THEMAGICENGINEER
THE MAGIC ENGINEER
 by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
Recluce Book Three
Copyright © 1994
Edited by David G. Hartwell
Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet
A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010
 
To and for Carol Ann
 
 
Part I - SEEKER
 
 
I
 
THE BOY LOOKS at the iron, cherry-red in the tongs.
   The wiry man-small and compact, unlike the traditional smith-holds the
tongs higher as he glances toward the boy. "That's hot enough to bind
storms and wizards, boy. Strong enough to hold giants, just like Nylan
bound the demons of light for Ryba ..." Sweat pours from his forehead
despite the breezes channeled through the smithy by the Very nature of
the building. "Iron . . . iron runs through the center of Recluce. That's
what makes Recluce a refuge of order."
   "That story about Nylan isn't true. The demons of light were gone by
then," states the child in a clear, but low voice. His narrow solemn face
remains unsmiling. "And there aren't any giants."
   "So there aren't," agrees the smith. "If'n there were, though, iron's
the stuff to hold 'em." He returns to his work. "And black iron-that'll
hold the worst of the White Wizards. Been true since the time of Nylan."
   "The strongest of the White Wizards? They weren't as strong as the
founder."
   "No," says the smith. "But that was back then. They're a-breedin' new
demons in Fairhaven these days. You wait and see." He lifts the hammer.
"Then the Black Brothers'll need black steel . . . even if I need an
order-master to help me forge it.. ."
   Clung . . . clung. The hammer falls upon the metal that the tongs have
positioned on the anvil, and the ringing impacts drown out the last of
his words.
   The solemn-faced boy, his hair redder than the cooling metal, nods,
frowns.
   "Dorrin, I'm done. Where are you?" A girl's voice, strong and firm,
perhaps even a shout outside the smithy, barely penetrates between the
hammer blows rippling through the heat and faint mist of worked metal.
   "Good day, ser," says the redhead politely, before dashing from the
smithy into the sunlight.
   . . . clung. . .
   The smith shakes his head, but his hands are sure upon the hammer and
the metal.
 
 
II
 
THE RED-HEADED YOUTH leafs through the pages of the heavy book, his eyes
flicking from line to line, from page to page, oblivious to the scrutiny
from beyond the archway.
   "What are you reading?"
   "Nothing." His thoughts burn at the evasion. "Just one of the natural
philosophies," he adds quickly.
   "It wouldn't be the one on mechanical devices, would it?" asks the
tall man.
   "Yes, father," Dorrin responds with a sigh, waiting for the lecture. :
   Instead, his father responds with a deep breath. "Put it back on the
shelf. Let's get on with your studies."
   As he reshelves the heavy book and turns toward the tall, thin man,
Dorrin asks, "Why don't we build some of the machines in the books?"    )
   "Such as?" The tall man in black steps around his son and proceeds
toward the covered porch beyond the library.
   Dorrin turns and follows. "What about the heated water engine?"
   "Heated water is steam." The Black wizard shakes his head. "What would
happen if chaos energy were loosed in the cold water?" The wizard sits
down on the high stool with the short back.
   "It wouldn't work. But-"
   "That's enough, Dorrin. There are reasons why we don't use those
machines. Some can be easily disrupted by chaos. Some actually require
the constant attention of a chaos wizard, and you can understand why
that's not practical here on Recluce, I trust?" Dorrin nods quietly, as
he sits on the backless stool across from his father. He has heard the
lecture before.
   "We work with nature, Dorrin, not against it. That is the basis of
order, and the foundation of Recluce." The wizard pauses. "Now, tell me
what the winds are like off Land's End."
   Dorrin closes his eyes and concentrates for a time. Finally, he
speaks. "They're light, like a cold mist seeping from the north."
   "What about the higher winds, the ones that direct the weather?"
   Dorrin closes his eyes again.
   "You should have felt them all. You have to be able to feel the air,
Dorrin, feel it at all levels, not just the low easy parts," explains the
tall man in black. He looks from the sky above the Eastern Ocean back to
the red-headed youngster.
   "What good is feeling something if you can't do anything with it?" The
boy's voice is both solemn and curious.
   "Just knowing what the air and the weather are doing is important."
Despite his tall, thin build, the man's voice is resonant and
authoritative. "I have told you before. The fanners and the sailors need
to know."
   "Yes, ser," acknowledges the redhead. "But I can't help the plants,,
and I cannot even call the slightest of breezes."
   "I'm sure that will come, Dorrin. In time, and with more work." The
man in black sighs softly, turning his eyes from the black stone railing
to the other covered porch where a shaded table set for four awaits.
"Think about it."
   "I have thought about it, father. I would rather be a smith or a
woodworker. They make real things. Even a healer helps people. You can
see what happens. I don't want to spend my life watching things. I want
to do things and to create things."
   "Sometimes, watching things saves many lives. Remember the big storm
last year ..."
   "Father . . . ? The legends say that Creslin could direct the storms.
Why can't-"
   "We've talked about that before, Dorrin. If we direct the storms, it
will change the weather all over the world, and Recluce could become a
desert once again. Even more people would die. When the Founders changed
the world, thousands upon thousands died, and they almost died as well.
Now, it would be worse. Much worse. Even if a Black as great as Creslin
appeared, and that is not likely. Not with the Balance."
   "But why?"
   "I told you why. Because there are more people. Because everything
relates to everything else. And because there is more order in the world
today."
   Dorrin looks at his father's earnest face, purses his lips, and falls
silent.
   "I'm going to help your mother with dinner. Do you know where Kyl is?"
   "Down on the beach."
   "Would you get him, please?"
   "Yes, ser." Dorrin inclines his head and stands. As he crosses the
close-grown lawn, his steps are deliberate, carrying him along the
knife-edged stone walk with the precision that characterizes his speech
and dress.
   After a last look at his son, the wizard turns to wend his way through
the library and toward the kitchen.
 
 
III
 
"UNTIL YOU CAN prove you are the man with the white sword-that's how long
before you could count on being the High Wizard, Jeslek."
   "I suppose I would have to raise mountains along the Analerian
highlands? Is that what you're saying, Sterol?"
   "It wouldn't hurt," quips the man in white with the amulet around his
neck.
   "It could be done, you know. Especially with all the increased order
created over the past generations by Recluce." The sun in Jeslek's eyes
bathes the room.
   "The day you do that, I'll hand you the amulet." Sterol laughs, and
the sound is colder than the wind that swirls across the winter skies
above Fairhaven.
   "I mean it. It's not a question of pure force, you know. It's a
question of releasing order bounds deep within the earth."
   "There is one condition, however."
   "Oh?"
   "You must preserve the great road, and stand amidst your mountains as
you raise them."
   Jeslek chuckles. "Getting more cautious, I see."
   "Merely prudent. One would not wish a High Wizard who could not
control the chaos he released. That was the example of Jenred."
   "Spare me that lecture."
   "Of course. You young ones do not need the ancient tales and parables
because they do not apply in a changing world."
   Jeslek frowns, but bows. "By your leave?"
   "Of course, dear Jeslek. Do let me know when you plan to raise
mountains."
   "I certainly will. I would not wish you to miss anything."
 
 
IV
 
"DAMN IT, DORRIN!" The smith takes the short length of metal, already
bearing a blackish sheen, even while it retains a straw brown color, and
uses the tongs to set it on the brick hearth beside the anvil.
   The youth flushes, the red from the forge combining with the red of
chagrin climbing up from his neck. "I'm sorry, Hegl."
   "Bein' sorry don't count a whole lot. Now, I got a chunk of
black-ordered steel that's useless. Don't fit nothing, and nothing but a
wizard's hearth gets hot enough to melt that. Darkness, you dump so much
order in things, Nylan himself couldn't have forged it." Hegl snorts.
"Not much call for black steel, anyway, but you don't order it until it's
finished. What were you thinking of?"
   "How it would look when you were done."
   The smith shakes his head. "Go on. Let me finish. I'll send Kadara for
you when it's time."
   Dorrin swallows and turns, walking toward the open double doors
designed to funnel the cool air through the smithy. Behind him, the smith
extracts another rod of iron from the bin and lifts it toward the furnace.
   The redhead holds his narrow lips so tightly they almost turn white.
He has persuaded his father to let him spend time with Hegl, and if Hegl
will not have him .. .
   He steps through the open doors and out toward the wash-stones, where
he pauses and splashes his face with the cool water, letting it carry
away the heat of the smithy and the embarrassment. After pumping a drink
from the spout, he leans toward the garden fed by the runoff from the
washstones. Neatly edged in fitted gray stone, the different colored
leaves of the herbs, and the few purple-flowered brinn plants, have
formed almost mathematically precise rectangles.
   Dorrin lets his senses touch the herbs, feeling the beginning of root
rot in the Winterspice, always a problem, according to his mother,
because Recluce was far warmer than the climes of Nordla. With the
practice borne of training, his senses enfold the Winterspice, adding the
strength the bluish-green-leaved spice needs to resist the dark fungal
growths.
   Out of habit, he checks the others, even the rosemary in the drier
upper stone garden. With a shake of his head that displaces not a strand
of his tight-curled and wiry red hair, he straightens.
   "I wondered why my spices have grown so true this year." A gray-haired
and stocky woman stands by the washstones.
   "Your pardon," offers Dorrin.
   "My gain, you mean, if you have even a fraction of the skill of your
mother." She smiles. "Why are you out here?"
   "Wandering thoughts," confesses the youth. "I thought about the wrong
thing and turned an unfinished ingot into black steel. Hegl was less than
pleased."
   "He would not be," affirms the smith's wife. "But he will find some
use for it, if only to demonstrate the strength of his work."
   Dorrin shakes his head.
   "Kadara will not be back from the Temple until later ... she has
afternoon classes."
   "I know. I'm going home until Hegl needs me." The red-haired youth
turns and walks down the flagged path toward the stone paved street.
   Behind him, the smith's wife shakes her head for an instant before
looking at the herb garden. She smiles as she studies the plants.
   Dorrin's steps carry him past two of the stone-walled and split-stone
shingled homes of Extina before he turns and walks up the stone drive
slightly wider than the drives of the neighboring dwellings. A set of
prints in the faint dust that has settled on the short wiry grass
indicates where his mother's light steps have trod as she has inspected
her own garden and trees.
 
 
V
 
THE MAN IN black looks up, preoccupied, almost as if he does not see the
youth on the covered terrace as he walks slowly up the stone walk.
   Looking out beyond his father, Dorrin can see the Black Holding, where
the Council on which his father serves meets. No one has lived there in
the three centuries since the deaths of the Founders. Slightly to the
left of the Black Holding begins the High Road, which stretches to the
southeastern tip of Recluce. Much of the southern part of the isle
remains forested and uninhabited, except for the few crafthalls and the
rich Feyn River plains, where most of the isle's grains are grown.
   As his eyes flick back to the black buildings on the highest point of
the cliffs, Dorrin frowns, absently wondering how true the tales are
about Creslin and Megaera. How could they have died at the same exact
instant-just as the sun rose? Or is that just another bit of superstition
he is supposed to swallow? At least his models do not rely on belief. He
frowns. Or do they?
   "Dorrin ..." calls the thin-faced man. "We need to talk. Get your
brother. The kitchen is fine."
   "Yes, ser." He turns and walks down the rear steps from the terrace.
Kyl is weeding his own private herb garden, as result of their mother's
threat to withhold sweets until both youths' gardens are presentable and
orderly. Dorrin smiles. The order of Dorrin's garden has never been a
problem. On the other hand, Kyl-his dark-haired younger brother-prefers
fishing or crabbing or just staring at the Eastern Ocean to any sort of
gardening.
   The stocky boy is not weeding. Instead, he sits disconsolately beside
a small pile of wilted weeds. "I hate gardening. Why can't I go off with
Brice, like I wanted?"
   "I suppose," begins Dorrin, kneeling down beside Kyl and immediately
removing small unwanted sprouts as he talks, "because father is a black
wizard of the air and mother is a healer. If they were fisherfolk, like
Brice's parents, then they wouldn't want us to be wizards or healers ..."
   "I hate gardening."
   Dorrin continues to weed, his hands quick and precise among the
plants. As he weeds, his fingers stroke the herbs, infusing them with
order. "I know."
   "You don't like learning about the air, do you?"
   Dorrin shrugs. "I don't mind learning anything. I like to know about
things. I want to make things-not like Hegl, but machines that do things
and help people. I'll never shift the winds or control the storms."
   "Father can only do little things with the winds. He said so himself."
   Dorrin shakes his head. "He only does little things, because he fears
the effect on the Balance. What good is it to have a power you can't use?
I'd rather do something useful."
   "Fishing is useful," Kyl observes. His eyes stray to Dorrin's hands.
"You make weeding look so easy."
   Dorrin shakes dirt off his fingers and stands, brushing off his gray
trousers before straightening up. "Father sent me after you. He has some
news."
   "About what?"
   Dorrin shrugs again before he turns back toward the house. "I don't
think it's good. He was walking slowly and thinking about something."
   "Like the time when you ruined Hegl's iron?"
   Dorrin flushes, but does not turn to let his younger brother see the
reaction. "Come on."
   "I didn't mean that..."
   Dorrin keeps walking.
   "... and thanks for the help with the weeding."
   "That's all right."
   The weather wizard stands by the kitchen table that seats but four.
Both youths incline their heads slightly as they step into the room from
the covered porch where they all dine together in weather better than the
raw overcast outside. Their mother is sitting in the chair by the window.
   "Sit down," suggests their father.
   They sit, one on each side of Rebekah. Sitting on the remaining chair,
the tall wizard clears his throat.
   "... not another lecture ..." mumbles Kyl under his breath.
   "Yes . . . another lecture," affirms their father. "This is a lecture
that you have heard and forgotten. And it's very important, because a
time of change is upon us." The wizard sips from the cup he has carried
to the table. "Among the White Wizards of Fairhaven there is a chaos
wizard whose like has not been seen for centuries. They call him Jeslek.
He has even begun to raise mountains in the high plains between Gallos
and Kyphros."
   Rebekah shivers. "Not even the Founders ..."
   Oran takes another sip from his cup before speaking. "Something is
going to happen, and we have to be prepared. Chaos could crop up just
about anywhere."
   "Anywhere? That's silly," comments Kyl.
   "You think that Recluce is immune to chaos?" snorts the tall man. "You
think that the order with which we live just happened?"
   "No," answers Dorrin heavily, wishing his father would get to the
point. "This has something to do with me, doesn't it?"
   His mother looks out the window. Kyl looks at the tile of the floor,
then at his brother.
   "Dorrin, now is not the time for your games with machines and models."
Oran draws out the words.
   "Now, Oran," temporizes the red-haired woman. "He's still young."
   "Young he may be, but order doesn't flow right when he's around. Have
you talked to Hegl? Poor man's afraid to work iron when Dorrin's nearby.
I can't sense the storms when he gets worried. Crellor- Never mind! And
with the Fairhaven wizards talking about fleets and pressuring the
Nordlans to stop trading with us, things are getting too serious to have
order disrupted." The air wizard frowns, then coughs. "Too serious," he
repeats.
   "What do you want me to do? Disappear?"
   Oran shakes his head, pulls at his chin, then purses his lips.
"Nothing is ever that simple. Never that simple." Dorrin picks up the
heavy tumbler and sips the lukewarm redberry.
   Kyl winks at his older brother, and Rebekah glares at her younger son.
Kyl shrugs when her glance shifts to Oran.
   Finally, Oran looks at Dorrin. "We've talked about this all before,
about how you insist on making your models and thinking about machines.
And I asked you to think about it." The tall wizard pauses. "It's clear
that you haven't taken my words seriously enough."
   "I have thought about it," Dorrin says slowly. "I would rather be a
smith or a woodworker. They make real things. Even a healer helps people.
You can see what happens. I don't want to spend my life watching things.
I want to do things and to create things."
   "Sometimes, watching things saves many lives. Remember the big storm
last year ..."
   "Father . . . ? The legends say that Creslin could direct the storms.
Why can't-"
   "We've talked about that before, Dorrin. If we direct the storms, it
will change the world's weather, make a desert of Recluce again, and kill
thousands everywhere. You're just going to have to concentrate on what
you're supposed to be doing. And I can't make you. I'm sending you to
study with Lortren."
   "Is that wise?" asks Rebekah.
   "What else can I do? He doesn't listen to me."
   "Father?"
   "Yes, Dorrin."
   The redhead takes a deep breath. "I do listen to you. I can't do what
you want me to do, and I don't want to. You are a great air wizard. I
never will be. Can't you just let me be what I am?"
   "Dorrin, machines and chaos were what brought down the Angels. Now,
admittedly, you couldn't handle chaos if your life depended on it, which,
thankfully, it doesn't. But this obsession with building machines is
unnatural. What good will they bring? Will they make people healthier,
the way healers do? Or will we tear up the earth in search of metals?
Will we poison the rivers refining them? And part of the order of Recluce
is supported by the core of cold iron ore that runs down the hills above
the Feyn. Would you throw that away for machines that would run and
wither away?" Dorrin looks down for a moment, then turns to his father.
"It doesn't have to be that way. Hegl doesn't make a mess. Everything
there is reused."
   "Hegl doesn't need stones' and stones' worth of metals. Machines do."
Oran shakes his head. "Perhaps Lortren can make you two understand."
   "What did I do?" protests Kyl.
   "Nothing," answers the air wizard.
   "But.. .?"
   "Oh ... I was referring to Dorrin's friend Kadara. She thinks that
strength and skill are the answer to everything. She refuses to listen to
her mother, only to Hegl, because she only respects physical strength."
   "Kadara's going to the Academy, too?" Dorrin looks from his brother
toward his father.
   Oran nods. "I am not exactly pleased with the idea. Nor is Hegl, but
the Brotherhood is even less pleased about the thought of either one of
you continuing essentially unsupervised, especially as friends. Lortren
should be able to teach you a thing or two."
   "What if he can't?" asks Kyl fearfully.
   Both parents look at the younger son.
   "Well, what if he can't?" demands the dark-haired boy.
   "We'll face that later," answers the air wizard. "And Lortren is a
woman. She is equally adept with a shortsword and the manipulation of
order."
   Kyl's eyes dart from his father to his older brother and back.
   Oran takes another sip from his tumbler.
   Rebekah stands. "Dinner will be ready in just a moment. Kyl?" She
inclines her head toward the pantry. Kyl scurries for the tableware.
   "I need to check something," the air wizard comments, setting the
tumbler on the top of the pie safe before walking toward the study.
   Dorrin looks toward his mother, who slices scallions into a skillet.
After a moment, he walks toward the porch to think before dinner.
 
 
VI
 
"THERE ARE NO great weather-wizards on Recluce now. Not like Creslin."
   A thin man in white shakes his head. "Was he as great as the records
say? Destroying an entire Hamorian fleet?"
   "That was before he really got going," snaps a heavier man in the
first row. "Check the older histories. Especially about the weather."
   "Don't play games with the youngster," croaks another voice. "Just
tell him."
   "You tell him, Fiedner."
   "It is so simple, young master wizard," croaks the dried-out wizard
called Fiedner. "So simple, and so complex. Three centuries past, the
Council included Blacks. Not many, to be sure, for the Whites looked down
upon the Blacks. And the magic of order is more complex and less directly
powerful than that of chaos. Or so everyone thought until Creslin walked
off the Roof of the World."
   "He was real?"
   "Aye, that he was. Real enough to change a White witch into an
order-master near as great as he. Real enough to destroy scores of ships
sent against him. Real enough to turn Kyphros into the hot desert it is
today, and northern Spidlar into a cold and snowy wilderness. Real enough
to turn Recluce from a desert into a garden island."
   The young man shakes his head. "Folk tales! Nonsense!" Fire flares
from his fingers-not just red-tinged white, but a flame like a blade that
saws a chunk out of one of the granite columns bordering the chamber.
   Clunk...
   "Folk tales, they are. But you're here today because Creslin lived
then."
   "Explain," demands the slim young man with the sunlike eyes and white
hair.
   "The Balance is real. Aye, real, and you disregard it at your peril.
Jenred the Traitor never believed in the Balance, and we have paid and
paid for that ignorance. In Creslin's time, chaos dominated, and the
Balance was forced to find a focus. The Blacks manipulated the focus into
creating Creslin, and they had him trained outside of Fairhaven."
   "Westwind? That much is verifiable."
   "It is what is not verifiable that concerns you, Jeslek. Creslin was
order-bound, but trained as a Westwind senior guard. That meant more
then. Along the way, even before he attained his powers, he killed an
entire bandit troop singlehandedly, and three or four squads of White
Road Guards. Oh, and he could sing almost as well as the legendary
Werlynn."
   "What does that have to do with me?"
   "It saved his ass when magic wasn't enough. You had better learn the
same," cackles the old voice.
   "Bah!" The voice cuts nearly as deeply as the chaos fire of the
speaker. "Not even the Blacks of Kyphros could stop me."
   "They are not the Blacks of Recluce."
   The words hang for a time in the air.
   "Who said that?"
   But no voice owns the statement, and in time Jeslek sheathes his fires
and steps into the twilight outside the chamber, walking along the
never-dark, white-lit streets of Fairhaven toward the old city center.
 
 
VII
 
THE TALL MAN tethers the horse and locks the brake on the two-seated
wagon. The two redheads reach for their belongings. Shortly, four figures
traverse the stone lane that leads gently uphill from the coastal road.
The two redheads bear packs on their shoulders. The two men walk as
though they bear heavier and unseen burdens.
   The paved and time-smoothed walk of black stone stretches toward half
a dozen black stone buildings roofed with a gray slate nearly as black as
the stone walls. Even the wide windows in the buildings are framed with
dark wood. The grass between the walks and walls and buildings is dark
green, thick, wiry, and short.
   The four pass a diamond-shaped garden of blue and silver flowers-set
within low walls of the same black stones. The leaves rustle in the cool
fall breeze. In the deep green-blue sky, white puffy clouds scud westward.
   "Where are we going?" asks the sole female, too old to be a girl, too
young to be a woman.
   ' To the black building on the right," responds the tallest figure.
   "All the buildings are black."
   "Kadara," warns the shorter of the two men.
   "This whole place is black."
   Dorrin glances from Kadara, who has had the nerve to voice his own
feelings, to his father. "Why is it called the Academy?" He has heard the
answer, but knows that Kadara has not, and does not want Hegl or his
father to be critical of her.
   Oran's lips quirk before he responds. "Originally, it had no name. It
started years ago when a former Westwind Guard tutored some younger
Blacks in self-defense. They paid for the tutoring by teaching logic and
the science of order to what was then the remnant of the Westwind Guard
detachment." Oran pauses, gestures at the building. "The side door,
there." He steps forward. "Someone supposedly called the place the
Academy of Useless and Violent Knowledge. It became the Academy."
   They walk up two wide stone steps onto a small covered porch. Kadara
tightens her lips, and her eyes rake over both her father and Oran before
coming to rest on Dorrin. Hegl shifts his weight as he stops.
   "Perhaps they can teach me about using a blade," she says mildly.
   Oran opens the dark oak door and holds it for the others. The three
others remain on the wide stones of the porch without moving. Finally,
Dorrin shrugs and steps inside. A white-haired and muscular woman a shade
shorter than Dorrin appears in the doorway on the far side of a foyer
that measures perhaps seven-cubits on a side.
   "Greetings." Her voice is more musical than her stem and ageless face.
   Dorrin nods. "Greetings."
   "Greetings, magistra," offers Oran.
   "I'm still Lortren, you pompous ass," returns the black-clad woman.
"You know what I think about titles between adults."
   Oran inclines his head slightly. "This is my son Dorrin, and this is
Kadara, the daughter of Hegl, here."
   "Let's go into the study." Lortren turns and steps through the doorway.
   Hegl looks quizzically at Oran, who follows Lortren. Dorrin and Kadara
follow their parents.
   "I might like her," mouths Kadara.
   "Maybe." As they step into the next room, Dorrin notes the stacks of
freestanding shelves filled with books-thousands, from what he can tell
as they walk down a narrow passageway to the right of the shelves.
Perhaps thirty cubits from the door, the shelves end, and the room opens
onto a space filled with three tables. The corner table, set between two
windows, contains two covered pots seeping steam and a tray filled with
plain rolls. Six chairs are pulled up to the table.
   Dorrin's stomach growls, not loudly enough, he hopes, for the sound to
be heard. It has been a while since the noon meal.
   "Sit down anywhere," offers the magistra.
   Dorrin waits until his father and Hegl move toward seats, then glances
at Kadara and offers her the chair he holds. She shakes her head and sits
on the other side of her father. Dorrin sits beside his father, leaving
the empty chair between himself and the smith.
   Lortren nods toward the pots. "Hot cider or tea. Help yourself."
   As Oran lifts the teapot, Lortren clears her throat softly. "Some
people have called this the Academy of Useless Knowledge and Unnecessary
Violence ... or the School for Sophistry and Swords. For most people who
live on Recluce, the description is probably correct. We try to teach the
understanding behind knowledge and the use of weapons for those who learn
that understanding. Both tend to be necessary." Her eyes turn on Dorrin.
"Do you know why?"
   "No, magistra."
   "I won't force an answer from you. That comes later. The simple answer
is that once you learn why things work, you generally upset people,
particularly in places like Nordla and Candar. People who are upset often
want to take it out on those who upset them. It helps if you can protect
yourself." The black eyes twinkle for a moment.
   "You mention travel to Candar ..." asks Hegl hesitantly.
   "Most of those who learn here end up spending time in Candar or
Nordla. Some even go to Afrit-Hamor, usually."
   "Why?" asks Oran casually, as if he knows the answer.
   "Because instruction is never enough for those who have difficulty
accepting things as they are."
   Hegl swallows and nods. Kadara nods, and Dorrin frowns, wondering if
the Academy is nothing more than a way to educate troublemakers for
exile. He keeps his words to himself, since saying anything will change
nothing.
   "You speak as though your . . . students ... are almost
troublemakers," offers Kadara, her voice brittle.
   "All of you are. I was once, also. It usually takes not only training
and theory, but a healthy dose of reality to turn chaotic trouble-making
into something useful."
   Dorrin sips the hot tea and munches on a roll.
   Hegl glances from the white-haired magistra with the unlined face and
melodic voice to his daughter, then toward the air wizard. "I wonder..."
   "You wonder if entrusting your daughter to me is a good idea? I would
too. It's not a good idea. The only problem is that the alternatives are
worse." The melodic voice turns hard. "What happens to chaos-mongers?"
   "They get exiled," responds Hegl.
   "What generally leads to chaos-mongering?"
   The smith shrugs.
   "Discontent, unhappiness with life," answers the air wizard.
   "That's your real choice," affirms the magistra.
   "Because I'm not happy with the way you all have arranged my life, I
have to learn all this nonsense and even study in Candar?" Kadara asks.
   "No. You will learn enough so that you can live and survive in Candar
or Nordla. Then you will decide whether you can accept what Recluce
offers. And you are one of the lucky ones- whose parents can purchase the
training. The others often just get a lecture and a boat ride."
   Dorrin shivers. This is something he has not heard before. His eyes
and Kadara's cross. Then they look at their parents, but neither man will
meet his offspring's question.
   Lortren stands. "That's about it. You two can go, and I'll show these
two youngsters to their rooms."
   While the words are polite enough, Dorrin understands that Lortren
controls his future and perhaps even his life.
   "How ... where . .. ?" the smith stammers.
   Lortren smiles, faintly. "If you want to see where your daughter will
live, come along. It's just a small plain single room."
   Hegl steps after his daughter. Dorrin looks at his father and shakes
his head. Although he will never be the wizard his father is, he can
sense enough to know that Lortren tells the truth.
   "You'd rather I didn't?"
   "I'd rather you didn't," Dorrin confirms. "Besides, you know what the
rooms look like. Hegl doesn't."
   "Quiet, but sharp, isn't he, Oran?" observes Lortren.
   "Too sharp for his own good, I fear."
   "Good-bye," Dorrin says, shouldering his pack. Oran remains by the
table as the four leave.
   Lortren leads them down a corridor through another dark oak door and
onto another covered porch. "Over to that building." She points to a
two-storied, slate-roofed structure perhaps two hundred cubits uphill
with narrow windows.
   Dorrin counts the windows-ten on each level. If his estimate of the
width of the roof line is correct and there are rooms on both sides, the
building will hold forty students. "Is that the only place where students
live?"
   "Not the only one, but most students live there. There's no absolute
requirement for it, but it's a long walk from either Land's End or
Extina, and you will be kept rather busy." Lortren hurries down the steps
and along the stone-paved path toward the student housing. She walks
almost at a slow run.
   Dorrin stretches his own stride out to catch up. "How long will our
instruction take? Here, I mean."
   Lortren laughs, a short laugh that is half musical, half bark.
"Probably about half a year, but that depends on you."
   "How often do you start groups-"
   "Are there others-"
   Both Kadara and Dorrin break off in mid-question, but keep moving to
stay abreast of the black-clad magistra.
   "We allow new groups to start about every five or six eight-days. We
usually have three or four groups at different stages."
   Dorrin is certainly not the only one questioning the order or meaning
of Recluce-not if Lortren is training nearly eighty young people a year.
   The only sound is that of breathing, of booted feet upon stone, of the
wind through the trees in their orderly spacing throughout the grounds,
and of the intermittent and distant shhhhsss of the Eastern Ocean
breaking upon the white sands under the cliffs to the east of the Coastal
Highway that fronts the Academy.
   Lortren pauses at the top of the uncovered stone stoop before yet
another black oak door-this one to the student quarters. "Kadara, you can
wait here or follow us upstairs. Dorrin, your room is upstairs on the far
end."
   She opens the door, and Dorrin follows. After a moment, so does
Kadara. Hegl trails them up the stone steps and down the dim hallway to
the last doorway on the left. The magistra opens the door. "No locks.
There's a small privacy bolt." She points to the metal fastening and
steps aside to let Dorrin enter.
   Dorrin's room is not large, measuring no more than seven cubits long
and a little more than five wide and containing only a wardrobe, a narrow
desk with a single drawer, a chair for the desk, and a single bed not
much more than a thin pallet upon a wooden frame. The polished stone
floor is bare,
   "Very plain, but adequate."
   On the foot of the bed is a folded sheet and a heavy brown blanket.
   "At the fourth bell-that's also the announcement for dinner-meet me in
the library, and we'll go over the rest of the rules and your schedules.
By then, most of the others should have arrived. There are three others
here so far. Feel free to walk anywhere on the grounds. You may enter any
room with an open doorway, although I would suggest knocking first." She
pauses. "Any questions?"
   "What would happen if I just left?"
   "Nothing."
   "And if I go where I'm not supposed to?"
   Lortren snorts. "You can go anywhere you demon-well want to. If you
interrupt a class or someone's work, they'll naturally be upset. But
that's your problem. You could hurt yourself if you get careless in the
armory, but that's also your problem. There's nothing secret about this
place. I just don't want to explain all the rules ten separate times.
That's why we'll get together before dinner and do it all at once."
   The black-clad magistra turns to Kadara, who stands in the doorway.
"Now .. . let's get you to your room."
   As the sound of steps fades away, Dorrin stands alone in the small
room.
   Sniff. . .
   The redhead wrinkles his nose at the faint mustiness, then glances at
the desk which sits beneath the window. He has to lean across the wooden
writing top in order to slide the window open. As he straightens up, his
head brushes the oil lamp in the bracket affixed to the edge of the
window casement.
   Standing behind the desk, he looks through the open window toward the
east. While the trees on the far side of the coastal road block his view,
he knows that the Eastern Ocean is there, the breakers foaming on the
kays of soft white sand that stretch toward Land's End.
   He looks at the pack, then back out the window.
   Finally, he lifts the pack and begins to remove the clothing, first
the lighter shirts and the underclothing, before beginning to place them
in the wardrobe.
 
