The two were the last to leave the smithy.
Krytella was already talking to Gunnar.
“… Sarronnese… don’t even understand how much astra adds to the effect of boiling water… and…”
“Justen!” Gunnar looked over the healer’s head toward his brother. “You look like you’ve been sweating up a good storm.”
“We’ve been busy. How was your trip? Not that you’d let it get too rough.”
‘ Turmin insisted that I not meddle with the weather unless the ship was threatened.“ Gunnar shrugged. ”It was fine, so I enjoyed the sunshine.“
“Our crossing was too chill to enjoy any warmth.” Justen gave his brother a wry smile. “How was the ride from Rulyarth?”
“Horses are horses. I’m sore.”
“So was I. It passes.” A figure in marine blacks caught Justen’s eye, leading a horse toward the stables at the end of the recently built barracks. Justen studied the marine for a moment before turning back to Gunnar.
“Why’s Firbek here?”
“He’s a marine, and this is the first real fight in centuries.” Gunnar glanced toward the barracks, where the marines continued to unload. “I also understand that the good Counselor Ryltar prevailed upon Firbek.”
“But why?”
“I thought you knew,” interjected Krytella. “Firbek and Ryltar are cousins. He wanted Firbek to be here so he could get a firsthand report he could trust. Ryltar’s not at all in favor of anyone from Recluce being here. People say there was quite an argument in the Council.”
“Hmmm…” Justen pursed his lips.
“Well, Council politics aren’t going to get this beast curried and watered.” Gunnar laughed.
“I’ll help,” offered Krytella.
“I suppose I’d better get back to the forge!” Justen took a deep breath. “I’ll talk to you at dinner-supper, I guess they call it here.” He watched for a moment as Gunnar and Krytella led the the bay toward the stables. He cleared his throat and headed back into the smithy.
XXIV
Thankful for the high clouds that reduced the midday heat from oppressive to merely uncomfortable, Justen crossed the yard from the smithy to the old house that quartered the healers and held the makeshift dining room-public room for both the marines and the engineers.
Cheeep… eeeep… eeeppp…
On the north side of the house was the small pen that had held the chicks. Now half-grown and half-feathered, they pecked in the claylike soil between their feedings. One came up with a fragment of a dried flower petal, cheeping with success.
“How long do you think before we can have some fowl?” asked Clerve.
Justen glanced at the parti-colored birds. “A while yet, I’d say.”
“I’m getting tired of potato soup and noodles and dried beef.”
Justen nodded, then wiped his forehead. Clouds or no clouds, it was still hot, and much hotter than on Recluce. His eyes flicked toward the garden, flourishing despite the heavy, clayey soil. He clumped up the steps onto the porch and toward the open door, stepping aside as one of the younger marines left, shaking water from his hands.
“Good luck. Engineers. More noodles and spiced beef, if you can call it beef.”
The engineer nodded politely at the marine. Castin’s cooking wasn’t nearly so bad as the marine said, but Justen suspected that some of the judgment lay in the marine’s assignment to clean-up duty. The marines always ate first, since, even with two long trestle tables crammed into the room, it wasn’t really big enough for the score of marines alone, let alone the engineers and healers.
Most of the engineers and the others had already seated themselves by the time Justen and Clerve entered. With the heat from the hearth that Castin had converted to a makeshift stove, and with the inevitable burning grease, the ends of the two long trestle tables nearest the kitchen remained empty. Justen suspected that in winter, the ends by the drafty windows would be empty, not that any of the engineers really anticipated being in Sarronnyn through the winter-one way or the other.
“Well, if it isn’t Justen.”
Justen tried to keep from blushing, but failed. It wasn’t his fault if there were always more things to do than he had time for. He seated himself next to Jirrl and across the table from Gunnar and Krytella. Clerve sat on his left.
Eyes turned toward Castin as he set a large bowl of noodles on the end of each table.
“Noodles again?” asked Berol,
“They’re egg noodles. They’re good for you. My hens are laying now.”
