“Mother. She sells mostly on consignment to Hamor.”
The breadboards were adequate, as were the boxes, but I had been doing better when I had left Uncle Sardit. Only the pedestal table was clearly better than I could do.
“You think you do better work?” asked the boy.
“It doesn’t matter now,” I answered absently. Whatever I did from there on out, it wouldn’t be woodwork.
I left without saying more and walked across the square. The first cloth-draped table was the trader who had been screeching forth about amber. A single look told me that the amber was fair at best, and the silver settings in which most of it was encased were worse.
The trader glanced away from my scrutiny, not even speaking.
The adjoining table was filled with uncut fire diamonds. Even from the spread stones, I could pick out three or four clearly superior to the others. Not bigger, just better. Displaying what I might have called more order. But I couldn’t afford them, and there wasn’t much point in bargaining over a lesser stone, not when I would need funds more than diamonds before very long.
Several tables were vacant, their canvas flapping in the breeze, barely held down by stones.
Further toward the corner closest to the harbor was a tiny man sitting behind a half-dozen small and elaborately-carved ivory figures. Those alone matched the quality of crafts displayed on the north side of the square.
For a long time, I studied the figures. One, that of a young man carrying a dark staff, appealed to me. Once again, I passed on without even trying to bargain. Nor did the trader or carver try to entreat me.
From the square I walked down toward the four long wharves. Each gray stone structure rose out of the dark blue water of the harbor more than five cubits, with a central paved roadway more than ten cubits wide. At the first wharf, the one closest to the harbor mouth and farthest from the center of the market area, was a huge twin-masted and steel-hulled ; steamer. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the forward funnel, The ensign I did not recognize, but, with the blue-green background and the golden crown, I would have guessed the ship was from somewhere in Nordla.
A half-dozen loading carts, stacked with square wooden packing cases of differing sizes, waited for the ship’s crane to transfer each into an open forward hold. What was in the crates I couldn’t see. I walked down toward the pier. Although there was a small stone booth for a guard, the booth, spotlessly clean, was empty. Nor was there a guard around.
Click… click… My boots nearly skidded on the smooth pavement underfoot.
Whhhsssss… Ahead, steam drifted from the small tractor linked to the loading carts, though they were long like farm carts, each nearly ten cubits in length. The sides were of smooth-milled red oak, held in place by steel brackets.
“Stand clear, fellow.” A woman I had not seen, wearing a set of black coveralls, waved in my direction then gestured toward the ship.
Whhheeeepppp… The crane lifted two more crates, cradled in a heavy mesh net, up off the next-to-last cart. The end cart was already empty.
The woman walked briskly toward me. Dark-haired, she was nearly as tall as I was, and as broad in the shoulders. She smiled. “Must be new in Nylan. Dangergeld?”
I had to nod.
“We’re loading furniture right now. The ship is the Empress-out of Brysta, Nordla Lines. I’m Caron.”
“Is this your dangergeld?” I blurted.
She laughed. “Not exactly. I started as a purser on the Brotherhood ships, but traveling got old. I liked dealing with cargo and making up shipments, handling the cube and stowage calculations-”
Whhhheeee…
“-Excuse me…” She was back at the cart, deftly jockeying two more crates into the net, without seeming to work up a sweat.
Whheeeeppp…
As the net lifted away, Caron returned. “So that’s how I ended up here. I have a small farm not too far from Sigil, in the low hills north of the High Road. I spend my free time there.”
“But… don’t you need help loading all these ships… ?”
“There are four of us. That’s enough. We don’t handle that much bulk anyway. The economics don’t work, not against forced labor or slavery.”
Whheeepppp…
As she turned back toward the loading, I frowned. For a glorified stevedore, Caron was unusually bright, and perfectly willing to talk to a total stranger. Was she just another Brotherhood type, with quick and incomplete answers? In the direct sunlight, even though it was a shade cooler than normal for a summer day’s late afternoon, I was beginning to sweat.
After wiping my forehead with the back of my sleeve, I looked at the steam tractor. Magister Kerwin had taught us about steam-powered machinery, how it created too much chaos unless properly designed and handled, and how it generated too much concentrated heat. Steamships could handle the heat because of the conductivity of the ocean and their relative isolation from other chaos-sources.
Whheeeepppp…
Another full net lifted away, and the gregarious loadmaster, or whatever else she was, stepped back toward me.
“What do you think of Nylan?”
“Don’t know what to think. I just got here today.” I pointed to the tractor. “That seems contrary to the magisters’ teaching.”
Caron grinned. She looked younger-say about Tamra’s age-when she smiled. “It only seems that way. If you consider the alternatives in order theory, the number of bodies required to lift that cubage, it works out about even. Plus, the fact that we can operate them without the usual catastrophes scares the hell out of the outlanders.”
Whhhhhheeeeepppp…
Scares the hell out of the outlanders? For all of her direct speech, the woman still didn’t really explain things. I watched as she single-handedly lifted a bulky crate into the net. Up on the steamer, two long-haired, bearded crewmen gawked at the ease with which the woman handled the heavy cargo.