 
VIII
 
"I SUPPOSE I owe this to you." Kadara does not look at Dorrin as they
step onto the uncovered porch.
   "Me?"
   Kadara steps onto the stone walk to the library. "If you hadn't been
so interested in smithing, then father wouldn't have gotten to know your
father."
   "Maybe ..." How can neighbors not come to know each other?
   The stiff eastern breeze carries the tang of salt as it whips Kadara's
long red hair almost into Dorrin's face.
   "Do you mind if I join you?" The voice is mellow, deep, and youthfully
enthusiastic.
   Dorrin looks over his shoulder and up at the tall blond figure with
broad shoulders. "We're going to a meeting-"
   "I know. I'm new, too. That's why I thought you wouldn't mind. I'm
Brede." Brede wears gray trousers and a blue, long-sleeved farmer's shirt.
   "Dorrin." He continues to match strides with Kadara.
   "Kadara."
   "I'm from Lydkler, in the hills above the Feyn Valley. It's so small
no one-almost no one, anyway-has ever heard of it. Where are you two
from? Are you related?" Brede's words tumble out and are followed by a
broad and open smile. A gust of wind sprays fine blond hair around his
face, and a hand twice the size of Dorrin's absently brushes it back.
   "We're from Extina," admits Dorrin.
   "Brother and sister?"
   "Hardly," snaps Kadara.
   "Oh ... the red hair . . . I just thought..."
   "It's just coincidence-the red hair, I mean."
   A long shadow falls across the walk as a high puffy cloud scuds toward
the western horizon and blocks the low sun.
   "Oh . . . well. . . isn't Extina close to Land's End? It's not far
from here at all. I saw a road marker just before we got here..."
   Kadara's lips remain closed as she marches up under the covered porch
and reaches for the dark steel handle of the black oak door. Sunlight
returns to the Academy grounds.
   "No," admits Dorrin. "It's only about ten kays north."
   Clunk. .. The black oak door thuds shut in Dorrin's face.
   "She's a little unhappy, isn't she?" observes Brede.
   Dorrin opens the door.
   "You're both unhappy," reflects the young giant.
   "Neither one of us is exactly thrilled to be here." Dorrin pushes
through the doorway. Kadara opens the next door-the one to the library.
   "She isn't. That's for certain," adds Brede, an amused edge to the
deep-toned voice. "It won't change anything, though."
   Dorrin grins, warming to the big young man in spite of Brede's
forwardness. "Somehow, I don't think it will." He pauses to note the two
silver-bordered cork boards, one on each side of the foyer. Both contain
grids with times at the left, and boxes filled with a few words each. The
grids look similar to the appointment sheets kept by his father. Dorrin
crosses the foyer and continues along the short corridor toward the
library.
   After stepping into the library, Dorrin scans the tables, counting
three female and four male figures seated around two tables. No one is
seated around the window table. With a deep breath, he edges around the
table to the far left and sits next to Kadara. On his immediate left is
the wall. Brede settles in the last seat at the other table, grinning
briefly as Dorrin looks across the perhaps ten cubits that separate them.
   On the other side of Kadara sits a solid young woman, wearing a bright
orange-red blouse that does not suit her dark brown hair and pale
freckled face. Beside her sits a gangly youth with shoulder-length black
hair wearing a one-piece shapeless brown garment.
   "Greetings."
   Dorrin's study of the other students is interrupted by Lortren's
entrance. The white-haired and well-muscled woman stands beside the
vacant window table. The black eyes slash across the ten seated
youngsters. "I am Lortren. For better or worse, I will be working with
you over the next half-year to help you find out who and what you really
are."
   A brief smile flashes across her face. "You only think you know who
you are. If you really knew, you wouldn't be here. You all have talent,
of one sort or another, although we don't have any out-and-out chaos
wielders here."
   The dark eyes sweep the group again, and Dorrin shifts his weight in
the hard and unyielding wooden chair.
   "I won't bother introducing you to each other. You can work that out
among yourselves at dinner, or whenever. You are the red group. Your
schedule for the eight-day is posted on the board that says, clearly
enough, 'Red Group.' The board is in the south foyer. That's at the end
of the corridor behind me.
   "No one will remind you where you are to be, or when. Getting there is
your responsibility. Finding out where rooms and buildings are is also
your responsibility. There is a small map in the foyer next to each
board."
   "What if-" begins a broad young man with white-blond hair.
   "If you make an honest effort and have trouble in the beginning,
Loric, no one will say anything. If you continue to show a lack of
interest, you'll be asked to leave. Most people who leave here without
finishing the course end up somewhere in Nordla or Candar, depending on
the available shipping."
   "... that's exile ..." The whispered words are clear in the stillness.
   "That's correct," affirms Lortren. "For those of you who have not
figured it out, the Academy is all that stands between you and exile. In
even clearer terms, the Academy prepares you for a controlled exile from
which you can return-if you survive and if you choose."
   Dorrin senses the indrawn breaths and slow exhalations.
   "What kinds of things will we be doing?" Brede's overloud voice
crashes through the silence.
   "Your studies will concentrate on three things-the study of order and
chaos; the basic history and cultures of Candor, Nordla, Afrit, and
Recluce; and physical training. What is expected of you will be covered
in greater detail in your first meeting tomorrow morning." Lortren smiles
grimly. "Most of you will discover how little you really know." She
pauses. "Are there any other questions?"
   Dorrin frowns. Lortren will not answer more than she wants to, and she
has said all she plans to say.
   "Dinner is waiting. This one time, I'll show you the way. The meal
times are also on your schedule board." The black-clad magistra is
leaving by the time Dorrin stands.
   "Kadara ... ?" he begins, but she too has moved out of earshot of his
soft inquiry. He hastens after the others, ending up behind the girl in
the red-orange shirt, so close that his left boot catches her sandal.
   "I'm sorry."
   She turns with her hand on the door, revealing deep blue eyes that
twinkle for a moment. "That's all right. I'm Jyll. Who are you?"
   "Ah . .. Dorrin ..."
   She steps through the doorway, and Dorrin follows. Kadara is already
leaving the foyer. Several others, including Brede, stand by the schedule
board and puzzle over the schedule printed there. Jyll and Dorrin join
them.
   "Is 'Order' fundamentals?"
   "... how much physical training ..."
   Looking over the shoulder of the short and broad blond youth whose
question was cut short by Lortren, Dorrin scans the schedule, his eyes
drifting to a small map in the corner. He finds the dark oblong labeled
"Dining," then steps away. Jyll steps away with him.
   Outside he checks the walkways and starts uphill, north of the student
quarters, where two other figures are entering. "I think that's where
we're supposed to go."
   "I'm sure someone will tell us if it's not." Jyll tilts her head, and
her fine, dark brown hair, cut squarely at chin level, fluffs in the late
afternoon breeze, then settles back.
   Halfway to the dining building, Dorrin asks, "Where are you from?"
   "Land's End, like most of us."
   "Brede's from the Feyn area."
   "Brede?"
   "The big blond fellow with the deep voice."
   "He looks like a farmer or a Nordlan warrior."
   "He could probably be either, but he's sharper than he looks."
   Jyll smiles. "Why did they send you here?"
   "I kept telling my father that I wanted to build machines."
   "That's scarcely grounds for exile." She purses her lips. "Unless you
really just wanted to build them for yourself."
   Dorrin flushes, but steps under the overhanging porch roof of the
dining building and opens the door for Jyll.
   "Thank you."
   Dorrin also holds the second door. The room contains six large
circular wooden tables. At the far end of the room are two open doorways
through which Dorrin can see the kitchen. A long serving table is set
perhaps two cubits from the wall holding the doorways. Several of the
other students from the introductory meetings are loading plates from the
serving table.
   Lortren sits at one of the tables, along with a thin older man, two
other older students, Kadara, and the thin and gangly black-haired youth.
   "You know her?" asks Jyll, her eyes focused on Kadara.
   "Kadara? She is ... was . . . my neighbor." Dorrin forces a chuckle.
"Right now, she thinks it's my fault she's here."
   "Oh?" Jyll steps toward the serving table.
   Dorrin follows, his voice low. "I wanted to learn how to be a smith,
like her father, but I messed up some of his iron by turning it into
black steel. So he got to know my father better. When Hegl had trouble
with her, he asked my father what to do."
   "All right." The dark-haired girl grins. "I just thought I'd ask. Do
you like her?"
   Dorrin blushes again, caught off-guard by the question.
   "Never mind. I think you answered the question."
   Dorrin follows Jyll's example and picks up one of the heavy gray
plates. From the serving platters, he takes two slices of heavy dark
bread, some white cheese, a mostly ripe pearapple, and a large helping of
a stew that probably has too much pepper in it. He passes by the platter
of mixed greens, and pours himself a glass of redberry.
   Jyll, on the other hand, takes only the smallest helping of stew and
piles on the greens, sprinkling them with an apple vinegar. She sits at
one of the two empty tables, and Dorrin, after glancing at Lortren's
table, where the gangly youth is leaning toward Kadara, sits beside Jyll.
   He takes a sip of the redberry, warmer than he prefers. "If it's not
intruding . . . what's your family like?"
   She finishes crunching a mixture of celery and sliced fennel before
answering. "My father is a trader in wools. My mother was a singer from
Suthya. I don't have any brothers or sisters, yet."
   Dorrin frowns. The words imply that her mother is dead, and that her
father has another wife who may yet have children. "I take it that was a
little difficult."
   "It was fun growing up, even if I only had a nurse. Father took me on
his trips to Freetown. I had my own horses, and he even let me learn
blades from one of the retired Guards. What about you?"
   "My life was much less adventuresome. My father is an air wizard, and
my mother is a healer. I've never been much farther from home than here,
at least in person." Dorrin takes a spoonful of the hot stew, followed by
a mouthful of the black bread.
   "In person?"
   "... mmmhhh ..." He waves a hand and swallows. "When you follow the
winds, you send your mind out. Not that I'm very good at it. That's the
problem. Father wants me to work at being an air wizard, when I'm
probably a better healer or a smith than an air wizard." Dorrin sees
Kadara's eyes flicker from him to Jyll. The redhead's face is impassive.
Why should Kadara should be upset? She was the one who marched off and
left him.
   "Do you mind if we join you?" asks a petite strawberry-blond girl with
pale green eyes. With her stand two others, plates in hand-a brown-haired
youth as tall as Brede and a slender black-haired girl taller than Kadara.
   "No . . . please do . . ." offers Dorrin.
   "We should get to know each other. I'm Jyll."
   "Dorrin."
   "I'm Alys," responds the strawberry blond.
   "Shendr," adds the brown-haired big youth.
   "Lisabet." The tall girl looks away from Dorrin's direct appraisal and
sets down her plate with a clunk.
   "This isn't much better than peasant fare." Alys slides her chair up
to the table.
   "But there's plenty," mumbles Shendr with a full mouth.
   Lisabet eats slowly from a plate filled, like Jyll's, mainly with
greens, cheese, and fruits. Her big hazel-green eyes seem unfocused.
   Dorrin looks away from the tall girl and takes another spoonful of
stew.
   "... really can't belief that they can get away with this . . . You
think a thought of your own, and they want to throw you off the island
..." Alys continues talking to Shendr as Shendr continues shoveling in
his meal.
   Dorrin munches on the not-quite-ripe pearapple.
   "You never finished telling why your father sent you here," prompts
Jyll.
   "I guess because he feels that all machines are linked to chaos. I
think that you can blend order and machines, but everyone thinks that
will lead to chaos. I know it won't, but they don't listen."
   Dorrin wonders what part her father's new wife played in Jyll's
departure. "I take it your father found another woman?"
   "Father? Let's say that she found him. She's also a singer, of sorts,
and very devoted to -him." Jyll takes the last bite of greens.
   Dorrin munches through the last of the black bread.
   "Where are you from?" asks Shendr, from above a plate that is so clean
the gray glaze of the earthenware almost glistens. "I've met Jyll before."
   "Extina," offers Dorrin.
   "I haven't met her," says Alys, adding quickly, "I'm from Alaren."
   "I've spent most of my time on Recluce in Land's End," answers Jyll.
   "That's a strange way of putting it. Have you traveled a lot?"
    "I've been to Freetown and Hydolar and Tyrhavven," ex-plains Jyll.
   Lisabet continues to chew slowly on the remaining greens before her.
   Dorrin wonders at the odd grouping of the so-called students. Alys and
Jyll both seem from a somewhat indulged back-ground, yet Brede and Shendr
seem almost common in background. Not dull, but common. And Kadara is
bright and willful, but neither indulged nor privileged. Finally, he
speaks. "Lisabet, why do you think.you are here?"
   The tall girl finishes her mouthful of greens, then takes a sip of
redberry from her mug. "I would suspect that all of us are present
because in our inner selves we do not accept the way things are on
Recluce."
   "Rebels? I'm certainly no rebel," asserts Alys. "I wouldn't want to
live anywhere else. I mean, in Hamor, they lock you up after you're
married ..."
   Lisabet continues with the greens on her plate while Alys expounds on
the oppression of women in the Hamorian Empire. Dorrin takes another
mouthful of stew.
 
 
IX
 
The walled city that serves as the key to the Westhorns shall not fall
nor sleep so long as her ruler holds fast to the Great Keep, and that
keep remains girded in three layers of stone.
 
The fields of Gallos, the groves of Kyphros, and the highlands of
Analeria shall support the same great ruler; they shall support that
ruler until they are sundered by the mountains of fire.
 
A man with a sword of white shall lift hills from the earth; he shall set
a road of stone down their spine, yet none shall see that road, nor ride
it, save the servants of chaos.
 
From the blackness of the stars shall come one like an ancient angel,
building unto himself tools such as those forged by Nylan that first
vanquished the reborn masters of light, and he shall be rejected by chaos
and by order; neither shall give him refuge.
 
He shall make a city of black stone in a place where none dwell, north of
the sun and east of chaos; and the hand of every power shall be against
him; his tools shall prevail and shall anchor the course of order.
 
Yet chaos will prevail west of the black city, north and south of the
sun; and those in white shall serve light and travel the hidden highways;
they shall attain richness and every favor for their pleasure.
 
Those of the black city and in that place where it dwells shall remain
girded; their ships shall travel the oceans great and small, and they
shall prosper so long as they remain in their land.
 
For in time, the double sun will wax in the high sky and sunder the
servants of light; their towers shall melt like wax upon a forge; and
their highways shall be lost; men and women will revile their names, even
as seekers quest for the knowledge of light.
 
Never shall darkness nor light prevail, for one must balance the other;
yet many of light will seek to banish darkness, and a multitude shall
seek to cloak the light; but the balance will destroy all who seek the
full ends of darkness and light.
 
Then shall a woman rule the parched fields and dry groves of the reformed
Kyphros and the highlands of Analeria and the enchanted hills; and all
matters of wonders shall come to pass...
                        The Book of Ryba
                        Canto DL [The Last]
                        Original Text
 
 
X
 
THE SECOND BELLS still ring as Dorrin steps inside the classroom for the
introductory session of the red group. Only Edil is missing, but then
Dorrin has just seen the gangly youth hastily putting away his guitar.
Lortren stands at the window, her back to the eight students on the
pillows.
   Dorrin takes his place on one of the three remaining pillows, the one
next to Lisabet. As he does, Edil, a sheepish look on his long thin face,
tumbles through the doorway. Edil scrambles for the nearest pillow,
nearly throwing himself into place beside, Kadara.
   Lortren turns. Her face is composed. "I will begin with a warning."
She smiles wryly. "No ... the warning is strictly for your benefit. I
would suggest that what you learn here be shared only with others who
have a similar background and under-standing. This is only a suggestion,
but it could make things a little less troublesome.
   "Second, there are no tests. You may learn as you please. If you
choose not to learn, at some point you will be exiled. If you work hard
and it takes longer for you than others, then you may have that time, at
least until it becomes apparent that you have learned what you can.
   "Third, if you have questions, ask them. Otherwise, I and the others
will assume that you understand what you have been taught.
   "And last. . . any violence, except as instructed in physical training
any theft, or any other form of personal, physical, or intellectual
dishonesty will result in immediate exile."
   Dorrin looks at Lortren. "Could you define intellectual dishonesty,
magistra? That seems awfully vague."
   The magistra grins briefly. "It is vague. We do not have time or
resources to deal with lying. What that amounts to is a requirement for
complete and honest answers to any questions you are asked by staff
members. It also means doing the best you can to learn. As a matter of
principle, I would also suggest the same honesty between yourselves.
There is a difference between honesty and tact." Her eyes range across
the group. "If you look like the demon-dawn, don't ask someone here how
good you look." A few smiles greet her sardonic comment.
   "Any other questions? No? Then, I will begin with a slightly different
version of the history of Recluce, highlighting a few points which bear
on why you are here."
   Dorrin shifts his weight on the heavy brown pillow.
   "... common notion is that the Founders were wise, loving, and gentle
people, that Creslin was a gentleman among gentlemen, a wizard who only
used his power for good, and totally devoted to Megaera. Likewise, the
stories say that Megaera was beautiful, talented, nearly as good with a
blade as a Westwind Guard, utterly devoted to and in love with Creslin,
and possessed of one of the greatest understandings of order ever seen.
In a way, these are all true-but more important, they are all false."
   A low hum crosses the room.
   "Creslin was perhaps one of the greatest blades of his generation, and
his trail from Westwind to Recluce did not drip blood-it gushed blood. At
first, every problem he tried to solve with a blade. He even killed a
soldier in cold blood because the man threatened Megaera-who was well
able to take care of herself. He was strong enough to be able to use
order to kill-and he did. More than several thousand died under the
storms he called. Of course, after his feats of destruction he was
violently ill, often puking all over his own men."
   The silence of the ten young people is absolute. "As for Megaera, the
sweet angel of light-she first was a chaos wielder who threatened her
sister's rule of Sarronnyn and who killed a good score with the fire of
chaos before renouncing chaos for order. She did not renounce chaos
willingly, either, but fought it the entire way, submitting to the rule
of order only to save her life. She took up the blade with the sole aim
of besting Creslin and proving that she could kill as effectively as he
could.
   "And our revered founders-what of their harmonious life together? They
squabbled and fought the whole way from Montgren to Recluce. They refused
to share bedrooms until well beyond a year after they were married, and
the lightnings and storms of their final fight were seen from dozens of
kays away. Admittedly, they seemed to have settled into a less
conflicting relationship thereafter, but I can guarantee it was scarcely
one of sweetness and light portrayed by your teachers or conveyed by the
Brotherhood."
   Lortren jabs a finger at Edil. "What does this tale tell you?"
   "... Ah .. . that things are not always what they seem ..." "You can
do better than that." The magistra fixes her eyes upon Jyll. "You,
merchant princess, what does the story tell you?"
   "I think you are out to shock us with the truth-"
   "Be very careful when you use the word 'truth,' child. Facts and truth
are not exactly the same." Lortren looks at Dorrin.
   "You, toy-maker. What do you think the purpose of my story is?"
   Dorrin tries to gather his scattered thoughts. "Besides trying to
shock us, you're trying to show that you, and I'd guess the world as
well, doesn't care very much who or where we came from, and that we have
lived a very . . . sheltered life."
   Lortren smiles, coldly. "That's not too bad, for a start. All of that
is correct. I am also trying to make you think. To reason, if you will."
   Dorrin thinks about how cool and detached Lortren appears, and wonders
whether his father has seen this side of the magistra. Then he recalls
how carefully the weather wizard had addressed Lortren.
   "Remember this. There are two sides to reality. There is what is, and
there is what people believe. Seldom are they exactly the same. Why not?"
This time the magistra's eyes fix on Tyren, the shaggy and brown-haired
young poet who had attempted to charm Jyll the night before after dinner.
   "Is it . . . because . . . people find what is ... real... I mean,
what is ... I mean, is it too hard for them to believe in it?"
   "That is correct." Lortren's voice softens. "All of us find some
aspect of reality too hard to see as it is-even when we know better. That
usually isn't a problem when it remains personal, but it can be a problem
when a village or a duchy all accepts unreality."
   Dorrin's eyes flicker to the window and to the deep green-blue and
fast-moving white clouds. His thoughts move to the question of machines
and the unthinking belief by his father and Lortren that such devices are
of chaos.
   "You do not agree, Dorrin?"
   "No ... I mean, yes. I agree, but I was thinking that even people on
Recluce might have beliefs like that."
   "I just gave you some, didn't I? About the Founders?"
   Dorrin nods.
   "You look doubtful. Did you have something else in mind?"
   "That's different," Dorrin stumbles, realizing he does not want to
state the machine argument, but he is unable to find another.
   "What about the rest of you?" Lortren's eyes sweep the others.
   Finally, the tall dark-haired girl-Lisabet-clears her throat, then
begins in a voice so quiet that Dorrin leans toward her. "Maybe Dorrin is
saying that what we believe about the past and what we believe about
today are two different kinds of beliefs."
   "Huhhh ..." The involuntary grunt comes from Shendr.
   "I'm not sure it matters," answers Lortren. "Whatever the cause,
people have trouble accepting certain actions, events, or behaviors. Part
of what I hope to teach you is to learn your own weaknesses and to guard
against them."
   Dorrin tries not to frown. He is more interested in learning how to
get other people to change their minds about their weaknesses than in
learning about any more of his own weaknesses.
   "Now," continues Lortren, "why is the difference between what we have
heard about the Founders and the sort of people they actually were
important?"
   Dorrin isn't sure he cares. People are people, and others believe what
they want to. Still, he watches the magistra and listens.
 
 
XI
 
"WHAT is THE social basis for the Legend?"
   The social basis for the Legend? What does the Legend have to do with
understanding anything? Dorrin looks around the small room. The Academy
of Useless Knowledge and Unnecessary Violence indeed-but it is better
than the alternative of immediate exile.
   Kadara twirls a short strand of red hair around the index finger of
her right hand, her forehead faintly creased. Brede shifts his weight on
the battered leather cushion that serves as his seat. Arcol swallows and
glances toward the half-open window and the morning fog outside.
   "Come now, Mergan." Lortren's low voice carries an edge. "What is the
Legend?"
   "Well... it says that the women Angels fled and came to the Roof of
the World. They founded Westwind and the Guard and the western kingdoms
..." The pudgy girl looks at the polished graystone floor tiles.
   The magistra clears her throat. "You come from Recluce, not from Hamor
or Nordla. You should certainly know the Legend. We'll try ... Dorrin,
what was unique about the Angels who fled to earth-to our world, if you
will?"
   Dorrin licks his lips. "Unique? Well . . . they fled from Heaven,
rather than fight a meaningless war with the Demons of Light."
   "That's spelled out in the Legend. But ..." She draws out the word.
"What was supposedly unique about those particular fallen Angels?"
   Kadara lifts a hand.
   "Yes, Kadara."
   "Weren't they all women?"
   "That is indeed what the Legend says. Why is that patently incorrect?"
   "Incorrect?" stumbles the normally silent Arcol.
   "Ah, yes . . . incorrect. Why?" repeats Lortren.
   As the silence draws out, Dorrin answers. "Because they had children,
I suppose, but..."
   "You were going to say something else, Dorrin?"
   "No, magistra."
   "You were thinking something else."
   "Yes," he admits, wishing he had not.
   "And?"
   Dorrin sighs. "According to the Legend, the Angels had weapons that
could shatter suns and whole worlds. Why couldn't they have had machines
that allowed women to have children without men?"
   "Perhaps they did have such machines in Heaven, Dorrin . . . but ...
if they had such machines, where are they? Even more important, how did
these powerful Angels, who had the supposed ability to shatter worlds,
end up in a simple stone hold on a mountaintop with no weapons beyond the
shortsword?"
   "They renounced machines as the mark of chaos," asserts Arcol, the
round face and pug nose somehow incongruous with the dogged belief in the
Legend.
   "Ah, yes, the answer of the true believer."
   Arcol flushes, but his chin squares. "Destruction is the mark of
chaos, and the Angels fled to avoid becoming the tools of chaos."
   "Shall we consider that?" asks Lortren. Why bother? Even Dorrin knows
that machines do not last forever, and that anything built long centuries
ago would have broken or been reused for the metals or made into simpler
artifacts-or even lost under the snows and ice of the Roof of the World.
   "What's the point of it all, magistra?" The voice is Brede's, the deep
mellow tones more appropriate to a graybeard than to a fresh-faced and
muscular youth with hazel eyes. "I mean, some women wrote down that they
escaped from a bunch of crazy men. They built a kingdom on a mountain
top. They used their blades to chop up anyone who got in their way and
claimed that the reason was that men were all weak and silly."
   L "Blasphemer..." mutters Arcol.
   Kadara's mouth quirks as if she suppresses a grin.
    Lortren does in fact grin, but the expression is more the look on the
face of a hill cat who has discovered a meal than a look of amusement.
"Brede, you raise an interesting question. Do, by chance, you happen to
know the only country in Candar that had the same government and the same
power from its inception until its destruction at the hands of the White
Wizards?"
   "That has to be Westwind, or you wouldn't have asked the question."
   Dorrin wishes that he could think as quickly as Brede, or handle a
blade as deftly, or ... He catches his thoughts. Wishing will do no good.
   "And what is the only country in the world that truly followed the
Legend?" Lortren pursues.
   "Westwind." Brede is matter-of-fact. "That only proves the Legend held
together a country based on female might of arms. It doesn't prove the
truth or untruth of the Legend. And, in the end, the white magic won out."
   "Where did Creslin come from? And why do you enjoy freedom from chaos?"
   "Westwind. But he was rebelling against the Legend."
   Lortren smiles, faintly. "Brede is correct in his reasoning- so far as
it goes. We will deal with that later, however. Back to the question of
the moment-why is the Legend patently untrue on its face?" The black eyes
scan the room. "Kadara?"
   The redhead with the clean profile and clear skin nods momentarily.
"Unless they had special wizardry or special machines, they couldn't have
had children. If they had chaos wizardry, that doesn't fit, and the
Legend doesn't mention machines or men..."
   "So you are saying, in effect, that the Legend lies by omission?"
   Kadara nods.
   "For now, that is enough about the truth of the Legend. We've avoided
the Legend's social basis, although Brede spelled it out rather bluntly."
   The blond youth looks at the floor, as if displeased at the attention.
   Kadara smiles. Dorrin swallows as he watches her eyes light on Brede.
   "Why is the Legend effective?" Lortren points at Mergan.
   Mergan glances helplessly at the floor, at the window, and finally
back at the white-haired magistra before mumbling, "I don't know,
magistra."
   "Think about it," suggests Lortren. "Arcol is sitting there ready to
strangle Brede, nearly twice his size, because Brede doubts the truth of
the Legend. Westwind was the longest single continuing stable government
in Candar, or in the world, and the only one which was guided since its
beginning by the Legend. The next most stable and long-running is that of
Recluce, founded by someone raised in the Legend. What do those things
tell you?"
   "I don't know." Mergan looks at the stones in front of her leather
pillow-seat.
   "Dorrin?"
   "Is that because people believe in it?"
   "Correct. Any government supported by a deep and widely-held belief
will remain effective and stable so long as that doctrine remains widely
believed. Why did Westwind hold to the Legend, despite the clear factual
inaccuracies?"
   "Because the Legend worked for Westwind." Brede's polite words are
almost sardonic, but not quite.
   Dorrin shakes his head. Beliefs! Machines and tools are much more
solid than all the talk about governments and cultures. Even weapons are
more solid than beliefs. He wishes he were back in his room, where he
could work on the drawings of the new engine. His eyes turn toward the
red-headed young woman, whose eyes, in turn, are upon the athletic and
noised Brede.
   "... then why are the Whites so successful. .. ?"
   Dorrin purses his lips. Lortren doesn't understand, either, though she
knows more than his father. Beliefs and blades are not all that can move
the world, yet how can he prove that?
   "... most people in Fairhaven are pleased with their lives. Why? Tell
me why that might be, Arcol?"
   Dorrin looks toward Arcol, whose mouth is open like a dying fish. He
ignores the glimmer in Kadara's eyes as she watches Brede, who, in turn,
disregards that warmth bestowed upon him.
 
 
XII
 
"WHY DO I have to study weapons?" protests the wiry youth.
   "First, we live in an uncertain world," says the muscular white-haired
woman. "Second, because the skills will improve your physical condition
and mental processes. And third, because you will need them in Candar."
   "What? I'm not going to Candar. It's dangerous there."
   The white-haired woman smiles, and her eyes twinkle. "You're not going
today, but you will go-along with a few others, like your Mend Kadara."
   "Why is Kadara going?"
   "For the same reason you are."
   "Because we don't understand what a wonderful place we live in?"
   "Not exactly. Because you don't understand why it is a wonderful
place."
   "But I do."
   "Then why do you use every free minute to sketch machines or build
models of things that do not fit into our world?"
   "But they could. The ones I think about are the ones you could use
with order. I mean, you could forge them with black steel-"
   "Dorrin . . . listen to what you're saying. You're admitting that
there is no place for them. Who could build these machines? What smith
could handle that much black iron? And who could use them?"
   "You could," Dorrin states.      *
   "But why? Our fields are more bountiful than any in the world. Our
healers keep us healthy and happy. Our stone and timber homes are solid
and warm and proof against all elements. Our crafts are becoming known as
the finest on the Eastern Ocean. And chaos is excluded."
   "But things could be so much better."
   "Better in what way? Would your machines make people happier or
healthier? Would they make the crops stronger? The trees straighter or
taller? Or would they require ripping open the mountains for more iron?
Or digging through fertile fields for the coal that lies beneath?"
   "But it doesn't have to be that way."
   "Listen to your own words, Dorrin. Each time that I have said
something, you have said 'but.' Doesn't that say that you believe my
words, but feel that the machines are worth more than the pain they will
create?"
   Dorrin cannot dispute her, yet something is missing, something he
cannot exactly name or place. "It isn't that way at all, but I cannot
tell you why."
   Lortren shrugs. "You may be right. Darkness knows that you've taught
me a thing or two. But-and it's my turn to admit things-you cannot object
to what is. You must find the understanding within you not just to build
your machines, but to ensure that they improve our way of life. You will
never gain that understanding here on Recluce."
   Dorrin looks helplessly at the desk in the corner of the study, with
the row of texts. The faintest of breezes bearing the tang of the Eastern
Ocean cools the dampness on his forehead.
   "Now ... off to the practice hall. You need to start on your weapons
training."
   Dorrin's steps are slow as he leaves, Lortren's eyes hard upon his
back. Even more deliberate are his steps into the room to which Lortren's
words have directed him.
   "You're Dorrin?" asks the guard. She stands next to a small table and
chair, and her dark eyes pin Dorrin to a spot just inside the dark oak
door. The redhead nods, his eyes going past her to the racks of weapons
that line the space, which is less than twenty cubits square.
   "Well . . . the first thing is to wander around and pick a weapon that
feels right." The guard offers a lopsided smile that may conceal humor.
   "I'm not particularly fond of weapons."
   "If you're serious about traveling in Candar, you're going to have to
learn something about how to defend yourself," says the thin woman in
black. She gestures toward a rack of weapons on the armory wall. "We can
give you some basic training in any of those."
   Dorrin steps toward the arrayed bows, blades, and other as-
   L sorted tools to deliver force upon other individuals.
   "Try a blade first."
   Dorrin takes another step. He recognizes the shortsword that many of
the Brotherhood prefer, especially the women, perhaps because of the
traditions established from their Westwind heritage. Or perhaps because
the blade works.
   His left hand grasps a plain hilt, and he lifts the blade. Somehow,
the coldness of the metal, the feel of the edge-whatever the reason, the
blade feels oily, almost unclean. He studies the weapon for a time, not
only with his eyes, but with his senses, as a healer might study a sick
person. Shivering, he sets it in the rack. Farther along he sees a battle
axe. His eyes pass over the double-bladed weapon, as well as the
broadsword, and the other bladed weapons, for his senses register the
same uncleanliness.
   At the end is a long staff, the wood polished smooth, although worn in
places. His finger tips touch the wood, then grasp it. He nods as he
picks up the staff.
   "You a healer?" asks the guard. "Should have told me. Most healers
have trouble with the edged weapons."
   Dorrin wants to protest that he is not a healer, but stops. He is
nothing in particular, but a healer comes closest. That, or less than an
apprentice smith. At least, that is what he thinks, and thinking so does
not give him the throbbing in his skull that misstatements and evasions
do.
   "That's as close as anything, but that's the problem."
   "Oh ... one of those ..." nods the guard sagely, as if she has seen
his kind before.
   Dorrin finds himself flushing.
   She gives an embarrassed grin in return. "I didn't mean it badly.
Besides, a staff is a better weapon for most travelers."
   "Why would that be?" He recalls the deadly feel of the blades.
   "Most people don't think of it as a real weapon, for one thing. For
another, you can generally hold off two blades if you know what you're
doing. In time, a good blade can get you, though.
   "Then you must be a very good blade to know so much."
   The guard flushes. "You start here at the second morning bell."
   "That's all I do today?"
   "That's all. You'll make up for it on the days to come."
 
