Students of the Order

by Edward W. Robertson

  He woke with the light of dawn, surprised that he had slept at all. He got up, washed and dressed, and left his cell. Haniel was asleep in one of the chairs. Wit picked up the jug of gin—there was little more than a quarter of it left, and Wit felt sorry for whoever had to sit in the hall that day. He collected his staff and left for the tower.

  Wa'llach had, merely by sitting in a chair, managed to convey a sense of disorder to the Grand Wizard's chamber. The small room now smelt strongly of dwarven rum. In spite of that Wit quickly perceived that the older wizard, sitting with his injured arm resting on the table, was fond of the dwarf, and Wit theorized that it was because the two of them shared a great talent for and delight in making other people uncomfortable.

  The mark of the Order on Wa'llach's left cheek competed for attention with a jagged line across his forehead, a group of welts on the right side of his face, and a part of his nose that was conspicuous by its absence. His mustache was black and oily, and his beard, where it could grow over the scars, was matted, and a slightly lighter color. His hair was the jet black of his mustache, and unkempt. He wore a battered leather coat, black trousers, and ancient boots. A small heavy axe hung from one side of his belt and a hammer from the other, while a fearsome dagger was stuck in the middle, and a knife protruded from his boot. Wit shook the dwarf's hand and took a seat.

  "Wa'llach thinks that you might make it to Reading in a little over three weeks. From there to Cohos might take another three weeks, and then another month to Youngkent. I am inclined to say that I will be in Youngkent three and a half months from now, to allow for anything unexpected that might come up. I have no desire to spend any time in Youngkent, pacifying the belligerents, while I wait for my expert to show up."

  Wa'llach nodded. "There's three kinds of dwarves in the world, my friends, them that gets the metal from ground, them that works the metal, and them that takes the metal from the other two. The road to Youngkent is lousy with the third kind of dwarf."

  "Yes," said Cardozo, "and I have heard that it is as rich with moonshine as it is with bandits. Wit, bear in mind that he is Bound to the Order you represent, and do not keep me waiting in Youngkent."

  "Sir," said Wit.

  "Wa'llach, go up to the treasury and draw some gold for expenses, I'll speak to Wit for a minute."

  "Pardon, how long is the journey from Youngkent to the capital?"

  "Three weeks, give or take."

  "Well, when you are at the treasury, would you see if they can advance me another month of my wizard's pay?"

  "I thought Junior Wizards were entitled to draw six."

  "Yes, sir, but in the eyes of the treasury, I am only a wizard while I am on the mission."

  Cardozo rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Yes, get Wit his salary. The administrators there are unclear as to whether the wizards serve the treasury or the treasury the wizards, and someday, we will straighten them out on that point."

  Wa'llach left. Cardozo sat silent for a long moment. "I spoke with some of the other Grand Wizards last night, they were nearly unanimous that we shall have to tear down the damn wall."

  Wit nodded. "One must receive exactly that for which they Contract."

  "Aye. There is no Alliance without the Order, Wit. But we are only any good to the Alliance if our decisions, on balance, seem wise. One can't help but feel that tearing down a perfectly good wall is very foolish indeed."

  "Why do the dragars of Youngkent want that remedy anyway? Why not take their damage in gold?"

  "I don't know, and I must not think about it. Their reason for wanting the remedy has nothing to do with if we grant it. But if the iron is as Jacobs says, then there would be no damage in gold at all." Cardozo was silent for a long moment, unhurried although Wit knew that he would be expected in the Great Hall shortly. "Did you ever know Wizard Wendell?"

  "I know you succeeded to his chair, sir, some twenty years ago. He has only been down from the tower once since I have been back in the capital, to speak on Higher Magicks, and I was very sure to go."

  "He was fond of saying that the life of Our Power was not found in the Principles of our Order, but in experience."

  They sat in silence until Wa'llach knocked. Cardozo shook Wit's hand and wished him well, and Wit thanked him.

  "Here's for you," said Wa'llach in the hallway, handing Wit a bag of gold.