Whhheeepppp…
“Anyway,” she continued, not even breathing hard, and as if she had never left, “loading them like this gets the point across.”
“What point?”
“That they’d better not mess with the Brotherhood, or Recluce. What else?”
I shook my head.
“Think about it, young fellow. Sorry I can’t talk longer, but the crates coming up are going to take all my effort. Good luck!”
She was back at the third cart, the fourth and fifth carts since emptied of their crates.
Wheeepppp…
I was the one shaking my head as I walked back toward the harbor wall from which the piers protruded. The wall stood another three cubits above the pier surface, not really a defensive bulwark, but a physical barrier that declared to the sailors on the ships that Nylan was foreign territory.
At the end of the second pier a long schooner was tied, flying the ensign of Hamor from the rear staff. Two armed guards stood by the plank to the ship, half-turned to face each other. From their posture it was clear they were not guarding the ship against Recluce, but discouraging unplanned crew departures.
I strolled toward the third pier, slowing as I saw that the guard booth was manned. Tied to the pier were three long and low shapes that had to be ships, but ships like none I had ever seen.
They were totally of black steel, with no masts, and only a low black superstructure beginning a third of the way back from the bow. Their bows were raked and sharp, somehow sharklike. Each flew a single ensign from the jackstaff-a solid black flag.
How I had missed them earlier I didn’t know, except I could see what looked to be heat waves surrounding each.
I shivered, even in the warm afternoon sunlight. Yes, the Brotherhood had ways to protect Recluce.
“Young fellow, this pier is closed.” The guard in the booth wasn’t that much older than I was, but he wore what was clearly a black uniform, and I could sense, rather than see, the sword and club.
I just shrugged and turned away, looking down the pier again at the three strange ships. The gu
ard watched me with a puzzled look on his face.
Wasn’t I supposed to see the ships? Had the heat waves been a shield of some sort?
I glanced around the grassy space on the other side of the harbor walk. A scattering of people sat on the few benches. Down opposite the fourth pier, a meat vendor was selling sandwiches or something to the crew of the square-rigger that was tied up.
No one even glanced at the closed third pier. Shaking my head again, I began to walk back toward the market and toward my quarters, with more questions and fewer answers than when I had started.
The bell was chiming as I crossed the grass toward the dining hall, and the blisters on my feet were burning.
IX
MAGISTER CASSIUS WAS black. I don’t mean he wore black. His skin was a blue-black that glistened in the sun or the shadow. His short curly hair was black, and his eyes were black. Squarish, he stood more than four cubits, like a heroic black-oak carving. The only things light about him were the whites of his eyes. He did have a sense of humor, of sorts.
“Do you favor suicide or murder, Lerris?” His deep voice rumbled.
“What… huh?” Once again, he had caught me with my thoughts elsewhere, wondering, this time, about how the cliffs I could see through the open window had ever been made so black and so sheer. After all, just like old Magister Kerwin, he was pounding on and on about the basis of order.
“I asked you whether you favored suicide or murder?”
Krystal, sitting cross-legged on her pillow, suppressed another giggle. She had on the blue smock-like tunic and trousers, with sandals. And she still looked dusty, but that was because her clothes, pressed and clean as they were, had been washed so often the blue had faded away in spots.
Tamra continued to look at Cassius as if he were an insect under study. Over the gray tunic she had draped a vivid green scarf. Each day the scarf changed, but not the clothes. Either that, or she had a bunch of gray tunics and trousers.
Sammel looked from the Magister to me and back, then sighed.
I wondered how I would escape this time. “Neither…” I finally answered. “Both are very disorderly.”
From the corner of my eye, I could see how Tamra shook her head.
Cassius almost sighed-almost, perhaps, the most fallible gesture I had seen from the Brotherhood. Then he continued. “We were speaking about order, a topic all of you have been exposed to since your birth. Unfortunately, for various reasons, such as Lerris’s boredom, Tamra’s equation of order with male dominance, Sammel’s compassion for those unable to accept order, Krystal’s unwillingness to concentrate, and Wrynn’s contempt for weakness… none of you can-accept order as the basis for a society.”
I grinned, not really caring if I had been a target with the others, as I watched his gentle barbs bring the group alert. But I wondered why he had not said anything about Myrten. Cassius turned and jabbed the short black wand he carried at me. “Lerris, you find order boring. Tell us why. Stand up. You can walk around and take as long as you want.”
I eased off the brown leather pillow and stretched, conscious that even Tamra was looking toward me. I ignored her, or tried to. I didn’t like being studied like a bug under a magnifying glass.
“Order is boring. Everything is the same. Every day in Reduce people get up and do the same things. They do them as perfectly as possible for as long as possible. Then they die. If that’s not meaningless and boring, I don’t know what is.”
Wrynn nodded, as did Myrten, but Tamra’s ice-blue eyes were hooded. Krystal suppressed a musical giggle and wound her long black hair around her fingers, letting the tips brush her feet as she watched from her cross-legged position.
I didn’t know what else to say. After all, what I’d said was obvious. So I stood there. No one else added anything.
“Lerris, suppose, for the sake of discussion, there is a kingdom somewhere in this universe-”
“Universe?”