 
XIII
 
THE CHILL BREEZE riffles through the youth's hair, and, to the east, when
the wind dies, he can hear the winter waves crashing on the eastern
shore. In his left hand is a small length of spruce, in his right, a
knife.
   Whiicckk, whiccckk. . .
   The low clouds seethe, grayness.moving within and around grayness, but
no rain has fallen since they rolled over the Academy after the second
bell.
   "Hello..."
   At the sound of the bright voice, he looks up.
   Kadara, wearing the faded blue of her heavy exercise clothes, stands
by the black stone wall where he sits. "Carving again?"
   "I don't have a forge, and I get tired of reading all these
theoretical arguments about the basis of order and the inherent conflict
between . . ." He flicks off another bit of wood. "I still don't believe
that machines and metals are the tools of chaos ..."
   Kadara grins. "They aren't. A sword is a tool, and they teach us
bladework. Woodcrafters use saws and chisels." She brushes a wisp of the
short hair back over her right ear.
   Dorrin looks into the blue eyes of the redheaded girl he has known
ever since he can remember. "It's just the complex ones, anything that
might use something besides water or muscles to operate." He opens his
hand. "See?"
   Kadara frowns at the object which resembles three carved triangles
joined at one end. "What is that?"
   "This? It's a fan, a mechanical one. I got the idea from a drawing
showing the Imperial Court at Hamor. This is just the blade, but if you
put a handle here, and ran it through something like an axle hoop, you
could turn it with your hand. If you put a simple gear here ..."
   "Dorrin ..."
   "Sorry. I know-you half-believe that garbage about machines." He
lowers the carving.
   "I'm going to the practice hall. Do you want to come? Gelisel says-"
   "I know. I need more practice. A beggarman does better with a staff,
and I make a one-armed, white-haired bandit look like a master blade."
   Kadara shrugs her broad shoulders. "Practice would help, Dorrin."
   "I know." He sheathes the knife, rucking the length of spruce into the
pack lying on the stone beside him.. "I know."
   "What are you working on?"
   "Just an idea."
   "I won't tell anyone."
   "Even Brede?"
   "Dorrin." The lilt leaves her voice.
   "Sorry . . .but Brede . .."
    "Brede is a good person. He'd never say anything. It's not as though
I'd tell him anyway. He feels everyone should do what they want as long
as no one gets hurt." Her stride lengthens as the paved stone walk
steepens. "But don't ask me to keep things from him."
   "I'm sorry." Dorrin takes a deep breath. "It's just that Lortren ...
well, she's not very happy about my toys."
   "Toys?"
   "That's what she calls them."
   "Hmmmm ... I hadn't thought of that."
   Dorrin has to stretch his legs to keep up with Kadara, though she is
only slightly taller than he is. "Thought of what?"
   "Why don't you just make toys?"
   "I don't want to make toys."
   Kadara stops. "You're not only stubborn, Dorrin. You're slow. You make
models of machines. What's the difference between toys and models except
the name?"
   "But that's not honest."
   "Your toys, models, machines-even I know they're not chaotic or evil.
So call them something else if it will make Lortren happy."
   "I suppose you're right." Dorrin purses his lips.
   "I promised Brede I'd spar with him. You want to join us?"
   "All right. It probably won't be much of a challenge, though. You're
both a lot better."
   "Maybe we'll try staffs. Gelisel has started us with them."
   "Why*"
   "She says that you should learn something about all the other weapons."
   "Kadara!"
   Both Dorrin and Kadara look up at the sound of Brede's voice.
 
 
XIV
 
JESLEK WALKS ALONG the edge of the hot springs, wrinkling his nose at the
faint odor of sulfur. Finally, he brushes the snow from a small boulder
and seats himself less than a dozen cubits from the springs.
   The White Wizard frowns as he sends his perceptions into the water,
tracing the warmth and the fire of chaos that feeds the springs. His
thoughts flow ever deeper into the rock and heat beneath.
   From under a pine that has been twisted and buffeted by the mountain
winds until only the limbs on the southern side have retained needles,
two White guards survey the cloudy afternoon.
   The gray-bearded one glances from the rocky hillside behind the ice-
and snow-strewn expanse back along the road leading down to the plains of
Gallos. ' This one's a great one, light take him!" His voice is barely
above a whisper.
   The woman, her hair under the cold cap shorter than the man's, smiles.
"You don't like the great wizards much, do you?"
   "Demon's flame, no. They do great deeds, and most everyone else gets
scorched. We're still paying for the great deeds of Creslin and Jenred
the Traitor."
   As if to underscore his words, the ground trembles.
   Both guards look toward Jeslek, who stands beside the boulder. Steam
rises from the spring, yet the heat wells away from the figure in white,
circling upward into a funnel that spreads into a white cloud.
   Jeslek smiles, and his eyes flash.
   The two guards exchange glances. The man takes a deep breath and
shrugs; the woman smiles a smile of resignation.
 
 
XV
 
"THERE'S THE RYESSA, " announces Gelisel, her long legs slowing.
   The harbor spreads out beneath them-the stone piers, the round-sided
ship, and the dark green swells beyond the breakwater, swells that surge
over the rough stones with alarming frequency. The ship seems toylike
against the unending expanse of the ocean beyond the northern tip of
Recluce.
   While he has certainly been to Land's End before, even eaten in the
old tavern reputedly built by the Founders, he had not come before with
the idea that he would be leaving Recluce. "It's rather small."
   "Nonsense," snaps the arms-master. "You should see the paintings of
the old Montgren sloops the Founders used. Or what the Hydlen
free-traders use."
   Brede pulls at his longish chin.
   Kadara looks from her tall and muscular blond companion to the shorter
and wiry redhead. "They do this all the time?"
   "As regularly as a sand glass is changed. In the summer they trade the
northern ports, and in the winter they alternate between Lydiar and
Esalia." Gelisel clears her throat. "Come on. They're expecting you, but
there's no sense in lagging."
   "Will Edil and Jyll and the others take a ship like this?" asks Dorrin.
   "The next group is bound for Brysta. No-they'll probably be on a
Nordlan brig. That's a bigger ship, but then, they'll have to cross the
entire Eastern Ocean." Gelisel strides down the last kays of the northern
terminus of the High Road. The fitted stones of the road stretch nearly
six hundred kays from Land's End in the northeast to the black cliffs at
the southwest tip of the island continent of Recluce.
   Dorrin again thinks of the Founders' insistence on the High Road, even
when southern Recluce had been a worthless desert before the rains came.
He is willing to think about anything except the trip ahead.
   "Come on, Dorrin." The red-headed girl's right hand touches the hilt
of her blade, but she does not look back. Brede's steps are easy, not
even hurried as he matches the long strides of the arms-master.
   Dorrin, on the other hand, has been forcing his shorter legs the
entire walk from the coach stop at Alaren. The next wagon to the harbor
would not have been until noon, and Gelisel had insisted that the five -
kay walk wasn't that far, especially considering the traveling the three
have before them.
   On each side of the inclined road that angles toward the old keep rise
two- and three-story black stone dwellings, mainly of merchants and
traders serving the spice and wool trade. The dark slate roofs appear
silver in the bright but cool midmorning spring sun.
   "... nyah, nyah, nyahhhh . . . Ferly is a White .. . Ferly is a
White..."
   Dorrin winces at the children's taunting that drifts over the
courtyard walls they pass, wondering who Ferly is and what the poor child
has done.
   ". .. nyah, nyah . . . Ferly is a White ..."
   ". . .am not. ..AM NOT!"
   Dorrin hurries to catch up again.
   . . . clickedy. . . click. . .
   He steps to the left for a Brotherhood courier on a black mare. The
young woman flashes a smile at Dorrin as she continues uphill. Dorrin
smiles in return, although the dark-haired rider is already ten cubits
behind him on her way toward Extina or Reflin or any number of towns on
the High Road.
   The four reverse direction as the port road swings through a wide
descending turn away from the old black keep on the hillside and back
toward the main pier of the harbor. The old keep still flies a replica of
the Founders' original ensign-the crossed rose and blade-rather than the
current banner-the starker black ryall on a white background.
   Dorrin's nose twitches at the scent of Winterspice and brinn from the
narrow stone warehouses. For generations, Land's End has smelled of
spices, for only the master healers of Recluce can use their talents to
grow all the world's spices in one country, spices both to preserve food
and to preserve health and life itself.
   The calls of a few children, the conversations between older residents
on the small hillside square below the wide turn in the road, and the
muffled sounds from within shops and warehouses are carried on the spring
breeze.
   "... won't see a port this clean again ..."
   Dorrin misses some of Gelisel's comments as his eyes take in the
statue of the Founders in the square downhill from the road.
   "Why?" asks Kadara.
   "Only Fairhaven is this clean. Even Lydiar has garbage and slop in the
back alleys."
   Brede shakes his uncovered head, his blond hair streaming in the
breeze.
   "This way .. ."
   The road straightens and heads straight north, arrowing toward the
main pier of the harbor. A hundred cubits or so later, they walk past an
inn-The Founders' Inn, according to the sign. Dorrin has eaten there once
before, with his father and his brother Kyl.
   "There's the Founders' Inn," announces Gelisel. "The food's not bad,
but the prices are damned high."
   "Hmmm..." offers Brede.
   Kadara keeps her eyes fixed on the harbor ahead.
   Dorrin follows the other three over the time-polished stones toward
the only ship on the pier. His eyes drop to the dark green water, then
rise to the plank gangway, where a single sailor, wearing a short blade,
lounges in an imitation of guard duty. As the man sees Gelisel's black
tunic, he scrambles to attention, waiting as the four travelers approach.
   "Magistra . . . you are expected."
   "Thank you." Gelisel starts up the gangway.
   Dorrin pauses, again studying the rounded sides of the coaster, his
eyes catching the name plate under the bowsprit- Ryessa. The name is
familiar, although he cannot say why it is.
   "Come on. You need to meet the ship's master."
   As Dorrin follows the other three up the wooden plank and onto the
smooth planks of the deck, the ship seems to rise slightly with the
swells that the breakwater cannot totally damp.
 
 
XVI
 
BREDE IS STILL snoring when Dorrin pries his eyes open. In the top bunk,
Kadara's breathing is far softer, unheard against the background of the
ship's noises.
   The wiry redhead eases himself out of the bunk and into his heavy
brown trousers and boots. The shirt follows. As quietly as possible, he
leaves the closet-sized stateroom and clambers up the ladder and onto the
rain-splashed deck. Although the rain no longer falls, the spring day is
dismal under rolling gray clouds and a brisk wind. He shivers as he
passes various members of the crew who are already working-adjusting
various lines and cables, coiling a rope, and disassembling a winch.
   With the hope that his stomach will remain settled, Dorrin ducks into
the deck-level cabin that is the Ryessa's mess and eases onto one of the
oak benches at the empty table. One of the ship's officers sits alone at
the other table, a heavy brown mug in his hand.
   Dorrin slides onto the bench at the empty table. On one platter before
him are hard rolls and a wedge of cheese. On the other are dried
fruits-apples, red currants, peaches. A pitcher sits inside the bracket
fastened to the tabletop. Dorrin looks again, realizing that the platters
are similarly constrained and that the heavy brown earthenware has raised
edges, presumably to keep the food from sliding off. The two tables are
attached to the floor, as are the backless benches.
   The redhead takes a cup from the rack and pours the tea into it. Even
with a healthy dollop of honey, he winces, both at the lukewarm
temperature and the bitter taste. He dips a roll into the tea, hoping
that it will at least soften the stale and hard crust.
   He forces himself to eat slowly. The Ryessa's mate never meets his
eyes. Clearly, the crew has eaten earlier, much earlier. Just as Dorrin
finishes his second biscuit and some dried peaches and is thinking about
leaving, Kadara arrives, with Brede a step behind.
   "You were up early," she observes.
   " I couldn't sleep any longer."
   "Hmmphhh ..." grumbles Brede.
   Kadara sits heavily, but not quite so heavily as Brede, and then pours
the dark tea into two brown earthenware mugs. "Honey?" she asks.
   Brede shakes his head. "No."
   Dorrin downs the last of his mug, looking around for a place to leave
it.
   "Don't leave just yet, Dorrin."
   "It's not as though I have anywhere to go." Dorrin looks at the heavy
planks of the deck. Finally, he sets his mug down and refills it,
following the tea with an enormous dollop of honey from the server, an
earth-brown squat pitcher that matches neither the mugs nor the teapot.
   "You're something," begins Kadara, her voice rising. "You stay on deck
until we're asleep. Then you come in and wake us up, and then you get up
with the sun and do the same thing."
   Brede sips his tea and looks blankly at the table before him.
   Kadara takes a deep swallow of the tea and pulls a pile of mixed fruit
off one platter-mostly dried apples. She replaces most of the apples and
picks some peaches and pearapples. Next come some of the hard rolls that
it would take the force of Hegl's hammer to dent.
   At the moment, Dorrin misses the smith more than he appreciates Hegl's
daughter across the table from him. Dorrin takes a sip of his tea, bitter
even with the large glob of honey.
   Brede crunches through a hard roll, oblivious to the sounds or the
force he has exerted. He follows the destruction with a gulp of tea that
drains the mug. A huge hand reaches for the pitcher and refills the mug.
   Finally, as the silence drags out, Dorrin puts his half-empty cup in
one of the slots in the center of the table and stands, glancing from
Kadara to Brede and back. Kadara looks up. "We'll join you on deck later."
   Brede just keeps eating, slowly and methodically, his eyes on the
smooth brown wood of the table as he shovels in the heaping pile of
fruit, cheese, and hard rolls.
   Outside on the main deck, the wind has dropped into a gentle breeze,
and patches of blue appear in the clouds to the west. Dorrin stands on
the left side of the Ryessa, watching the wind carry spray from the
crests of the dark green waves. The Ryessa does not exactly cut through
the sea, her motion more closely approximating a lumber.
   Dorrin wipes the spray off his forehead. How can he even decide what
he wants to do? Lortren, Gelisel, and his father have all been telling
him that everything is obvious, that machines are the tools of chaos. But
are they? A still small voice within Dorrin protests that classification.
   The Ryessa surges through another heavy swell, and the spray from the
impact cascades over Dorrin.
   "May I join you?"
   Dorrin jumps.
   Kadara stands almost beside him.
   "Where's Brede?" Dorrin asks.
   "You're as direct as ever," she says. "He's still eating, but I
imagine he'll be here shortly."
   "Wonderful."
   "Dorrin ..." Kadara's voice is soft, but carries an exasperated edge.
   Dorrin holds a sigh. Does he really want to talk to her? "Sorry."
   "Brede can't help it if he's good with a blade."
   Or with you, Dorrin thinks. Instead, he answers, "I suppose not."
   "You know I owe this to you?" Kadara does not look at Dorrin as they
stand by the railing.
   "You've said so more than once."
   The stiff western breeze carries the tang of salt as it whips the
short red hairs around Kadara's face.
   "Do you mind if I join you?"
   Dorrin looks over his shoulder and up at the tall blond figure with
broad shoulders. "Feeling better, Brede?"
   "I was hungry." The blond man smiles, a warm and winning smile. He
wears gray trousers and a bright blue, long-sleeved shirt. Without the
long sword he usually wears across his back, he looks far more like the
Feyn Valley farmer's son he is than the well-practiced blade he has
become in the two seasons the three have spent at the Academy under
Lortren.
   "How long before we get to Tyrhavven?" asks Kadara.
   "Another day or so, at least," answers Brede.
   Dorrin shrugs, looking back at the bow of the Ryessa just in time to
catch another faceful of stinging salt spray.
   A gust of wind sprays fine blond hair around Brede's face, and a hand
twice the size of Dorrin's absently brushes it back.
   "That's a long way from Land's End," muses Kadara.
   Silence and the swishing of the sea are preferable to a dubious
discussion. Instead, Dorrin watches the water. Brede frowns, then
straightens and heads toward the stern. Another spray almost touches the
edge of the deck.
   "You don't make conversation easy, you know." Kadara's voice is quiet.
   Dorrin barely hears her above the waves, the whisper of the wind, and
the creaking of the ship. "What is there to say?"
   "That's it. You never talk to me anymore. It's as if we're strangers,
yet we grew up next door to each other."
   You have Brede, Dorrin wants to snap at her. Instead, he shrugs.
   The Ryessa lurches, and a sheet of water sprays past Dorrin, leaving
him with wet legs and a tighter grip on the railing.
   When he looks up again, later, Kadara is gone.
 
 
XVII
 
DORRIN WALKS THE deck, studying how the ship is constructed. He probes at
the underlying patterns, the forces, the stresses- and especially he
looks at the simple machines.
   Flappppp. . . thwipp. . .
   Aloft, some of the crew are resetting sails. Not all of them, but the
mainsails. A line of dark gray and brown stretches southward off the port
side. Dorrin looks up where a huge Suthyan flag flies atop the aft mast.
The clouds that had splashed the ship with rain in the early morning have
lifted, but the skies are still gray.
   The Ryessa continues to make surprising speed into the wind, angling
toward a break in the low dark hills. Behind the coastal hills is another
set of low clouds. Dorrin looks again, this time with his senses, before
realizing they are not clouds at all, but a second line of snow-covered
hills. While spring may have come to Recluce and to Tyrhavven, it has not
yet reached the higher hills that lie south of the Sligan port.
   He heads back toward the cabin. There Kadara and Brede have finished
replacing their gear in their packs-long enough ago so that the two step
apart as Dorrin opens the door.
   "We should be landing in a little while," he notes curtly, ignoring
the flushed looks. He grasps the pack he has prepared earlier from his
bunk.
   "We'll be up in a little bit," offers Kadara.
   "It takes a while to tie up," adds Brede.
   Neither moves away from each other or toward their packed gear. Brede
does not wear his shoulder harness or sword, nor does Kadara.
   "Fine." Pack in hand, the wiry young man grasps the staff and turns
back toward the door. He does not shut the door as he leaves.
   As the Ryessa eases shoreward, Dorrin studies the harbor town. His
pack and quilted leather jacket and staff now rest by his feet. Tyrhavven
is scarcely inspiring. Only two short piers, smaller than those of Land's
End, comprise the harbor facilities, and the stone breakwater is half the
length of its counterpart on Recluce. The two piers are of heavy
weathered and unpainted gray timbers, except where a brown line shows the
replacement of an older plank by a newer one.
   "I told you it would take some time." Kadara, wearing dark gray,
appears with her pack. At her belt are two blades, both gray-hilted; the
one on the left is a Westwind shortsword.
   Brede towers behind her, his single blade heavier than either of
Kadara's, strapped in place in his shoulder harness. His open gray jacket
shows his heavy blue shirt.
   The wind seems to pick up as the ship wallows toward the pier.
   "... sails!" Commands issue from the bridge. "... hard port. .."
   With his broad shoulders and long-chinned but square face, Brede
grins. "Ready for an adventure?"
   Dorrin is neither ready for an adventure, nor enthusiastic about the
relationship between Brede and Kadara. But what can he do?
   "Neither am I," admits Kadara.
   "Well . . . like it or not, we're going to have one, and we stand a
better chance together than separately."
   Brede makes sense, and Dorrin would be foolish indeed to spurn the
assistance of the bigger and quicker man's blade and disarmingly cheerful
manner. Dorrin takes a deep and slow breath, nodding slowly.
   "Why so reluctant, Dorrin?" Brede's voice is warm and friendly.
   "Dorrin would be happier if they had just let him play with his
machines," observes Kadara.
   "They never will," Dorrin adds. "So . . . I'm off on an adventure."
   In the short time the three have talked, the Ryessa has jockeyed up to
the empty pier. Perhaps half a dozen figures stand waiting; two wearing
white surcoats are armed.
   "White guards ..." Brede moves up to the railing.
   Dorrin turns to see the captain motioning. "He wants us off the ship."
   "That's not surprising," Brede snorts. "Fairhaven hasn't ever liked
the coasters' being involved with Recluce." He swings his pack on his
shoulder, readjusting the harness to ensure that he can still reach the
blade quickly, and marches toward the gangway.
   The gangplank is barely in place as the three line up.
   "Thank you for a smooth trip, Captain." Brede's voice is deep and
mellow.
   "Yes." Kadara offers a flash of the smile that Dorrin wishes were
directed at him.
   "My pleasure, lady," answers the captain. "My pleasure."
   Dorrin nods politely to the ship's master, but only mumbles a low
"Thank you."
   The captain inclines his head in return.
   A pair of seamen are still tying lines to the bollards on the pier as
Dorrin steps onto the weathered planks.
   A long-faced functionary with a white circular patch on the shoulder
of his heavy quilted leather jacket waits just shoreward of the
gangplank. He carries a thin leather folder. Behind him stand the two
White guards, while off to one side loiter three travelers, all with
grips or packs, presumably waiting to embark upon the coaster. Each guard
wears a sword, but their hands are empty as they wait with bored looks
upon their faces.
   In the chill sunlight of midmorning, more like late winter than the.
spring that the calendar indicates, Dorrin wants to shiver. Instead, he
stands straight behind Brede and Kadara, tightening his grasp on the
staff.
   "Travelers?" squeaks the long-faced man in a high and thin voice.
Because he is not even as tall as Dorrin, his eyes must look up to Brede,
who overtops everyone on the pier by a least half a head. "The entry fee
is half a silver a person."
   Brede presents a single coin. So does Kadara. Dorrin fumbles forth
five coppers.
   The functionary places the coins in a purse and makes three marks on a
parchment sheet. "Do you have any weapons beyond what you show?"
   "Nothing except a brace of knives ..."
   "Knives ..."
   "A knife," finishes Dorrin.
   "Noted. You are free to travel the domains of Candar." The functionary
jerks his head at the guards. "The cargo and the manifest..."
   Dorrin glances back at the Ryessa. Only a regular crewman remains by
the railing looking at the pier. The man grins at Dorrin, then lets his
face turn impassive as the captain walks past him to the top of the
gangplank to greet the long-faced man with the folder.
   Dorrin follows Brede and Kadara up the pier toward Tyrhavven. The wind
from the hills behind the city ruffles his hair, but not even a gale
would loosen those tight curls. His ears tingle in the chill that seems
more like winter than spring.
   Of the bollards on both piers, only three sets are used. The Ryessa is
moored on the eastern pier. Two smaller fishing boats rest at the western
pier.
   Dorrin lengthens his stride to catch up to Kadara. Her steps are still
quick, and she does not even look at the shorter man as the three step
off the pier and onto the stone pavement in front of what appears to be a
warehouse.
   "Where now?" asks Dorrin.
   "Who knows?" snaps Kadara.
   "We need to see about mounts," interjects Brede quickly. "We can't
just walk across Candar."
   "What about provisions?" asks Dorrin.
   "That, too."
   The buildings behind the warehouse-timbered and weathered-scarcely
resemble the neat and polished stone frontages of Land's End. He
swallows, wondering if he will see Land's End again.
 
 
XVIII
 
DORRIN TRIES TO match the map in his head, with its neat drawings, to the
weathered, almost abandoned-looking buildings, the muddy street, and the
ragged and disreputable figures lounging by the end of the pier.
Tyrhavven is all too real, especially as the harbor town smells of salt
and rotten fish and seaweed, overlaid with wood smoke. Finally, Dorrin
looks southward up the gentle slope of a half-cobbled street that seems
to lead toward a row of two-storied buildings. From the chimney of one
building rises a thin gray plume.
   "Come on." Kadara's voice is gently insistent. "The chandlery has to
be this way."
   "But chandleries are for ships," protests Dorrin.
   "Here they sell everything," adds Brede, over his shoulder.
   "But shouldn't we get horses first?"
   "The chandlery is next to the stable."
   "How do you know?"
   Dorrin adjusts his pack and scrambles to follow the two taller exiles
as they stride away up the uneven pavement.
   ".. . haa ... haaa . . ."
   The redhead with the wiry hair ignores the cackling laugh of the old
man sitting against the seawall, but he moves even faster to catch up.
   ".. . haaa ... haa . .."
   The three turn left at the first cross street. While the brown
cobblestones are worn and often cracked, the street does contain
virtually all its paving stones. Only a few small puddles offer a
reminder of the morning rain, although the clouds remain dark and
threatening. A single horse, swaybacked, is tethered before the store
Brede points out as a chandlery. The sign that swings from the protruding
crossbeam has no name, just a crude black outline of two crossed candles
on a white background. -Much of the white has flaked away, showing
weathered gray wood beneath.
   Brede's feet, half again as big as Dorrin's, whisper on the wide plank
steps, as do Kadara's. Dorrin's boots thump as though he were the
heaviest.
   The interior of the store smells faintly of oil, varnish, rope, and
candles. Those are the scents which Dorrin can distinguish. A dozen steps
inside the doorway stands a squat iron stove, radiating a gentle heat. On
the right hand wall is a row of barrels. Each barrel is topped with a
circular wooden cover. Across from the barrels is a counter running the
remaining depth of the store. Another counter runs across the back of the
store.
   Beside the stove lies a thin dog on a tattered blanket folded into a
rough bed. One eye opens as Dorrin closes the door with a thunkkkk. . .
   "Is there anything special you need?" The flat voice comes from a man
with thinning sandy and silver hair and a drooping handlebar mustache.
His leather jacket bears a range of leather patches that do not match the
original, and he sits on a stool behind the counter almost opposite the
stove.
   "We're looking for some travel goods," explains Kadara politely.
   "Suit yourself."
   Brede studies the counter, while Kadara starts with the barrels.
   . . . hhhnnnnn ...
   Dorrin looks at the dog again and swallows, sensing the animal's pain.
Then he looks at Brede and Kadara, efficiently determining their needs.
He steps toward the counter.
   . . . hhhnnnn . . .
   With a sigh, he edges toward the stove and squats next to the hot iron
and the dog. "You hurt, lady?" His voice is low.
   "She's just old." The storekeeper's voice remains flat.
   "All right if I pet her?"
   "Suit yourself. She's a touch cranky."
   Dorrin extends his senses toward the dog, feeling the infection and
the age within the body.
   . . . hhhhnnnn . .. thump . .. The dog's tail flicks against the plank
floor.
   His hands, as gently as he knows how, scratch the shaggy brown coat
between her ears, even as he tries to help the ailing animal. Certainly,
a little order cannot hurt.
   ... slurrppp... A damp tongue runs across his wrist.
   "Easy, lady, easy ..."
   . . . thump. . . thump. . .
   Dorrin scratches the dog's head again before standing up. "You'll feel
better in a while, lady," he says quietly, bending and patting her head.
   Both eyes are open, watching as the wiry redhead walks to the counter.
   "Like dogs, boy?"
   Dorrin looks toward the flat-voiced shopkeeper. "I never had one," he
admits, "but I do like them. She seems nice."
   "Best bird-dog I ever had. Just got too old." The man shifts on his
stool, but does not rise.
   There is another silence while Dorrin studies the small rectangles of
dried travel food wrapped in paper and dipped in some sort of wax.
   "The trail cheeses are in the cooler at the end."
   Behind him, Dorrin can hear Brede and Kadara quietly talking about
cooking sets. "What about horses, ser? Is the stable across the way ..."
   "Hope so." A snort follows. "My sister's man runs the place for
Rystel."
   Dorrin smiles faintly. "Do you have any saddlebags? Perhaps an older
set?"
   "Halfway down the counter. Some sets there, a few others on the
bottom."
   Dorrin follows the instructions. One set is practically new, huge, and
made of heavy stiff leather. He sets the bags aside, and picks up the
second set, setting it down quickly as he feels the whitish red that
signifies chaos. Although he has only felt chaos as a part of healing,
there is no doubt that the bags have been associated with chaos. The
third set is serviceable.
   Finally, he drags out a dusty pair from underneath the counter.
Although the leather is stained, and the bronze fittings are pitted in
places, Dorrin nods, more to himself than anything.
   "Good eye there. Cheap, too. A silver for you."
   "How much are the heavy ones?" Dorrin asks idly.
   "Those? You'd need a draft horse to carry them. Half a gold."
   Dorrin purses his lips. While he has enough coins for the cheaper
saddlebags, he does not know about the trail food, and he really needs a
waterproof of some sort. He also does not like purchasing goods before he
even has a mount to carry them. Unlike Brede, he worries about such
details. "I need some sort of waterproof."
   "Hmmmm ..."
   A moment later a square of dark fabric appears on the battered wood of
the counter top. "Nothing fancy. Just a good cloth dipped in the
waterproof stuff. Probably a little small for the likes of your friend
there." The shopkeeper drops a shoulder toward Brede, who stands before a
barrel from which he is extracting small pouches of something. "So I
couldn't ask that much for it. Say . .. half a silver."
   Dorrin nods. From what he has seen of Candar, he will need it.
   "Shopkeeper?" asks Brede in his deep and polite voice.
   "I'll put these over here," suggests the man to Dorrin. "Yes, young
ser?" His voice flattens again as he addresses the tall blond man.
   Dorrin drifts over to Kadara. "How are we doing trail food?"
   "I thought we'd split the cost for meals. Anything extra you buy
yourself. I told Brede that, too." She smiles. "He did agree."
   "I don't have that much," Dorrin says.
   "With your father, I can believe it." Kadara looks back at the barrel.
   Shrugging, Dorrin goes back to the other counter, avoiding Brede and
the shopkeeper.
   . . . hhhhnnnnn...
   With a grin, he walks back over and pets the dog, adding another touch
of order and reassurance.
   . . . thump. . . thump. . .
   Perhaps it is his imagination, but her eyes look brighter. "Good
girl," he adds, before returning to pick out two oblong packages from the
cooler, with the words yellow cheese scratched into amber wax.
   What else does he need? He has his heavy jacket, a bedroll, gloves,
extra boots, what clothes he dares carry, a small pouch of healing goods,
and now he has a waterproof and saddlebags. His only weapon is the staff.
While he has a belt knife and the carving knife, of course, they are
tools, not weapons. He could not carry a sword in any case, not with the
conflict an edged weapon creates.
   More compressed food, perhaps, he decides, in case he is separated
from the others. He adds several blocks from the counter to the cheeses
and places them beside the waterproof and saddlebags.
   Brede examines the large bags Dorrin has rejected, and the shopkeeper
slips along the counter back to Dorrin.
   "All together, that's two silvers and two."
   Dorrin fumbles in his wallet, still not used to the hardened leather
outer case, and comes up with.two silvers and a half. He hands the three
coins across.
   "You want this stuff in the saddlebags?"
   "That would be fine." Dorrin glances back at the dog, who has lifted
her head. She struggles upright, then sits and looks back at him.
   "Boy, how did you do that?"
   "Do what?"
   "Stella. Poor bitch couldn't move."
   Dorrin flushes.
   "Recluce kid?"
   Finding he cannot lie, Dorrin nods.
   "Don't tell anyone. You aren't wanted."
   Dorrin waits.
   "Boy?"
   Dorrin looks up. "Here's your change." The shopkeeper counts out the
coppers into Dorrin's palm. Then he adds a wooden token. "Give that to
Gerin. He's at the stable. Tell him I sent you. Hertor . . . that's me."
He lifts the partly full bags across the counter.
   Dorrin nods as he takes the leather bags. "Thank you. I hope she"-he
nods toward the stove-"is a little better. Maybe the warmth by the stove
will help."
   "Best bird-dog I ever had," repeats the older man in a low voice.
"Tell Gerin. Now don't you stand on pride, young fellow."
   "I won't, ser." Dorrin nods politely and steps back.
   At the end of the counter, Brede is holding up the heavy saddlebags.
   Dorrin turns to Kadara, who is looking at the dog, as if she has
overheard the low-voiced conversation with the shopkeeper. "I'm going
over to the stable."
   "I'll need some coin from you."
   "How much?" Dorrin fumbles in his wallet again.
   "I'd guess around five coppers."
   He hands her the coins. "If it's more, let me know."
   "Those will be two silvers, young ser." The man's voice is flat again
as he addresses Brede.
   Dorrin says nothing as he steps into the chill breeze and closes the
heavy oak door behind him. He pauses at the top of the wooden steps. Is
it wise to leave the others?
   A woman, bundled in a worn leather coat, ungloved hands red from the
cold, walks away from him, downhill toward the port, where three wagons
creak toward the Ryessa. Across the mud and cobblestones from where
Dorrin stands, an older man, heavy and bald, strains to roll a barrel
toward a side door.
   With a deep breath, the young man shrugs his pack into place, steadies
the saddlebags that he carries on one shoulder, and, staff in hand, heads
down the steps and to the right, toward the stable.
   Thweeeeett. . . The sound of a whistle drifts uphill from the harbor.
Dorrin studies the storefronts he passes until his eyes and nose agree.
Despite the chill, the stable smells like a stable, and Dorrin looks as
much for where to put his feet as where to find Gerin, wherever the man
may be.
   Gerin is wrestling round bales of hay from a stack at the back of the
stable onto a flat cart.
   "I beg your pardon ..." begins Dorrin.
   "You want something . . . give a hand," grouses the thin sweating
figure.
   Brede and Kadara are not around.
   "Are you just going to stand there?"
   Dorrin sets his gear on a half wall to an empty stall and hoists a
heavy bale onto the cart. "Here all right?"
   "Fine. Put the next one crossways."
   Dorrin lifts two more bales into place.
   "That's fine. If you want it, the job's yours."
   Dorrin shakes his head.
   "What do you mean? You don't want it? You work good, but jobs aren't
that easy to find."
   "I'm sorry, ser. But I was really looking for a horse. Hertor sent me.
Are you Gerin?" Dorrin flushes at the misunderstanding.
   "And you hoisted hay?"
   "You looked like you needed help," Dorrin admits.
   The thin man shakes his head. "Takes all kinds." His face stiffens.
"Lots of people say Hertor sends them."
   Dorrin fumbles and finally produces the wooden disc.
   Gerin shakes his head again. "You're too young to be buying ahorse."
   "I really don't have that much choice." Dorrin reclaims his pack,
staff, and saddlebags.
   "And too damned young to be traveling alone."
   "I have two friends. They'll need mounts, too. They're still at
Hertor's, getting some supplies."
   "Stupid . . . should get the mounts first. How are they going to carry
all that crap?"
   Dorrin has no answer.
   "Come on. I'll show you what's here. You ride much?"
   "I can stay on a horse. That's about it," Dorrin says, feeling very
inadequate at having to admit shortcoming after shortcoming.
   "Hmmmmph ..." The thin man heads back toward the front of the stable,
ducking around a stall door that has fallen off its pins and dug into the
packed clay floor.
   Dorrin follows Gerin, wondering what is he doing alone in a strange
country in a strange stable with a scarcely friendly liveryman. Still...
what choice does he have? Lortren hadn't said much, only that Dorrin
can't return until at least the following summer, and not until he has
visited Fairhaven and until he knows why he had to leave Recluce. Dorrin
takes another deep breath, and wishes he had not as they pass an open
drain.
   "Watch your step there."
   Watching his step is all he has been doing, it seems, but he steps
even more carefully in skirting the sloppy mess around the hole in the
clay floor.
   "Here. Two golds is the best I can do, even for Hertor."
   Dorrin follows the man's hand to the horse that stands in the
stall-black with what appears to be a white patch on the forehead.
   Wheeee . . . eee . . .
   The horse tries to nip, but Dorrin casts his senses at the beast,
attempting to calm it, and discovers that she is a mare. She settles down
and lets him stroke her neck-the little he can reach over the stall door.
   "Thought you didn't know horses."
   "I don't."
   "Why did Hertor give you a token?"
   "I'm not sure."
   "He gave up a token, and you don't know why?"
   "His dog," Dorrin admits.
   "Stella?"
   "I don't know her name. She was by the stove."
   "And?"
   "I helped her a little, I think."
   "She's still alive?"
   "She was sitting up when I left."
   Gerin shakes his head. "You a healer?"
   "Just an apprentice."
   "That explains it."
   Dorrin remains bewildered. What is so strange about being a healer?
Surely, there are healers in Candar.
   "Maybe I could go a gold and a half, but I'd have to take the other
for a saddle and blanket."
   "And a bridle?" Dorrin asks tentatively.
   "That, too."
   Dorrin is saddling the black mare, under the eyes of Gerin, when Brede
and Kadara march in.
   "Those are my friends."
   "I don't know as I have much that will carry a young giant." Gerin's
voice is hard again, though the words are polite, as he steps over to
address Brede. The horse dealer's glance takes in the long and heavy
sword.
   "I am not as heavy as I look," Brede answers softly.
   "Anything you could do would be helpful," adds Kadara, and her voice
is gentle. Not manipulating, just gentle.
   Gerin looks from Dorrin, who looks spindly even beside the
broad-shouldered Kadara, to Brede and back to the apprentice healer.
Finally, he adds. "I have a big gelding. Strong, but not too bright, and
another mare."
 