  "Thank you very much," said Wit pleasantly, "might I have the gold that the treasury gave me for my salary?"

  Wa'llach reached into the recesses of his jacket and handed him another small handful of gold. "Oh, quite the sharp one you are, you cheap thieving magician, knowing a Bound man has no choice. Very sharp, indeed, and pleased with yourself, you rotten son of a sea lion."

  They agreed to meet at the quartermaster's in an hour's time. Wit returned to the Adepts' quarters to pack, while Wa'llach went to the stables to see about horses.

  Wit packed his few clothes, briefly considering leaving behind his best tunic, before deciding that whatever happened at Youngkent would probably be the most important moment of his life to that point, and there was no sense in not having it. He had two blankets; he brought the warmer and folded the other in the corner. He had two daggers, one a simple, single edged blade with a wooden handle, and a nicer one with an engraved cross-guard that had been a gift. He stuck the simple one in his belt and wrapped the nicer one in the blanket in his pack. He had most of a box of candles, and he packed half a dozen of them and his matches. He packed his writing supplies—paper, pens, and ink—and then turned to his books.

  There were about a dozen standard books on the magic of the Order that were reproduced by dwarven printers. Beyond that, wizards wrote their own books, copying the portions of the standard texts that they found most important, and adding their own observations and experiences. These books in turn were passed around, copied from, gifted, and traded amongst wizards and Adepts. Wit was aware of several thoroughly mediocre wizards with very good handwriting who wielded great power in the Order. Older wizards frequently devoted much of their time to condensing and annotating their earlier writings, and assisting in this task was a major duty of the Adepts.

  Currently, Wit was reading from and copying a book by an older wizard that Cardozo had lent him—this was not his property, so he left it on the sitting room table with a note to return it. His earliest completed book, a simple reproduction of the first wizard he had served under's writings, was of dubious use, so Wit left it along with his third book—he had completed it six months before, and already found it frustratingly vain. He packed his second, a useful summary of things he had learned his first year in the capital, the one he was currently working on, and Phreer on Binding, one of the printed texts. He also had Schwarts' Contracts, which he decided to leave behind.

  If he did not return, the Adepts would clean out his cell, keep whatever they wanted, and throw away the rest. Wit put his two handwritten books on top of the folded blanket in the corner, with the idea that the whole assemblage, come winter time, could be quickly dragged into the sitting room, where the blanket would be welcome on someone's feet and the books could be used for kindling.

  The printed texts were extremely costly, which was a main reason that Wit, along with nearly every other Adept in the history of the order, was constantly overdrawing his pay. Wit's battered copy of Schwarts would be worth a tidy pile of gold to whoever found it. He left it on the cell's small table along with the rest of the box of candles and his candleholder. He shouldered his pack and left.

  He arrived at the quartermaster's to find Wa'llach standing in front of three loaded horses and shouting "Yer father was a syphilitic gnome and your mother was a squonk, you Unicorn wine swilling reprobate!" at a retreating servant.

  Wit had wanted to oversee some of the packing—of the two types of biscuit that showed up regularly in the Order's stores Wit thought that one was pretty good and the other basically trash—but felt his companion had probably done enough as it was. He asked Wa'llach if ev
erything was in order and received a string of insults in response. He decided that it meant that it was, mounted one of the horses, and rode out of the capital.

  4

  She found him half an hour later in the glen south of the village. It was shady there, and pretty too, but due to the fact it was less than a quarter mile downstream from six hundred members of the Yatto tribe who used that stream for all of their cleaning needs, the location was as quietly deserted as a mountaintop.

  Drez grinned at him. "There you are. Thinking about what you'll do with your dragon claw?"

  "Not exactly."

  "If you don't want it, give it to me. With one of those in my hand, I could make a wyvern turn around mid-swoop."

  He looked her in the eye. "How many warriors were in the hunt-family?"

  Drez started to count on her fingers, then shook her head. "A lot. Who cares?"

