The murmur of voices in the central square died away as Merwha led the contingent around to the right. Neither grass nor sculpture graced the square, which was merely an open, stone-paved expanse surrounded by two- and three-storied buildings. Justen saw a chandlery, a cooper’s shop, and a dry-goods store-where one of the traditional maroon Sarronnese carpets, showing four-pointed curled stars, hung in the window. A handful of carts stood in a rough rectangle on the stones in the middle of the square. Less than a score of Sarronnese-peddlers and their customers-were scattered about. All remained silent as Merwha led the double line of riders out of the square and down another stone-paved street.
“… Black bastards.”
“Hush… maybe they’ll help…”
“… don’t know who’s worse…”
Once they had left the square, the murmurs behind increased.
“And they want more of us?” Quentel’s voice carried back from near the head of the column.
A small boy darted from an alley, saw the horses and the seven black-clad riders, and dashed back into the shadows.
Merwha reined up before a long timber - and - brick building. ‘ Tour mounts will be stabled here.“ She pointed across the street to a two-story building whose facade bore the image of a tilted bowl with liquid flowing out. Under the faded image were the words. The Overflowing Bowl, in Temple script. ”You’ll stay there tonight. The Tyrant pays for your lodging, but your meals are yours.“
Justen nodded at the almost ritualistic phrases that Merwha had uttered every night.
“We leave at the second morning bell. Tomorrow night, with luck, we’ll be in Sarron itself.”
Gingerly, Justen dismounted. His legs did hold him, although the muscles above his knees cramped for a moment.
“Use the end stalls!” Merwha added with a motion toward the section of the stable farthest from the inn.
Justen flicked the reins and walked tiredly toward the end of the stable. The gray lumbered after him.
“It feels good to walk.” Altara fell in beside the younger engineer.
“It will feel better to sit down… I think.” Justen turned toward, an open stall, leading the gray to the manger and tying the reins. Then he unfastened his pack and the black staff and leaned them against the wall before beginning to loosen the saddle girth.
By the time he had unsaddled, watered, fed, and brushed the placid gray, thrown his gear over his shoulder, picked up the staff, and closed the stall door, most of the others were waiting, except for Nicos and Clerve, who straggled out as he watched.
“Men… always bringing up the rear.” Altara smiled after she spoke, then gestured toward the inn. “Let’s go.”
“You’d rather we brought up… the front?” asked Justen with a wide smile.
“Justen… you might be promising more than you. can deliver.”
“It could be fun to see,” added Jirrl.
Even before they reached the sign above the double doors, a young woman in trousers emerged and bowed to Altara. Her eyes flicked from Altara’s blade to Justen’s black staff. “You are the travelers from far Recluce?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” answered the chief engineer.
“If you would follow me…”
“Lead on,” Altara’s voice was cheerfully resigned.
“They expect miracles,” muttered Quentel.
“Then we’ll have to deliver them,” answered Jirrl.
“Easy enough for you to say, woman,” retorted Nicos. “Most of us can’t charm the iron the way you can. We need hammers.”
Justen grinned. The only things soft about Jirrl were her manners and her voice. Her arms were as hard as the black iron she forged with such apparent ease.
The entry foyer was vacant except for those from Recluce and their guide.
“The five rooms on the second floor are yours. No one else is staying here tonight, but the public room-” she turned and pointed through the archway-“serves some of the officers from the Tyrant’s forces. Some others, too. Supper begins at the first bell. That’s not long.” She bowed to Altara.
“Thank you.” Altara returned the bow. “Put your gear in your rooms, and wash up, if you’re so minded. Then we’ll eat together.”
The narrow stairs creaked, and the dark wood, although recently restained, was worn.
Altara and Krytella took the corner room, while Clerve and Justen ended up in the one that resembled a large pantry and contained just two beds and an open cabinet with three shelves. An empty basin and pitcher stood on the cabinet, and two worn towels were folded beside them.
