothing except powdered rock, grainy snow, and scattered ice fragments.

Tweet.' Tweet! A whistle split the chill.

"Stand clear! Stand clear!" The warning shrilled from the thin lips of the overseer, a woman in

white leathers who also wore a sword and a white, bronze-plated skullcap.

"Close your eyes! Close your eyes!"

The nameless workers huddled behind the movable plank barriers, eyes closed.

Crack! Crackkk!

A flash brighter than the noonday sun, sharper than the closest of lightnings, flared across

the stone wall that faced the end of the highway. Rock fifty cubits deep splintered, separated,

and slid into a rough pyramid at the base of the canyon. Rock dust mushroomed, adding a powdered

white mist to the air, blurring the sharp edges of the canyon walls.

"Head out. Load up," called the overseer.

Two of the three wizards walked slowly, tiredly, back toward the amber coach that waited where

the smooth-finished paving stones ended.

The workers staggered from behind their barricade toward the pile of granite that would be

removed for fill, or for reshaping by the stonecutters before the masons came and fitted and

mortared the stones together.

"Load up!" came the command again.

The workers' steps carried them once more toward the tumbled rocks, as workers' steps had

carried nameless prisoners for centuries on the great highway to the west. Even before the dust

had settled, those steps carried them, as so many before them, forward toward the loading rack

that other prisoners had slid into place beside the tumbled stones.

"Just the gray stones . . ."

The long line of workers edged forward, men and women bearing identical baskets.

Clink... clink... Behind them, the stonemasons resumed their work, Grafting the flush-fitted

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gray walls and storm drains that linked the base blocks of the road.

The loading crew began to place the squarish stones into the loading bin, and the first porter

eased his basket into the rack.

"Next!"

The workers shuffled forward, their leather boots scraping on sharp-edged stones.

"Next!"

V

"What'll you have, gents?"

Gunnar coughed, cleared his throat, and motioned to Jus-ten.

"Dark beer." Justen glanced past the serving woman toward the new gas lamps by the door, still

unlit in the afternoon light pouring through the half-open windows of the inn.

The woman looked at his black tunic and trousers.

"Dark beer," he repeated.

"I don't even want to know about your day, Engineer." The heavy, gray-haired woman shook her

head and glanced toward Gunnar.

"Greenberry." The sandy-haired man's fingers drummed idly on the polished dark oak.

"That's not much better. You like anything to eat? The mutton pie's tasty, and even the chops

are good today."

"No, thank you," the brothers said, almost in unison.

"Well ..." murmured the woman, turning toward the kitchen. "No telling with wizards and

engineers . . . just no telling, but what they've done today, who'd really want to know? Dark beer

and greenberry ..."

Justen grinned.

"The beer's not good for you. Why do you drink it? Just to make Father angry, or to annoy me?"

Gunnar smiled faintly.

"I suppose that annoying my terribly superior older brother is as good a reason as any. Except

that it's not true. I just happen to like the taste. Besides, I am not a great Order Master, a

superior Air Wizard such as you. I'm just a lowly engineer who toils in the workrooms under the

scathing eye of Altara."

"Is she really that bad?"

"No. She pays no attention when you do it right, and she gets hotter than the Little Easthorns

the day they were raised when you don't."

"Justen! Gunnar!" a bright voice interrupted.

Both men looked up as a black-haired young woman paused near their table.

"Oh, Aedelia. How are you?" asked Gunnar. "How's your brother?"

"His leg's much better, and Mother said to tell you hello when I saw you."

"What are you doing in Nylan?" asked Justen.

"Father was bringing in some timber for the shipwrights and I was waiting, when I thought I saw

you two come in. So I told Father I'd be back in a bit and came to say hello." Aedelia smiled

broadly.

"Could you join us?" Justen motioned to one of the two empty chairs, trying not to be too

obvious in his admiration of her endowments.

"I wish I could, but Father's already delivered the timber and it's a long drive back, even

with an empty wagon ... or mostly empty. We did get some fresh fish and a bolt of Austran linen."