“Sorry. Just imagine another world. One where people have all the children they want, without order, without rule. One where every generation, for no apparent reason, all the kingdoms go to war. The young men wear their armor and carry their weapons, and one-fifth of them die. Some kingdoms win, and some lose, but the only real result of the wars is that the weapons become more terrible and more effective.
“More children are born; more go hungry; and more of those who reach maturity die in the wars.” Cassius paused and looked over the group of us. “All of you think about this imaginary world, not just Lerris.”
I didn’t think long. So what. So people died. People always die.
“Lerris, did you know that five thousand people died in Southern Hamor last year?”
I shook my head. What did five thousand deaths in Hamor have to do with an imaginary world? What did the imaginary world have to do with boredom? Or order?
“Do you know how they died?” Cassius’s voice rumbled.
“No.” How was I supposed to know?
“They starved to death. They died because there was no food.”
Wrynn, sitting back against the black oak that paneled the lower half of each wall, pursed her lips.
Anyone could die without food. I nodded.
“Do you know why there was no food?”
“No.”
“Does anyone here know?”
“Was that the rebellion?” asked Tamra. She seemed amused, as if she knew where Cassius was leading us.
I wondered how she knew about a rebellion in Southern Hamor. And who cared?
“There was food in Western Hamor,” Cassius added slowly. “Enough food that the price of grain was lower than in years.”
Myrten looked puzzled.
“Yes, Myrten?” Cassius acknowledged the ferret-faced man with the unruly hair as thick as a buffalo’s coat.
“Couldn’t they have at least smuggled some grain?”
“The Imperial Army blocked the roads. Some grain was smuggled, a great deal, in fact, but not enough to compensate for the fields burned by the emperor’s troops.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Lerris, has one person ever starved to death in Recluce?”
“I don’t know.” Damned if I would admit the point, although I wasn’t sure which point I wasn’t about to admit.
“So… you are saying that avoiding starvation is boring? That having happy and well-fed people is boring? Would you prefer to live in Hamor, where the lack of order leads to rebellions, oppression, and starvation? Is death preferable to boredom?”
“Of course not.” My voice was louder than it should have been. “But you’re saying that boredom is necessary to avoid death or some kinds of evil. That’s what I don’t accept.”
“I never said that, Lerris. You did.”
I started to open my mouth, except Tamra snorted. “Lerris, try thinking for once.”
Krystal giggled.
I glared at her. She didn’t look at me. Wrynn did, but she was shaking her head, even as she stretched out those long shapely legs.
No one said anything.
Magister Cassius finally sighed-a real sigh.
“All right,” I demanded, “would someone explain to dumb Lerris?”
“You’re not dumb,” snapped Tamra. “You just refuse to see.”
“See what?”
“Lerris…” rumbled Cassius, “order is necessary to prevent evils such as starvation and murder. Will you grant that point?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“You find excessive order boring, you said.”
I had to nod again.
“Do you see the difference between the first point and the second?”
I must have looked blank.
Everyone was shaking their heads.
Cassius took a deep breath. “Honest order prevents evil. That is a truth of life, and also of magic. On this… on our earth that truth approaches a fact.” He paused.
“All right,” I admitted, still wondering why he insisted o
n a difference between truth and fact.
“You call excessive order boring. That is a personal value judgment. When you apply that boredom to order, you are the one who says that boredom is necessary to avoid evil. Boredom is not a component of order. It is only your reaction. Boredom is not necessary to prevent starvation; order is. You just find that order boring.”
Magister Cassius was just twisting words. Too much order was still boring.
“You all have a problem similar to Lerris’s,” continued the black man in black. “Tamra-you find order a tool of men. Therefore, you refuse to accept our way of life totally because order accepts the valid differences between men and women. You feel that women can do anything, if not more, than men can.”
“We can,” murmured the redhead, so low that no one seemed to hear it except me, although she was across the room from me. My hearing seemed to be getting better, or perhaps I was more alert. Tamra smoldered, but kept it hidden.
I slipped back down onto the brown leather pillow. The Magister smiled faintly and turned. “Wrynn,” continued the black man implacably, with his eyes turning toward his next victim, “you feel that strength is the answer to all problems, and that, given enough effort, anyone can be strong. Your philosophy would leave infants and the sick to grow-or die-as they could.”
“That’s not true . .” Wrynn straightened on the pillow. Her brown-flecked green eyes turned cold.
“Then,” Magister Cassius smiled, “would you explain it for us? Feel free to stand or walk around.”
I watched Tamra, as graceful as a dancer, yet wound with a steel inside that would have dulled the sharpest blade. Her flame-red hair framed a freckled face that almost-almost-looked friendly when she was not speaking. She turned toward me, caught my eyes. I felt like a cold dash of water had been thrown across the room at me, and I looked toward Wrynn.
“Everyone has an obligation to be as strong as they can be. It isn’t right for the strong to have to take care of those who refuse to be strong.” Wrynn hadn’t stood from her cushion, and her hands were clenched into fists. She looked down at the knife sheath at her belt.
“What do you mean by ‘strong’?” asked Cassius in that low rumbling voice.
The Magic of Recluce Page 7