“They’re still noodles,” said Nicos.
“I know, I know,” expounded Castin. “It’s only noodles and seasoned beef. But the noodles are much better than you’ll find in Sarron-”
“That’s not saying much, Master Cook.” Quentel’s voice was gruff, but his eyes smiled.
Castin shrugged and turned back toward his kitchen, returning almost immediately with two more bowls filled with a steaming brown gravy hi which swam small chunks of meat.
Justen poured the lukewarm water into his mug, wishing for a dark beer, or even for redberry. Still, the water cut through some of the dust.
In his last trip, Castin brought back two large baskets filled with fresh-baked bread and sat down at the end of the table, next to Ninca.
“Are you sure this stuff is beef and not seaweed? And how do we know your noodles are real noodles and not some strange form of quilla beaten into the shape of noodles?” Nicos mock-glared at the dark-haired and broad-faced“ older healer.
“No engineer has ever had to eat cactus roots at my table.” Castin paused, frowning. “Still, it is an idea…”
Gunnar guffawed.
“How about those chickens?” asked Clerve.
“Those are not chickens, young man. They are the most delicate of fowl, with a tenderness you will not believe.”
“I’ll believe it when I get to eat one,” cracked Nicos.
“Could we just let Master Castin eat?” Altara’s voice was acerbic. “Or would you like to help grind some quilla roots into noodles? Or would you rather run the kitchen for Firbek and the marines?”
“Not me, thank you,” muttered Clerve, his voice barely loud enough for Justen to hear.
“Castin does very well, and he’s awfully good-hearted to put up with all this.” Jirrl reached for the noodles and served herself before passing them to Krytella.
The healer served Gunnar and took a smaller portion for herself before handing the bowl to Justen.
“Noodles again?” asked Berol, sliding onto the bench beside Clerve.
“Of course. But they’re egg noodles, not just plain noodles.” Justen filled the chipped crockery plate before him and grinned at the big woman. “Actually, his sauces are splendid. With those sauces, even quilla would taste good.” He handed the bowl to Clerve.
Krytella doled out a small amount of the sauce and raised her eyebrows. “I believe you also like burhka, and… ah… spice…”
Gunnar swallowed hard, then coughed. “It’s a good thing she’s a healer, Brother.” ‘“Now what did you do, Justen?” asked Berol.
“Nothing. I just said that Castin makes good sauces.”
“Are you sure you didn’t say that you liked things saucy?”
Justen felt himself flush. Was all the teasing because of that tavern girl in Lornth?
“He must have a guilty conscience, Krytella. Look at him.” Berol slapped the table.
Justen finally gave an exaggerated shrug and turned to Clerve. “This is what you have to look forward to.”
“Only if you like it spicy and saucy.”
Justen claimed the bowl with the meat and sauce and ladled a liberal amount across the pile of noodles.
“He does like the sauce.”
“Don’t all men?”
“Even wizards… I’ll bet,” added Jirrl.
Justen grinned as he watched Gunnar flush.
Clerve ladled only a small portion of the sauce,
but fished out several chunks of beef.
“At least the younger men are more… choosy about their sauce.”
Justen and Gunnar began to laugh.
XXV
“So. The Tyrant has agreed to provide lodgings, supplies, and compensation for those whom Recluce sends to oppose us?” Histen laughed harshly.
“It would seem that is the case.” Renwek looked back toward the draped arches that led to the empty Council Chamber.
“And how many have been sent?”
“Only a few handfuls have volunteered, most of them engineers and healers. Just one young Storm Wizard.”
“Just one young Storm Wizard? Enlighten me, Renwek. Was there not just one young Black Storm Wizard in the time of Jenred the Traitor?” Histen’s lips turned at the corners as he waited for an answer.
“Ah… yes. High Wizard. But this one does not seem so great as Creslin”
“Creslin could not stop Fairhaven in Candar itself for all his power, and I doubt he could do so even today. Clearly, Recluce does not wish to offend Sarronnyn. Just as clearly, they do not intend to make a great commitment. Still, it is a good idea to be wary when Storm Wizards are involved.” Histen shook his head. “I had a message from Zerchas.” ‘
“And what does the honorable Zerchas want?”