Aedelia straightened up. "I really do have to go." With a last smile, she was gone.

Clunk. . . clunk . . . The two heavy mugs came down on me table. "There you be, honored young

gents. And that'll be five for the both of you, three for the beer and two for the green stuff."

Gunnar extended a half-silver. The woman nodded and took the coin.

Justen lifted his mug and took a deep swallow. "Ah . . . that's good."

"Do you do that just to annoy me?"

"No. I do it because it tastes good, and it was a long day. And because- Leave it at that."

Justen stopped and glanced into the comer, where two white-haired men sat hunched over a Capture

board. The game had clearly only just begun, since most of the white and black tokens were still

stacked beside the board. He looked back at Gunnar. "Krytella was looking for you the other day,

when you were at Land's End."

"And you're telling me now?"

"I haven't seen you since then," Justen pointed out before taking another swig of the dark

beer.

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"You're drinking that too fast,"

"So? Drink your damned greenberry."

"Justen ... I haven't done anything to you, have I? We are brothers, you know." Gunnar's voice

was lower, softer.

"No, it's not you. It's just..." Justen shrugged.

"Women problems?"

"I suppose so." Justen took another swallow from the mug. "And student problems."

"I told you that teaching wasn't all that Verdel said it was."

"You've told me a great deal."

"Sorry." Gunnar sipped the greenberry. "Are you going for a ship's Brother slot?"

"I went out with the Llyse the other day-"

"I know."

"I know you know. You know everything. Just let me talk, all right?"

"Sorry."

"Anyway, I watched Pendak. He seems pretty good with the shields, and he can tell when

someone's not telling the truth. But I don't know. The whole business really bothered me. That

poor crew had been manipulated. They didn't even know who the captain was."

Gunnar nodded. "Pendak told me about that. He was upset."

"Why would someone do something like that?" Justen took another swallow of the dark beer.

The blond man shook his head. "Maybe the White Wizards are trying to provoke us again."

"Why would they do that? It's never been terribly effective before."

"People's memories are short." Gunnar paused. "What did Pendak do?"

"What could he do? The real captain jumped overboard. And the ship hadn't really done

anything."

"I don't like this," Gunnar muttered, slowly sipping his greenberry.

"That's what Pendak and Captain Hyntal said. Why would a merchant ship try to get away when we

were just on a routine patrol? It doesn't make sense." Justen took another swallow of the dark

beer, licking the remnants off his lips before setting the mug on the table.

"It has to make sense. We just don't know how." Gunnar looked up. "There's Krytella."

"Of course."

Gunnar frowned, but stood and waved. "Krytella!"

The redhead smiled broadly and hurried across the room, gracefully stepping around the

unoccupied tables. "I was looking for you." She leaned forward and kissed Gunnar on the cheek.

"That's what Justen told me. It took a while to wind up the search of the archives." Gunnar

gestured toward one of the empty chairs.

Justen took a last sip of the dark beer and motioned to the serving woman. Gunnar was so damned

noble. He hadn't even tried to point out that Justen had waited three days to mention Krytella's

inquiry.

"Thank you for remembering, Justen." Krytella's smile was warm, her pleasure genuine. That

Justen knew even with his merely average-for an engineer-order-senses.

"Yes, folks? Would the healer like redberry or greenberry?"

"Redberry," Krytella answered.

"Another dark beer," Justen added.

The serving woman raised her eyebrows but only said, "Coming up-one redberry and a dark beer."

"You shouldn't-" began Krytella.

"I know. Good engineers and good wizards don't drink alcohol because it's bad for their order-

senses."

"Oh, Justen ... I didn't mean to be short with you. But I am a healer, and . . ." The redhead

shrugged.

Clunk . . . clunk . . . Two more heavy mugs arrived. "That'll be another five for the two."

Justen handed over a half-silver.

"Thank you." Krytella inclined her head, then took a swallow of her redberry.