  "Because there were more warriors than claws. Even if my parents get one, I've got eight brothers and sisters ahead of me. One of them will get it."

  Drez grunted. "Then don't worry about what can't happen. Anyway, you shouldn't have left so soon. When they cut open the dragon, half a cow fell out of its stomach."

  He laughed despite himself. "Which half? The front? Or the back?"

  "The front. I think. I didn't get close enough to tell for sure."

  She went quiet. He gazed across the stream. Flies hovered above it, taunting the trout.

  Joti plucked a blade of grass and threw it in the water. "I just wish I could hunt with them."

  "You want to be a warrior?" Drez said. "Me too. So be one."

  "My oldest sister's already a warrior. And two of my brothers are in training as Half Soldiers. The chiefs don't need any more. Not from the Ridik family."

  "You asked?"

  "Don't need to."

  She laughed like a scorned donkey. "No one gives. You have to ask. And if they say no, then you knock them down and take it from them."

  He knew he wasn't supposed to feel what he felt: the self-doubt, the creep of worms inside his soul. Such feelings were for the weak beings of the Alliance, who could only survive by binding themselves together, so that every person was ruled by so many chiefs and lords that no one person could be free.

  And your mind was no different, was it? If you made each of your doubts a chieftain, and rushed to serve their every order, then you would be just as much a slave as the humans and the dwarves. The only answer was to hoist your spear and overthrow the tyrants of the mind.

  He got to his feet, brushing dirt from his rear. "My mom would never let us. But my dad might. If we're lucky, he'll be celebrating the hunt with his dwarven grog."

  They found Odobo outside his tent poking symbols in the dirt with a stick. Across the grass, Joti's mom sharpened her axe on a whetstone with long, rasping strokes. The concentration on her face was so total she looked more like she was preparing to go battle a dragon rather than having just returned from killing one.

  Odobo looked up. Joti faltered, then made himself continue toward his father. "We've made a decision. We want to be warriors."

  Odobo added another X to his scribbles in the dirt. "Do you think it's good to have wants?"

  "What do you mean? Everyone wants things."

  "Everyone has fleas, too. And the man who gets rid of them will be the envy of us all!"

  Drez crinkled her brow, but Joti had learned to pay as much mind to his father's nonsense as a bull wozzit did to a fly.

  "We want to be warriors," he repeated.

  Odobo set down his stick and leaned back on his haunches, examining the two of them. "I thought you would. And that makes my heart heavy. Do you know what the chiefs will say? You're not big enough, Joti. And enough of your brothers and sisters are warriors already."

  Joti's stomach clenched as small and tight as a walnut. He stared at the ground, which was brown and full of weeds and bugs. "Why do we want things we can't have?"

  "You're as deaf as your mother when I tell her it's getting too dark for archery. I said the chiefs will say you're too small. But who rules Ridik?"

  "Ridik does."

  "And who rules Joti?"

  "Joti?"

  "Interesting. If Joti rules Joti, then it is only Joti who decides Joti's path. Where does Joti wish to go?"

  Across the yard, the scrape of the whetstone ceased. Joti said, "But aren't I too small?"

  Odobo pointed at the sky. "Behold. The house of Uggot. From way up there, do you think he can tell how high our heads are?"

  Joti glanced at Drez, who nodded. Joti stood a little taller. "We'll be warriors. Will you show us how?"

  His father laughed, thick shoulders bouncing. "I don't show you. You show Uggot. Go hunt. If Uggot likes what you bring back, then I will be blessed to help you take your next step. But be back by darkness, or Uggot will curse you—and your mother will, too."

  Joti grinned and turned to go. Drez stood taller. "If we're going to hunt, we need spears."

  Odobo beetled his thick brows. "Spears are for warriors. Even Half Soldiers only get staffs."

  "Then what are we supposed to use? Our bare hands?"

  "That would be stupid. You can use your fangs, too."

  Drez mashed her lips together, then nodded. "Then we'll show Uggot. And we'll show you, too."