After testing the beds, Justen tossed his pack on the one that seemed marginally harder and set the staff in the comer. Then he opened the shutters and looked out at the back wall of the barracks, then down at the narrow alley separating the two buildings.
“I’ll get the water, ser,” Clerve offered.
“Thanks.” Justen nodded and sat on the edge of the bed. He really wanted a shower, or even a bath. Neither seemed popular in Candar, although his nose was slowly becoming accustomed to the local variety of odors, most of them vaguely disagreeable.
He stood up and took two steps back to the window, trying not to sneeze at the dust raised when his sleeve brushed the dusty sill. If he sat, his buttocks ached. If he stood, his legs ached.
“Here’s the water.” Clerve grinned. “I brought a bucket-full, too.”
Justen turned and smiled back, reaching for the bucket.
Cold as the water was, he not only washed, but shaved, and felt almost rested by the time he tossed the last of the wash water out the window and descended to meet the others in the foyer.
Even though the first bell had sounded, only two small tables were occupied, one by a Sarronnese officer, the other by a local couple.
Altara studied the public room. “No large tables. Those two in the corner…”
Nicos, Berol, and Jirrl sat with Ninca and her husband Castin at the corner table. Krytelia joined the other engineers -Altara, Clerve, Justen, and Quentel-at the next table, set along the wall of rough-hewn pink stone. A fresh-faced serving girl, her flame-red hair braided into a single pigtail that fell between her shoulder blades, stepped up to the table. “We have dark ale, pale beer… some redberry, and red wine.”
“What about food?” asked Altara.
“We have fish stew or burkha. There might be a mutton chop or two still left…” She looked toward the kitchen and lowered her voice. “But the chops are a mite strong, if you know what I mean.”
Justen nodded wryly. Strong mutton chops would have him tasting sheep for days.
Altara pursed her lips. “What’s best-the burkha or the stew?”
“They are both tasty, although our… travelers… often prefer the stew. The burkha is spicy. They’re both three pennies, and so are the drinks, except for the redberry. That’s two.”
“Does the fish stew taste like fish?” asked Justen.
The serving girl smiled. “It is a fish stew, Ser.”
“I’ll have the burkha and the dark ale.”
Altara raised an eyebrow, but added, ‘ “The fish stew and the redberry.”
All the others had redberry, and only Castin, in addition to Justen, chose burkha.
“Redheads are rare here,” observed Krytelia as the serving girl headed for the kitchen.
“She’s got hair more flamed than yours, Healer,” said Jirrl. “Would you not say so, Justen?”
Justen fingered the battered edge of the table and nodded. He preferred the darker red of Krytella’s hair.
In the far corner, the local couple, a gray-haired man and a younger woman, glanced again toward the Recluce tables, then stood abruptly and walked out.
The Sarronnese officer grinned and shook her head before taking a last swallow from her mug and raising it to indicate the need for a refill.
“Dark ale.” The words accompanied the thump as the serving girl set a heavy mug before Justen. “Redberry the r
est Of the way around.” She looked at Justen. “Three for you, Ser, and two for each of the others.”
Justen fumbled in his pouch for a moment before extracting the three coins. The serving girl scooped up the coins in a swift, sweeping movement, then turned and recovered the empty mug from the Sarronnese officer.
After taking a sip of the warm and bitter brew, the junior engineer massaged the muscles above his left knee. They had stopped aching for the moment, at least. For the first days of the trip, he hadn’t been sure if they ever would.
“Still sore?” Quentel set his mug-almost completely hidden by his massive hands-back on the table.
“It’s getting better.”
“You should have practiced a few other antique skills, like riding,” suggested Altara. “Do you want to spar after supper?”
“No. I want to rest.”
“I’ll spar,” Quentel volunteered.
Altara winced. “Countering your wand or staff is like hitting an iron bar.”
“I could try,” suggested Krytella.
“I suppose it would be good for me,” Justen admitted.
Altara grinned. “You and Quentel together. I’ll work with the healer.”
“More bruises,” grumped Justen.