 
XIX
 
"Oooooo ..." As HE dismounts, Dorrin winces. He will never be able to sit
on a hard surface again. He slowly fumbles with the straps on his pack.
   Brede vaults off his gelding in a fluid motion, ties his mount, and
begins to unstrap the packs.
   Whheeeee. . .
   "Sorry." Dorrin apologizes to the mare.
   Kadara has already unloaded, tied her horse to the post at the south
end of the way station, carried her packs to the hearth inside the
windowless square building, and returned. "You should have spent more
time with exercises and horses, instead of carving machines that will
never be made."
   Dorrin clamps his lips together, then continues to unstrap his pack,
laying it beside Brede's and following the taller man's example by
leading the mare down the stone-walled ramp to the stream.
   With the sun behind the hills, the temperature has dropped. Despite
the heavy wool-lined jacket, Dorrin shivers, and his legs seem to
alternate between the hot aches from riding and the chill of the late
afternoon.
   "How much farther?" He stops beside Brede and lets the mare drink the
chill water.
   "We've just started, Dorrin. It's at least another five days at this
pace just to Vergren."
   "I still don't understand why we have to go to Fairhaven."
   "Because," answers Brede, "Lortren said Kadara and I did. I don't know
what she said to you." He halts the gelding's greedy slurping. "Don't let
your mare drink too much at once." The tall man steps back, leading the
gelding up the ramp and across the chopped ground that is beginning to
refreeze.
   Lortren had only told Dorrin he must visit Fairhaven and find himself,
whatever that meant.
   It takes Dorrin an effort to pull the mare away from the icy stream
that gurgles across rocks long since worn smooth. Clearly, the watering
space has been man-made, since the stream banks above the watering spot
are steep and rocky, while the space where Dorrin and the mare stand
slopes gently into the stream and is flanked by rough stone walls on all
sides-except for the ramp itself, which rises through the walls to the
higher ground by the way station.
   As Dorrin struggles back up the ramp, his eyes lift to the southern
horizon and trace out the outline of the hilltops. He stops on the uneven
ground above the ramp and sniffs the air, but it seems only chill and
damp, with the faintest odor of wet leaves and decaying matter. His
senses go out toward the hills.
   Whheeee .. . eeeee . . . The mare protests.
   Dorrin's brow furrows as he struggles to focus what he feels. Finally,
he walks to the way station, part of his mind still in the low hills
above the road.
   "Dorrin, can you find some brush, small sticks for fuel? AH they have
here is logs." Kadara gestures toward the pile of wood by the simple open
hearth. The stew pot she had bought in Tyrhavven is before her.
   Dorrin smiles faintly. Certainly, he never would have thought of
bringing a stew pot, strapping it on a mount.
   "Dorrin? I asked about fire starters ..."
   "Sorry .. . We have problems."
   "Problems?" asks Brede, sounding, for the first time, somewhat dense.
   "There are three bandits on the hill. They're watching us. I don't
think they have bows, but they're waiting to catch us unaware."
   "How do you know-" begins Brede.
   Kadara motions for silence. "What are they doing now? Right now?"
   Dorrin squints, struggles in his efforts to sense the brigands.
"They're beginning to move downhill, I think, toward the horses. Just
three of them."
   "Do they have horses?"
   "I didn't feel any."
   "Let's go out and check the horses, Brede. That's what they want,"
   "But..." protests Dorrin.
   "You stay a little behind. Let us know if they have anything besides
blades. Or if more show up." Kadara straps on both blades and looks at
Brede, whose hands reach for the big sword, as if to make sure it is
still in place.
   By the time they reach the horses, three figures are emerging from the
leafless trees across the frozen clay strip that is the road to Vergren.
Brede continues toward the three, Kadara at his shoulder. Dorrin grips
his staff and follows. Brede stops.
   "No trouble, travelers," rasps the center figure, a brown-bearded man
almost as tall as Brede and easily two stones heavier, with a protruding
gut. "You just let us have the horses, and we'll let you alone. Even the
lady, and that's making things easy for you." His sword gestures toward
the horses.
   Kadara snorts softly. "Why don't you just set down those toothpicks
and get out of here?"
   "Oh . . . maybe we won't leave you alone. Women with spirit are rare .
. . these days." He leers, showing blackened teeth.
   The two smaller men, also bearded, one with matted blond hair, and the
other with greasy black hair, raise their swords.
   Snick. ..
   Brede's big blade glitters in the fading light. Equally quickly, if
silently, Kadara's blade has left its scabbard.
   "You really don't want to do that, youngsters. You Recluce types just
can't kill when it gets right down to it." The big bandit laughs harshly.
   Dorrin, standing three steps behind Brede and Kadara, holds his staff,
wishing that he had practiced more with it. But how could he have known
that so many people actually enjoyed killing? For a long moment, the
cleared area before the way station is quiet, except for the raspy
breathing of the black-haired bandit.
   "So . . . you really aren't going to give in." The big bandit shrugs,
half-turns. "Well, it was worth a try."
   Whhsttttt...
   The heavy man swings through the turn and thrusts toward Kadara.
   Brede slashes, not toward the big man, but toward the smallest, the
blond man in the tattered blue surcoat. In two strokes, Dorrin marvels,
the blond bandit is dead, and Brede is pressing the black-haired brigand.
The big sword flashes as if it were only a toothpick.
   Dorrin's mouth opens, for the sword has dropped from the heavy
bandit's hand, and he sways in the twilight, like a rotten oak, before
pitching onto the ground.
   Kadara swings toward the black-haired man, who has circled away from
Brede and is now closer to Dorrin than either Kadara or Brede.
   Dorrin regrips the staff, waiting, swallowing, knowing what is about
to happen, and hoping that it will not.
   "... healer!" The bandit ducks and lunges toward Dorrin.
   ". . . ooohhhh ..." A line of fire lances across Dorrin's shoulder
even as the staff drops the bandit onto the frozen ground. Dorrin looks
stupidly as Kadara's blade flashes once again.. Three bodies lie strewn
around them.
   "You'd better practice with that staff some more, Dorrin," observes
Brede.
   Kadara glances at the big man, and Brede closes his mouth. "Are you
all right?" she asks.
   Dorrin looks at the slash in his sleeve, and the red line. "It's just
a surface cut, but the jacket won't be the same."
   "The leather and quilting probably saved your arm."
   Dorrin rests against his staff, still wondering at how quickly things
happened. Kadara is kneeling by the black-haired man, examining the body.
   "Not much here. A gold necklace, silvers, and a few coppers." Brede
has already stripped the valuables from the other two, including the
swords.
   Dorrin squints. Looting the bodies makes sense, although, somehow, the
thought burns a line across his brain. He rubs his forehead, but the
throbbing remains.
   "The blades aren't much, but we can sell them-or teach Dorrin how to
use one."
   "The staff... just need to get better..." Dorrin straightens. "What
about the bodies? The ground's frozen." Brede smiles crookedly. "I'll
dump them up in the woods. The big cats are probably hungry."
   Kadara gives Brede another sideways glance as she cleans her blade on
the tattered blue surcoat before replacing it in the scabbard. "Dorrin?
Could you see if anyone else is lurking in the woods?"
   The healer takes a deep breath, but he sees the wisdom of her request
and sends his senses beyond the road and the nearby trees. With the
headache, mild as it is, the effort brings tears to his eyes. He sways as
he returns to himself. "Nothing ... nothing nearby."
   Brede and Kadara nod and walk in different directions.
   By the time Dorrin has gathered his wits and senses into his own skull
and cleaned the gash in his arm, Brede is carrying the second body up the
gentle hill across the road from the way station, and Kadara has a fire
started in the ancient-looking hearth. The sun has completely dropped
behind the lower hills to the west when Dorrin straggles into the station
with an armload of finger-width wood.
   "Thanks. I can use that later, or in the morning. You might water the
horses again. Just a little." The redhead does not look up from her
preparations with the stew pot.
   With all the time it takes him, and the stubbornness of the mounts,
the stew is ready when he stumbles back into the way station. Brede sits
on one end of the stone bench.
   ... tu ... whuuuu . ..
   Dorrin jerks his head up.
   "Just an owl," Brede says quietly. "They hunt earlier here in the cold
weather, I think. It's probably too cold for the rodents late at night."
   "Here." Kadara hands Dorrin a tin cup filled with something hot and
brown. Then she hands a second cup to Brede.
   "Thank you." Brede's voice is appropriately grateful.
   "Thank you," echoes Dorrin, conscious of sounding like an echo.
   "You're both welcome. Just eat it." Kadara fills her own cup.
   For a time, there is silence except for the chewing of hard travel
bread and the muffled slurping of the stew.
   Dorrin sets down his cup, then takes out the carving knife and a small
piece of wood. In several deft strokes, he fashions a crude needle. Then
he strips off the quilted winter jacket and uses the point of the knife
to work a series of evenly spaced holes in the outer leather. After more
stew, he uses the wooden needle to thread a thin thong he has worked down
as finely as he can through the holes.
   "Clever ..." mumbles Brede through another mouthful of stew and travel
bread. He is finishing his third cup of the spicy brown stuff.
   "Had to do something," Dorrin replies, as he redons the jacket,
leaving the front unbuttoned, for the fire leaves the way station
passably warm. He slowly finishes the cup and edges toward the pot for
seconds, filling the cup perhaps halfway. Then he cuts a small slice of
the travel bread, realizing that the headache has begun to fade.
   "You're a healer. Why can't you heal yourself?" asks Brede after a
large mouthful that finishes his fourth cup of the brown stew.
   Dorrin shrugs, ignoring the twinge in his arm. The cut is not
infected, but it will take a little while to heal. "It's not that simple.
It doesn't take much to strengthen your body so a cut doesn't fester,
especially if you clean it. But knitting the muscle, or knitting bone
especially, takes a lot of energy. There are stories about unwise healers
who saved mortally wounded patients-and died. The patients lived."
   "Then what's the point of healing?" Brede's brow furrows.
   "I'm not a great healer. But most battle deaths are from infections,
and a good healer can stop a lot of those." He grins crookedly. "You
can't fight again in that battle, but you get to fight a lot more
battles."
   The blond man nods. "I guess that makes sense."
   "Also, sometimes healing makes a difference. Enough effort to exhaust
a healer, but not kill him or her, might save someone just on the edge."
   Brede nods again as he finishes his second thin slice of travel bread.
   "You think it will be like this all the way to Vergren?" Kadara's eyes
flicker toward the darkness outside.
   Brede shakes his head. "Not likely. The higher hills are too sparse
for highwaymen." Then he shrugs his broad shoulders. "Still, you can't
really tell. I can't. Glad Dorrin can, though."
   ...tu... whuuuu . . .
   "So am I," admits Kadara.
   Dorrin, pleased to be of some use to his more athletic and
weapon-skilled companions, looks down at the coals of the fire, their
red-white of honest destruction almost, but not quite, the white-red of
chaos. As almost an afterthought, he pulls over the saddlebags and opens
them, checking the contents. A glint of coin catches his eye, and his
hand follows. In the bottom of the left bag is a silver ... and another
wooden token. He shakes his head, even as he replaces the silver in his
wallet. After a moment, he puts the token there as well.
   "What was that?"
   "Wooden token," Dorrin admits.
   Kadara's eyes narrow. "How did you work it, Dorrin?"
   "Work what?"
   "The horses?"
   "I wondered about that," Brede adds. "Nobody was really interested in
selling to us, not until you started talking to that shopkeeper."
   "Hertor," Dorrin says absently, musing about the silver and the token.
   "Well..." Kadara shifts her weight, and the hazel eyes fix upon his.
   Dorrin shrugs. "His dog."
   "What about the dog?" Kadara's voice bears an exasperated tone.
   "The poor thing was old and in pain. It had some sort of infection. I
could sense how much she hurt. So I healed her a little."
   "I thought you said you couldn't heal that much." Brede's voice is
accusing.
   Dorrin sighs. "It's not that simple ..."
   "You said that before."
   "Dogs are smaller than people. It didn't take very much for her, and
she hurt a lot."
   Kadara shakes her head, slowly. "For that, he gave you a token? I saw
you slip it to the horse dealer."
   "I didn't know what it meant," Dorrin says sheepishly. "I thought it
might help, but I didn't want to mention it in case it wasn't anything."
   "Well," Brede laughs easily, "it certainly helped get us the mounts.
Who would have thought a dog meant so much?"
   Dorrin frowns, recalling the tone in Hertor's voice when the man had
said, "Best bird-dog I ever had." But he says nothing as he sets aside
the saddlebags.
   "Let's get these cleaned up." The firmness in Kadara's voice indicates
her words are not a suggestion at all. "We have a long ride tomorrow."
 
 
XX
 
DORRIN SQUIRMS UNEASILY in the saddle. His legs are nearly raw, and his
buttocks bruised. Would it have been better to walk? Ahead of him, Kadara
sits easily in the saddle of the larger chestnut mare, practicing blade
exercises as the three horses trudge the cold hard clay.
   Dorrin wonders whether he should do the same with the staff that sits
in the lance holder, but another twinge from his over-stressed legs
discourages him. With his lack of skill, practicing on horseback would
probably result in damage to Meriwhen or himself. Why he has named the
mare Meriwhen is unclear, even to himself, but, for whatever reason, she
needs a name. He cannot just say "horse" or "mare." Why does the mare
even need a name?
   He looks at the staff. Can he afford to put off practicing? To have
Kadara and Brede defending him and looking down at his ineptitude? One
encounter with brigands and his shoulder is still healing, while Kadara
and Brede dispatched the three bandits as if they had no skills
whatsoever.
   He glances at the structure ahead. "That can't be the keep of the old
Dukes of Montgren." The small white stone keep is scarcely fifty cubits
square with walls no more than fifteen cubits high. Yet it sits on the
flattened top of a ridge that extends hundreds of cubits on each side of
the small keep. The ridge is covered only in grass, long and often matted
by wind and weather, but grass nonetheless. Below the ridge, in the
valley, lies Vergren, low stone walls age-streaked, but apparently
intact. High white clouds dot the midafternoon sky, and the sun's warmth
on his back is more than welcome.
   "What's the problem?" Brede circles his gelding back toward Dorrin.
Kadara rides beside Brede, her short red hair fluttering in the breeze.
   "Nobody ever mentioned ..." Even as Dorrin gestures, his thoughts are
calculating, wondering at the force it took to level the old citadel.
   "Well, there's the keep, and someone's home. Let's pay them a visit."
Brede's cheerful voice echoes across the ridge line. His big gloved hand
gestures toward the red-edged white banner flying from the tower.
   "I'll pass, thank you," Dorrin says. "I'd rather just head into the
town itself."
   "Do you really think we intended to ride up to a White Wizard's keep?"
asks Kadara.
   Dorrin flushes. Why does he always take Brede so seriously? Because
the big young man always sounds so sincere? Dorrin chucks the reins,
suppressing a groan as the mare starts forward and his thighs remind him
that he was never cut out to be a horseman. He steadies the staff in the
lanceholder, and does not look back, fearing that Kadara is laughing at
him again. Why does he always fall for Brede's outrageous statements? Why
is it so hard for him to laugh? He tightens his lips against his own
questions and against the throbbing in his legs.
   The three ease their horses to the right along the road downhill
toward Vergren itself.
   "Wonder . . . what happened to the old keep of the Duke ..." Dorrin
mumbles to himself as the three ride abreast.
   "What?" asks Brede politely.
   "Well . . ." Dorrin explains. "The Founders' accounts all mention the
keep of the Duke, but it's clear that the White Wizards leveled it after
his death. The Prefect of Gallos still rules Gallos, and the Duke of
Hydlen still holds Hydolar. All of Hydlen, I mean. It's all rather
confusing."
   Brede looks at Kadara, then back at Dorrin. "Lortren explained that."
   "Dorrin was probably thinking about machines," opined Kadara.
   The wiry redhead flushes.
   "It's a matter of practical politics," Brede explains. "Fair-haven
took over Montgren because it was so close. The wizards don't really rule
the other duchies. They just have treaties or understandings. And they
get paid for maintaining the roads."
   "Stupid," mutters Dorrin. "Who wants to travel that much anyway?"
   "It's not stupid," snaps Kadara. "Recluce has the Eastern Ocean.
That's nothing more than a highway."
   Dorrin knows she is right, and that his anger is at being on a road
mat isn't even a highway. His legs and thighs hurt, and Kadara and Brede
have each other. As the timbered gates of Vergren appear, Dorrin reins in
Meriwhen and lets the two blades lead the way.
   Although the timbered city gates are heavy, and the oiled iron hinges
twice the size of Brede's forearms, the gates have been fastened back
against the gray stone. They have not been closed in years, except to
work the hinges. Only a single guard is present, and she sits behind an
overhead crenellation, surveying the three horses and their riders. A
sense of whiteness surrounds the guard, but her expression does not
change as the three pass underneath. Meriwhen's hoofs click on the stones.
   "Whereto?"
   "We'll start at the central square," Brede replies. "All towns have
them."
   On the right side of the narrow street walk two women in boots,
trousers, and heavy shapeless shirts. Each carries a large basket of damp
laundry, but neither looks or speaks as the horses edge by.
   Dorrin glances down an alley, but, unlike the alleys in Tyrhavven,
there is no rubbish, no mud, only hard clay with a few weeds growing next
to the rough plastered back walls of the buildings. He grins at a pile of
horse droppings, even as a youth appears with a shovel to remove them.
The boy keeps his eyes from the horses and darts back into a doorway.
   "It's quiet." Kadara's soft comment is the only sound besides the
clicking of hoofs.
   As if to disprove the assertion, a horse and wagon lurch out of an
alley before them. The wagon bed is of oiled but unpainted oak, as are
the high spoked and iron-banded wheels.
   "Gee-ahh!"
   In the wagon are covered baskets, neatly lined up. The driver wears
the same shapeless trousers and shirt that the laundry women wore. Brede
reins up, as do Kadara and Dorrin, while the wagon driver eases his way
into the narrow main street.
   Whuuu.. . uffflff.
   Dorrin pats Meriwhen on the neck. "Easy, girl. Easy." Extending his
senses, he touches the baskets, then nods-potatoes. They follow the wagon
southward toward an opening in the stone and plaster buildings.
   In the center of the square is a flat stone platform, ringed on three
sides by a low brick wall topped with a slate capstone. Dull red bricks
pave the area around the platform, running perhaps two dozen cubits to
the stone curbs that form an approximate square.
   On the north side, facing the square, cluster three buildings which
appear to be a drygoods, a butcher, and a cooper. The southern side
boasts a long narrow building without description or visible activity. On
the western side is an inn. A recently painted sign, in green letters,
proclaims The Golden Ram. Under the old Temple letters is a stylized
golden ram.
   Brede studies the green and white awning shading the varnished and
shining double oak doors. "Too expensive."
   "Obviously," adds Kadara.
   A heavy-set man, wearing leathers, and a double-bladed sword in a
shoulder harness, stands by an older brown gelding.
   Brede reins up. "I beg your pardon ..."
   "Speak up, big boy."
   "Lodgings? Somewhere less expensive than . . . ?" Brede gestures
toward the Golden Ram.
   "Take the corner street there. Bunch of places down a ways." The
mercenary points to the southeast comer of the square, swells his cheeks
as if he wants to spit in the gutter, then looks toward the unmarked
building and swallows.
   "Thank you."
   "Don't thank me," mumbles the bearded man, untying his mount.
   The farm wagon creaks around the square and out of sight along the
southwest corner street. Less than a dozen people walk the raised stone
sidewalks that front the buildings on the square.
   "Shall we?" asks Brede.
   Dorrin looks at the well-painted and orderly-appearing inn, dreading
where they may end up in order to keep expenses low. A good half kay down
the street, after inquiries at the Gilded Cup and the Trencher's Board,
finds them at the Three Chimneys.
   "How much for a place to sleep?" asks Brede.
   "A copper a night-that's the common room. You provide your own
blankets, pallet. Darkness, you can sleep on the planks if that's all you
have." The thin woman innkeeper rakes her eyes over the trio.
   "And the stable?"
   "That's two a night a horse, just hay and water. No grain."
   "What about food?"
   "Plain and good. Soup and bread. Yellow cheese. Beer or mead. Three
coppers each for soup and bread. A copper more for the cheese, and two
for beer or mead. One for redberry."
   "Well . .. we're hungry right now."
   Dorrin's stomach growls, as if to reinforce the message.
   The wiry woman looks the three over.
   "Sit there." Her bony finger jabs toward a corner table. "Less trouble
that way. No blades out in the house. Understand?"
   "We understand." Brede smiles.
   The Three Chimneys cannot properly be called more than a hostelry, not
with only two bunkrooms and a single common room for eating. Personally,
Dorrin would have preferred paying more and feeling less out of place.
   An older woman, neither heavy nor thin, with silvered hair cut short
enough to reveal long ears, appears behind Kadara. Her graying apron,
bearing the signs of past stains, is freshly washed. "The regular, dears?"
   "Regular?" stammers Dorrin.
   "Soup, bread, and beer. That's three coppers, and a lot less than
anywhere else in Vergren."
   "How about redberry?" the healer asks.
   "That's still three, but I could make the loaf a little bigger."
   "I'll have that."
   "The regular, with cheese," adds Brede.
   "And you'd be needing that, young fellow."
   "Just the regular."
   As the serving woman steps toward the kitchen, Dorrin looks around the
squarish room. Less than half the tables are filled, certainly because it
is well past midday, and at many of the tables sit older men, silently
nursing mugs and little else.
   "Wonderful place," observes Kadara.
   "Not much sense in spending coins we haven't figured how to replace."
Brede responds.
   Dorrin rubs his nose, trying to stifle a sneeze. "Aaaachooooo..."
   "It's not that bad." Brede grins momentarily.
   "Aaa ... choooo . .."
   "Here you be, dears."
   Three chipped brown earthenware bowls land upon the table, followed by
three equally chipped mugs, and three large, scraped, and bent spoons.
   "And here's the bread."
   True to her word, she supplies Dorrin with the largest loaf of the
dark brown bread, although the smallest loaf-Kadara's-is well over
two-thirds of a cubit long. The server slips a small wedge of cheese onto
the table before Brede. "Be you needing anything else, dears?"
   "No, thank you," Dorrin answers.
   She bobs her head and is gone to pick up a mug and a copper from a fat
and bald graybeard.
   Brede breaks off nearly a quarter of the loaf and chews his way
through it even before Dorrin has had two mouthfuls. Kadara has almost
finished her section of the bread in the same time.
   Dorrin uses the battered tin spoon to sample the dark substance
presented as soup-lukewarm, salty, and bitter, but without anything that
feels dangerous. He takes one spoonful, then another, chewing on the
bread between spoonfuls.
   "... how may I help you, your honors?"
   Dorrin looks up at the forced heartiness of the hostel keeper's voice.
   Three guards in white leathers stand in the doorway, two men and a
woman. The men are clean-shaven, and all are hardfaced.
   I "The only large table I have is there," announces the wiry woman,
pointing, it appears to Dorrin, right at them, rather than at the vacant
adjoining table.
   The three sit around the table. The older gray-haired man wears a
black circle on the lapel of the white leather vest. His eyes range over
the three, and he pauses for a moment, as if studying Dorrin. Dorrin
meets the glance, then looks down.
   The senior guard looks away and points. A fingertip of flame appears
before the face of the serving woman, who turns quickly, sees the white
leathers, and scurries toward the three guards. "Yes, your honors?"
   "Soup and cheese, with the good beer, not the swill that Zera says is
all she has," states the man.
   "Same here," adds the woman.
   The last guard only nods, preoccupied with cleaning his fingernails
with the point of his white-copper belt knife.
   The gray-haired server retreats through the smoke to the kitchen, and
the rest of those eating pointedly ignore the White guards.
   Dorrin licks his lips as the woman guard looks in his direction.
   "I won't eat you, sweetie. Not yet..." She leers at him, and the scar
on her left cheek imparts a twist to the leer.
   "Knock it off, Estil," snaps the leader. "He's a decade younger, and
one of those pilgrim healers."
   "Where was he when I needed healing?"
   "Knock it off."
   "All right."
   Dorrin glances toward the doorway, trying to ignore the conversation
about guard rotations, someone called Jeslek, and the unfriendliness of
the people in Vergren.
   ". . . centuries later, and you'd think we'd personally fired the old
keep ..."
   A bearded man swings open the battered door and staggers out into the
afternoon, where a fine and cold spring rain has begun to fall. A gust of
chill damp air flows into the hostelry, cutting through the stale warmth.
   Thhuummpp. . .
   The serving woman is setting mugs and bowls before the White guards,
efficiently and quickly.
   "About time ..."
   The senior guard hands the server a coin of some sort, and she nods.
   "Why do we have to eat here?"
   "You know why."
   "I know . . . because we have to show up everywhere, and besides it's
easier on the Council's treasury if we eat cheap. .."
   The three from Recluce exchange glances. Brede pops the last of his
bread into his mouth, while Kadara tilts her mug all the way back.
Mechanically, Dorrin slurps the last of the soup and chews the remaining
bread crust, although his stomach is more than full.
   "Let's go."
   Dorrin reaches for his pack.
   "So long, sweetie!"
   Dorrin flushes. Kadara grins, and a faint smile creases Brede's face.
   "Estil..."
   "He's sweet-not like you."
   Dorrin looks away from the last exaggerated leer and stumbles into the
afternoon drizzle.
   "You certainly made an impression there."
   Dorrin ignores Kadara's comments, and instead looks toward the rail
where the horses remain tethered. "Now what should we do?"
   "Check out the stable. Then we can walk over to the farm market we
passed, see about supplies for going on."
   Dorrin pulls his waterproof over his shoulders and wipes the rain off
his forehead. "It's too quiet here. Nobody says anything. Or not much."
   "We're outsiders. What do you expect?"
 
 
XXI
 
THE HIGH PLAINS shake.
   A ball of light flares around the single figure in white who stands in
the midst of that eye-searing radiance.
   Whhhheeeeee . . . rrrmmmmm . . .
   Smoke circles from the hills that shudder upwards around the white
wizard with the glistening white hair and the eyes like points of sun.
   . . . rrrrmmmmm . . . thrummmbblle. . .
   Still, the ground shakes.
   In the distance a river shakes from its bed, and silvered waters pour
southward, inundating what had been meadows. At a greater distance,
buildings rock, and stone walls shiver. Some roofs collapse upon their
hapless inhabitants.
   The hills shudder yet higher, dwarfing even more completely the
magician who has raised them, yet they do not threaten him nor the
glistening strip of white stone that stretches westward.
   . . . wehhhhheeeeeeee . . . cracccckkkkk. . . crackkkkk. . .
   Across the Eastern Ocean, five men and women, garbed in black, look
upon a mirror. Those who do not shake their heads frown. One man does
both. He is tall and thin.
   "He builds mountains to protect their road."
   "Yet they do not rise to crush him."
   "Is he the result of too much order in Recluce?"
   "How could we have less? Already we pay a high price." The dark-haired
woman looks to the thin wizard.
   "He will be the next High Wizard," says the thin man.
   "Getting to be High Wizard is easier than keeping the amulet,"
observes the woman.
   In the mirror, the smoke swirls around the blinding point of whiteness.
 
