Recluce Tales

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  His father shook his head sadly. “Off with you.”

  Faryl did wear his jacket, patched as it was, because there was a stiff breeze. As he trudged along the narrow road away from town toward the small stead where his aunt lived, he thought about what his father had said. Why was settled good? Or was it because unsettled was bad?

  Faryl decided he would have to think about that.

  Before that long, he turned onto the lane that led to his aunt’s place. A hundred yards ahead, he could see the bare limbs of the pearapple trees.

  The stead house was small, but large enough for Aunt Nalana. It really was just a cot, but everyone called it a stead house. It had the good slate roof Faryl’s father had put on, but the worn planks of the walls looked like they’d been there forever. His aunt had never consorted. Faryl didn’t know why. No one ever said. The little stead had belonged to old man Zhothar, and it had been his death gift to Aunt Nalana. No one had told Faryl why that was so, either.

  When he opened the door to the front room, his mother hurried out of the back bedroom. There were only three rooms—the front room, the bedroom, and the kitchen.

  “Good! You’re here. Take the bucket from the kitchen and fill it from the spring.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Faryl didn’t think of protesting. Not when he saw his mother’s face.

  He hurried to the kitchen and took the bucket off the side table. Usually, it hung on a peg on the wall. Then he walked out of the cot and down the path that led along the north side of the house and then east and up a low rise to the spring. It was a pleasant spring, ringed in rock. The rocks were carefully tended so there wasn’t a hint of dirt or moss or the green slimy stuff.

  He dipped the bucket, careful not to touch anything but water, then lifted it clear, and walked back to the house. His arms ached by the time he set the bucket on the side table. When his mother didn’t come to the kitchen, he tiptoed across the front room to the bedroom.

  His mother was sitting on a stool beside the bed. It was a big bed, bigger than the one his parents shared. Faryl had asked why once, but his mother had just said, “Someday you’ll understand.”

  That had been a long time ago, at least two seasons, and he still didn’t understand. He did understand that he couldn’t ask again.

  Abruptly, his mother turned. She did not speak.

  Faryl eased closer. “What’s wrong with Aunt Nalana?” He kept his voice low.

  “She has a flux or worse … and a fever. She’s burning up, and she can’t keep the brinn tea down, and the poultices don’t work. She needs a healer, but there aren’t any here. There’s not even one in Vizyn, not since Chatasula left.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “She said the timber mills created too much chaos.”

  Faryl sensed that there was something his mother wasn’t telling him. He didn’t say anything, though. She got upset when he did that.

  “If I could only settle the chaos in her.”

  “She’s really sick, isn’t she?”

  His mother nodded.

  Faryl could feel that she wanted to cry. She wouldn’t. She never did. He’d felt her feel like that before, but she never cried.

  “You watch her for a moment. I need to get more damp cloths. You put the bucket on the table, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Faryl knew that. He also knew that his mother didn’t need the damp cloths. Not right yet, when she’d just placed some on Aunt Nalana’s forehead.

  He moved closer to the bed, able to hear the low moaning sighs. He could feel the heat radiating from his aunt. It was everywhere. He looked more closely. He could see a knot of reddish whiteness, but it wasn’t seeing, not exactly, because the knot was somehow inside her.

  Sammel’s sister Ameral had burned up and died. That was what Sammel had said. Faryl didn’t want that to happen to his aunt. She’d been the one who’d told him stories when his mother had been sick. She’d made him feel special.

  Grandda had said that order put out fires. It calmed things. And he’d smoothed away the water Sammel had splashed. He’d even smoothed the heat of the coals in the fire. Could he smooth away the knot and cool it? But he’d have to be very careful. Very careful.

  He scrunched up his forehead, really hard, and thought about smoothing away the reddish-white knot inside Aunt Nalana. At first, it was like the spot on the log in the fireplace. The red kept coming back, but Faryl kept smoothing … and smoothing. Pretty soon, what came back was pinkish. He kept smoothing and stretching the ends of the knot, so that it would come loose and come apart, the way it happened when his mother spun threads out from the carded wool.