“I doubt it,” rumbled Quentel. “You never stand still long enough.”
“I’m not quite as nimble now.”
“Good!”
Justen groaned.
The serving girl slid a brown stoneware plate in front of Justen, and a second before Altara, sitting to his right, then continued around the tables, dropping the plates quickly. Last, she placed a still-steaming loaf of brown bread in the middle of each table.
Altara looked at her platter and then at Justen’s. “You do have a way with them, don’t you?”
Justen looked from his plate to the chipped stoneware before Altara, from the heaping stack of browned meat covered with a white sauce to the two slices before the senior engineer. A stack of green leaves rested next to Justen’s meat, compared to three small leaves on Altara’s plate.
“He certainly does.” Krytella glanced at her platter, nearly a mirror of Altara’s. Both women shook their head.
Justen speared a small section of the meat, sliced it in two and stuffed half in his mouth. He grabbed for the ale and took a quick swallow.
“I see you’re enjoying the burkha.” A hint of laughter pervaded Altara’s words. “Try the bread, if it’s too hot.”
Justen took another swallow from the mug, followed with a mouthful of warm bread. Then, still chewing, he held the empty mug aloft to catch the serving girl’s eye. “Bread helps… didn’t realize it was that hot,” he mumbled.
“There are lots of things we often don’t realize,” added Ninca. The older healer leaned toward Altara from the adjoining table and asked the chief engineer, “Do you know what sort of quarters we’ll have in Sarron?”
“I’ve been assured that they’re more than adequate.” Altara’s tone was dry. “And there’s plenty of clean water, Merwha told me. They think we have some sort of obsession with washing.”
“We do,” laughed Quentel.
The serving girl took Justen’s empty mug, flipping her braid by his face as she left to get a refill.
Justen shook his head. The ones he didn’t want wanted him, and the one he wanted didn’t even seem to acknowledge that he was anything other than Gunnar’s younger brother. And, of course, Gunnar wasn’t interested in Krytella except as a friend, just as Krytella wasn’t more than friendly to Justen himself. Is life always so perverse ? Or is it that people always want what they can’t have ? He looked at the remaining chunks of meat and carved off a thinner slice, slipping it into his mouth carefully. His forehead still perspired, but he was beginning to enjoy the taste: a strange mixture of sweetness, nuttiness, and fire.
He ate another piece of burkha, nodding as the serving girl replaced his empty mug with a full one. Even the leaves in the burkha didn’t taste too bad.
“I think he actually likes that stuff, Krytella,” said Altara.
“Hot breath won’t help you in sparring,” added Quentel.
Justen thought about Krytella’s adoring looks at his absent brother Gunnar and took another slice of burkha. Sparring might be a relief of sorts.
XXII
Justen reined up the gray and looked uphill at the south wall of the smithy. Beside the wall ran an antique millrace. Was it still serviceable, or merely an ancient miller’s dream?
A jagged line of white planks contrasted with the weathered boards that comprised the majority of the smithy’s wall. He glanced toward the sprawling house, then at the outbuildings. All bore similar patterns of rebuilding, including a scattering of fresh red tiles on the house roof that stood out from the faded, almost rose color of the older tiles.
“Rather hasty repairs.”
“Ser?” asked Clerve.
Beyond the smithy was a single new building, low and long, a repetition of the Sarronnese barracks they had been quartered near for almost every night of their trip. The entire holding lay close to two kays below the outer wall to Sarron proper and stood by itself in the middle of hillside meadows that sloped up toward the pink granite of the city. Justen nodded. The Tyrant might accept help, but the Blacks of Recluce would be quartered outside the city.
. “This is your… area, Chief Engineer,” announced Merwha.
“Safely outside Sarron, I see.” Altara’s tone was dry.
“The people of Recluce are known for their desire for privacy.”
“Far be it from us to disabuse that notion.” Altara nudged her mount toward the smithy.
Justen and Clerve followed, with the Sarronnese officers trailing.