 
XXII
 
WHAT DID HE expect from the people of Vergren? The words had worried
Dorrin all through the afternoon and evening, through the eerie walk
along nearly spotless streets that were tinged with unseen whiteness,
through an evening supper of stew not much thicker than the soup of the
midday, and through a near-sleepless night on the dusty planks of the
Three Chimneys. Sleeping on hard planks in a garret with Kadara and Brede
is bad enough, but listening to the two nuzzle and coo is bad enough-even
though they are polite enough, or circumspect enough, not to make total
love until he is asleep or after he has staggered up and out in the
morning.
   He scratches a flea bite under his armpit. While he can persuade the
creatures to leave him while he is awake, his healing talents do not work
quite so well asleep-although more accomplished magisters can erect wards
that work even while they sleep.
   As they ride eastward out of Vergren, the fog swirls around them, and
water drips from slate roofs onto the stone. Townspeople appear-like the
spirits of ancient angels-in and out of the fog, their steps silent on
the stone pavement. A clinking harness echoes down the street.
   "Quiet," observes Brede, and his words sound almost hollow.
   "You said that yesterday," snaps Kadara.
   "It was quiet yesterday."
   With his senses ranging through the fog and mist, Dorrin gathers
nothing beyond the unseen whiteness that oozes beneath the entire town,
almost like an unvoiced grief. Are all towns ruled by the White Wizards
so quiet?
   Or is it the spirit of Vergren that still languishes? Because Montgren
helped the Founders? Or because the people instinctively embraced order?
   Dorrin shakes his head. The White Wizards must have some order. They
cannot be totally chaotic, not if Fairhaven has successfully ruled most
of Candar for the centuries since Creslin fled Candar. Yet Vergren oozes
despair amidst its order.
   Meriwhen whinnies and steps sideways to avoid a pile of manure.
   "Dorrin?"
   "... uhh . . . what?" The healer turns toward Kadara.
   "You need to watch where you're riding. Stop thinking about machines
and whatever."
   "I was watching." But he straightens himself in the saddle, and pats
Meriwhen on the neck.
   After the walls of Vergren fade into the morning mist and disappear
behind the hills, the loudest sounds along the stone road are those of
hoofs and the voices of the three from Recluce. Even the sheep graze
silently, like so many miniature clouds drifting across the damp hillside
meadows. Brede and Kadara converse in low voices. "... Spidlarian blade
is too thin, not enough metal to stand up to a hand and a half..."
   "You wouldn't fight it that way ... use the edges to slide . .."
   "... still think that the shortsword is best all around ..."
   "... not enough length to protect you ..."
   Dorrin yawns. He is supposed to stay awake listening to technical talk
about blades? He shifts his weight in the saddle and casts his senses out
toward the endless sheep. Nothing roams the hillsides but the sheep, the
shaggy dogs, and an occasional big cat.
   "... shields ..."
   "Too cumbersome for mounted work ..."
   The healer yawns, wondering how long the ride will be.
   Midmorning passes, and the low clouds have still not lifted. One
hillside looks like another, and the sheep in each meadow could have been
the same sheep that the three had passed leaving Vergren.
   "How do you tell one sheep from another?" Dorrin mumbles as he reaches
yet another hill crest. The narrow road drops out of the rolling hills
that they have ridden up and down, up and down, ever since they left
Vergren. The clay-packed thoroughfare descends before the three
exiles-mostly straight-to the town ahead, where it then winds through the
houses like a smooth brown river. Perhaps a handful of stores rise on the
far side of the town, just short of the line of trees that may mark a
true watercourse.
   Dorrin peers at the stone bearing the name Weevett on the right-hand
side of the road. "Wonder if they make wool here."
   "Probably." Brede inclines his head toward the stone wall to his left,
and to the sheep beyond. "They probably card and spin it everywhere
around here."
   "Why are we doing this?" Dorrin asks.
   "Because we need to get to Fairhaven. You know that." Kadara flips the
sword into the air and catches the hilt, then replaces it in the scabbard.
   "Show-off. I meant why are we going to Fairhaven at all?"
   "Because we have to if we ever want to get back to Recluce."
   Dorrin fingers the staff in the lanceholder. "They'll never let us
return, no matter what Lortren said. Did you ever run into anyone who
has?"
   "Lortren," offers Brede.
   "Besides her?" Dorrin should have guessed. Of course, Brede and Kadara
believe they will be allowed to return. They are blades, like the
white-haired magistra. And perhaps they will be allowed to return-after
demonstrating their repentance or whatever total acceptance of the
Brotherhood's goals that may be required.
   For him, it is already clear, the price is at the very least his
rejection of his dreams of order machines and his acceptance of an
irrational concept of true order.
   "Felthar," adds Kadara.
   "Another blade."
   "What does that have to do with it?"
   Dorrin shifts his weight in the saddle trying to stretch his legs.
Meriwhen whinnies.
   "What Dorrin is saying, Kadara, is that very few healers return."
   "But why?"
   "I don't know," Dorrin says heavily. "But it's true."
   Since there is little to say beyond that, the three ride silently
eastward and downhill into Weevett, past yet more sheep grazing on the
rolling hillside.
 
 
XXIII
 
IN THE SPRING light, the road throws white glare up into the faces of the
three riders. Dorrin rides with his eyes squeezed almost shut, relying
more upon senses thrown to the faint breeze that smells of new-turned
earth than the blurry images that dance before his eyes. His senses twist
when he directs them toward the city down in the valley, and he begins to
alternate between sense and vision, squirming in the saddle. "What's the
matter?"
   "The glare."
   "What glare? It's a bit bright, but not that bad." Kadara looks toward
the midmorning sun, then back toward Dorrin.
   Dorrin still squints.
   In the gentle valley ahead, white structures not quite randomly placed
are interspersed with white roads, green grass, and evergreens barely
taller than the roofs they shade.
   "Not any tall buildings." Brede glances from the whiteness of the road
and from the low city ahead to his right, to the west. "You'd think the
wizards would have a tall building or two."
   "There might be one near the center of Fairhaven," offers Dorrin, "but
there won't be many. Tall structures and chaos don't really go together."
   "Why not?" Kadara also looks to the side of the road.
   "Because," explains Dorrin, "chaos has the tendency to weaken any
material, and the higher you build something the more support it needs.
That's why we ought to build machines."
   "Huhhh . . . you still worried about machines?" Brede shakes his head.
   "He's always thinking about machines," Kadara adds softly.
   "I mean it," Dorrin insists. "Order can hold machines together, even
against chaos, if they're built of good black iron. But chaos couldn't
possibly use such machines."
   "That's all right in theory, but if the machines are so good, why does
the Brotherhood oppose them and why are you here?" Brede squints toward
the city and the horse and wagon that appear to be moving out from
Fairhaven and toward them. "Someone's headed this way."
   "Because they're afraid of them, and they don't understand them.
Machines can only do what they're built to do-"
   "Dorrin ... we've heard it before," interrupts Kadara, "and we're not
the ones you have to convince."
   Dorrin closes his eyes. Rather than form a reply, he gropes with his
senses to find the wagon. "The wagon's empty, and there's just a driver.
He feels like an old man."
   Creeeeaaakkk ... As if to punctuate Dorrin's observation, the sound of
ill-lubricated wheels squeaks toward them.
   First, against the morning brightness appears a wavering black
silhouette.' The silhouette creaks into the brown-boarded shape of a farm
wagon pulled by a single large, if swaybacked, gray horse.
   "Geee . . . ahhhh ..." The driver's flat, emotionless voice carries
from the bench seat. The wagon trundles down the left side of the
stone-paved road, squealing past Dorrin so closely that he could reach
out and touch the driver's whip. He does not. Instead, his lips purse,
and he swallows.
   The driver looks no older than he or Brede, but feels ancient to those
senses which can-sometimes-show reality more clearly than mere eyesight.
   Dorrin chucks the reins to catch up to Brede and Kadara, for he has
fallen behind as the wagon has passed. Before he reaches them, a
messenger, dressed in white, with a red slash across his tunic, gallops
past. Two more wagons pass in the other direction.
   In time, the three near a pair of low and empty towers, built of
whitened stone, resembling gates.
   Dorrin studies the gates, then glances at the pale green leaves of the
spreading trees and the trimmed bushes beyond them, then back at the
whitened granite of the gatehouse and the pavement and curbs. His
forehead throbs, warning him that he must try to figure out why he feels
so assaulted by what is the White City, the center of all that is Candar
and will be Candar for generations, if not millennia, to come.
   Creaaakkk. Another wagon passes, heading westward out of the wide
divided boulevard that the east-west highway has become as it enters the
White City. White indeed is the city, a white more blinding than the
noonday sands on the eastern beaches of Recluce. White and clean, with
off-gray granite paving stones that sparkle white in the sun, and merely
shine in the shade.
   After following Brede and Kadara past the old and empty towers, Dorrin
looks across the valley, amazed at the confluence of white and green.
Green leaves cloak trees that should be taller, in some fashion. The
leaves flutter in the light breeze, interposing themselves between the
lines of white stone walls and boulevards that intertwine. Yet for all
the grace and curved lines, the great avenues-the east-west highway and
the north- south road-seem to quarter the city like two white stone
swords.
   They pass an invisible line inside which almost all the buildings
appear white. A central strip of grass and bushes, curbed in limestone,
separates two roads of the boulevard. Although it is spring, even warmer
than in Tyrhavven and Vergren, he sees no flowers, no colors except the
greens of shrubs and grass and the whites of the curbstones and pavement.
All of the horses and carts headed into the city are using the right-hand
road, while those leaving use the left road. All those on foot use the
outside edge of the roads. Toward the center of the shallow valley the
whiteness becomes more pronounced and the greenery less. A single stone
tower rises from the center of the city.
   Dorrin takes a deep breath, then casts his senses to the winds-and
reels in his tracks, barely withdrawing into himself at the swirling
patterns of whitish-red that seem to fill the entire valley, that seem to
twist and tear at his whole being. He wipes his suddenly dripping
forehead with his sleeve. White wizardry seems to permeate everything,
for all the artful stonework laid by skillful masons, and the greenery of
the trees and grasses.
   Dorrin barely catches Kadara's words to Brede.
   "Just what are we going to do here? And how can we afford to keep
traveling? Everywhere we stay it costs more coins. I don't know about
you, but I don't have all that much left-not if we've got to spend a year
in this forsaken country." Kadara eases her mare up beside Brede.
   Dorrin wipes his forehead again, then reaches for his water bottle. He
takes a deep pull, almost draining it.
   "It's simple enough," offers Brede. "We take jobs with a trader, or
something."
   "With what they pay? And the way they look at women blades?"
   "Do you have a better idea? You're the one who just pointed out that
we need coins."
   "There must be something better."
   "I can't sleep here tonight." Dorrin cuts the discussion short.
   "Why not? You can't do this, and you can't do that, and all you want
to do is go off someplace and build stupid machines." Kadara's voice
sharpens.
   "There's too much chaos." Dorrin shivers, feeling again the tentacles
of whiteness that seem to creep from the road, from the buildings, like
the stinging spines of jellyfish hidden just beneath an ocean's surface.
   "It's a perfectly pleasant and clean-looking city, Dorrin." Kadara
gestures at the well-kept grass in the median strip between the two
roads. "There's no reason not to enjoy it for a while."
   "Fine. You stay here. I can't. I'll meet you somewhere."
   "Dorrin, that's the stupidest..."
   "Kadara." Brede rides closer to the healer. "Can you tell us why you
can't sleep here? Besides the chaos?"
   "It's everywhere, like invisible jellyfish with pointed spines. It
just hurts for me to ride, and it's hard to look at anything without my
eyes watering and stinging. Already, sometimes I feel like I can't
breathe."
   Dorrin looks down at the pavement, then up at the low oaks that barely
clear the house tops, their trunks somehow paler than those of the trees
in the hills of Montgren. "Even the trees aren't quite right."
   "Do you need to leave now, or can we talk to some traders first?"
   "I think I'm getting the hang of it.. .but I don't think I could rest
anywhere around here."
   "Wonderful . . . not only does he dream up impossible machines, but he
sees impossible jellyfish and strange trees."
   Both Brede and Dorrin glare at Kadara.
   "I happen to trust his feelings, Kadara, and if you want to sleep in
Fairhaven by yourself, I'll be more than happy to ride with Dorrin."
   Kadara looks down at the mare's neck. "I'm sorry. It's just ... a
little hard to believe."
   Dorrin grins in spite of the stinging in his eyes. "If it didn't hurt
so much, I wouldn't believe me either."
   "Is that just chaos?" asks Brede.
   "Just?" Dorrin's tone is wry.
   Brede laughs. "Point to you, Dorrin."
   "You two. Men ..." mutters Kadara.
   "We still need to find some traders," Brede says. "Do you think
they'll be around the central square?"
   "How would I know?"
   "Well . . . we'll check the square first."
   Dorrin nods. The square seems as good a place as any to begin, and
it's easier to follow Brede through the hidden swirls of chaos. Another
farm wagon creaks past, heading back in the direction of Montgren.
   "Why don't you just ask someone? You men seem to think it's a disgrace
to ask for directions. It's a lot easier to ask than to ride forever."
   Brede blushes. "Fine. You ask."
   "I'd be happy to." Kadara eases the mare in front of Brede's gelding
and toward two men unloading a wagon before an unmarked building. "Sers .
. . could you tell me where I might find the traders' area?"
   A potbellied man with a shock of wispy white hair that stands on end
in the breeze drops a sack of flour onto a hand cart, then looks up.
"Free traders or the licensed ones?"
   "The ones in the city."
   "That'd be the licensed ones. Most of 'em got places around the
traders' square."
   "I'm new here. Is that near the main square ahead?"
   "That's the wizards' square."
   The second wagoner spits into the gutter, then lifts another sack,
avoiding any eye contact with the three riders.
   "Where is the traders' square?"
   "Take the avenue here a ways past the White Tower until it forks. The
right fork leads there." He shakes his head and hefts another sack,
letting it rest almost upon his protruding gut.
   "Thank you."
   Neither wagoner acknowledges her appreciation.
   As the three ride toward the wizards' square, they pass a squad of
white-coated troopers, all of whom turn cold eyes upon them. Even though
chaos twines around each of the white riders, Dorrin forces himself to
meet the cold eyes of the leader, trying to look as open and curious as
the rawest traveler. None of the White guards speaks, nor do the three
from Recluce, and the loudest sound is that of hoofs.
   As they near the White Wizards' square, Dorrin senses the increasing
chaos-that and the lack of trees. Now only grass and low bushes comprise
the greenery.
   Squeakkk . . .
   The healer looks down a narrow alley at the cart, which is wheeled by
a man wearing little more than rags who is chained to the cart he pulls.
Behind the cart are a woman wreathed in the unseen white of chaos and
dressed completely in white and another raggedly dressed man. Behind them
are two armed White guards on foot.
   The White Wizard gestures at a pile of rubbish, and a line of fire
runs from her fingers to the heap on the stones. Whhhsttt. White ashes
drift lazily down. The second man quickly bends and sweeps the ashes into
a pan which he empties into the small cart. Squeaakkk. .. The cart rolls
on.
   Dorrin swallows. No wonder the streets of Fairhaven are clean. But the
cleaning method also explains his dislike for the city. Years of that
casual chaos-clean-up have certainly cloaked Fairhaven with white dust
that bears the imprint of chaos. "That seems like a waste of magic."
Brede's voice is low. "Probably a punishment for the wizard as well. Of
course, it was a woman." Kadara glances back at the alley, although the
cart is no longer visible.
   "Can we ride around the square?" Dorrin asks plaintively, wincing from
the forces that swirl in the white buildings ahead. "I'd like to see it."
   "I'll meet you on the far side." "Will you be all right?" asks Brede.
   "Better than if I ride through that. . . stuff." Dorrin glances at the
single four-story tower rising above the square, then shivers, swaying in
the saddle, at the force of the energies that surround the White Tower.
He forces a smile as he senses the lines of black that contain the
tower's white granite blocks. Even the chaos-masters must use some order!
"Are you sure you'll be all right?"
   "If I stay away from the worst of it, I can handle it for a while."
Dorrin pats Meriwhen's neck. "I think," is whispered to himself as Brede
edges the brown gelding toward Kadara.
   Dorrin turns right at the next cross street and angles down a narrower
way. Although he feels Brede's eyes on his back, he does not look back,
concentrating instead on avoiding the few pedestrians who hug the edges
of the thoroughfare. None look up at him as they walk quickly along the
white-granite streets, their feet lifting puffs of the fine white dust
that rises, then sifts back into the narrow joints between the stones.
   At the end of the first block, he turns Meriwhen to the left, along a
street paralleling the main avenue. After less than a hundred cubits he
reins up while a vendor maneuvers a food cart into a small narrow oblong
of greenery in a wider part of the street.
   Perhaps five men in shapeless gray tunics wait for the vendor to set
up his grills and set forth a few already-cooked pastries. Once more, no
one looks up at the healer, acting almost as if he did not exist. By the
time he rejoins the avenue, Brede and Kadara are waiting for him.
   "Took you a while."
   "You went the more direct route. See anything interesting?"
   "There really weren't many people in the square," Brede says slowly.
"Would that be because they're afraid of the wizards?"
   "Why? The wizards keep the city clean and free from most crime."
Kadara nudges the mare into a walk. "Let's go."
   "That much focus on chaos probably makes people uneasy," speculates
the healer, easing Meriwhen into line behind Kadara.
   More than a score of people throng the traders' square, and wagons
creak in and out of the buildings that flank it.
   Brede points to one of the stone buildings-almost no buildings in
Fairhaven are of timber-and to a long hitching post in front. From the
building, made of the same whitened granite as most of Fairhaven,
projects a small sign-Gerrish-Trader. Under the Temple-style letters is
the outline of a cart and horse in dark green paint.
   To Dorrin's eyes the outline appears crude, although the lines are
even and the paint relatively new.
   "Shall we try this one?" asks Brede, dismounting with the fluidity
that Dorrin continues to envy.
   "We have to start someplace." Kadara slips off her mount with equal
ease.
   Dorrin clambers off Meriwhen, wincing at the continuing soreness in
his thighs. By the time he has tied the mare to the fir pole suspended
between two stone uprights, Kadara and Brede have brushed away the faint
white dust that seems to rise from the streets of Fairhaven and
straightened their harnesses and swords. Dorrin follows their example,
except that he leaves the staff in the lanceholder. Carrying a staff more
than four cubits long into a trader's place won't add anything.
   Besides, the way things have been going, he would probably trip over
it. So, empty-handed, he follows Brede and Kadara through the half-open
door into a small room. A heavy-set man stands by a long table, studying
a map held flat and weighed down at each corner by fist-sized stones.
   "Hirl?" He pauses. "You're not Hirl. What do you want?"
   Brede smiles openly. "If you're Gerrish, I heard you might be looking
for help. Guards, general assistance ..."
   "Haaa..." The trader shakes his head. "You're big enough, but your. .
. friends ..."
   "Kadara's probably better with a blade than anyone you have."
   Kadara's eyes lock upon the trader, who is the first to look away. He
then focuses on Dorrin, who avoids the swarthy man's stare by looking at
the plain wooden timbers that frame the wall behind the trader.
   Dorrin's eyes skip to the archway to the trader's right, through which
he can see the open space of a warehouse and stable, including stacks of
small barrels directly beyond the opening.
   "Blades .. . why would I need blades?" snaps the trader.
   Brede shrugs. "Perhaps my information was mistaken."
   "Maybe a copper a day for you, and that's hauling cargo when necessary
. . . that's all I need." The heavy man shrugs.
   Brede looks down on the squat dark man. "I'm a little surprised. We
ran into bandits on the way from Tyrhavven. Yet you say that you need no
guards."
   "Look. We don't travel the back roads. They're not patrolled by the
White guards, and they're slow and twisty."
   "Do the wizards' roads go everywhere?" interrupts Dorrin.
   "Of course not," snorts the trader. "They only connect the major
cities. But that's where the people are; and where the people are is
where the coins are."
   "Don't so many coins tempt bandits?" Brede persists.
   "Not if they want to stay alive." He gestures. "Go on. I don't need
guards, especially outlanders, and women. Besides, armed guards means
using weapons, and using blades means that someone's going to get killed,
and that's not good for business."
   Brede steps back. "Who does trade the back roads?"
   "You might ask in the alleys, friend. Nobody with brains, that's for
sure."
   Gerrish is not telling the whole truth, but Dorrin does not shake his
head. Instead, for a moment, he looks at the figures unstacking barrels
in the warehouse beyond. Then he turns his eyes back to the trader. "Do
the unsanctioned traders still operate from the old grounds outside the
city?"
   "How would I know? Outside the city, the alleys-it's all the same to
us." The trader squares his round shoulders and broad paunch, with a look
toward the warehouse.
   "Thank you, trader." Brede gives a half-bow.
   Kadara ignores the man as she turns, her hand on the hilt of her blade.
   Dorrin, although tempted to wish the man well in the name of order,
just to see him squirm, merely nods as he turns away from Gerrish.
   Back on the white-paved street, the three look to the horses, which
wait, apparently undisturbed. Brede stops by the stone support, glancing
across the street toward another sign with a trader's symbol.
   "Now what do we do?" asks Kadara.
   Dorrin glances around the traders' square, his eyes flickering from
one white stone building to another, none more than two stories tall. The
avenue beside which he stands runs straight as a spear toward the great
city square of Fairhaven, where the wizards' buildings surround a
well-kept park that contains even a few ancient white oaks. The
vegetation in the center of the traders' square, circled by the same
white paving stones that comprise every main thoroughfare in the White
City, is comprised only of the short wiry grass and evenly trimmed low
bushes with blue-green needles-candlebushes.
   The healer recognizes that the greenery consists of plants which can
withstand chaos and few, if any, true flowers in Fair-haven. Two men and
a woman, wearing the pale blue tunics of traders, enter the building
which the three exiles had just left.
   "Well . . . what do we do now?" repeats Kadara. "Try one of the
others?"
   Dorrin shakes his head, and both look at him. "You can't pay
protection to two masters, and the traders here must look to the White
Wizards. Maybe I'm wrong, but"-his head inclines toward the sign across
the white paving stones from where they stand-"trader Alligash probably
would give you exactly the same rationale."
   "Do we just give up?" Kadara's hand remains on the hilt of her blade.
   "We need to look outside Fairhaven," opines Dorrin.
   Brede looks at the sun, now hanging just above the stone roofs on the
western side of the square, and grins ruefully. "We probably ought to
find somewhere to stay. This isn't a place where you can sleep in the
square."
   "Our coins aren't going to last forever," reminds Kadara.
   "Then we need to get out of the city," suggests Dorrin.
   Both Brede and Kadara glare at Dorrin.
   Click. .. clickedy .. . click...
   "... shit. . ." Kadara reaches for her saddle, but does not attempt to
mount.
   Three horses move quickly into the square from the direction of the
main city square. All three bear the white-clad and white-armored guards.
Two guards are female, but all are hard-faced and short-haired, and their
white-bronze blades glitter with the white-red of chaos.
   "So where are we headed?" asks Brede, his big right hand on the reins
to the gelding. He does not untie the leathers from the post.
   "Out of the city. Toward the west," suggests Dorrin.
   "Hold it!" The speaker is the leading guard, a rangy older man with
salt-and-pepper hair and a beaked nose.
   "I beg your pardon?" offers Brede, the reins to the chestnut in his
hand.
   "You're outlanders?" asks the White guard.
   "We're not from Fairhaven-that's true," admits the tall man, his voice
mellow and polite.
   "Another bunch of those young Recluce pilgrim types, I'd bet." The
low-voiced comment comes from the dark-haired female guard. She shifts
her seat on the gelding directly behind the group leader who had spoken
to Brede.
   "They're more interesting than the one-god pilgrims from Kyphros,"
adds the third guard, a heavier blond woman.
   Dorrin senses some discomfort behind the words, discomfort not exactly
linked to the three from Recluce.
   "Where are you headed?" demands the older guard, swinging off his
horse.
   "West. Through the Easthorns and beyond," Brede answers simply.
   "Likely story." He half-snorts, but looks toward the trader's
building, then at the dispatch case in his hand. Finally, he shrugs and
looks at the blonde. "Derla, I need to talk to Gerrish. You can take care
of these . . . pilgrims ..." He ties the horse beside Brede's, and his
boots click on the stones as he walks into the trader's.
   "So ... what brings you to Fairhaven?" snaps Derla. She edges her
mount forward until the gelding almost separates Dorrin from Brede and
Kadara.
   "The usual," Brede replies. "We were sent out to learn about Candar
and the world."
   The woman's discomfort is almost palpable to Dorrin, and he squirms,
wondering what he should do. She is, after all, a White guard and a
servant of chaos.
   "What do you think?" Derla looks at the younger and dark-haired guard.
   "According to Zerlat, the big one's a natural blade. The redhead is a
mage, but he's no Creslin. He can barely sense the winds. He is a pretty
fair healer ..."
   Dorrin catches his breath, realizing that the meeting in the square
has scarcely been chance. He edges toward the one called Derla, and his
hand brushes her leg. Chaos or not, he must respond to the twisted knot
of agony tied within her. Despite the invisible white flames that lick
around her, there remains a core of order that he touches, easing the
pain and strengthening her. He shivers as he steps away, pale, and takes
a deep breath, shaking his head against the throbbing caused by the
contact.
   Kadara closes her mouth quickly, but not so quickly that Dorrin cannot
sense her disapproval.
   "You didn't have to do that," snaps the guard.
   Silence, except for the heavy breathing of six horses, shrouds the
corner of the square.
   "Fair's fair." Derla eases the gelding back away from Brede, Dorrin
and Kadara. "And I'm more than sick of bleeding all over the entire
continent so that some stupid man can have a child someday and boost his
frigging ego."
   "I'm sorry." Dorrin leans away from the blond.
   "Don't apologize. You're a man. It's not your fault that you're all
glands and little brain." The white-clad guard smiles politely and turns
toward the other female guard. "So . . . what should we do with them?"
   The dark-haired woman shakes her head. "The Council doesn't like
people from the isle, and Jeslek is saying that Recluce has stolen our
rain and our crops for centuries."
   "Have the orders changed?"
   They both grin.
   "Young fellow .. . Dorrin .. . whatever your name is ... if I were
you, I'd get out of Fairhaven real quick and quietly. And take your
friends with you."
   Brede and Kadara look from the guards to Dorrin. Then Brede vaults
into the saddle. Kadara studies the dark-haired guard for another long
moment.
   "You heard what I said, witch-blade. If you want to swing that toy of
yours much longer, I'd get out of here." The blonde turns to her
dark-haired compatriot. "Hard to believe they're descended from Creslin
... so dull..."
   In the process of clambering onto Meriwhen, Dorrin suppresses a grin
as he senses Kadara's combined puzzlement, anger, and frustration. But,
as he turns the mare, he inclines his head to the two guards. The blonde
flushes, although her expression remains as cold as that of a formal
marble statue.
   Until they clear the square the three ride in silence.
   Finally, Kadara looks over her shoulder and then back at Dorrin. "What
they see ..."
   "Kadara." Brede's voice is low, but firm.
   "Don't 'Kadara' me!"
   Brede and Dorrin exchange glances.
   "And stop looking at each other like that!"
   Both men shrug, almost simultaneously.
   Dorrin looks at the road ahead, leading westward.
 