"Just before you arrived, we were talking about how the White Wizards were playing games with a

Lydian ship." Gunnar sipped from his greenberry as Krytella waited for him to continue. "They

planted some illusions in the crew's minds about who was captain, and then they conditioned the

crew to run from the Llyse."

"That doesn't make sense."

"The real captain jumped overboard and drowned. He never came up."

"Are you sure?" Krytella set her redberry down.

"I was there," Justen answered. "There wasn't any sign of life. I suppose that could have been

an illusion, too. But it really doesn't matter, does it? The damage was already done."

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The redhead nodded slowly. "I see what you mean. Recluce drove a poor captain to suicide. But I

still don't see why the White Wizards would bother."

"It has to have something to do with their effort to take over western Candar." Justen looked

at the mug without lifting it. He really hadn't wanted a second dark beer.

"But what?"

"It doesn't matter," suggested Gunnar. "They can't control the sea. There's too much basic

order in the oceans."

"Maybe that's not their objective," Justen pointed out, all too conscious of how alive and

vibrant Krytella seemed, sitting there between them . . . even as she leaned toward Gunnar.

"What other aim would they have?" Krytella took a small sip from her mug.

"If they build distrust of us ... and then if we do commit any forces to Sarronnyn or Suthya,

wouldn't the Sarronnese be worrying as much about Recluce as about Fairhaven?"

Krytella looked at the older brother. "What do you think, Gunnar? Is that possible?"

"It could be." The blond man shrugged, then grinned. "But we certainly won't solve that one

this afternoon." He took a deep swallow of the greenberry.

Justen glanced toward the Capture game in the corner. "Is that old Gylart over there?"

"The Gylart who's Counselor Jenna's uncle? Or the fisherman?" Krytella asked.

"The former counselor." Justen took a sip of the second beer. It did taste good, he decided.

Gunnar nodded. "It's the old counselor."

"He's good at Capture."

"How can you tell?"

Justen lifted his shoulders and smiled sheepishly. "He just is."

"Would you two like to come to dinner?" Krytella smiled. "I mink it's a fish stew, but it

smelled good, and there's plenty of it. Mother and Aunt Arline baked pearapple bread, too."

Justen's stomach growled. "I think that's my answer."

"Justen . . ." Gunnar sighed.

"Fine. I need to help them. Just show up after the second evening bell." Krytella flashed

another smile and pushed back her chair.

"Do you have to go?" asked Gunnar.

"If I'm having company, I do."

Justen watched as the redhead left the public room. Then he took another sip of beer before

turning to his brother. "You lucky bastard."

"Why?"

Justen shook his head. For all that he could see storms an ocean away, Gunnar was sometimes so

dense. Was that why the girls swarmed around him? Justen took another sip of the second beer mat

he hadn't wanted at first. At least a home-cooked dinner would be better than eating in the

engineers' mess.

VI

"The Iron Guard has secured the Roof of the World, and Zerchas is studying the remains of the

Westwind archives . . ." The tall, older wizard at the speaker's podium coughed.

"Couldn't be much left after ten centuries." The sotto voce murmur echoed through the momentary

silence before the tall wizard continued.

"... and has discovered that the Sarronnese garrisons had preserved some of the original

manuscripts, Cerryl's name be praised." A young, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven and black-haired

White Wizard stood just inside the doorway. He pursed his lips and motioned to another young

wizard before stepping through the archway and walking down to the row of couches in the

antechamber.

The second wizard, round-cheeked and fair-haired, followed.

"Cerryl's name be praised, Cerryl's name be praised! It wants to make me puke, Eldiren. Did you

know mat Cerryl was a fifth-rate White Wizard, if that? He wasn't fit to carry the great Jeslek's

boots." The young black-haired White Wizard who spoke glanced toward the archway to the Council

Chamber. "Let's walk down to Vislo's."

"It's scarcely fashionable, Beltar." Eldiren scuffed a white-leather boot on the granite floor.

"Fine. Then no one fashionable will be there."

The two young men waited out into the warm spring and the white light of Fairhaven, out into

the shadow cast by the Tower. Beltar paused momentarily, then marched across the short, wiry grass

of the new Wizards' Square, for all that it was three centuries old. Eldiren scurried to keep up.