  She jogged away from the tent. Joti followed. His mother Hako watched them go, frowning like she'd just broken her bowstring.

  The two of them jogged through the clusters of family tents. To the right, a team of butchers carved up the dragon while the tanners scraped its plates and scales clean. In the open fields beyond, the wozzits and the grub-dogs moved with nervous, quick energy, spooked by the pungent smell of the dragon.

  Drez broke free of the trees and gazed up at the mounting clouds. "I wonder if we can bring back a wyvern."

  "If we tried to hunt a wyvern, I think the wyvern would bring back us."

  "We could hunt a small one."

  "Small ones only come in nests," Joti said. "And nests are guarded by big ones."

  She glanced over her shoulder at the vivid tents growing small behind them. "We could get one if we had spears."

  "My dad forbid us."

  "Your dad said that Joti rules Joti and Drez rules Drez."

  "And then he told us spears are for warriors. The second thing you say trumps the first. Just like when you swing an axe and I block it with mine—whatever comes second wins."

  She scowled as she fought to think that through. "I know how to make a spear. If I can make a thing, I should be able to use that thing."

  "We can't, Drez. We'll be cheating Uggot."

  "What if Uggot likes those who cheat?"

  "Then Uggot is wrong. But Uggot can't be wrong. So if we try and cheat, he'll bash us good and we'll never be warriors."

  Her eyebrows jerked up in surprise. Joti had won and it felt good. With the settlement behind them, they angled back toward the stream, entering the woods that grew thickly to each side of the waters. Joti had wandered around this forest any number of times before, but never as a hunter and a warrior, and on that day he felt as though victory was a thing that you could pluck like an apple and that it would soon be his.

  A partridge burst from the brush, wings thrashing. Joti fell back. Drez stooped to grab a rock. Joti's father had forbidden anything but their hands and fangs, but considering the bird was nowhere near hand or fang range, Joti supposed it was all right. Drez' throw came up short. Joti picked up a stone and threw it as hard as he could, coming nowhere close to the retreating bird.

  It came to rest in a bough upstream. They ran at it with stones, chasing it from tree to tree, but any time one of their rocks looked to be about to strike home, the grouse fluttered above it.

  "This is foolish," Drez decided after ten fruitless minutes. "Birds aren't good enough to be eaten by people of the ground. That's why the gods gave them wings to keep them away from us."

  Joti had seen others eat pigeons and pheasants pl
enty of times, but there was something compelling in what Drez said. They shifted their efforts to pursuing the smallbears that lived in the trees and sometimes climbed down to fish. But the few smallbears they saw scampered up into the branches the second they saw the two orcs coming.

  Before Joti knew it, they were miles upstream. The afternoon was cooling, turning its mind toward night. A breeze rattled through the branches.

  Drez straightened, glancing around them as she noticed the same thing. "The day's turning cowardly. If we don't turn back soon, we won't make it back before dark like your father told us to."

  "But we haven't caught more than a few worms."

  "Then maybe we're not worthy of being warriors!" Her anguish silenced the birds peeping from the trees. Joti stiffened. She bared her teeth. "You always have plans. I thought you'd be good at this. Do you think you're the only one the chieftains don't want to ever hold a spear?"

  The tips of his ears burned. He tried to think of something to say to her, but the words were as slippery as the trout in the pool that morning. Around him, the birds began to chirp again. The frogs had never stopped.

  "We won't go back with nothing," he said. "We couldn't catch fish because they live in water and we come from land. We couldn't catch birds because they took to the air where we can't follow. But the frogs are sitting on our land—and we will show them why they should fear us."

  Drez' eyes went wide. She ran down to the banks of the stream so fast she fell twice along the way. The frogs weren't quite as slow as Joti thought they'd be, but as the pair of them worked their way back toward the village, they snagged one after another. After the fourth, Drez told him to stop.

  He stuffed his newest catch into his pocket. "Do you think that's enough?"

  "One for you, one for me. One for your dad, and one for Uggot."