“He suggests that some of the stronger and more vocal young hotheads-like Derba and Beltar-be dispatched to help in taking Sarronnyn.”
“Is he that honorable? Or does he have something else in mind?”
“Probably, but he’s also being careful. He worries about casualties to the Iron Guard.”
“What about the lancers?”
Histen’s eyes narrowed. “Zerchas is absolutely correct. The Iron Guard is the key to our success, especially if those engineers from Recluce forge a great deal of black iron.”
“But the lancers routed the rebels in Kyphros…”
Histen sighed, once and loudly. “Renwek, please consider your words before uttering them. Others may not have my patience.” He half-turned, then looked back. “Find out exactly what Derba and Beltar have been doing lately. Let me know. I will be in the Tower this evening.”
Renwek bowed.
The High Wizard turned and walked toward the Tower.
XXVI
Justen set aside the hammer as he saw Gunnar standing just inside the smithy. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and waited for his brother to step closer.
“What are you working on?” Gunnar asked.
“Part of a launching frame. Firbek thinks that the rockets will be very useful against the Iron Guard.” Justen stretched out his fingers, then ran them idly over the smooth wood of the hammer’s haft, his eyes drifting to the adjoining forge, where Clerve was helping Nicos. The apprentice lifted the hammer and struck. Justen smiled faintly and focused on his brother.
“Maybe.” Gunnar ran his thumb along his jaw. “Maybe. Do you want to go into Sarron?”
“When?” Justen wiped the dampness from his forehead again and glanced toward the rear of the smithy, where Altara had just straightened up from readjusting and leveling the shaft bearings for the still-unfinished hammer mill. “We’ve got a lot to do.”
“Later… right after you finish.”
Both men paused as Clerve delivered a series of blows to the metal on Nicos’s anvil. Justen wrinkled his nose to forestall a sneeze from the combined odors of metal, soot, and hot oil.
“That’ll be a while.”
“It certainly will be.” Altara had walked in behind Gunnar. “He’ll be on that section of the frame until the shadows have dropped on those pink walls. And he’s going to have to go with you on with that Sarronnese detachment the day after tomorrow. So here you are, cutting into productive-” Gunnar looked apologetic. “I didn’t mean…” He paused. “But he would be helpful-”
“You two.” Altara shook her head. “All right. He can leave-this time-when that cross brace is welded and the brackets are set. That’s still going to be a while.”
“Thank you.” Gunnar inclined his head. “Why do you…” Altara paused. “It’s not as though you’re exactly a drinker, young wizard. Did Justen put you up to this?”
“Not this time.” Gunnar closed his lips tightly for a moment, as if holding a grin.
“What are you up to that you need Justen?”
“I just want to get a feel for Sarron. If I go alone…” The blond man shrugged.
“I don’t know as that’s a good notion, going into Sarron itself, since it’s more than a little clear that the Sarronnese are not overly fond of our getting too close. Still, I couldn’t keep you here, Gunnar, if I wanted to, and maybe the two of you together will get into less trouble.”
“How about three?” asked Justen, looking toward the corner of the barracks building where the green banner flew. “Besides, having a lady with us-”
“You want to take the young healer, strip away all our talent?”
“It’s a good idea,” added Gunnar. “This is one of the last bastions of the Legend.”
“Fine. Assuming that Krytella wants to accompany you two young scoundrels. Just let Justen get on with his work for now.”
Gunnar nodded, bowed, and left.
Altara pursed her lips, then blotted her brow, leaving a damp streak of soot. She frowned and rubbed the smudge off with the back of one heavily muscled and lightly tanned forearm.
“When I look at you two…” she shook her head “… I just feel trouble. Not the ordinary kind of trouble. Something different.” The chief engineer coughed. “Then, maybe it’s this place.”