 
XXIV
 
KADARA, BREDE, AND Dorrin ride along the white-paved highway south toward
the old trader's grounds. Dorrin pats Meriwhen's neck when they pass
another set of mounted White guards, but the guards only look, and turn
their mounts onto a narrower road headed east. Kadara again looks at
Brede.
   Dorrin can stand the unspoken reproaches no longer. "Would you two
stop it!"
   "Stop what?" Kadara's voice is vaguely amused.
   "You know what I mean."
   "What do you mean?"
   Dorrin swallows his anger and refuses to speak. Instead, he squirms on
the hard saddle, and momentarily stands in the stirrups to stretch his
legs.
   Meriwhen whinnies, and he pats her neck again.
   The three continue until they have passed through the outer low gates
and the curbstones have given way to a flat stone highway from which
white dust rises with each descending hoof.
   Dorrin sneezes.'He sneezes again. Kadara and Brede exchange whispers.
Although he could call their conversation to him on the breeze, he does
not. Instead he sneezes again.
   "Can't you do something about that?" asks Brede. "You're supposed to
be the healer."
   "Not. . . accchoooooo . . . that good. It's the dust, or something."
   Kadara and Brede exchange another glance. Dorrin bites his lip and
tries to suppress another sneeze. Intermittent sneezes punctuate the next
several kays, and his legs are aching from the effort of riding and
sneezing by the time his nose begins to stop itching.
   The arrow in the stone guidepost directs them onto a packed clay road.
Before they have climbed a kay up the gentle grade, heavy brownish dust
clings to the legs of each horse. The road flattens at the crest, and
less than half a kay away is a small kiosk. To the right of it are flat
clay, patches of grass, and scraggly bushes. Less than half a dozen tents
dot the area.
   "Not exactly a thriving trading ground."
   "No." Kadara brushes a stand of hair back over her ears.
   "No wagon?" The guard remains seated on the stool leaned against the
back wall of the kiosk. The kiosk's white paint has begun to flake away.
   "We're not traders."
   "Ride around the pole, then." The guard's eyes close even before Brede
guides the gelding around the turnpole and through the two-cubit-wide gap.
   "Not even a fence."
   "The posts are close enough together to keep out any wagons."
   The posts, each set about two cubits from its neighbor, enclose a
space perhaps three hundred cubits on a side. The traders' grounds
contain no more than a handful of tents, all pitched in the higher
northwest corner.
   "Wonderful idea." Kadara glances at Dorrin. "No one here could afford
one guard, let alone two-or a healer."
   "So ... we ride to Jellico." Dorrin's legs are stiff, but they no
longer ache-at least not much.
   "And arrive penniless?"
   "We can only do what we can," says Brede. "No one in Fairhaven would
hire us, and staying there would have cost far too much. Besides, those
guards made it clear that we needed to leave while we could. They don't
like Black healers-that was clear enough."
   "Sorry."
   "Don't be sorry. You got us horses we probably wouldn't have and
warned us about the highwaymen. This time, you're the one they don't
like. Even so, that business with the White lady probably got us out of
there. It evens out." Brede gives a long look to Kadara, who swallows.
   "I'm sorry, Dorrin. It's just been ... a long trip already."
   "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I just thought. . . maybe at least
here."
   "All we can do is try." Brede guides the gelding toward the nearest
tent. Beside the brown patched canvas are a wagon and two horses. Two men
watch as the three ride up. One holds an already-cocked crossbow loosely.
   "Who you looking for?"
   Brede reins up, and Dorrin and Kadara follow his example.
   "We heard that there might be some traders who could use some help,"
begins Brede, his voice mellow and convincing.
   "Not us, young fellow. Don't need young and hungry bravos. Look
somewheres else." The man with the crossbow cackles, showing blackened
teeth. "Try Durnit there. In the patched tent." He cackles again, but
raises the crossbow. "Get!"
   "I don't think that's wise," Brede answers.
   "Maybe not, young fellow . . . but I don't need you and yours. Now go
bother some other bastard."
   The three edge their mounts away, still watching until the trader
lowers the bow. Then they turn toward the brown tent that is more patches
than original fabric. A single man-whose clothes, once solid leathers and
linen, approximate rags-sits in front of a low fire, turning something on
a spit. Outside of the tent is tethered but a single swaybacked horse.
   "Are you Durnit?"
   "Maybe. What's it to you?"
   "We heard you might need some help on your next run."
   "Ha! Sure as I would, but I've not a copper left from the last." The
trader turns the spit again. "There's my profits-one scrawny bird. They
say the Suthyans'll take a trader as a factor on the Nordla run. I'll try
that. Can't fight the wizards and their roads, and can't afford a road
pass."
   "Is there anyone around here who might need help?" Dorrin asks softly
into the silence.
   "You might try Liedral. Tent's over there, with blue flag." The
bearded trader's thumb gestures toward a smaller tent on the hilly rise.
"Jellico type." He spits into the dirt beside the fire.
   "Thank you."
   "Don't thank me. Just let me finish eating. Last meal for a long
time." He eases the blackened fowl off the spit with the short knife, and
greasy fingers worry away a small drumstick. Brede's hand lifts as if to
reach toward the sword in the shoulder harness before he turns in the
direction pointed by the hungry trader. Another hundred cubits westward
stands the neatly squared tent, although the short blue banner hangs
limply in the golden light of late afternoon. A single chestnut and a
mule are tethered to iron stakes driven into the clay on the eastern side
of the tent, and an iron chain links the two-wheeled cart to a third iron
stake on the western side.
   The figure feeding the fire from a pile of stubby split logs is
broad-shouldered, beardless, dressed in faded blue leathers, and wears a
wide-brimmed blue felt hat. The trader straightens and waits, appearing
nearly as tall as Kadara. The three from Recluce ride slowly forward.
   "Are you Liedral?" Brede begins.
   "Yes." A smile follows the single word delivered in a light baritone.
   "Durnit-the trader back there-he suggested you might need some help on
your next run."
   "We all need help." The laugh is soft.
   Dorrin's senses conflict with his eyes over the trader's appearance.
   "I can't pay three guards."
   "They're guards," Dorrin offers. "I'm just an apprentice healer."
   "Your staff indicated something like that." Liedral gestures to the
fire, and the kettle suspended over one side. "You've ridden a while. You
can at least rest for a bit. I can't offer much besides some spare
redberry or a spice tea."
   Brede and Kadara exchange glances. Dorrin dismounts. Both look at him.
   "My legs are sore."
   Brede shrugs and slips from the saddle with the fluid grace that
Dorrin still envies. Kadara follows.
   "You're all from Recluce?"
   "Yes." Dorrin sees no point in dissembling.
   Kadara raises an eyebrow; Brede looks for somewhere to tether his
mount.
   "Use the stake the wagon is chained to," suggests Liedral.
   "All three?" blurts Dorrin.
   "For now, it should be more than adequate." The dryness of the
trader's tone brings a flush to Dorrin's freckled face.
   "Why the iron?" asks Brede, as he loops the leather through the
fist-sized eyelet of the stake.
   "More than a few free traders have lost mounts and wagons.** Liedral
pours water into the kettle before swinging it out over the hotter coals
with a heavy leather glove.
   Kadara quickly tethers her mount.
   "Is that why there's iron in the tether ropes?" asks Dorrin.
   Again, Brede and Kadara exchange looks. Kadara shakes her head.
   "You may need two guards just for yourself, healer." Liedral laughs
softly.
   Dorrin's face feels warm, but his words are firm, almost snapped out.
"If you were White, I'd know, and, besides, none of the Whites would want
that much iron around."
   "Fair enough. Let me find some mugs." Liedral disappears into the tent.
   Kadara fixes Dorrin with lowered brows. Dorrin leads Meriwhen over to
the iron stake, where he follows Brede's and Kadara's example.
   By the time he returns to the fire, the trader is passing out the
mugs. "Spice tea or redberry?"
   "Tea." Kadara takes a heavy brown mug.
   "Redberry," adds Brede.
   "Tea." Dorrin is left with a fluted gray mug with a chip on the rim.
   The trader's deft hands pour chopped tea into a metal basket on a
chain, which goes into the kettle before the top drops back in place. "Be
a bit."
   Dorrin concentrates on the trader, then nods, hiding the smile he
feels as his senses confirm his feelings. He smothers a smile and waits.
   Liedral gestures to the ground. "I can't provide any comforts, but
please be seated." The trader settles onto a small padded stool.
   Brede sits cross-legged, as does Kadara, before the fire and to the
trader's right. Dorrin's muscles are too sore and tight for that, and he
shifts his weight on the hard ground until he finds the least
uncomfortable position on the trader's left.
   The low ooooo of a dove echoes across the trading grounds from the
higher grasses of the low hill to the northwest.
   "Where are you headed?" Brede asks.
   "A few folks might like to know that, questor." Liedral's voice
carries a faint tone of amusement.
   "Questor?"
   "That's the more polite term for those of you from Recluce."
   "The less polite terms being . .. ?"
   "We'll not go into that."
   "We're not exactly other traders." Dorrin shifts his weight on the
hard ground again.
   "It's really no secret. I'm one of the few that runs the northern
triangle. Most times, I don't come to Fairhaven, just to Vergren, but
Freidr insisted that I come here, just to get a feel for it once."
Liedral frowns. "Once is enough, and I wasted too much time. I'll leave
tomorrow."
   "You traveled all that alone?"
   Liedral shrugs. "Bandits generally don't like the cold, and dyes and
spices aren't the easiest to sell if you don't have the contacts." The
trader's eyes flicker to the bow and quiver hanging by the slit in the
tent.
   Dorrin's eyes alight on the shortsword, nearly a match to the one worn
by Kadara. "You've been taught in the Westwind style."
   Liedral laughs. "You definitely need a keeper, healer."
   Kadara shakes her head. Dorrin flushes.
   "What about you?" pursues Brede.
   The trader shrugs. "I get by. Profits don't cover hiring guards. They
did once, back generations, but not now, not unless you run with the
wizards."
   "They control the trade through the roads?" Brede remains cross-legged.
   Dorrin shifts his weight again, wondering how the bigger man can
remain comfortable with his legs folded.
   Liedral nods, then stands. "Tea should be ready. You first, healer."
   Dorrin extends his mug.
   After pouring Dorrin's and Kadara's tea, the trader replaces the
kettle, swings the swivel to the side of the fire, then retrieves a flask
from the tent to pour the redberry into Brede's cup. "There."
   "Thank you," Dorrin says, looking straight into the hazel eyes.
   "Thank you."
   "Thank you."
   The sounds of low voices drift from the other tents, punctuated by
another oooo from the unseen dove.
   "What is this northern triangle route you follow?" Kadara brushes a
strand of red hair off her forehead, then sips from her mug.
   "Usually the points of the triangle are Spidlaria, Vergren, and
Tyrhavven. From Vergren I'll make Rytel, then follow the old north road
through Axalt and into Kleth. Then a barge down to Spidlaria. Dastral
owes me a passage back to Tyrhavven. That's where I pick up the dyes and
spices. Take the river road back to Jellico. That's back through Rytel
twice, but both stops are short. Spend an eight-day or so putting the old
warehouse in order-Freidr always lets things get out of hand-and then
start all over again."
   "Why are you here?"
   Liedral shakes her head. "Like I said, call it a pilgrimage. For
Fairhaven, that is. There's a market for spices, even here, and they
don't take that much space. But I really don't like going farther than
Vergren."
   Dorrin grins.
   "Why is that funny?" asks Kadara.
   "Oh, it's not funny, but I should have figured that out."
   All three look at him.
   He shrugs, embarrassed. "Chaos is hard on living things. Food comes
from living things. It follows that they'd need spices, and that the
White traders wouldn't do as well."
   "If you say so . . ."
   "He's right," observes Liedral. "I'd like to know more about why you
feel that has to be."
   "It just follows," mumbles Dorrin. "I mean ... chaos is the
destructive force ... It breaks things down ... especially living things.
Spices preserve food, but they're delicate ..."
   "What do you recommend?" asks Brede, his deep voice gentle. "For us?"
   The soft-voiced trader turns. "No one here will hire you. They might
in places to the northwest, like Diev, or some of the other cities in
Spidlar. The wizards' reach isn't that tight there-or in southern Kyphros
or Southwind."
   "Southwind's a trifle far." Kadara's voice is edged.
   "And you can't afford a guard?" Brede finally shifts his weight, to
Dorrin's relief.
   "Or two guards and a healer, much as I'd like to have all three of
you?" Liedral smiles. "Hardly."
   "What about traveling with you?" asks Dorrin. "For some pittance ...
at least."
   The two others look at him.
   "Well," he explains, "if we have to get to Spidlar to get paying work,
we might as well see about the least costly way to doit."
   "Perhaps a silver or two toward food-that's the most I could go."
   "You trust us?" asks Brede thoughtfully.
   "No. I trust the healer."
   Kadara and Brede again exchange glances. Liedral grins at Dorrin.
Dorrin looks at the fire.
 
 
XXV
 
"THERE WAS A strange party in Fairhaven, two blades and a young healer
..." ventures the apprentice.
   "That sounds like Sarronynn," snaps the sun-eyed man.
   "But the healer also could feel the winds, according to Zerlat."
   "Where are they?"
   The apprentice shrugs. "According to the standing orders-"
   "Damn the standing orders! Does anyone know where they headed?"
   The apprentice lets out a slow breath as she watches Jeslek's eyes
fade into the vague look that means his senses are somewhere else.
   "Where?" demands the hard voice. Not all Jeslek's senses are elsewhere.
   "They headed toward the Easthorns."
   "What did they look like?"
   The young woman purses her lips, ignoring the distant look on her
master's face. "The healer was thin, with curly red hair. One Wade was a
red-headed woman. She carried double swords, including a Westwind
shortsword. The other blade was a man, pretty young, but big."
   "And no one thought such a group was strange?" Jeslek's eyes are fully
alive again. "Two blades, just to protect a poor young healer? Who knows
just what that healer is? And just as we're starting to tighten the noose
on Recluce. Doesn't anyone think?"
   He is out the door from the tower room, and his feet echo on the
stairs before the apprentice can answer his question.
   The apprentice frowns, mumbling, "You're not the High Wizard yet." But
she takes a deep breath and continues polishing the mirror on the table.
 
 
XXVI
 
DORRIN FLICKS THE reins to keep Meriwhen abreast of the cart. Kadara and
Brede ride ahead. The pack horse trails, harness tied to a ring on the
cart.
   "Why are all the Blacks so opposed to Fairhaven?" asks Liedral.
   "Wouldn't you be, after all the trouble it took to escape the Whites?"
counters Dorrin. "Besides, living with chaos is rather . . . painful. ..
if you deal with order."
   "Recluce seems rather . . . arbitrary . . . about defining chaos."
   Dorrin laughs, a short harsh sound. "They're all so concerned about
maintaining the pure Black way. Any change is considered chaos." He
brushes away a mosquito. "Even order changes, but they don't see it."
   "What determines what is Black and what is White?" asks the trader.
   "They hammer that out in lessons when you first start your schooling."
   "Who gives the lessons?"
   "One of the Black mages."
   "Do they all teach the same lessons? What happens if one of these
learned Black mages dies?"
   "That doesn't happen much in Recluce. His apprentices and the others
know what he knows, for the most part."
   Liedral frowns. "People remember what they want to. You learn that as
a trader. You know how to write, don't you?"
   "Of course." Dorrin sighs. "I've been through my father's library.
Recluce has books and more books. At least, my father does."
   "So ... all of the White and Black magic is written down?"
   "Not the White. Not even very much of... Actually, there's not much at
all on why things work, or how to do things-just the conditions." Dorrin
shakes his head. "Why are you interested in all of this?"
   "I'm just interested, healer. I'm a trader. The more I know, the
longer I'll live."
   Dorrin glances at the smooth brow under the floppy hat, then toward
his compatriots as they ride toward the rolling hills ahead.
   "Why do you hide-"
   "Because. I'd prefer you leave it that way. Do your friends know?"
   "I haven't said so, and neither have they. Kadara wouldn't bring it
up, and Brede is rather sharp, but he can keep his tongue. I don't know."
   "Just think of me as a trader, all right?"
   "Fine. If that's the way you want it." Dorrin wonders if being a woman
is so restrictive in Candar. Of course, magistra Lortren has shown how
the Whites had eventually brought down Westwind because of its feminine
domination. But why did either sex have to dominate? It was all too clear
that people fought over beliefs, but why? The fighting never changed
anyone's mind-unless you killed them. He looks toward the hills that
separate them from Weevett, the small farm town that they had passed
through only days before. Overhead, the sky is clear, although he feels
as though a cloud masks the white-yellow sun. Looking back, he sees a
black bird circling.
   Then he looks forward toward Brede and Kadara, but they have also
turned, as if aware of the nearing black wings. Kadara points to the bird.
   "Vulcrow. The wizards watch through their eyes." Liedral raises her
voice.
   Dorrin extends his senses on the breeze to hear what the two blades
are saying.
   "The vulcrow's probably a spy for the wizards." Brede fingers the hilt
of the heavy blade.
   "Wonderful," snaps Kadara.
   "You don't know that they're looking for us." Brede doesn't even turn
from the road ahead. "Who would care about a young healer and two blades?"
   "I don't know. But things happen around Dorrin. They always have."
   Dorrin watches as the vulcrow's circles widen toward them. Meriwhen
whinnies, takes a sidestep, before Dorrin pats her neck. "Easy ... easy
..."
   After unstrapping the bow, Liedral sets the quiver by the seat.
   "What are you doing?" asks Dorrin.
   "Getting ready to shoot a vulcrow."
   "But-"
   "The damned wizards tell their traders. Besides, they don't like to
admit they use the birds."
   The dark bird flaps nearer, but the trader flicks the reins, and the
cart squeals as one wheel lifts over a muddy hummock that has encroached
onto the stone pavement. Liedral reins up the cart horse, extracts an
arrow from the quiver, and draws the bow.
   Dorrin's senses reach skyward, stretching toward the whiteness around
the ungainly flapping bird. The trader nocks the arrow, and as the shaft
flies, Dorrin screams. "No!!!!"
   Kadara and Brede turn, their movements trapped in the syrup of
white-clouded and slowed time. Liedral's mouth hangs open. The vulcrow's
wings freeze on the upstroke, pinions spread.
   Sun-eyes appear in the sky, except they are not there, and the unseen
eyes glare down upon the travelers. "SO ..."
   The white fog that Dorrin can feel but not see descends with the speed
of lightning and the force of a gale. As the chill rips at him, tears at
his thoughts, he thinks, "I am me ... Me!"
   The white storm tosses his thoughts aside like a leaf in a cyclone,
and another kind of blackness descends.
   Whhnnnnn . . . nnnun . . .
   The sound of the mare rouses Dorrin.
   "Wha ..." His tongue thick, his head splitting, Dorrin finds his face
buried in Meriwhen's neck, the fingers of his left hand locked in her
mane. Feeling like an insect narrowly escaped from a giant flyswatter, he
loosens his fingers from Meriwhen's mane. After straightening slowly in
the saddle, he squints against the afternoon sun, barely above the clouds
that cover the lower quarter of the western sky. Afternoon? Where are the
others?
   The cart and pack horse are less than a hundred cubits up the road,
motionless. A dark figure is half-sprawled across the seat. Dorrin
swallows, trying to moisten his mouth, then looks past the cart.
   Several hundred cubits farther along the dusty road, Brede stands by
the low stone wall, holding both horses. Kadara sprawls over the fence,
retching.
   Dorrin waves to Brede, points to the cart. There is nothing he can do
for Kadara, and Brede is there. The trader remains motionless as Dorrin
rides up to the cart and dismounts. His fingers brush her forehead, and
his senses confirm that Liedral is beginning to wake. He transfers what
little energy he can to her and opens his water bottle, moistening her
lips.
   "... never had that happen before." She struggles upright.
   "You never traveled with questors from Recluce before, either." Dorrin
offers her the water bottle.
   Liedral takes a deep pull, then returns the bottle. "We need to get
going. I don't like being on the road at dark, wizards' peace or not."
   "If this is peace, I'd rather not see war." Dorrin replaces the bottle
on the saddle, then remounts.
   Liedral straps the bow and quiver back into place, checks the harness
and the horse, then slips onto the cart seat. "Let's go."
   "Was that your doing?" Brede reins up beside Dorrin, Kadara, still
pale, following. "No."
   "Then ... why-"
   "I don't know. It was a White Wizard, and we were beneath his notice.
I'd guess that he was showing how powerful he was." Dorrin twists,
smacking his neck in an attempt to squash the mosquito that has drawn
blood. He rubs his neck, then wipes blood and mosquito off his hand.
   "Sending a message?" Brede muses. "It could be, but why us?"
   Four sets of eyes exchange glances.
   "Let's go," Liedral finally snaps.
 
 
XXVII
 
"WHAT WERE THEY?" asks the High Wizard. "You retreated ... sought your
study in haste."
   Jeslek shrugs. "Youngsters from Recluce. Like the guards said. But you
never know, and I wanted to make sure. Some of the prophecies in the Book
have come true."
   "I thought the superstitions of the Legend were beneath you."
   "One must know them to disregard them."
   "That's a fitting proverb for you."
   "You wish to relinquish the amulet, as you promised?" asks Jeslek
idly. "After all, I have demonstrated that..."
   "I recall something about completing the job."
   "As you wish. It's not something that can be done overnight, and the
Book certainly doesn't state that it will happen overnight."
   "It's good to see that you are cultivating patience." Sterol smiles.
"What about the youngsters? Do you incinerate them or bury them under
molten stone?"
   "No. I'd rather have them spread the word. Two were blades. The other
was barely worth calling a healer." The thin man with the yellow-sun eyes
takes a sip of water from the goblet. "Since they were no danger, I'd
rather save my strength for other things."
   "Like the last half of the hills between Kyphros and Gallos?"
   "That's one thing. There were at least some hills on the route to the
Easthorns. But the Gallosian side is too exposed."
   "I am sure the guards will appreciate your concerns."
   "Besides ... we still have to think about the blockade of Recluce."
   "Ah, yes. The next step on your agenda."
   "You said that we needed to do something, I do recall." Jeslek smiles
politely.
   "So I did. I suggested something less direct, however. Still,
directness has a certain .. . flair."
 
 
XXVIII
 
"Now-THOSE ARE walls," observes Brede, inclining his head toward the
massive granite blocks that rise nearly seventy cubits above the river
plain on which the city of Jellico rests. The walls are a lighter and
pinker gray than the clouds that shroud the sky. The wind moans and keeps
blowing Dorrin's hair across this forehead. As he pushes the too curly
and far too long strands out of his eyes, he wishes he had cut it.
   "Why do they need them?"
   "They were originally built by one of the early viscounts to hold off
Fairhaven," Liedral responds dryly.
   "Oh?"
   "You will notice that there are no marks upon the walls, either."
   Dorrin shifts in his saddle as the stone road widens into a causeway
that leads to the river bridge. Even from the bridge, the eastern gates
are visible, swung open, and bound in heavy iron. The grooves for
anchoring the gates and the stones in which they have been chiseled are
swept clean. A half squad in gray-brown leathers, three men and three
women, plus a single White guard, wait to inspect the travelers.
   "Your occupation and reason for entering Jellico?" asks the White
guard, his voice polite, emotionless.
   "Liedral-I'm a trader here in Jellico. My warehouse is on the traders'
street off the great square. I'm returning from a trading journey."
   Looking over the parapet crenellations on the wall above, a
crossbowman watches, his weapon resting on the granite.
   "These your people?" asks the guard.
   "Yes. The guards are mine. The healer is traveling with us for
protection."
   The White guard pokes at several bags, taps a jug, frowns, and finally
nods. Liedral flicks the reins, and guides the cart through the stone
archway and into Jellico. The houses are tile-roofed, two-storied
structures of fired brick with narrow fronts, pitched roofs, and heavy,
iron-bound oak doors, closed against the cold spring wind.
   The four pass less than a score of pedestrians as Liedral wheels the
cart left, and then down a narrow street that leads toward the center of
Jellico.
   "There," the trader states at last. The stone-walled building toward
which Liedral points is three stories high, the width of three houses,
with a high-pitched roof. The warehouse is a floor higher than the
adjoining structures, a cooper's shop toward the square and a
silversmith's toward the city gate. Toward the square are the grayed
facades of even taller structures that appear to predate the warehouse,
perhaps by centuries. The square is another hundred cubits down the
narrow street.
   Three doors open from the warehouse-a sliding door level with the
rough stones of the street and wide enough to admit Liedral's cart. The
second door is iron-bound and barred, and the last, closest to the
square, is a door of plain oak under a green-painted portico.
   Brede swings off the gelding without an invitation and points to the
sliding door. "You want me to open this one?"
   "If you would. Leave it open. Freidr never airs anything out." Liedral
drives the cart through the door and onto the smooth and hard-packed
clay. A faint aroma of spices permeates the space. Liedral climbs off the
cart.
   "If you want to clean the stables and do the loading, you can sleep in
the stableboy's room," Liedral offers. "Freidr doesn't keep one any
longer. He claims it's my responsibility, since I've got all the horses."
   "What about a place to wash up?" Dorrin is all too conscious of the
grime that enfolds him.
   "You can use the washroom as much as you like-so long as you pump the
water and clean up any mess you make." Liedral loosens the last strap
from the cart harness and leads the horse into the second stall. * 'You
three can have the last three stalls at the end. I daresay they'll need
some cleaning. But that comes after you help me unload and shift things
around. The bins are probably a mess, again."
   "Is Freidr ..." asks Kadara.
   "My brother. He and Midala live on the third floor. My rooms are on
the second-when I'm here. He factors here in Jellico what I gather."
   Brede tethers his gelding by the last stall. "What goes where?"
   "The four purple jugs? That's glaze powder, and they go up on the
first level, just up the staircase. There should be a picture of a pot in
purple outside the right bin and a jug like these inside."
   "What's cerann?" asks Dorrin.
   "Take it easy with that. It's a rare oil, goes on the second level,
the bin with the green leaf."
   "How rare is rare?" muses Kadara, lifting a heavy sack.
   "Each bottle in the case is worth a gold and a half. The sack is sweet
beets. Put it in that big bin over there."
   "That's rare."
   Brede has returned to the cart. "What next?"
   Dorrin climbs the stairs slowly, ensuring that each foot is placed
firmly on each riser. He doesn't have eighteen golds to spare. That he
knows, and he doubts that Liedral can easily absorb such a loss. By the
time he has stored cerann oil, tublane, pottery glaze, and dozens of
other small items, Dorrin understands why the trader is broad-shouldered.
   Liedral leads them through a doorway at the end of the warehouse.
"Here's the washroom. I need to talk to Freidr. We'll have a late supper,
sometime after the twilight bell. You're invited. You might look around
the great square."
   "After I do some wash," Dorrin says, looking down at his
travel-stained browns. "Actually, I need to find a good curry brush."
   Kadara grins. "The same fastidious Dorrin. In a new city, and you
think about laundry and currying."
   "I'm also thinking about me, and the way I smell."
   Liedral pauses. ' There are several curry brushes in the tack room. If
you want to keep one of the older ones, that would be fine."
   "Thank you. Meriwhen will like it."
   "Now you've named the horse?"
   Dorrin flushes.
   Liedral backs away and steps through the doorway to the living
quarters.
   "Fine. Let me wash up first," suggests Kadara. "I'm not doing laundry.
You can go curry your Meriwhen."
   "Fine."
   While Kadara washes, Dorrin unloads Meriwhen, curries her, and gathers
his spiled clothes. Then he pumps two tubs full of water before Brede
appears. Brede is stripped to the waist and carries a small towel and a
razor for his blond stubble.
   "Still doing wash?" Kadara has changed into a gray tunic and trousers,
with a bright green scarf that sets off her hair and eyes.
   "I just started." Then Dorrin sighs. Once again, he has answered a
rhetorical question. He never learns.
   "I'll do mine later." With the travel grime off her face and the light
tan almost covering the faint freckles, she looks almost like an etching
of an ancient Westwind Guard-beautiful and deadly. "I'm going to the
square to see if I can find some things."
   "What things?" asks Brede from the other side of the washroom.
   "Just. . . women's things."
   His elbows deep in the tub, Brede splashes water across his face and
looks up at Dorrin, water dripping down in a stream from his chin. Dorrin
looks at Brede, and Kadara is gone.
   Dorrin rinses out his travel trousers and wrings them over the waste
bucket, then hangs them over a laundry table as he picks out a soapy
tunic.
   Brede hurriedly finishes washing and dries off, leaving Dorrin alone
in the washroom. The healer finishes all his once-filthy clothes, and
carries them out into the warehouse, hanging his wash in the empty fourth
stall, spreading it on a rope he has found coiled in the corner of what
was once a tack room.
   "You don't have to be that careful, healer."
   The short and squat man who accompanies Liedral nods. Despite the dark
beard and cold blue eyes, he appears little older than Dorrin.
   "This is my brother Freidr."
   "I'm pleased to meet you. My name is Dorrin."
   "Are the others around?"
   "They went off to the great square. I thought I would follow their
example after I wash up."
   "We will see you at supper, then." Liedral points, and the two traders
climb the steps. "The cerann was a good buy . . . overextended a bit..."
   Dorrin returns to the washroom with his one dry and clean set of
browns, where he washes himself thoroughly, then cleans the washroom,
then dries and dresses. As an afterthought, he reclaims his staff from
the stableboy's room.
   As he walks toward the great square, he notes again the relatively
small number of people on the streets, few indeed, even for a blustery
spring afternoon under gray skies. The stones underfoot are dry.
   Dorrin passes several booths selling weapons, but all have the
white-bronze blades of the Whites. Nowhere does he see iron. Is Jellico
totally controlled by the White Wizards?
   "Dorrin!" Brede waves from fifty paces away.
   The healer returns the wave and steps toward the tall blond.
   "Have you seen Kadara?"
   "I just got here," admits Dorrin. He pauses to look at the display to
his left, at the edge of the square.
   "Seeds! The best spice seeds this side of Suthya!" The man's white
hair bears an unhealthy yellow tinge, and his gray garments almost
flicker with white. Pouches of seeds are set on the small single-axled
cart, a cart that could be drawn by a man or a dog. Neither a dog nor a
pony is visible.
   Dorrin edges closer to the small leather pouches, frowning at the
water stains on the leather, wondering about the use of leather with
seeds. If the leather has been tanned with acorn extracts or other acids,
and then gotten damp, neither brinn nor astra will grow.
   He extends a hand toward the nearest pouch, not touching the leather,
letting his healing senses reach the seeds. Most are dead. He shakes his
head. His left hand tightens on his staff.
   "What's the matter?" asks Brede.
   "Most of the seeds are dead," Dorrin explains.
   "You're a fraud, friend," claims the peddler. "My seeds are the best,
the very best."
   Dorrin nods politely, and steps back, heading toward the cart with a
grill from which drifts the warm dripped-fat scent of roasting fowl.
   "The youngster in black said his seeds were dead ..." mumbles an older
woman in brown.
   Dorrin frowns. His clothes are brown, a deep and dark brown, but brown.
   "More 'n likely," sniffs another gray-haired woman in a patchwork of
wools. "He's a white-back."
   The three women leave the white-haired man without customers.
   "I said you're a fraud!" The peddler shouts. "Thief! Thief!"
   Two white-coated guards appear before Dorrin, white blades pointed
toward him. "What's the problem?"
   "Him and his Black quackery! He says my seeds aren't any good. That's
theft!" The peddler is almost hoarse, his voice is so loud and ragged.
   Bystanders step away, almost melting into the streets off the square.
   "You a Black healer?" snaps the square-faced guard.
   "No. I'm a questor."
   "Same thing. What about what the peddler says?"
   Dorrin faces the guards, his staff resting still in his left hand. "I
said nothing, except to my friend. I certainly am no trader." A warning
flash slides through his brain, although his words are literally true.
   "Those women-they would have bought except for him!"
   "What women?" asks the other guard, looking around the nearly deserted
section of the great square.
   The peddler looks around, then waves his arms. "He scared them away."
   "Likely story." The guards lower the white blades.
   The square-faced one turns to Dorrin. "You, youngster- keep your Black
thoughts to yourself. You understand?"
   "Yes, ser." Dorrin nods politely.
   "I don't want to see you making more trouble, young fellow." The
square-faced guard turns to Brede. "Nor you either, with that iron
toothpick!" Brede nods. "I will be careful, ser."
   The two guards march across the square.
   "Well, are you going to pay me?" snaps the peddler.
   Brede looks at the peddler. "For what? False accusations? The healer
couldn't tell an untruth if his life depended on it. That's more than one
could say of you."
   The white-haired man shrinks away from Brede's glare. "Black bastards
. . . trouble-makers ... all of them ..."
   Brede grins. Dorrin shrugs as they walk toward the stalls on the far
side of the square. Brede's grin vanishes as he watches two men fold
their tables at the approach of the two questors. Another throws a cloth
over his silverwork to signify that he is closed.
   "Sorry," Dorrin apologizes.
   "There's not much we can do." Brede nods toward the avenue. "Might as
well head back."
   Dorrin feels the eyes of the White guards on their backs as they cross
the square and head back up the avenue toward Liedral's building.
   Kadara is hanging up her laundry when they slide open the stable area
door. "You weren't gone long."
   "We had a few problems."
   "I had a few problems," Dorrin corrects. "A local peddler was selling
dead seeds. I remarked on it, and the authorities overheard. By the time
there were through, everyone decided it was time to close."
   "Oh, Dorrin." Kadara pats his shoulder.
   The doorway from the quarters opens. "If you're all back, we could
eat," Liedral announces. The trader wears clean dark blue trousers and a
high-necked tunic, with damp and clean brown hair longer than Dorrin's
but shorter than Kadara's ear-length cut.
   The dining room is on the lowest level. The long red-oak table is
polished, oiled, and only slightly battered along its eight-cubit length.
There are wooden armchairs, not benches, for the six who gather. Four
other chairs are placed in the corners and against the wall. Freidr
stands by the head of the table. To his right sits a thin blond woman.
   "Dorrin, Brede, and Kadara, I would like to introduce you to Midala.
Midala," Liedral says smoothly, "Kadara and Brede are blades; and Dorrin
is a healer."
   Freidr smiles and gestures to the table. "Please be seated."
   Dorrin finds himself between Midala and Liedral, who sits at the foot
of the table. Brede and Kadara sit side by side with their backs to the
high windows that front upon the street.
   A young woman in dark blue sets a platter heaped with thin strips of
meat covered in a dark brown sauce before Freidr. As he serves himself
and Midala, the serving woman returns with two other deep platters, one
filled with potatoes coated in cheese and another with limp and dark
greenery.
   Liedral takes a small helping of the potatoes and hands the platter to
Dorrin, who follows her example.
   "What's the greenery?"
   "Chiltach. It is bitter enough that it takes some getting used to, but
it goes well with heavier meat and potato dishes."
   "How have you found Candar so far?" asks Midala.
   "Generally hospitable." Brede spears some meat and places it on his
plate. "Somewhat colder than I thought, and"-he grins-"the size,
especially of the mountains, takes some getting used to."
   "You haven't seen the Westhorns yet, either." Liedral takes a moderate
helping of the chiltach.
   "Why does Recluce still send young people to Candar?" Midala has taken
only a small nibble of the potatoes.
   "The idea is that we should come to appreciate order more," volunteers
Dorrin. "Especially the way the order-masters want us to."
   Kadara swallows hard, almost choking on a bite of meat.
   "You don't sound thrilled with the order-masters, healer." Freidr
pours from the brown pitcher placed before him by the serving girl. "This
is dark beer. The white pitcher has redberry."
   Dorrin looks at the white pitcher, then lifts it to pour for Liedral,
who nods. He fills the trader's mug, and then his own, before turning to
Midala.
   "Yes, please." The blond woman nods.
   "Well," Dorrin temporizes, "following order most strictly can be
somewhat difficult if one is young."
   "I've heard it's difficult at any age." Liedral sips from the
stoneware mug.
   The serving girl returns with a woven basket filled with steaming
golden-crusted bread sliced into wide slabs. After offering it to
Liedral, who declines, Dorrin takes a slab and offers the basket to
Midala. The blond woman takes the smallest slice and sets the basket
before Freidr.
   "What about you?" Freidr turns to Brede.
   "If one is a blade, I suppose some experience helps."
   "You're not told to scout an area or bring back information?"
   "I rather doubt that is necessary," Dorrin says. "The air wizards can
see a great deal from the winds."
   "You're rather confident about that," laughs Freidr.
   Dorrin flushes, and covers his embarrassment behind the mug of
redberry. Then he takes two slices of meat and begins to slice them and
eat quickly.
   "I think that's been well known since Creslin," notes Kadara tartly.
"It's not exactly a secret."
   Freidr inclines his head to Kadara and smiles warmly. Midala smiles
also, politely.
   "I take it that trading is a family tradition." Brede's voice breaks
the momentary silence.
   "The tradition is somewhat strained these days." Liedral stabs a slice
of the meat and lifts it from the platter to her plate.
   "Oh? Why is that?"
   "Politics," adds Freidr. "To travel the great white roads, one must
have a license, and that means approval of the Prefect, who is advised by
his White Wizard. It used to be a simple tax."
   Brede nods. "It has become a loyalty test?"
   "Of sorts. It appears as though everyone has a loyalty test these
days, does it not?" Freidr looks at Dorrin.
   Dorrin takes refuge in another sip of redberry. His eyes stray to the
small and dusty guitar upon the wall.
   "That? Actually, that's an heirloom. It's said that Creslin once
played it. Who knows? It's an old family tale, but, these days, there's
certainly no way to tell. It's seen better days." Freidr shrugs off the
instrument. "Ah, yes, loyalty and legends."
   "If I might ask," Kadara smiles politely at the dark-haired Freidr,
"What exactly do you do while Liedral is out trading?"
   "Mind the warehouse, try to factor what she's gathered to shops in
Jellico-that sort of thing. It doesn't do much good to obtain things if
you don't sell them."
   "Freidr's very good at factoring," Midala adds proudly.
   "I can imagine," Kadara says brightly.
   Dorrin eats, wishing he were in the stable or even in the great square.
   "Tell me," continues Freidr, as if nothing had been said, "where you
will be heading from Jellico."
   "Toward the Westhorns." Brede refills Kadara's mug with the dark beer,
then tops off his own. Setting the pitcher down, he sips the foam almost
silently before taking a healthy swallow.
   "Through Passera and Fenard?"
   "That's along the wizards' highway?" asks Kadara.
   "The wizards haven't finished it there. You'd have to take the old
road through Gallos."
   Brede and Kadara exchange glances, but avoid looking at Dorrin.
   "I would think a more northward route," ventures Brede.
   "That might be the wisest." Freidr inclines his head to Kadara. "If
you would pass the beer?"
   "Of course." Kadara smiles and hands the young factor the pitcher.
   Dorrin reaches across the table and retrieves the bread, taking a slab
before offering the basket to Liedral. All six eat for a time as the
serving woman replaces the depleted bread basket and removes the empty
meat platter.
   "Faya! Some more beer!" Freidr lifts the pitcher.
   When Faya returns, Freidr fills his mug and offers to pour for Kadara.
   "No, thank you, ser Freidr."
   Dorrin quietly refills his mug with redberry and takes another slice
of the warm bread. He looks at the remnants of the chiltach on his plate.
   "It's not that bad, Dorrin."
   "I think I've seen rotten seaweed that smelled better," he mumbles.
   "You must have tasty seaweed then," Liedral quips.
   "You eat seaweed on Recluce?" asks Midala.
   "Sometimes." Again Dorrin finds himself flushing.
   "Are you finished, ser?" asks Faya, standing at Dorrin's elbow.
   He nods gratefully as the platter and the chiltach vanish into the
kitchen. Shortly, Faya sets before each diner a small cup filled with a
single golden orb-honey-brandied peaches.
   "This is excellent." Brede finishes his in three bites.
   Dorrin has used his knife to spray honey on his fingers and the table
in attempting to cut the fruit into smaller sections. He continues to eat
small sections long after Brede and Kadara have finished.
   "We will not keep you, travelers," says Freidr, rising. "It has been a
long day for you."
   Dorrin swallows the last of the redberry in his mug and stands,
following the others to their feet.
   "Thank you." Kadara's soft and warm voice is echoed by Brede, and
finally by Dorrin.
   Then, with Brede leading, the three ease away from their chairs and
file toward the warehouse, and the stableboy's room. Liedral slips behind
them, but stops at the doorway from the quarters to the stable. The
trader's warm fingertips touch Dorrin's shoulder, squeeze briefly, and
drop away. "Try not to mind Freidr. Things aren't always easy for him."
   "Because he's from a trading family, and he doesn't like trading? Or
because he'd like to be on the council or whatever advises whoever rules
this place, and he can't?" Dorrin licks the last of the honey off the
comers of his lips after he speaks.
   "He likes governing, and traders can't, especially not us."
   "I see ... I think. We'll be going in the morning, I think."
   "Good. So will I. We can travel to Kleth together."
   "What makes you think we're going there?"
   "You don't have much choice, Dorrin." Liedral smiles. "Your friends
don't want to head west to Gallos. That means you either head over the
hills to the south toward Hydolar or you go north to Rytel and northwest
to Kleth-unless you want to go back to Tyrhavven ... or go cross-country,
which I wouldn't advise." The trader steps back, half shutting the door.
"So we might as well travel together."
   "I don't know."
   "I'll see you in the morning." Dorrin shakes his head as he walks
toward the fourth stall- empty except for laundry-where he has placed his
bedroll on the straw. Sleeping near Brede and Kadara will not make for a
restful night. He senses too much, and is reminded too often of the
red-headed girl he once kissed in the spice garden.
   "You look troubled." Kadara emerges from the second stall, brushing
straw from her hands.
   "The trader is coming with us tomorrow to Rytel."
   "You don't like that?"
   "Liedral knew, and I didn't."
   "I'm sorry." Kadara's voice is soft. "We thought you understood.
Freidr made it pretty clear, and after that incident in the square ..."
   Dorrin waits.
   "We didn't think it was a good idea to stay in Certis or head toward
where the White Wizards are working . . . and we wanted to get to the
Westhorns."
   "And that means heading toward Spidlar along the northern route?"
Dorrin finishes.
   "Yes. It's better for you, too. You could go the other way, if you
want."
   "Me? I can't even carry a blade or stand up to a White Wizard. I may
not have much choice, Kadara, but I'm not stupid. Slow ... but not
totally stupid." He walks past her and into the stall that holds his
bedroll, where he sits on the blankets and strips off his boots, ignoring
Kadara until she looks down and turns away.
 