"Why are you so upset by old Histen?"

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"First, he's playing games with Lydian ships. What good will that do?"

"He's trying to force the Blacks into being seen as tyrants."

"Has that ever worked before?" snorted Beltar. "And then all this praise of Cerryl the Great-

Cerryl the Great! I can raise the chaos springs from the rock beneath Candar and no one cares.

Worse than that, Zerchas and Histen have threatened to turn the Iron Guard and the White Company

on me if I try." Beltar halted at the far side of the square and took several quick breaths.

"Forget Vislo's."

A young boy silting on a passing farm wagon pointed toward the white-clad wizards. "There's

one! And another one. Real White Wizards!"

Eldiren raised a hand and waved.

"He waved. He waved!"

"That's it," muttered Beltar. "Play to the peasants."

"Why not? It doesn't hurt, and it certainly costs nothing."

"You sound like Zerchas and Histen and Renwek." Eldiren touched Beltar op the shoulder,

"Sometimes . . . what they say makes sense."

"Oh?" The black-haired wizard turned and looked back at the glittering White Tower.

"You're bitter because they don't need your powers now. They will."

"They don't think so."

"Does it matter what they think? Do you really believe that Recluce will stand idly by as we

finish the Great Highway through the Westhorns and take over the entire west of Candar?"

"Why not? They didn't do a damned thing after Spidlar or south Kyphros, or the islands."

"They weren't ruled by the Legend. They also weren't the home of Megaera. Besides, once we take

Suthya, Southwind will fall-"

"Suthya! We haven't even attacked Sarronnyn."

Eldiren shook his head. "Recluce can't stop us in Sarronnyn. You know that. What's really left

after that? Suthya, Southwind, and a bunch of druids in Naclos. No one lives in the Empty Lands or

the Stone Hills."

"No one ever will."

"When Recluce finally marshals order, then they'll need you. Don't throw it away by giving them

any excuses now. That was your idol Jeslek's problem. He forced his power on them, and that made

him a target too early. Let Histen and Zerchas be the targets."

Beltar pursed his lips. "I don't know."

"Think about it. You have time. They don't. Anyway, you might as well enjoy Fairhaven now. Look

at the Council members. They meet, and then they have to go back to their posts all across

Candar."

"Another one of Cerryl the .Great's wonderful ideas. Scatter the able away from Fairhaven."

Beltar scuffed a boot against the curbstone.

Eldiren shook his head, then waved back to another small boy.

VII

The wide porch of the house low on the hill and its location in the older section of Nylan-

barely above the armory and practice fields, and overlooking the warehouses that served the port-

were the only aspects that confirmed the structure's age. The varnish on the recently refinished

red-oak flooring of the porch was clear, and the oil-stain preservative on the wood framing the

wide windows was fresh. The black stones of the exterior wall shimmered with calm and order.

"Is this the place?" asked Gunnar, oblivious to the straggly nature of his fine, sandy hair.

Justen grinned. "We'll find out." He rapped on the door, then waited.

After the sound of scuffing footsteps, the door opened. "Oh . . . you must be Krytella's

friends. Let's see. The tall one is Gunnar. That's you, young man. And you must be Justen." The

gray-haired and round-faced woman smiled. "I'm her Aunt Arline. She's down at the port-master's

getting Dagud. He's the assistant port-master, you know."

"I am very pleased to meet you," Justen gave a slight bow to Arline.

"We appreciate the invitation. Home-cooked meals are a treat for us," added Gunnar.

"Do come in. Come in." Arline stepped back into the front hallway. "There's the parlor. Now

just have a seat. It won't be a moment, I'm sure, before Krytella is back. And this is Wenda. Her

task is to entertain you fine young gentlemen." Arline continued through the parlor and past the

archway into the large kitchen with its long table.