  Then he felt dizzy, and he had to sit on the floor.

  “Faryl! Faryl!”

  He could hear his mother calling his name, but for a moment, he couldn’t move. He was lying on the wooden floor. He felt so tired, but he finally sat up.

  “Don’t scare me like that!”

  Faryl wanted to tell her not to yell at him, but he could feel how scared she was. He just said, “I felt dizzy.”

  “Did you eat breakfast?”

  He nodded.

  “You haven’t been drinking enough water, then. Go into the kitchen and dip out some water into the tin cup. Drink all of it before you come back.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Faryl stood. His legs were shaky, but he didn’t say anything. He just walked to the kitchen and did what she’d told him to do. The water helped. So did the crust of bread he saw on the corner of the table. It wasn’t much, but his legs felt better after he ate it.

  Then he walked back to the bedroom.

  He could hear his aunt talking.

  “Maelenda … the pain’s gone … it’s gone…”

  “You’re not as hot.”

  Faryl nodded, but only to himself.

  His mother was still looking at Aunt Nalana. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. It felt … like someone smoothed away the pain.”

  “You’re still warm.”

  “It’s fading. I can feel that.”

  As his mother talked to her sister, Faryl smiled. His father was right. Settled was good. He could see that when order settled things smoothly, and he took his time, and didn’t do it all at once … no one thought it was order … just like Sammel hadn’t even seen that the water he’d splashed had missed Faryl.

  Could order smooth stones and chisels?

  Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day, he’d figure that out as well.

  There are games for pleasure, and then there are other games.

  A GAME OF CAPTURE

  The lower limb of the white sun had barely touched the gray-green waters of the Gulf of Candar on that late harvest day when the two black engineers settled onto opposite sides of the Capture board in the rear corner of Houlart’s.

  Aloryk set down his mug of dark lager, pulled a handful of coppers from his wallet and juggled them in his hand, then closed his fist and laid it on the wood bordering the inlaid lattices of the board, lattices with depressions for the polished black-and-white stones. “Odd or even?”

  “Even,” replied Paitrek, brushing back his thinning black hair as he eased the chair in which he sat closer to the table, the top of which was effectively the Capture board. He took a swallow of his golden ale, then set down his mug.

  Aloryk turned his hand and unclenched his fist. Four coppers lay in his palm. “Even it is.”

  “Black.” Paitrek picked up one of the black stones from its well-crafted box and placed it on the corner depression of a four-lattice.

  Aloryk countered by placing a white stone on the corner of a three-lattice near the center of the board.

  “You always do that,” offered a third voice from seeming emptiness.

  Aloryk looked up to see Faynal appear, smiling at him. “It works. And I hate it when you sneak up like that.”

  “Sometimes, it works. Sometimes, it doesn’t. You need
to be more unpredictable. Chaos is. And I need to practice concealments. It’s harder to avoid detection with people who know you.”

  “That makes it hard on your friends.”

  “You’re ignoring my point about the center opening,” said Faynal. “It’s still chaotic.”

  “Tell that to the High Wizard of Fairhaven.” Aloryk noted that Paitrek had added another black stone, in a way that could either create another lattice or complete a four. He debated for an instant before adding a white next to his first, then added, “You fuzzy air mage.” He grinned.

  “Spoken like an engineer.” Faynal shook his head, and made his way toward the front door, doubtless hurrying home to his consort.

  Aloryk took another swallow from his mug. He was thirsty. As he set it down, he realized that a blond man seated alone at a table for two against the wall had turned to listen to the last few words of his exchange with Faynal. His jacket was the kind worn by Nordlan merchant officers, not that Aloryk had seen many, but merchanters were welcome ashore in Nordla, unlike the officers and crews of warships, and Houlart’s was close enough to the piers that some did eat there. On the other hand, warships weren’t even allowed in the harbor except by approval of the Council. Belatedly, he added a white stone to a four-lattice bordering one edge of the board.