 
XXIX
 
THE ROAD ANGLES up and down over the low rolling hills of Certis,
paralleling the Jellicor River toward Rytel. The creak of the cart and
the clop of hoofs are almost lost in the whine of the spring wind. Dorrin
leans toward the cart, his staff in his left hand. "Would you have left
this soon if we weren't headed this way?"
   Liedral shifts her weight on the cart seat. "I wasted too much time in
seeing Fairhaven, and I'm not sure it was wise."
   "Seeing Fairhaven or wasting time?"
   "Either. Freidr's worried about the White Wizards, but he's too
comfortable with Midala to go check himself. Besides, I need to get to
Kleth to pick up the stuff from Jarnish. Some came from Diev."
   Dorrin has heard of Kleth, but not the other names. Still, he has
another question. "Your brother ... he doesn't seem quite like a trader."
   "A trader?" Liedral snorts. "He went to Rytel once. He lost more than
if he'd dropped the whole cart in the Jellicor and watched it wash all
the way down river to Tyrhavven."
   "Then..."
   "Politics."
   "Oh." Dorrin understands. The Whites hate the Legend, or women who
control anything. He considers the trader's apparel and manners before
asking another question. "Who's Jarnish?"
   "What about politics?" asks Brede belatedly.
   "Jarnish is a factor in Kleth, but he doesn't travel."
   "Where's Diev?"
   "Right at the foothills of the Westhorns. It's about as far north and
west as you can go without entering the mountains. Small three-season
port, but not all that much there. Lumber for Spidlar, but Axalt and
Sligo are better for anywhere else."
   "When you talk about Spidlar," mentions Brede, who has ridden the
gelding closer to the trader's cart so that he and Dorrin are on opposite
sides of the trader, "all you do is talk about trade. Doesn't anything
else happen there?"
   "Spidlar's still an independent trading country. There's a Council of
Traders that runs things. They were the only ones in eastern Candar to
avoid the mess that created Recluce, and their Council tries to avoid
conflict."
   "No duke, or viscount?" Brede leans forward, untangling the gelding's
mane.
   "What about the wizards?" Dorrin straightens in the saddle and twirls
the staff, happy that he can finally do the simple exercise.
   "Careful with that!" snaps Kadara from behind him.
   "Sorry." He replaces the staff in the lanceholder. "You did say that I
needed to practiced"
   "Dorrin. .."
   "What about Spidlar?"
   "Is that Rytel over the hills there?" interrupts Kadara, pointing
toward a low wall rising out of a flat expanse of brown and green.
   "What's that?"
   A thread of silver winds from the south toward the walls.
   "The river? That's the Jellicor. We've been following-"
   "No," explains Brede. "The line of trees across there."
   "That's the Estal. It meets the Jellicor on the other side of Rytel,
and the Jellicor flows into the Northern Sea at Tyrhavven, not that it
gets much bigger or that Tyrhavven's all that great a port. It's a lot
better than Diev, though Spidlaria's the best."
   Liedral flicks the reins to get the cart moving again, and the four
begin the downhill trek toward the still-distant town.
   Dorrin slaps at his neck. The mosquitoes are out, and they seem to
prefer him to the others. Unlike the fleas, the mosquitoes move too fast
for him to persuade them to move elsewhere-and there seem to be clouds of
them.
   "Healer?"
   "Dorrin," he corrects.
   "Try this. Smear a little on your neck. It might help."
   Dorrin takes the leather pouch and squeezes the ointment into his
palm. His senses tell him it is faintly order-based, and he rubs it
across the back of his neck. "Thank you."
   "Sometimes, simple potions are more helpful than complicated magic."
   So, Dorrin believes, are relatively simple machines-but he seems to be
one of the few raised in order that thinks so. He frowns. He never did
hear any more about Diev, although Liedral had been hinting at something.
 
 
XXX
 
DORRIN LEANS SIDEWAYS in the saddle to avoid banging his head into the
rocky ledge as Meriwhen carries him around the switchback. Then he wipes
his forehead, clearing an accumulation of sweat and cold rain that has
splattered off the canyon walls and onto his face. Behind him the cart
creaks, and the inside wheel scrapes on a boulder.
   "Darkness..." mumbles Liedral.
   Dorrin swallows as he glances at the fifty-cubit dropoff to his left.
   "It's worse in the Westhorns," Liedral says cheerfully.
   Ahead, Brede hums, in perfect pitch, a Temple hymn.
   "Would you stop it?" snaps Kadara.
   "Ooofff." Dorrin's grin is wiped away as his staff bangs the side of
his face, knocked there by an ice-covered root protruding from the canyon
wall-just high enough for the three to ride underneath, just low enough
to catch the tip of Dorrin's staff. He pushes the staff back into place
and concentrates on the narrow winding road before him.
   Three more descending switchbacks bring them to a narrow canyon that
seems to wind due west, although it is so narrow that the three ride in
shadows, ice still filling the crevices on the left side of the road, and
the light of the midday sun only apparent on the clifftops when Dorrin
looks straight up. Kadara wraps her cloak about her more tightly.
   "Up ahead are the guard towers. Keep your hands away from your
weapons," explains the trader.
   "Guard towers? We're still in the mountains," Kadara says.
   "Who said a town had to be on the plains?" asks Liedral.
   Shortly the canyon widens to reveal a stone wall rising nearly a
hundred cubits, punctuated by an iron-bound gate. A handful of soldiers
with crossbows are stationed on the ramparts, and several weapons are
trained on the travelers. Outside the gate, beside a stone sentry box,
stand two men in quilted gray uniforms.
   Liedral reins up the cart and waits. So do the three from Recluce.
   "Ah . . . Trader Liedral. Who are your companions?" The tall man with
the high-pitched voice and shoulders even broader than Brede's marches
over to the trader, who has climbed from the cart seat.
   "Two guards and a healer." Liedral nods to Dorrin.
   "Well, he does have a staff and that look about him. And they are
definitely guards. And you, and your father before you, have always been
truthful. Such a pity. It has been a such a long time since my men were
able to practice on real targets. Even the White guards do not venture
down our canyons."
   "They will, sooner than you think, Nerliat."
   "So said your father."
   "He was a little premature. They took Hydlen first, and Kyphros."
   "There are no mountains to block their passage into Spidlar."
   "True. We will see. May we enter the secure haven of Axalt?"
   "There is the matter of the road tariff, trader."
   "Ah, yes. The tariff." Liedral's hands do not move toward a purse.
   "Since the guards are armed, that would be two coppers each. A copper
for you, and nothing, of course, for the healer."
   "Could I claim the guards were students?"
   "Liedral . . . even as students of the blade, it would be two coppers."
   "Ah, well, Nerliat. Five coppers it must be, I suppose. Did you know
that the great wizard of chaos is raising mountains in the high plains
between Gallos and Kyphros?"
   "Tales without substance," snorts the squad leader.
   "I wish it were so. I have seen the new mountains, smoking lumps of
black rock, burning on the horizon."
   "Kyphros is far from here."
   Liedral shrugs. "The Kyphrans thought Fairhaven was far, too."
   "Five coppers, trader."
   "As you wish." Liedral removes the coins from the purse.
   Nerliat gestures, and the outer gate rumbles open to reveal an inner
portcullis, which, in turn, lifts almost silently. Liedral climbs back
onto the cart and flicks the reins. Dorrin follows the trader, and Kadara
and Brede follow Dorrin through the fifteen-cubit-high gate.
   Once through the walls, nearly forty cubits thick at the base, Dorrin
looks at the third set of gates, already swung open. Behind them the
portcullis drops and the outer gate closes.
   "How long has that stood?" asks Dorrin. "No army could take that wall."
   "Longer than my family has been trading, and the western gate is just
as imposing. But it doesn't matter. How could it stand against a wizard
who could raise or topple mountains?"
   "I don't understand that," asks Brede. "Why would a White Wizard waste
all that power raising mountains? What's the purpose?"
   "Who knows?" snorts Kadara.
   Dorrin frowns. "That would take a great deal of ability and power.
Anyone with that much ability probably wouldn't do it frivolously."
   "Perhaps it's to prove his power," suggests Liedral, turning the cart
to the right and down a stone-paved and inclined road. Beneath them,
still a hundred cubits lower, the town sits in the midst of a valley
still covered primarily with patches of snow punctuated with gray and
brown.
   "It's just because he's more evil, and wants to destroy things. At
least that's what your father would claim, Dorrin," suggests Kadara.
   "I suppose so." Dorrin gently rubs his cheek, which aches from where
his staff thumped him. Why does his father insist that the Whites are so
evil? Certainly the White Wizard who tracked them is powerful-so powerful
that Dorrin felt almost like a fly about to be squashed. But... there
hadn't been an evil presence, just the white of chaos. And is chaos
evil-or merely chaotic?
   "So would Lortren," adds Kadara, shifting in her saddle as the four
ride around another descending turn in the wide stone road that leads
downward into the valley.
   Only a hundred or so dwellings dot the wide valley surrounded by the
steep cliffs. To the west there is a single gap in the cliffs. "This
place looks like it was created by magic."
   "I know!" exclaims Brede. "It makes perfect sense."
   "What does?" The squeak of the cart wheels punctuates Kadara's
question as Liedral guides the cart around another wide descending turn.
   "The wizard. Why would a wizard want to show his power, but not use it
on a town?"
   "I don't know," snaps Kadara. "I'm hungry. Just answer your own
question."
   "If he uses it on a town, then he's destroyed the town."
   "So what else is new?"
   Liedral and Dorrin grin at each other.
   "The White Wizards have enough problems with chaos spilling over and
tearing down things. You can't run a kingdom if you have no kingdom to
run. What happens if he raises mountains and shows that he can level a
city-and then asks the Spidlarians or whoever to submit to Fairhaven?
They still have the city and the taxes or goods or whatever."
   "Hmmmmm ..." muses Liedral."That's fine for the Kyphrans, but the
Spidlarians are pretty stiff-necked. So are the people here."
   "Still-whatever battles the Whites don't fight ..." suggests Brede.
   Brede has a point. Then, Brede has always been quick to understand.
   "This is mighty Axalt?" asks Kadara.
   "This is Axalt," affirms Liedral, "and, believe it or not, it will
only cost a few coppers for a good room at the inn-and they'll have
enough rooms. They like to encourage travelers."
   "What about drink?" inquires Brede wryly.
   "Wine, mead, brandy-probably half silver a mug."
   "That's more than the cost of the room." Dorrin flushes as he realizes
he has declared the obvious.
   "There had to be a catch," Brede muses. "And I suppose everyone's
thirsty? What about water?"
   Liedral grins, and Dorrin smiles at the trader's expression. "The
water's free, and good. But neither blades nor traders are fond of water."
   Liedral turns the cart through the last switchback and directs 'it
toward the pair of two-storied buildings ahead. The one on the right side
of the road bears a sign with the image of a tan mountain panther. The
one on the left bears the image of a horned black mountain goat. "We'll
stay at the Black Ram. It's quieter."
   "Is there any real difference?" Kadara rides up alongside the trader.
   "Not much-except the clientele. Even the stables are similar." She
drives the cart past the stable and turns into the yard behind the Black
Ram.
   Two stableboys bounce out onto the clay.
   "Is the front corner stall free?" The trader's light baritone is hard.
   "Yes, ser."
   "I'll take it, and anything near for my party's horses."
   "Would you like grain, too, for the horses?"
   "How much?"
   "A copper a cake, ser."
   "Two cakes a copper, and we'll take four cakes."
   The two look at each other, then nod. "In advance, if you please."
   Liedral climbs from the cart. "You bring the cakes, and I'll come up
with the coppers."
   The cakes appear almost as quickly as the trader speaks, even before
Dorrin can dismount, although Brede and Kadara are already following the
one stableboy toward the stalls.
   "Saddles you can leave," advises Liedral.
   Dorrin leads Meriwhen after the others, toward the stalls. He manages
to get her unsaddled and the saddle and blankets racked not much after
the others, just in time to gather his gear and staff up and trudge after
the trader into the inn.
   Inside the pine-framed doorway is a foyer ten cubits square. On one
side is a counter that sits before a curtained arch, and behind the
counter stands a bald man with a long face and a white pointed goatee.
The goatee and white eyebrows are the only hair upon his head.
   "Trader Liedral. You would like your usual room? Alas, that corner is
taken, but the north corner is available."
   "The north would be fine. What do you have for the healer, here, and a
room for two blades?"
   "Two or three rooms?"
   "Two," states Brede.
   Dorrin purses his lips.
   "Two more I can do. Three would be hard."
   "You're that crowded? Since when, Wistik?"
   Wistik raises his eyebrows. "It does happen. Some Sligan shipwrights
are here."
   "Timber?"
   "Rumor has it that Fairhaven is commissioning another fleet, perhaps
two." Wistik looks at the three from Recluce, then inclines his head to
Dorrin. "Your pardon, healer."
   I Dorrin inclines his head to Wistik. "No offense taken, innkeeper." »
   "In any case, trader Liedral, as you know, one must sell what one has
to sell. Oh, and the room charges?" Wistik smiles politely.
   "Two for each room." Liedral sets two coppers on the desk.
   Dorrin adds his two, as does Brede. Wistik lifts an eyebrow, then
adds, "Your party has the north side, trader."
   "Thank you, Wistik."
   "And I would recommend the lamb stew. The goat pies are a trace
strong."
   Dorrin shifts his pack and saddlebags, lowering his staff to follow
Liedral through the archway to the right of the counter and up the narrow
stairs. He tries to ignore the handholding between Brede and Kadara and
concentrate on hanging on to his gear.
   As Dorrin stumbles off the stairs, Liedral smiles sadly for an instant
at him before turning down the hall toward the north corner.
 
 
XXXI
 
"WHAT'S SPIDLAR LIKE?" asks Dorrin.
   "A bit like everywhere else in Candar," Liedral muses. "Except their
Council still hasn't knuckled under to Fairhaven. They're stiff-necked,
even more so than Axalt. And they're basically orderly. That might be
because they're all merchants and traders."
   "I wouldn't think of merchants and traders as orderly," Dorrin says,
swatting at a mosquito that whines behind his neck.
   "Did you put on that lotion?"
   "I forgot." Dorrin twists in the saddle in an effort to reach the
right saddlebag. As he holds the front rim of the saddle with his left
hand and unfastens the buckle with the right, the mosquito attacks, and
Dorrin slaps it with his left, nearly falling off Meriwhen and onto the
cart.
   The trader's hand covers a laugh.
   "Are you clowning or trying to get yourself killed?" Kadara's voice is
sardonic, but Dorrin senses her concern.
   "Some of each, I guess." Dorrin finally extracts the flask from the
saddlebag, managing to keep Meriwhen on the narrow road. "You never
answered my question about why traders are orderly."
   Liedral eases the cart to the right as the road narrows, the right
wheel barely clearing the rocks. Dorrin drops back until they complete
the turn,
   "Honest and orderly traders make more money, especially away from
Fairhaven. I couldn't exactly tell you why. Probably because people trust
them. Spidlarian traders have a good reputation-shrewd but honest. But
they have trouble around here. The traders tied up with the White
Wizards-they're mostly Certan and Lydian-have too many advantages. They
can use the great roads with lower tolls, and the port at Lydiar.
Belonging to the Fairhaven guild means you don't pay fees in each city;
and you can sell in Fairhaven itself, and that's a big advantage."
   "How come the Spidlarians don't belong?"
   "The Spidlarians are mostly seafarers and don't need the great roads,
and the White Wizards didn't want trouble with Analeria, Kyphros, and
Spidlar at the same time."
   "But Kyphros is part of Gallos," interjects Brede from behind the cart.
   "Tell that to the Kyphrans," Liedral snorts.
   "And Spidlar has managed to avoid knuckling under to Fair-haven."
   "For nearly two centuries . . . until the Whites finished their damned
road through the Easthorns. Your founder Creslin slowed that down a bit,
I understand. But, with this mountain-building business, the Spidlarians
are worried-or they ought to be."
   "Why do they care? It sounds like all they do is buy and sell.
Fairhaven would still let them do that."
   "They'd have to do it Fairhaven's way, and the Spidlarians want to
sell their way. They sell everything-even soldiers. Probably more
Spidlarians work as mercenaries in other parts of Candar than serve in
the Council's army. Somehow, it's almost a disgrace to be a professional
soldier in Spidlar."
   "But it's all right elsewhere?"
   "I didn't say it made sense." Liedral lifts the reins, urging the cart
horse onward. "Besides, they get paid more elsewhere." She glances at the
thicker clouds to the west. "I'd really like to be clear of the hills
before that rain comes in."
   "Hmmmm ..." Brede pulls at his chin. "That might mean the best blades
are also elsewhere."
   "I don't like this," offers Kadara.
   "You won't like starving, either."
   "What about Dorrin?"
   The healer shrugs. "Most places, they need healers. I'd rather work
for a smith, though."
   All three look at the thin youth.
   "I'm stronger than I look. Even your father said so."
   The trader's eyebrows lift, even as Liedral's eyes flicker again to
the clouds.
   "Hegl was a smith. He taught me a lot."
   "Did all three of you grow up together?"
   "No," Brede says. "I met them later."
   "Why are you worried about the clouds?" asks Dorrin, edging Meriwhen
closer to the cart.
   "There's still a lot of snow and ice in the rock." Liedral glances
back toward the ice-tipped peaks of the Easthorns, back in the general
direction of Axalt. "Warm rain-and that's what's coming-could melt it
quick." The low ice-edged stream runs less than three cubits below the
road.
   "How much farther?"
   "Until midday. The clouds will be here by midmorning."
   "The rain won't start melting things all at once."
   "Let's hope not." Liedral flicks the reins. "We need to get out of the
canyon before it rains hard."
   Dorrin nudges Meriwhen.
   They have covered another five kays before a fine mist begins to fall,
so fine that the rock walls facing north begin to take on an icy sheen.
   Liedral picks up the pace, pushing the cart horse on the straight
stretches between curves. "Just a few more kays," the trader mutters as
the cart wheel scrapes the canyon rocks yet again.
   "Until what?" asks Brede.
   "Until we're safe. From the flood, that is." A drop of warmer water
splats on Dorrin's nose. "It's raining."
   "We've noticed." Kadara shifts in her saddle and closes her jacket,
dropping slightly farther behind the cart. Brede eases back with her, and
the hum of low voices is lost in the growing hiss of the rain and in the
rushing of the small river to the left of the road.
   As they plod through the rain, the river cuts deeper into the stone so
that, another three kays toward the hilly plains of Spidlar, the road
runs nearly thirty cubits higher than the waters.
   "We're past the worst, praise darkness. And just in time." Liedral
points to her right.
   From the road, Dorrin follows Liedral's finger. Almost as he watches,
the water begins to rise, climbing until the bottom of the canyon is
filled with white froth. Occasionally, a blackened tree bounces across or
emerges from the froth, only to be swirled under. The rain pelts down,
seeping under his collar and oozing down his back. "How long will this go
on?"
   "Why don't you tell us?" asks Kadara.
   Dorrin's flush is lost in the wind-swirled rain. He sends his
perceptions into the storm, the way his father taught him, but can only
sense the heaviness above and around them. "Too much water," he gasps.
   "So it will continue for a while?" Brede asks.
   "Unless it blows over. There's a lot of water in the clouds."
   "There always is," Liedral points out. "Here, at least. We might as
well go on. It's coming from the west."
   Dorrin hunches into his jacket and follows Brede and the trader's
cart, occasionally blotting his forehead. The canyon walls have begun to
widen, and their slope lessens with each rod that the four travel
downward. At least the rain has also carried away the mosquitoes.
 
 
XXXII
 
THE THREE DAYS of rain have subsided into an afternoon mist falling over
Kleth, seeping down the stone walls framing the now-muddy waters of the
River Gallos. An occasional chunk of ice bobs past. Liedral finishes
inspecting the ties on the cart and steps back to the dock, eyes
traversing the three from Recluce, pausing slightly at Dorrin before
glancing back at the riverman by the tiller. She hands two silvers each
to Kadara and Brede. "I wish it could be more, but you will recall..."
   "We enjoyed the company and the guidance," Brede says.
   "Be sure to tell Jarnish that I sent you. I'd come, but the rivermen
wait for no one."
   Kadara's eyes go to the wide river scow tied to the pier, rubbing up
and down against the worn wooden guides with the swells of the
rain-swollen river.
   Dorrin wishes he were as glib as Brede. He will miss Liedral,
especially after seeing beneath the trader's careful maintained exterior,
but he can say nothing as the trader places two silvers in his hands.
   "I hope you can find a smithy in Diev. Let Jarnish know where you can
be found. I do get to Diev every once in a great while."
   "Thank you, Liedral."
   The trader smiles. "It was nice not to travel alone. I'd forgotten how
good it can be." The tone hardens. "But it's back to business."
   "Need to cast off, trader!" calls the bearded riverman.
   Liedral steps back to the scow, even as one scruffy youngster loosens
the forward line and the riverman at the tiller loosens the aft one.
Dorrin watches as the scow eases toward midstream.
   "Dorrin, we need to get moving. It's near midday."
   Kadara is right. He doesn't need to stare at a river scow drifting
downstream toward Spidlaria, even though they don't have that far to go.
He climbs slowly into the saddle, then takes a deep breath before nudging
his heels into Meriwhen's flanks. The mare whinnies, more of a token
protest, as she breaks into a trot. She slows without any urging from
Dorrin when she nears the other two.
   "That was more than I expected," Brede is telling Kadara.
   "Of course." Kadara grins widely. "Thank Dorrin for that."
   "Thank you, Dorrin." In turn, Brede grins.
   Dorrin finds himself blushing. "Why?"
   "You certainly captivated the trader."
   "Indeed he did," Kadara adds gleefully.
   "It's too bad," Brede guides the gelding off the river road.
   The three turn onto the road toward the factor's establishment. A gap
in the clouds allows sunlight to warm them. Beyond the mud that borders
the stone thoroughfare is trampled brown grass, still dotted infrequently
with patches of snow. Behind the grass stand scattered small huts, some
with goat pens, some few with a tethered cow, and all with ragged
thatched roofing.
   Kadara nods. "That brother of hers is worthless, and she does all the
work. The Whites still fight the Legend."
   "Not all men are worthless," protests Dorrin.
   "That wasn't the point of the Legend. The point of the Legend was what
happened when men refused to listen to women, or to allow them equal say."
   "'Ware horses!" screams a woman from the front of a hut on the left
side of the road.
   Dorrin reins up Meriwhen to keep from riding down a youngster chasing
a ball across the stone paving slabs. He waits for the youngster,
barefoot despite the chill and the cold clay alongside the road, to
reclaim the ball.
   The woman shakes a broom at him, so hard that straws fly from it.
"Watch your riding, stranger!"
   Dorrin continues to wait. The shaggy-haired boy grabs the
mud-spattered ball, and never looking up, saunters back across the road.
   "Demon-damned travelers ..."
   Dorrin nudges Meriwhen, and the mare trots to catch up with Brede and
Kadara, who have slowed to wait for him.
   "Slow down!" screams the woman behind him. "You're as like to kill
someone!"
   "Right, Dorrin. Slow down." Kadara shakes her head before turning in
the saddle.
   "Since when didn't women have equal say?" mutters Dorrin, his hand
checking the staff to make sure it is firmly held in place.
   Overhead, the clouds close, and the light dims. Behind them, the
Gallos flows north to the cold sea, and a woman in graying rags shakes a
straw broom.
 
