“Wasn’t that Jenred’s idea with Creslin?”
“Hardly. Jenred forgot that those he drove out had no alternatives. Do you think those sniveling cowards on Recluce are going to take in someone who is using machines, black steel, and order to create horrible destruction?”
“What if he forces them-”
“With what? He has one magical ship and a handful of followers.”
CLVIII
Pure order cannot nourish life, for living requires growth, and the process of growth is the constant struggle to bring order out of chaos.
When a fire destroys the great forests of the Westhorns, immediately order replenishes itself with scores of seedlings and bushes striving to recover the hillsides.
When a stone wall is built, the forces of frost and heat continually tumble the stones. So too is it with a house, once the constant order of the hearthholder is removed.
The function of order is to support that life which can order chaos; and without chaos to be ordered, there can be no purpose to life.
The function of chaos is to destroy order. Without order, no structure can exist-no man nor woman, no plant, not even an earth upon which to walk. Thus, the total triumph of chaos is its defeat.
What can be said of order and chaos, then? Since the world was, is, and will be, neither order nor chaos may triumph. Therefore, in the world as a whole there must be equal measures of each, and that Balance will be maintained; for, if it is not, there shall be either no world or no life.
And upon this world are the lands and the seas.
People call the sea chaos, but the sea contains a deeper order within the ever-changing waves and depths, and the seas wash upon the beaches and retreat, and that changes not.
Likewise people call the land orderly, for it changes seldom, yet beneath that surface order is great disorder, filled with the fires and chaos of the demons.
A people of the sea must be of order, for order must contain the surface chaos of the oceans and harmonize with the deeper order under the waves.
Likewise, a people of chaos can only exist upon the land, for the sea will rend them unto nothing.
The Basis of Order
Fragment
Attributed to Section II
CLIX
THE BLACK DIAMOND is tied at the end bollard on the smallest pier inside the breakwater at Land’s End, and smoke and steam trickle into the air as the firebox cools. A barrel, perhaps two, remains of the coal.
Four Black guards stand beyond the foot of the plank, although two large barrels of fresh water have been set by the plank for the use of the crew and passengers of the ship.
“Now what, Master Dorrin?” asks Tyrel.
“We wait,” Dorrin says tiredly. He tries to wipe his forehead, but the splint on his thumb makes the gesture difficult. At least, his shoulder is on the way to healing, and the white-fired headaches are less frequent.
“Not for long.” Liedral points toward the harbormaster’s flag, below which several individuals in black alight from an open carriage.
One is a tall and thin Black wizard. Dorrin takes a deep breath.
“Oh… shit…” Kadara’s curse carries from the bow on the light wind.
Dorrin shares her feelings, but he waits as the black-clad group walks down the pier. Liedral stands beside him, grasping his hand.
The tall wizard gestures to the guards. One salutes, and all four walk back toward the harbor and, eventually, to the old keep on the hillside. The wizard turns to the ship, looking directly at Dorrin. “For now, you all have the freedom of Recluce. We would prefer you remain near Land’s End, but that is your choice.” The tall wizard smiles gently. “In view of your various… ordeals, we offer the two guesthouses beyond the inn to you, and the guest apartment in the old inn to Dorrin and his… consort.” Oran gestures toward the middle of the ship. “You may also avail yourself of the stables.”
“That’s very generous,” Dorrin says. “The last few eight-days have been rather hard. If you could persuade a master healer to attend to Pergun for us, I would appreciate it. He received a head injury. I may have stopped the worst of the damage, but… more needs to be done.”
“… fine, mast‘ Dorr…” Pergun leans on the railing, Merga by his side, but he still clips and slurs his words.
“We would be pleased to see what might be done.” Oran answers smoothly.
Merga drops her hand from her mouth, and clutches Frisa in one hand.
“Later, after dinner, we would like to meet with you.” Oran’s eyes meet his son’s. Dorrin nods, but does not look away. After a time, Oran does.