After dismounting and tying her mount, Altara slid open the wide door to the smithy. Her eyes swept around the twin forges. Although the smithy had been recently cleaned and the hard-packed clay floor was swept bare, Justen could sense bits of metal buried deep in the clay. Both of the great bellows showed new leather and bright metalwork.
“Not used in years, then cleaned up in a hurry.” The chief engineer snorted. “Still, it’ll do for a start. We’ll need another forge, probably.” She turned to Nicos. “Let’s get everything unloaded. We’ve got work to do-lot’s of it, from what we’ve seen already.” She paused. “Justen, you and Clerve take care of the tools. Get them out and put together some racks and what have you.”
Justen nodded.
The chief engineer turned to Quentel. “Can you unload the wagon and get the crates in there for Justen to organize?”
Justen looked toward the healers and watched Castin unstrap a large bag, which he lifted single-handedly. Justen frowned, then grinned as he realized that the bag held flower petals for the chickens that Castin insisted he would be raising.
Clerve sighed. His fingers strayed across the leather guitar case.
“It’s not that bad.” Justen grinned. “Do you want to sweep out the old farmhouse?”
“I’ll help with the tools, Ser.”
XXIII
Justen tapped on the flatter, trying to smooth the plate on the anvil. He wished Clerve would get back with the charcoal. Working with a striker was far easier than working alone to fuller the plates into the thin sheets necessary for the rocket casings.
Toward the back of the smithy, Altara and Quentel wrestled with the big wheel they were attempting to install as part of a makeshift hammer mill. Justen took a deep breath. Having a hammer mill might help in the rough fullering. But without the use of a blast furnace, the hammer mill would be essentially cold-forming, even with the power from the small millrace, and almost as tedious as hot fullering.
Berol and Jirrl were alternating use of the small lathe, truing the rocket heads and waiting for Justen and Nicos to form more casings. Then they would slip the flush-riveted casings over the molding frame and true and smooth the outsides to reduce the chaos created by the air when the rocket was fired.
Justen lifte
d the hammer and repositioned the flatter. Maybe the hammer mill would help.
Hoofbeats drummed into the smithy between the strokes of the hammer, and some of the red dust of Sarronnyn seemed to precede the Sarronnese messenger. She strode into the smithy, glanced around at the engineers, then drew herself up. “I seek Chief Engineer Altara.”
Altara set aside the tongs and wiped her forehead. “Yes?”
“You are… the chief engineer?”
“None other. We’re working. Engineers’ work is dirty work. What would you like?”
“Ah… Ser… Section Leader Merwha would like to inform you that the detachment of Recluce marines and the Weather Wizard will be here shortly. They have just turned off the river road onto the Tyrant’s Highway.”
Altara nodded. “Thank you.”
The messenger waited.
“Thank you,” Altara repeated. “I can’t do much until they actually get here. Convey our thanks and respects to Section Leader Merwha.”
Justen grinned as the messenger looked at the packed clay floor, then saluted and departed.
“No wonder they can’t win a war… always interested in announcements . .‘.” mumbled Nicos from the adjoining forge.
“That goes for all of you. You can greet them when they get here.”
Justen lifted the hammer again… and again.
Even after the clopping of hooves and two blasts from a trumpet, Justen continued to hammer out the last casing section until it needed another heat. Then he set aside the hammer and wiped his dripping forehead on his ragged upper sleeve.
“You don’t believe much in formalities and ritual, do you?” asked Quentel.
Justen jumped, so silently had the big engineer slipped up beside him.
“Wish I could get that kind of jump on you in sparring,” Quentel joked.
“You did well enough.” Justen fingered the still-healing bruise on his shoulder.
Quentel laughed. “I have half a dozen. For a man who says that personal weapons are obsolete, Master Justen, you do rather well. Darkness help us if you took them seriously.”
“But I do.” Justen shrugged. “I have to, since everyone else does.” He blotted his face on his sleeve. “Shall we go greet the new arrivals?”
The Order War Page 9