Justen nodded and swung the pieces of the cross brace back into the forge.
“But you do good welds, and your casings don’t need much polishing, Berol tells me.” Altara looked straight at the young engineer. “Don’t let that go to your head. You’re still not that good at really fine work, like turbine blades.”
“Yes, Chief Engineer.” Justen grinned. “Do you want to help me with the… fine work?”
“Justen, your work there probably isn’t that fine.” Her lips quirked before she turned toward Nicos and Clerve. The apprentice set down his hammer as the chief engineer approached and passed him.
When the metal sections in the forge began to glow even brighter than the cherry red needed for fullering, Justen let his perceptions wash over the metal, waiting until the temperature eased slightly higher. Then he swung both pieces into position and completed the scarfing before the metal cooled. Following that, he slipped the sections back into the forge. After watching and adjusting the sections through another reheating, waiting as the iron reached even higher temperatures, he replaced them on the anvil and with three even strokes of the hammer, completed the first weld.
The sun was still above the horizon, if only by a few hands, when at last he left the smithy, washed, and changed.
Gunnar and Krytella sat on stools on the narrow porch of the old farmhouse that the healers-and Gunnar-shared. The engineers, Justen reflected, had the dubious privilege of smaller, if newer, cubicles in the roughly constructed barracks provided by the Tyrant. In the rain, all the rooms smelled of the stable at the north end.
“Sorry,” Justen offered as he stopped at the bottom step. “The braces took longer. Most iron work does, I think.”
“No matter. Got your weekly pay?” asked Gunnar.
“All five pennies’ worth? That won’t go far. The Tyrant is so generous…”
“We’re supposed to be helping them, not behaving like mercenaries for hire.” Krytella stood and adjusted her belt, the green tunic, and the knife. She also carried a short staff, half the length of the black one Justen had left in his room.
“I sometimes think help means different things to different people.” Gunnar climbed off the stool, which rocked on the warped and uneven planks until he put out a hand to steady it.
“It’s a long walk.” Justen’s eyes flicked from the dusty road up the hill toward the granite walls of Sarron, shad
ed even more toward the pink by the late-afternoon sun.
“It’s better to leave the horses here, and you could use the exercise, anyway.” Gunnar headed toward the road.
“You haven’t been hammering heavy iron all day.”
“I rode out past the Klynstatt Marshes and spent half the day grubbing through the ironwood forests.”
“Would you two stop trying to convince each other that you had the harder day?” Krytella stopped at the edge of the road to let a horse cart pass.
“Men… they’re all the same.” The driver, a flaxen-haired older woman, grinned at the healer, then flicked the reins, and the cart full of rushes wobbled past the three, the left axle squealing so painfully that Justen winced at the lack of order in even that simple mechanical device.
“You can sense disorder in machines as well as healers do ‘ in people.” Gunnar pulled at his chin as he resumed his long strides uphill.
“At times.” Justen shrugged his shoulders, trying to relieve some of their tightness.
By the time the three reached the stone causeway leading to the walls, they were damp from the effort and the humid air.
The sentry studied the two men in black and the woman in green. “Recluce types? From down there?” He gestured down the long incline toward the Recluce enclave, whose roofs just peeked above a grassy hill.
“Yes.” Gunnar smiled politely. “We’ve never been in a city this large and prosperous.”
The woman in stark, dark-blue leathers ignored Gunnar and turned toward the healer. “Where are you bound?”
Krytella swallowed and then grinned. “To the market. The boys have never seen a real market. Then for a good dinner. Is there anyplace you’d recommend?”
“Any of the taverns off the traders’ square are pretty good… except for the Brass Bull. I wouldn’t take two nice young fellows there.”
“The square? Is that just off-”
“Take the main way until you get to the Guard barracks. The traders’ square is just past there to the left.” The sentry stepped back and motioned them on. ‘ Take care of those two, lady. We don’t want trouble here.“ She nodded to Krytella as die three passed.
The Order War Page 10