Even after the pier clears, after Tyrel, his crew, Pergun, Merga, and Frisa have made for the guesthouse, Dorrin stands by the gangway.
“Dorrin… ?” Liedral sits on the clean-scrubbed planks by the mainmast with Reisa, Yarrl, and Petra. Kadara sits next to them, but back, as if she is not quite a part of the group.
Dorrin grins as he walks toward them, for they look like a council of war. The grin drops. It is a war of sorts. He sits on the hard planks next to Liedral, enjoying the afternoon sea breeze.
“You haven’t said much about what we can do,” Liedral begins.
“I haven’t really thought it through. Originally, I just wanted to build an engine and then the ship and stay in Spidlar. I can’t say that Recluce will take us-me, anyway-back. They don’t like machines…”
“But they’ve suffered from the trade cutoff,” Liedral says. “Your kind of ship-you proved it could be valuable. Wouldn’t they be interested?”
“No.” The cold voice is Kadara’s. “They’ll die before they’ll change their precious beliefs.”
“Who says they have to?” offers Reisa. “We’ll build the ships and protect them. They don’t have to change. They could just let us alone.”
“You’ll still”-Kadara searches for words-“contaminate them.”
“They can’t be that cold,” protests Petra.
“Maybe not,” Dorrin says. “What if we build an enclave on the south end of Recluce? There’s a small inlet and cove there. The plateau behind it is fertile; it’s just too far from Land’s End for Recluce to have settled yet. I mean, there are a few holders, but they’re the kind that wouldn’t mind.”
“Dorrin,” Liedral says, “don’t give that to them. Trade for it.”
Dorrin understands. Still… “I don’t know if I can.”
“Makes sense to me,” affirms Yarrl.
“We’ll stand behind you,” Reisa adds.
Kadara shakes her head.
“Well…” Dorrin draws out the words. “We might as well avail ourselves of the facilities.” He does not add “while we can,” though the thought occurs.
Before long, the six descend the plank, all carrying bags or packs. Long shadows from the hills west of the harbor almost touch the pier.
Dorrin glances back at the deserted ship. At least Recluce is a place where one has no worries about theft. He laughs, suspecting that Fairhaven itself is the one other place where theft is rare, if not unheard of.
He has closed all the doors and hatches on the Black Diamond, and checked and pumped the bilges. The leaks around the shaft remain small, but the ship will still have to be pumped periodically, at least until he can design and build a better seal.
“Cleanest harbor I’ve seen,” observes Yarrl.
The stone pier is swept, and all the joints between stones are tightly mortared. Even the wind whipping in off the Eastern Ocean smells fresh. The roofs of Land’s End form an orderly mosaic on the hillside, and above them rise the stones of the old keep, under the replica of the Founders’ original ensign-the crossed rose and blade. The current banner of Recluce-the starker black ryall on a white background-flies from the staff before the single-storied harbormaster’s building between the two piers.
“Where’s this inn?”
“To the left of the harbormaster’s. Up that lane. The two-storied building is the inn. Then come the st
ables where Styl and Intar put the horses. The guest houses are on the hill to the left of the stables.” Dorrin squeezes Liedral’s hand.
Outside the inn, a youth in clean brown leathers, wearing a black armband with a white ryall, jumps up as they approach.
“Master Dorrin.” He bows. “If you and your consort would enter the inn, Mistress Barla will escort you to your quarters. I will show the others to their guesthouse. The bells will announce the evening meal in the inn.”
“Is there room?” snaps Kadara.
The youth bows. “Each guesthouse has four separate bedrooms, magistra, and more than adequate water and showers for everyone.”
“… heard they believed in a lot of washing here…” mumbles Yarrl.
“Do you good,” Reisa replies.
Dorrin opens the inn door for Liedral, clumsily, with his splinted right hand. The thumb twinges as he bumps it against the iron latch.