Wenda, whose short red hair cascaded in every direction, stood next to the lamp table on the

right side of the window overlooking the harbor, striker in hand. She wore a linen shirt, and

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faded brown trousers over scarred and scuffed brown boots. "It's early, but you're company, and

that means I can light one lamp." The parlor contained a low, padded bench with a back and

armrests, three wooden armchairs, a rocking chair, several straight chairs, and two narrow lamp

tables. The red light from the setting sun cast a deep, reddish shadow across the room.

"I'm Justen, and this is my brother Gunnar."

"I know. He's the Storm Wizard, Krytella talks about him when she thinks I'm not listening."

Justen grinned as Gunnar blushed.

Wenda squeezed the striker twice before the lamp wick caught, and she deftly adjusted the flame

to keep it from smoking. She set the striker next to the base of the lamp and plopped into the

rocking chair.

Gunnar took one of the armchairs, while Justen sat sideways on the corner of the bench, from

where he could see the front porch.

"I like it when Aunt Arline's here and when we have company. Then I don't have to help as much

in the kitchen." Wenda looked straight at Gunnar. "Can you make storms, big ones?"

Gunnar coughed and shifted his weight in the oak chair. "There hasn't.. . well, making big

storms isn't a very good idea. Lots of people died all over the world when the great Creslin did

that."

"I know. I just wanted to know if you could. Can you?"

"I suppose so ... if I had to."

Justen caught sight of two figures and a glint of red hair turning from the walk beside the

highway onto the stones that led to the house. "I think your sister and father are home."

"She always comes home too soon when we have company. So does Father." Wenda rocked forward in

the chair and stood.

Justen rose, and Gunnar followed his example as Krytella entered the parlor. "This is my

father, Dagud. Father, this is Gunnar, and Justen." Krytella smiled at both young men. "Did you

meet Wenda, and my mother, Carnela, and Aunt Arline?"

"Not your mother," Justen responded as he nodded. "She's been in the kitchen."

"I see you lit the lamp." Krytella's eyes pinned Wenda.

"We have company."

"I made that rule." Dagud grinned. "Besides, we don't have company that often." He looked at

the two guests. "Would you care to wash up?"

"Yes, if you please."

"Yes."

Dagud led the way to the alcove off the kitchen, where there was a second sink, clearly added

after the original house had been built. He leaned back toward the kitchen. "How soon before

dinner?"

"You can sit down as soon as you wash up," answered a tall, thin, dark-haired woman standing

before the stove.

"Go ahead," suggested Justen, nodding to Krytella after Dagud had dried his hands.

"You are always the gentleman, Justen."

Justen wished she saw more than that in him, but smiled in return.

"Wenda ..." called Krytella as the smallest redhead headed toward the table.

"Do I have to?"

"Yes," chorused Dagud and Krytella.

Wenda washed her hands after Gunnar, then trailed the others to the table.

"You sit there, Justen, and Wenda will be next to you..."

Justen followed Krytella's directions, although he wished he were the one sitting beside the

healer instead of Gunnar.

Carnela set two baskets of warm bread and a huge tureen of stew on the long, polished-oak

table. "Sit down, for darkness' sake. Things are hot."

When the two guests had been introduced to Carnela and everyone had been seated, Dagud cleared

his throat for silence, then spoke. "In the spirit of order, and in keeping with the Balance,

those of us gathered together this evening dedicate ourselves and our souls to the preservation of

order in our lives and thoughts." Dagud looked up from his plate and smiled, reaching for the

ladle in the off-white pottery bowl before him. Steam rose from the stew. "It's been a long day."

He dipped twice and filled his bowl nearly to the brim, then served Carnela.

In turn, she broke off a chunk of the fresh and crusty bread and laid it beside his bowl before

taking a chunk for herself and passing the basket to Krytella. The tureen of stew followed.

Justen found himself swallowing from the aroma of spices, especially those of ryall and pepper,

overlaid with something else. When the huge serving tureen arrived, he followed Dagud's example,

carefully ladling the thick fish - and - vegetable mixture into his bowl. Then he turned to

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Modesitt, L.E. - Recluce 09 - The Order War

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