  Paitrek positioned a black stone away from his others, then lifted his mug and gestured to the board.

  “Who’s the stranger?” Aloryk murmured as he looked up from the board after playing his next stone, convinced that the merchant officer was covertly studying them. He couldn’t tell from the sleeve markings whether he was a junior officer or more senior.

  Paitrek looked up and frowned. “Never saw him before. He’s junior. Third mate of some sort. Concentrate on the game. I’ll have you blocked if you don’t. Then you won’t be able to complete any lattices on that side.” He reached for his mug.

  Aloryk shifted his attention back to the board for the next several moves, until he realized the Nordlan had moved to observe the game. Sometimes, other engineers came by and commented, but this was the first time Aloryk had seen an outsider do so.

  “What is the game?” The officer spoke Temple without an accent, but perhaps a trace too precisely.

  “Capture,” answered Paitrek.

  “I have never seen its like before. What is the goal?”

  “The black player has to build a connected set of lattices, comprising at least fifteen stones, that cannot be surrounded. The white’s goal is to keep the lattices from being connected while creating a single line from one side of the board to the opposite side. The white player can go either the width or the length of the board.”

  “Then it is a strategy game.”

  “Of sorts,” said Paitrek dryly.

  The Nordlan studied the board for a short time, frowning, before saying, “Are you two engineers or mages?”

  “Why do you ask?” Paitrek looked vaguely annoyed as he placed another black stone.

  “I have not been to Nylan before. All I have heard is that mages wear black and engineers wear black, but there are no markings to tell one from the other.”

  “That’s because, if you can’t tell, it shouldn’t matter,” replied Aloryk, returning his attention to the board.

  “That is like saying one Nordlan is the same as another Nordlan.” The merchant officer sounded amused.

  “I suppose so,” replied Paitrek disinterestedly.

  “Capture is all about balance,” offered Aloryk.

  “So is engineering. Is that why you play it?”

  Aloryk suddenly realized what bothered him about the Nordlan. Nordlans spoke more like Hamorians, and there weren’t any Temple speakers anywhere in Nordla, not that Aloryk had heard. So where had a Nordlan merchant officer learned to speak such good Temple? Also, an outland engineer wouldn’t usually equate balance with engineering, since they didn’t use mage-forged black iron.

  Without looking up from the board, he studied the Nordlan with his limited order senses, not that his abilities were anywhere close to those of Faynal. On the surface, the Nordlan seemed to be much like any other outlander, and even many on Recluce—a swirl of order around him, dotted with hints of chaos … except that Aloryk could sense nothing below that surface, nothing at all.

  “You an engineer?” Aloryk asked as he placed a white stone on the opposite side of the Capture board from where he’d placed the last one, except the position was “lower.” He ignored Paitrek’s quizzical glance.

  “I am not. I am a junior navigator.”

  Junior navigator? Just what merchant vessel could afford that kind of extra officer? “On what ship?” Aloryk forced his eyes back to the board and Paitrek’s next move.

  “The Pride of Brysta.”

  “Must be more profitable than most merchanters to carry two navigators.” Aloryk didn’t look at the Nordlan who likely wasn’t anything of the sort, but concentrated on the board for several moments before adding another white stone at an angle to the one he had previously played. “Of course, I’m just a junior engineer.” Those words were the opening to another game.

  “You work on building the black ships?” The Nordlan’s tone was idle, as if he had asked about the weather.

  “That’s no secret. Any engineer who wears blacks does, in some way or another.” After Paitrek placed his next stone, Aloryk could see the possible multiple linkages that Paitrek was setting up, and he placed a white stone to block the easiest linkage.

  “There are no other engineers in Nylan?” The not-Nordlan sounded honestly surprised.

  “Shipwrights, but not engineers,” replied Aloryk. “Their yards are on the south side of the harbor.”

  Paitrek placed a black stone, and Aloryk placed his white next to the one he had just positioned.