“Greetings,” offers the silver-haired older woman who rises from a small desk. “You are master Dorrin and trader Liedral?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Barla. Let me show you to your quarters.”
A stone staircase to the left of the door circles the open foyer and brings them to the second-story landing, where there is a single door with a brass handle. A corridor stretches the length of the inn, but their guide halts by the door and opens it.
“These are your rooms. You also have a washroom beyond the bath. If you wish to bathe, I would suggest a little haste, because it will not be long before dinner.” She smiles an apparently genuine smile.
“Thank you,” Dorrin says.
“Enjoy your rooms,” Barla turns.
“Rooms?” asks Liedral, stepping through the door. “Oh…”
Dorrin closes the door behind him. They stand at one end of a sitting room that opens to a small balcony with a pair of carved wooden armchairs. In the sitting room are a table, with four matching armless chairs, a half-filled bookcase, and two large wooden armchairs before the fireplace, in which a fire has been laid.
Liedral steps into the second room, containing a triple-width bed with a large but simple red oak headboard, a dressing table, and two matching wardrobes. Beyond the bedroom is a bathroom, with a shower, but no tub, and a doorway that presumably leads to the washroom mentioned by Barla. The coverlet is a repeating design of green and gray, without lace, and the bed has real sheets.
“I suspect your bargaining position is better than you think,” Liedral says dryly.
“You can have the first shower,” Dorrin says.
“Shower? Are they all freezing like yours was?”
“Oh… That was just mine. Let’s see if this one is warm or cold.” Dorrin steps into the bathroom. There are two other doors. He opens one, to a simple jakes, and closes it, then peers into the ceramic-tiled shower, turning the single handle and feeling the water, before turning it off, and wiping his hand on one of the large towels hung on separate pegs.
“Lukewarm,” he announces. “Sunwarmed from a roof cistern. You take off your clothes-”
“Very funny. I could understand that much.”
“-and stand under the water. There’s some soap there, and you wash. If you don’t like cool water, you just get wet and turn the water off, and lather up, and then turn it on to rinse off.”
“I’ll take the first shower,” Liedral announces, dropping her pack on the floor. “I haven’t been clean in days.”
“I’ll be on the balcony. Let me know when you’re done.” Dorrin carries his pack into the bedroom and pulls out his clothes. He only has three outfits, and the one he is wearing and the smithing clothes are filthy. He leaves those in a pile on the smooth stone floor, and folds his few clean underclothes and good brown outfit, setting them on a shelf in the wardrobe. He pauses and draws in the faint scent of the trilia oil used to treat the wood. Then he tucks the battered pack into the bottom of the wardrobe, and walks through the sitting room and onto the balcony, where he sits facing the harbor.
A light breeze ruffles his hair, bringing the tang of seawater. To the north, a scattering of clouds hugs the ocean horizon. Dark green water, with but a tinge of white, ebbs and flows against the dark stone of the harbor breakwater, while the harbor waters bear only the faintest of swells.
The Black Diamond sits alone at the pier, the only time Dorrin can recall the harbor so empty. Where are the Recluce ships? Must they spend their time at sea now that all trade with eastern Candar is blocked?
Watching a gull sweep down toward the Diamond, as if hoping for a meal, sweeping and rising, sweeping and rising, he loses track of time, and his eyes close.
“Dorrin…”
He starts in the chair. Liedral, towel wrapped around her, stands in the open doorway behind him. “I think I heard a bell of some sort.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“You’re tired.”
He rises and stretches, but his eyes go from the damp brown hair to the uncovered shoulders above the towel to the unclothed legs beneath the towel.
“I don’t think I’m ready for that, yet.”
“I know.”
Liedral leans toward him and brushes his lips with hers. Dorrin steps closer and embraces her for a long moment before letting go.
“I need a shower.” He steps around her and does not look back. It will only hurt. Damn Jeslek! Damn all the Whites!