  “But … they do not use engineers?”

  “All low-powered steam engines operate the same way. So do all sails.” Aloryk shrugged. “Generally speaking, anyone looking for an engineer around here either doesn’t understand, or is the sort of person that the black mages will take an interest in.”

  “Are black engineers not working ordermages?”

  “Oh, we can tell when there are others around who can handle chaos or order, sometimes even when they’re so good that they can shield what lies beneath the surface. But we work with engineers’ tools on very hard metal.” Aloryk placed another white stone, linking the three in the middle. “We leave containing chaos—except in games like Capture—to the true order-masters.”

  “But your black iron confines chaos, does it not?”

  “Let’s just say that it does what it’s supposed to.” Aloryk looked to Paitrek, who had just placed another black stone. “Doesn’t Maitre Thurmin come in before he heads out to brief the patrollers?” Aloryk knew Thurmin often did, so that even if the not-Nordlan could sense his order-chaos flows, he wasn’t lying and the fact that it was a question as well should keep his personal chaos level low.

  “Sometimes, he does. Sometimes not. He doesn’t like to follow a routine. That’s what I’ve heard.”

  Aloryk added to his center line, blocking Paitrek from linking a three- and a four-lattice, then looked up at the merchant officer who was far more than that. “You know, don’t you, that we exile our own children if they’re chaos-wielders, or even if they’re natural ordermages who can’t gain complete control of their abilities.”

  “I have heard that. I do find that hard to believe, that Recluce would waste such abilities.”

  “We don’t waste them,” said Aloryk, watching as Paitrek placed another black stone. “We just let other lands benefit. Just a couple of years ago, maybe fifteen or twenty, we sent a natural ordermage to Hamor. He ended up saving the Emperor or some such. And then there was my cousin’s great-uncle. He liked gaming too much, and he ended up borrowing from a Suthyan trader. He used his access to the engineering halls to copy black ship plans so that he could give them to the Suthyan to pay off what he owed. He was
found dead in the halls with the copies of the plans, frozen solid. Suthyan traders were prohibited from landing anywhere on Recluce for more than ten years. Destroyed the factor’s business, I heard.” Those two examples Aloryk knew well. He’d heard of the first for years, and he’d gotten more than a little tired of hearing about the trials experienced by Dynacia’s widowed aunt Almyra.

  “Frozen solid? I do not understand.”

  “Put him in a state of perfect order. Removed all the chaos from his body.” Aloryk added a white stone to the one on the left side of the board. “The maitres have such perfect control that even we can’t sense where they are.”

  “Nope,” added Paitrek, “tends to keep one a bit honest.” He looked to Aloryk. “Your play.”

  “You really think you can get all three of those lattices together?” Aloryk was just talking. He’d been concentrating more on the not-Nordlan than on the game, and there was only a slim chance he could even salvage a draw.

  “You’ll have to see.”

  “I find that hard to believe, that they are so skilled,” the not-Nordlan finally said.

  While Aloryk had never been able to master a full concealment, he could, for a short time, shield himself from all chaos—as could most successful engineers, those who survived. He did so, while playing another white stone, and saying, “We’re just engineers, nothing to compare to the great mages. They can do so much more. Of course, they probably wouldn’t bother someone returning to his ship. They could certainly tell if he were telling the truth.” He looked to Paitrek. “Your turn.”

  Paitrek immediately placed a white stone. “That’s a double-lattice.”

  Aloryk placed a white stone to block Paitrek from immediately linking the double to a three-stone lattice, knowing he was only delaying the inevitable.

  Paitrek countered by completing a three-lattice positioned either to link to the other side of the existing double or to complete a double on the far side.

  Aloryk blocked that, but Paitrek completed the double.

  In turn, Aloryk extended his center, but he could see that he was going to lose. He glanced up, but the Nordlan had left. Only a faint lingering sense of chaos remained, a sense that Aloryk hadn’t detected before.