Before he showers, he washes the dirty clothes and hangs them out in the washroom next to those Liedral has already washed. Then he takes off the splint before getting into the ceramic stall. The shower water remains lukewarm, but Dorrin enjoys it, shaving, and scrubbing himself thoroughly twice. He doubts that he has been so clean in seasons, and he has missed such luxuries. Is this just to tempt him to renounce his engine and what it stands for? He turns off the water.
The second set of bells rings. He dries and dresses quickly and rejoins Liedral on the balcony, where she watches the shadows lengthen across the small harbor.
“It is peaceful… orderly… here. I can see now why your cottage was the same way. How could anyone raised here not be that way?”
“There are some who find it boring.”
“Did you?”
Dorrin shakes his head. “I just wanted to build my engines.”
“Was that just because they decreed the engines were wrong?”
“It’s not that simple. But we need to go down for supper, I mean, it’s dinner here.”
They walk through the quarters and out onto the landing.
“No locks. Just bolts for privacy. That says a lot right there.”
“It does. Now… about the engines. To make one work, you need to burn coal at high temperatures and turn water into steam. When coal burns that hot you have chaos. Also, steam is a form of controlled chaos.” Dorrin guides Liedral from the foot of the staircase to the right and the public room. “That’s not the only problem. Engines take a lot of iron and a lot of coal. That could create a lot of slag rock and lot of ashes and mine leavings, and all those create problems, possible chaos, with the streams and the land.”
They stop inside the public room. Tyrel raises an arm. “They must like you, master Dorrin. They have great beer, and they know how to cook fish.” His rough voice carries across the high-ceilinged room.
“Master Dorrin, I have a big bed all to myself. And it’s soft.” Frisa’s excitement brings a smile to Dorrin’s face.
He bends down as he stops by the table where Merga, Pergun, Rylla, and Frisa sit. “I’m glad, Frisa.”
“A healer named Rebekah is going to see Pergun tomorrow,” Merga says.
“Keep tongull a-gettin‘ mess up,” slurs Pergun.
“And mommy said that we might get to have a house like where we’re staying. Will we, master Dorrin?”
“I don’t know yet, Frisa.”
“You’ll get us a house. I know you will.”
Dorrin tries not to wince at Frisa’s faith, instead patting her shoulder. Mer
ga just smiles, and Pergun watches as a serving woman sets a plate down.
“Your table seems to be there.” Liedral points to the only table set for two.
As they sit, Yarrl, Reisa, Petra, and Kadara enter and take places at a square table for four. The tables are polished red oak, smooth, and the cutlery seems to be of pewter, with cloudy-blue glass tumblers on the table.‘
“Would you like wine, beer, or redberry?” asks the older, but dark-haired serving woman who has delivered the meal to those at Merga’s table.
“Wine, I think,” says Liedral.
“Redberry for you, ser?”
Dorrin nods, and the woman leaves.
“How did she know?”
“I guess it shows.”
“What? That you work in order? Why does that affect what you drink?”
“Very few Blacks can handle any form of alcohol. It’s really a subtle form of chaos, I guess.”
“I’m glad I’m not that orderly.”
Even as Liedral speaks, the serving woman has returned with two pitchers. “Here you are. Dinner tonight is whitefish, with fried quilla on the side, and we do have honeycakes as a sweet.” She is gone with the last of her words.
“She’s quick.”
“Advantages of order, I think.”
“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” Liedral sips the wine. “This is good.”
“It should be. There are advantages to order.” Dorrin sips the redberry slowly. “And yes, I am nervous. Wouldn’t you be if your father-the man who threw you off Recluce-was one of the Council that would decide your fate?”
“I suppose so. But isn’t he just one of them?”
“It doesn’t help to have one of three against you before you start.”
“Why is he against you?”
“I suppose because I didn’t accept his word unquestioning. He was right sometimes, but I didn’t even want to give him that because he’d never admit when I might be right.”
“Can you afford that now?”
“No.” Dorrin laughs. “But that doesn’t make it easy.”
Magic Engineer Page 57