 
XXXIII
 
DORRIN PEERS INTO the kitchen, looking for the factor.
   "Jarnish left for Hitter's. Be back in a bit. You want breakfast . . .
give us a hand here." The cook gestures toward the kitchen water tank.
   "How can I help?"
   "Fill the tank. Here's a carry-bucket. Use the back well-the one down
the outside steps here."
   Dorrin takes the carry-bucket and opens the rear door.
   "And wipe your feet good, boy."
   He steps out into the dawn chill, wishing he had been able to sleep
longer. But lying there on his bedroll on the hard attic floor, with
Brede and Kadara asleep and entwined not three cubits away, had been too
much.
   The steps descend into a stone-walled enclosure perhaps fifty cubits
square, half of which is comprised of raised garden beds that have been
turned but not yet planted. White frost covers the dark garden soil, and
his breath puffs away in a thin cloud as he steps up to the well.
   He drops the well-bucket down the stone-sided well, holding to the
rope, letting the heavy oak and iron splinter the surface ice. Then he
lifts the bucket the ten or so cubits to the stone ledge where the water,
like liquid ice, slops over his bare hands, as he pours the well bucket
into the smaller carrying bucket. He walks toward the kitchen steps, his
breath a white cloud. From the chimney above the kitchen a thin white
plume drifts northward.
   "Mind you now, wipe those feet."
   "Yes, cook."
   The flat-nosed woman continues to chop and dice an assortment of
dubious vegetables. Dorrin finds himself staring at the flicking knife.
   "Never seen a good stew being made, boy? Ha!"
   Dorrin carries in three full buckets from the well, topping off the
kitchen tank and replacing the cover.
   "Took long enough," snorts the old cook. "Breakfast's on the table."
   "Thank you," adds Lyssa, the wide-eyed maid.
   "Don't thank him, girl. He's just another questor, and he'll be gone
tomorrow or next eight-day-if the White guards don't run him in for
something. Can't understand Jarnish."
   Dorrin pulls out a stool and sits down. On the dented table are a loaf
of black bread, a wedge of cheese, a plate of dried fruits, three
battered clay mugs and a gray stoneware pitcher from which a wisp of
vapor seeps.
   "What about your friends?" grumbles the cook. "They intend to sleep
all day?"
   Dorrin looks out at the gray morning, barely beyond dawn. "I don't
think so, but it's only a bit past dawn, isn't it?"
   "You want to succeed in life, boy, you don't sleep past the cock's
second crow."
   Lyssa looks at Dorrin and grins before taking the tray and leaving.
   "Tell the old Missus, if she wants more hot cider, to ring the bell
twice." The flashing knife halts, and the cook sweeps the vegetables into
the dark liquid in the deep stewpot.
   Dorrin pours hot cider into a mug, then hacks off a chunk of bread and
a slice of cheese. The bread is warm and chewy, the cheese cold and
sharp. "Very good bread."
   "Course it is. I don't bake any other kind. You do something, boy, you
best do it right. Otherwise you're just taking up space."
   Dorrin takes another bite from the bread, followed by a sip from the
cider. "Good cider."
   "Didn't you hear me, boy? I'm a good cook. I don't serve bad food. If
I did, I couldn't call myself a cook." She brings the knife to bear on
some undetermined haunch of dark meat.
   Dorrin tries one of the dried pearapples. Not surprisingly, it is also
good, dried or not.
   "Is this the place?" Brede's cheerful voice precedes him down the
stairs from the attic.
   "Place for what?" snorts the cook as Brede steps onto the wide plank
floor. "You best get moving if you want to get where you're going by
sunset."
   "You're right." Brede pulls up a stool across from Dorrin and pours
two mugs of hot cider.
   "Course I'm right, but I don't need a soldier boy to tell me that."
   Kadara eases onto the stool next to Brede, her hands going to the
earthenware mug, cradling it in both hands under her chin and letting the
steam wreath her face. "Mmmmm ..."
   "You're too pretty to be a lady blade." The cook's knife jabs toward
Kadara. "Looks like yours'll slay more men than that killer blade you
carried yesterday."
   Dorrin almost chokes on a mouthful of cheese and bread.
   Kadara swallows, following her small mouthful with the warm cider.
"Don't say a word," she whispers to Brede. "Or you either," she adds to
Dorrin.
   Dorrin grins at Brede.
   "It's not false pride to look good. But it's inviting the demons into
the parlor when you deny your looks. Many's a poor wench found herself
with child and worse because she said, 'Who, me? I can't be that pretty.'
Ha!" The knife flashes through the last of the haunch, and the bare bone
drops into another kettle.
   The kitchen door opens, and Jarnish steps through.
   "Good day. Did you sleep well?" The factor takes a deep breath. "Be
stew for dinner, I'd say. A lovely aroma already, Jaddy." His heavy
jacket comes off, and he sets it on one of the pegs on the cross-timber
by the door.
   "Never trust a man's tongue-not when he talks about food or love."
Jaddy snorts.
   "She's always got a word for everyone." Jarnish pulls a long-handled
clay pipe from a brownish dish on the otherwise empty serving table and a
pouch from his vest pocket. He tamps shreds of tobacco into the pipe,
then lights it with his striker. Pulling the one armchair in the kitchen
up to the end of the table, he sits, taking the pipe from his mouth.
"You'll be off shortly, then."
   "Yes, ser," Brede says quietly. "Once we get to Diev, Kadara and I
will try the road guards first."
   "They'll take you. Darkness, they'll be a-taking anyone who can swing
a blade and stay mounted."
   "You don't have the highest opinion of the Spidlarian road guards."
   "Not much good except to pick up those souls too poor to know how to
be a highwayman and too desperate to be otherwise." Jarnish takes another
puff on the pipe and the acrid smoke drifts toward Dorrin.
   "They're good at picking up tavern wenches with their tales," offers
Jaddy.
   "What about you, lad?"
   "I'd like to apprentice to a smith, ser."
   Kadara looks at Brede with the slightest of frowns.
   "A smith? Aren't you a tad slender?"
   "I'm stronger than I look."
   "Any experience?"
   "Was an apprentice for a while."
   Jarnish takes the long-handled pipe from his mouth, blowing a cloud in
Dorrin's direction. Dorrin tries not to choke. No one on Recluce smokes,
although he has read of the practice, especially in Hamor.
   "What kind of smith, young fellow? Must be a dozen smiths in Diev, not
that I know them all from here-smiths for the traders' ships, smiths that
make horseshoes and not much else, smiths that make who knows what."
   "The kind that makes tools and parts for wagons or sawmills-that sort
of thing."
   Another cloud of smoke follows before the factor speaks again. "Just
two smiths like that in Diev. There's Henstaal, and he's got a place out
beyond the south wall, just off the turnpike. Good solid forge. Then
there's Yarrl, and he's on the north side, off the guard road."
   Dorrin munches another piece of dried pearapple.
   "Henstaal's got three big sons, older 'n you. Yard's only got a
daughter. No apprentice, not the last time I heard. Rumor was he made his
daughter help him." Jarnish blows another cloud of smoke down the table.
   "What's the problem with Yarrl?"
   "Not as there's any problem . . . exactly . . . young fellow, but they
say as his woman's got the evil eye, and his daughter ... well, her
tongue ... and they're not from here, either. He set up shop there when I
wasn't much older 'n you, and never said where he was from. Never has,
either. Good work, but... says what's on his mind. Can't keep
apprentices. Last one lasted three days."
   "All I can do is try."
   The factor stands. "Can't mint coins if you don't keep hammering, nor
milk if you don't water the cows."
   Dorrin takes the hint and rises. "We'll be on our way as soon as we
gather our packs together."
   "Don't need to hurry that much. Let the lady blade finish her cider."
   Brede stands. "We thank you for your hospitality."
   "That'll not be a problem. I owe young Liedral, and this'll help with
that debt." The factor gestures with the pipe, then sets it back in the
brown dish. "I'm off to the barge landing, Jaddy. Maybe they'll have some
winter trout at the market there."
   "Don't take any unless they're silver. The brown ones turn bitter."
   Jarnish shrugs as he pulls on his jacket.
   Once the factor has stepped outside, Dorrin heads up the stairs to
gather his jacket and pack, leaving Brede and Kadara to finish their
breakfast. In the dusty attic, he rolls his bedding and cinches it
tightly, and packs his gear into the saddlebags. He pulls on his jacket.
With the bags over his right forearm, his staff in hand, and the bedroll
in his left arm, he heads back down the stairs, nose wrinkling at the
acrid odor of burned tobacco . . . and at the faint aroma of something
else carried by Jamish, except it is not a smell. It is almost as though
a faint dusting of chaos flakes off the factor. Dorrin shrugs. Traders
have to deal with all sorts.
   Brede has finished the dark bread and has just set his empty mug on
the table when Dorrin reenters the kitchen. Dorrin's nose itches, and he
snuffles to keep from sneezing.
   "Are you all right?" asks Brede.
   "Fine." Dorrin eases around the table and toward the back door. Lyssa
opens it for him. "Thank you."
   Lyssa smiles, and Jaddy shakes her head, not pausing in measuring out
flour onto her work table.
   The chill air relieves the itch in Dorrin's nose. Meriwhen whuffles
and tosses her head up from an empty manger as Dorrin opens the stall. "I
know. You're still hungry. You're always hungry." Dorrin rummages through
the feed barrels and finds the oats and a scoop. While he hasn't
discussed the feed with Jamish, a scoop or two from the large barrel
shouldn't be too bad. His head throbs as he thinks the thought. Clearly,
he will have to leave a coin or something for the extra feed. "You're
always causing problems," he says as he empties the oats into the manger.
   Meriwhen only chews the grain as Dorrin takes out the brush and begins
to curry her. The headache continues after he replaces the brush in the
saddle bags and starts back to the kitchen.
   Brede and Kadara are leaving as he approaches.
   "I forgot something," Dorrin explains.
   "What? You have that guilty look." Kadara frowns.
   "I need to pay for some extra oats."
   "Why bother? The factor could spare a handful."
   "I need to." Dorrin steps around the redhead and up the stairs.
   "Such a stickler..."
   "I doubt he has much choice, Kadara," answers Brede. "He is a healer."
   Dorrin steps inside.
   "What do you need now, boy?" demands Jaddy, elbow-deep in flour.
   "I just wanted to leave a copper or two for some extra feed." Dorrin
reaches for his purse.
   "Jamish won't be minding that."
   "Probably not, but I will."
   "You're order-bound, aren't you, boy?"
   Dorrin nods.
   "Too bad there aren't more like you. World be a better place." She
looks at the wooden bowl filled with dried pearapples and peaches.
"Lyssa!"
   The maid appears from the pantry.
   "Wrap up a double handful of the fruits for them. Jarnish said to send
'em off proper." She grins at Dorrin. "Just leave the copper on the table
there. I'll be a-telling Jarnish, don't you worry." She glances at the
maid who has wrapped the fruit in a thin gray cloth. "Another handful or
so. Jarnish wouldn't have these folks starving on the road."
   "You didn't have to-" protests Dorrin.
   "Neither did you, boy. Now take the fruit and be on your way."
   "Thank you."
   "Nonsense! Just be on your way. Bring me a trinket from the forge,
someday."
   "I will."
   Jaddy looks back to her baking, and Dorrin takes the cloth filled with
dried fruit and walks down the steps and out to the stable.
   "What's that?"
   "Dried fruits-pearapple and peaches."
   Kadara shakes her head while Dorrin packs the fruit into his left
saddle bag. Then he struggles with the blanket and the saddle, with the
saddlebags, and finally with the hackamore.
   "Are you ready?" asks Brede, leading the gelding toward the stable
door. "I shoveled out the worst of the stalls."
   "You two . .." Kadara flicks the reins of the chestnut.
   "You catch more redtails with honey than vinegar," observes Brede
calmly.
   Dorrin clambers into his saddle and follows them out to the
still-frozen and rutted road. The sun has finally cleared the trees to
the south of the factor's yard, and only a few thin and high white clouds
break the green-blue of the sky.
   "This heads toward the mountain road." Brede points westward.
   "I heard the factor."
   Dorrin just nods and follows, his gloved hand touching the dark wood
of his staff. The three ride at an even pace westward, toward the first
low rise in the road.
   Uncounted hills later, Dorrin squirms uneasily in Meriwhen's saddle.
His legs and his buttocks are bruised-even after all the kays. Will he
ever get used to riding? Ahead of him, Kadara sits easily in the saddle
of the larger chestnut, absently running through a set of blade
exercises, then sheathing the larger sword.
   Dorrin glances at his staff, then takes a deep breath and extracts it
from the lanceholder. Slowly he begins loosening up his shoulders.
   "Dorrin ..."
   The redhead turns. Brede is flat against the gelding's mane.
   "... I don't mind if you practice, but would you look before you
start? That wood is hard." Brede grins.
   "Sorry. I thought you were behind me."
   "What did Lortren say about assuming things?"
   Dorrin flushes.
   "It's not that bad, so long as you're not intending to be a blade."
   "It's not that good," admits Dorrin. "It's still hard to get a feel
for the wood." He looks across the hillside beside the road at the muddy
trail that leads to a small stone house. A plume of white drifts from the
chimney into the clear sky of late afternoon, rising above a small
stone-walled barn and a wooden privy.
   "Why?"
   "I suppose because it's a weapon, when you get right down to it, and
weapons are for destruction, and that's chaos."
   Brede nods. "I'm glad I'm not that order-linked."
   "So am I," adds Kadara.
   "How much farther?"
   Brede sighs. "That means another day after today, maybe a day and a
half to Diev, if your friend the trader's directions were accurate."
   "Liedral's been right so far," Dorrin says.
   Kadara doesn't turn, but Dorrin can feel that she is grinning.
   "Stop it."
   "Stop what? I didn't say a word." Kadara takes out the shortsword for
at least the third time since morning and begins to twirl it.
   Dorrin looks at his staff, then slowly resumes the exercise. He shifts
in the saddle again as Meriwhen reaches the top of yet another low rise
in the chain of seemingly endless rolling hills. The stone walls
separating the flattened and brown meadows from the road look little
different from those outside Kleth.
   "There should be a way station before too long," Brede announces
cheerfully. "We can take a break."
   "You aren't planning on riding all night?" Dorrin asks.
   Neither blade answers him, but Brede eases his gelding past Meriwhen
and up beside the chestnut. A clump of mud flies past Dorrin's leg.
   The next rolling hill brings no sign of the promised way station, and,
with a deep breath, Dorrin shifts his weight in the saddle once again.
 
 
Part II - SMITH AND HEALER
 
 
XXXIV
 
BREDE AND KADARA wait on the crest of the hill. Dorrin reins up beside
them and looks over the shallow valley that separates them from their
destination.
   On the flat cliffs above the low waterfall begins Diev, divided by the
River Weyel, not sprawling like the herder towns of Weevett, nor huddling
within a proud wall like Jellico, nor slowly dying like Vergren under the
white lash of Fairhaven. The lower section of Diev squats in the delta, a
fourth-rate port behind Spidlaria and even Sligo's Tyrhavven, a port so
poor that not even the near-desperate Liedral visits it often.
   Diev is merely a town to serve the northwest sheep farms and the
scattered mountain holdings, a town without pretensions, a town on the
single road that leads from Kleth to the inhospitable north coast of
Candar. That poor road peters out into a trail that eventually dead-ends
a few kays beyond Diev, the town where the Westhorns meet the Northern
Ocean. Beyond the buildings and the rising plumes of smoke that twist
over the low plateau, the Westhorns loom, still a mass of white snow,
heavy rock, and glittering ice that dwarfs the small efforts of the men
squatting below the mountains.
   "Not terribly promising," offers Brede.
   "It meets the criteria, at least," Kadara says. "We've traveled
through Fairhaven and the Easthorns, and we will serve- somehow-at the
foot of the Westhorns . . . for longer than a year."
   "The longer-than-a-year phrasing still bothers me," Brede says slowly.
   Dorrin frowns. Lortren never set forth any such rules for him. She
only told him he must find himself.
   "Well . . . sitting here in the wind won't get us to Diev." Kadara
flicks the chestnut's reins.
   Brede follows Kadara down the road toward Diev. Dorrin watches for a
moment, seeing how easily each sits in the saddle. Then he lifts
Meriwhen's reins and pats her neck. "Let's go, lady. Wherever we're
headed."
 
 
XXXV
 
DORRIN PATS MERIWHEN on the neck, surveying the smithy- the covered
walkway that connects the square-chimneyed forge building to the narrow
house, built of smoothed and dressed planks; the small barn; the corral
with the pair of horses and the pig pen. Beyond the barn are three solid
oaks, still without leaves, growing almost in a perfect triangle.
   Should he have come alone? When all is said, he is alone. Brede and
Kadara must fight their own battles in finding employment as blades.
   "Hallo!" He reins up before the forge building. There is no answer.
After tying Meriwhen to an iron ring on a square post, he steps into the
faintly eye-burning mist and hot metallic smell of the smithy. Dorrin
edges past the broken implements and unidentified metal parts that line
one wall. Compared to Hegl's smithy, Yarrl's is a confused mess, and even
the tool rack is filled with an bewildering array of hammers, tongs, and
other tools. Some he recognizes, like the standard hammers, swages,
fullers, and punches laid out on the hearth edge in easy reach. But he
sees tongs shaped almost like serpents, and there are two large cone
mandrels on huge weighted bases. Of the two slack tanks, one is divided
into two parts.
   Muscles on the smith's back ripple as the hammer rises and falls, as
the tongs reposition the hot iron. Then the iron cools and is thrust back
into the forge. The smith watches the metal heat and returns it to the
anvil.
   At length, the piece-a complicated and twisted brace of some sort-is
set on the edge of the forge to anneal. Then the hammer is set aside, and
the smith turns. "Who are you, youngster?"
   "My name is Dorrin. I'd like to be your apprentice. Jarnish said you
might need one."
   "Jarnish? What's a factor know about a smithy?"
   Dorrin smiles politely.
   "Scrawny fellow. You eat like a hog. All young fellows do." The
heavy-chested man circles around Dorrin. "What makes you think you're a
smith?"
   "I've been an apprentice."
   "So why aren't you still there?"
   "I'm from Recluce."
   "Oh, one of them? So why'd they throw you out?"
   "I wanted to make toys, little machines. They don't have much use for
them."
   "I can't say as I do, either."
   "I can do the work."
   "You expect to take over the place in a year or two, boy?"
   "No, ser. I don't ever expect to take it over."
   "Not good enough for you?"
   Dorrin bites his tongue. "If I become a good smith, then I'll have to
leave before you're ready to give up. If I don't, you'll find someone
else."
   "Ha! Sharp in thinking, leastwise. What do you know about smithing?"
   "A little . . . but not enough."
   "You willing to handle the great bellows there? Can you make nails? A
good apprentice could turn out hundreds in a morning. How good's your
scarfing? Good enough to make a solid weld? Can you fuller a bar even
enough so it doesn't split?"
   "Usually." Dorrin can sense someone else approaching, but does not
turn to see who the newcomer might be.
   "Hard work. You listen. Do what I say. No lip."
   "Can I ask questions?"
   The smith frowns.
   "You let this one go, Yarrl, and you be a damned White fool." A firm
voice intrudes.
   The smith looks up at the angular woman. "Smith business, Reisa."
   Dorrin follows the smith's glance, forces his eyes to study Reisa
casually, even as he notes that the gray-haired and broad-shouldered
woman's right arm ends just below the elbow. The smith finally looks back
to him.
   Yarrl shrugs. "Don't pay much. Food, a bed in the smithy corner room,
and a copper an eight-day until you're good enough to work your own
metal. If you can't learn my needs for a striker and make good nails
within an eight-day, you're no good to me."
   "Fair enough. Is there a spare stall in the stable I can use-in return
for cleaning it?"
   Yarrl opens his mouth, closes it, and finally speaks. "You want a
stall? To sleep in?"
   "I have a horse, ser."
   "How will you feed it? Don't expect me to pay you and feed your
animal."
   "No. If I'm good, I'll make enough to feed her. If I'm not, you won't
keep me. I have a few coins, enough for a while."
   "I don't know ..."
   "Yarrl. . ." Again, the low voice cuts off the smith.
   "All right . . . you clean the stable on your time, not mine. Now, get
the animal put away and get back here. Might as well see right off if you
can earn your keep."
   "Yes, ser."
   "... least he's polite ..." The smith turns and lifts the hammer.
   Reisa smiles at Dorrin, with the slightest of head shakes, then adds,
"I'll show him the stable."
   Dorrin follows the one-armed woman to the barn, and the three stalls.
A mule stares at Dorrin from the first. The second is empty, as is the
third.
   "Petra has the bay and the wagon at market."
   "Is Petra your daughter?"
   "That she is, and a good one." Reisa's voice bears an edge.
   "Then you're lucky." Dorrin smiles.
   "Are you really a smith apprentice?"
   "I've been one. Also been a healer."
   "And you want to be a smith? The work never ends, not even for Yarrl."
   "Somehow ... I need to work the metal..."
   "I thought so ... but you're still a healer, one of the Black ones?"
   "Yes." Dorrin looks at her right arm.
   "No. I know no one can do that. You do animals?"
   "If it's not too bad."
   "Goats?"
   "I've never done one, but I could try."
   "Get your horse settled and your things in your cubby. It's not much.
Better than the bam, though, and, you work out, Yarrl will let you fix it
up better. Then you look at my goat."
   He takes the hay rake and smoothes the clay, then spreads straw over
it. He unsaddles Meriwhen, racks the saddle, and quickly brushes the
mare. Then he lifts the staff and saddlebags over his shoulder, and
hoists his bedroll.
   Reisa leads him back toward the smithy, but to a door in the rear
corner that opens onto a nearly bare room with a single shuttered window
without glass. The rough floor planks are dusty, and the only pieces of
furniture are a straw pallet on a wide shelf built out from the wall, a
four-legged stool and a wobbly table, on which rests a battered copper
oil lamp.
   "Not much, but it's snug."
   Dorrin sets the bedroll on the table and the bags on the stool. Before
he lies on the pallet he wants to use his limited order senses to
persuade various vermin to move elsewhere. "The goat?"
   Reisa turns, and Dorrin latches the door behind him. In a small pen by
the barn is a wide-bellied goat.
   "Burlow's damned ram got in here."
   "Where is he now?"
   "Some of him's salted; the rest was dinner."
   "Oh ..." Dorrin steps through the gate. The nanny edges away, but
wobbles. His hands touch her shoulder, then her flanks. "She's carrying."
   "I knew that."
   "I'm no animal healer, but I'd say she's carrying too many."
   "How many?"
   "Three, I think."
   "Can you do anything?"
   Dorrin shrugs. "Maybe." He lets his senses go out to the goat, lending
a sense of order to her, and to only one of the unborn kids. Perhaps that
will work. Finally, he steps out of the pen, wiping his forehead, trying
not to sneeze at the water-damped odor of straw.
   "Well?"
   "I don't know. It may take some time."
   Reisa watches the goat. "She's not as unsteady."
   Dorrin leans against the fence and takes a deep breath.
   "Young fellow, you need to eat before you go into the smithy. Just sit
on the porch and let me get you a bite. I forgot how healing's such work."
   "All right."
   Dorrin sits on the edge of the porch, his booted feet on the second
step, listening to the muted thumps of the smith's hammer, letting the
late winter sun bathe his face. Spring has not come to Diev.
   "Here."
   "Thank you, madame Reisa."
   She flushes. "I'm no lady, youngster. Just eat, please."
   On the scarred wooden platter are two thick slices of oatmeal bread,
slathered with butter and topped with a dark preserve. A thin wedge of
cheese sits between the bread. Reisa hands him a stoneware mug filled
with cold cider. Dorrin's shakiness abates with the bread and cheese.
   "You'd best get into the smithy."
   Dorrin stands. "Thank you."
   Once inside the smithy, he peels off his jacket and shirt, leaving
only the sleeveless undershirt, and hangs both on a corner peg.
   "There." Yarrl nods toward a heavy leather apron set out on a side
bench. "Work the bellows. It's got a standard counterweight, and the
overhead lever's angled to make it easy. Want that to stay not quite
white, like the corner there."
   Dorrin slips on the leather apron, hoping he will not have too many
blisters before his hands toughen again.
 
 
XXXVI
 
"WHY DO WE even have to do anything about Recluce? All the Blacks do is
sit on their island and cultivate order. Anyone who causes trouble gets
thrown out-usually to our benefit."
   "We're not talking about a military action now," Jeslek says mildly.
"Aren't you tired of our gold going to Recluce so that the Blacks can use
it to buy Bristan and Hamorian goods?"
   "Their spices and wines are better and cheaper," a heavy voice rumbles
from the back row.
   "So is some of their cabinetry," adds another voice.
   "And their wool-"
   "If you can wear it, Myral!"
   "So ... what are you proposing, Jeslek?"
   "Nothing major. Just a thirty percent surtax on goods from Recluce."
   "Thirty percent? I'd rather drink that red swill from Kyphros,"
rumbles the bass voice.
   "Precisely my point."
   "That will increase the number of smugglers."
   "We'll use some of the money to build up the fleet to stop that."
   "And the rest? Does it go into your pocket, Jeslek?"
   "Hardly. That's up to the Council, but I'd suggest that it be split
between an increased stipend for Council members, rebuilding the square,
and funding the road construction. Would anyone else like a word?"
   "Won't that just funnel more golds into Spidlar?"
   "What about Sarronnyn..."
   "Southwind will love that..."
   After stepping from the chamber, Sterol looks at the redheaded Any a.
"Very transparent. Transparent, but clever."
   "They'll approve it."
   "Of course. And he'll be popular, and the fleet will get larger."
   "What will Recluce do?"
   "Nothing. They'll trade more across the ocean and complain." Sterol
smiles, faintly. "What it will do is direct even more trade from Lydiar
to Spidlaria. In a year or so, we'll have to take over Spidlar if we
don't want to put our own merchants out of business."
   "Do you think . . . ?" The red-headed wizard lets her words trail off
as the High Wizard continues. Her faint smile contains a hint of
irritation.
   "By then, Jeslek will be High Wizard, and it will be necessary to ban
all trade with Recluce. He won't say it that way, of course. The surtax
will be a hundred percent, and the Black Council will worry because all
of their specie will have to go for grain and flour from Hydlen, and too
much spoils when it's shipped from Hamor. The Blacks will dither and moan
and bitch, but their population's too great for them to risk meddling
with the weather, the way Creslin did, and, more important, they don't
have anyone who can."
   Anya nods, her eyes flicking toward the chamber.
   "The discontent will stir up disorder, leading to chaos, which will
result in more exiles from Recluce, and less action-for a time."
   "You sound like you believe Jeslek's plans will work."
   "Being High Wizard in times of change presents certain . . .
problems." Sterol laughs, softly. "We need to go back in and preside over
the vote, even if it is a formality."
   "Will they work-his plans, I mean?"
   "They might-unless he's too successful, which he will be." Sterol nods
toward the chamber. "Come along, Anya."
   Anya frowns, but follows the High Wizard into the council chamber.
 
 
XXXVII
 
"THAT'S ALL." YARRL lowers the hammer.
   Dorrin lets the two-chambered great bellows expand, locks the overhead
lever in place, and then dips the rag in leather oil and carefully dusts
the outside of the bellows suspended at the east side of the square
forge. Yarrl puts away the straight peen hammer and the anvil tongs.
   Dorrin racks his hammer and picks up the broom. Although sweeping the
hard clay is not strictly necessary every night, Dorrin feels better when
the smithy is as clean and neat as he can leave it. He has already
replaced the less-used implements in their racks, the ones which had
gathered some dust. Those Yarrl uses regularly he has left where the
smith has placed them.
   After Yarrl leaves, Dorrin finishes sweeping the scraps, bits of ash,
and droplets of metal too small to reclaim into the waste pit. Then he
replaces the broom and scoop and closes the sliding door. He walks to the
well, where he folds back the cover and draws a bucket of water, still
cold despite the coming of spring and sunlight. He washes off the worst
of the ash and grime, then waters the small flower garden under the porch
with the last drops from the bucket.
   After replacing the well cover, he walks toward his room, glancing to
the north, and the clouds building up over the northern ocean, and then
to the west, where the sun almost touches the tips of the Westhorns, the
highest peaks still glittering with ice and snow.
   Lifting the latch, he steps inside. The green-dyed rush mat helps make
his room seem warmer, as does the old but clean quilt Reisa has provided.
Soon, he will finish the braces for the table, and then he will work on
something in which to store his few clothes. With a sigh, he picks up the
staff behind the door. After closing the door, he walks to the barn.
   "Nnnnaaa..." Mora pleads.
   Dorrin stops and scratches the nanny's head, adding a trace of order
to the goat. One offspring is strong enough to survive, but the black
flame of order is too weak for mother and even one kid. He purses his
lips, realizing how much he did not learn. He scratches Mora's head again
as she rubs against his hand. After a time, he steps back from the fence.
"That's all, girl."
    Then he opens the barn door. Once inside, he leans the staff against
the wall, and hangs up the rough straw figure he uses as a target. Even
after a few eight-days, he can sense a growing sureness in his hands and
his staff-not that exercises are any substitute for practice with a real
person. But at least he can feel what he is doing with the staff.
   After the first set of exercises, he throws the rope over the beam and
ties the small sandbag to it, then swings the bag out. Once he manages
five successive strikes on the moving bag, each from a balanced position,
but generally he has trouble with both balance and accuracy after two or
three.
   He is sweating again when he stops, and his knees are rubbery. Just a
short period of exercise with the staff following a long day is
exhausting. After storing his targets, he sets the staff aside and finds
the curry brush. Meriwhen whinnies.
   "Yes, I know. I should have curried you first. But I'll ride you after
supper." The mare whinnies again.
   "After supper. I promise." Dorrin sneezes once, then again, before he
steps into the stall and begins to groom the black mare.
 
 
XXXVIII
 
DORRIN TIES MERIWHEN to the iron ring on the weathered timber post
outside the mill building-a shed-roofed structure twenty cubits wide and
fifty cubits deep with only a single sliding door. The door is ajar
enough for him to enter without turning sideways. Once inside, a row of
high small windows on the south side of the mill provide enough light to
guide him to a single small cubicle in the southeast corner of the
building, less than a dozen cubits from the idle saw blade.
   Dorrin's nose itches from the sawdust raised by his steps, and he rubs
it before stepping into the office where a young black-bearded man sits,
slowly chewing on some cheese and bread.
   "I beg your pardon. Are you Hemmil?"
   "Me? Hemmil? How I wish, young fellow! I'm Pergun, just a journeyman
mill hand." Pergun's eyes study Dorrin's brown clothes. "Why does a
healer need Hemmil? You are a healer, aren't you, looking like that?"
   "I'm partly a healer, but I'm mostly an apprentice smith for Yarrl. I
didn't need Hemmil, exactly, but I was looking for some mill scraps . . ."
   "No doubt wonderful scraps two or three cubits long and finely cut?"
Pergun speaks with his mouth full and bits of food fly with the words.
   "Darkness, no. I meant real scraps. I mean, if I found an end perhaps
half a cubit or cubit..."
   "All right, young fellow." Pergun laughs, then stands and walks to the
doorway of the walled-off room, swallowing the last of his midday meal.
"Hemmil'll be back in a bit, and we'll get back to work. Till then, you
can scout up some scraps. There's also the burn bin over there. Bring
what you want back here, and we'll dicker." He turns, then looks back at
Dorrin. "Why does a smith want scraps, anyway?"
   "Oh, Yarrl doesn't. I need them for my work." A faint headache reminds
Dorrin he must provide further explanation. "I'm making some working
models."
   "Oh ... I suppose that makes sense." Pergun's hand lifts, as if to
scratch his head, then drops. "Well... bring the wood you want back here."
   "I appreciate it."
   "Young fellow-what's your name?"
   "Oh, I'm Dorrin."
   "How do you get on with Mistress Petra? Understand she's got... I mean
. .. maybe you've heard ... well..."
   Dorrin grins. "She doesn't have an evil eye, if that's what you mean.
Neither does Reisa. They're good people, even if they stay to themselves."
   "Wondered about that. Honsard says Yarrl does good work. Did some good
stuff for Hemmil, too. The new saw blade was his. Keeps its teeth better
than Henstaal's, but we can't say much." The millworker jabs a thumb
toward the sawdust and fragments beneath the still saw blade. "Better get
moving, Dorrin."
   Dorrin collects likely lengths of wood, his eyes wandering around the
long mill shed as he does. The odor of cut wood is somehow soothing, even
in the chill of the mill shed. He needs to hurry, for Yarrl has agreed
only reluctantly to let him take a little time, and only because the mill
is never open later than the smithy.
   When he has what he needs, Dorrin turns back toward the entry,
cradling the short lengths of red oak and the armful of mill ends,
setting them on the bench outside the office where the brown-haired man
is talking to Pergun.
   "... have to charge him .. . every apprentice in Diev ... be out here
..."
   "Yes, ser. He only wants short pieces, though."
   "... short pieces . . . we'll see . . ."
   Both men rum as if they sense Dorrin. Hemmil nods at Pergun, and the
younger man walks out to the bench. Hemmil steps past the two and heads
toward the saw.
   "How much for these?" Dorrin asks.
   "I'd give them to you, but-" Pergun nods toward the mill owner.
   "I heard." Dorrin looks down at the odd-sized pile. "Perhaps a
copper?" He tried to keep his voice from sounding plaintive.
   "It's not as though I see any large pieces." Pergun grins, running a
hand through his dark beard. "So a copper it is, but only because I'd not
want ill will from any healer. Leastwise, that's what I'll tell Hemmil."
   Dorrin scrabbles in his purse.
   "Like as it's fine with me to give them to you, but Hemmil would fry
me. It's not been that long since I was an apprentice, and I know
apprentices have little enough." Pergun pauses. "You ever go to Kyril's?
Some of us gather there on the eight-day ends."
   "I haven't been. I don't know Diev very well, and I'm pretty tired to
go off doing much exploring."
   "You're too young not to explore." Pergun shakes his head. "You'll
marry Mistress Petra and never go anywhere."
   "Not Mistress Petra, nice as she is," Dorrin protests.
   "Then come and see Diev."
   "Maybe I will." Dorrin produces the copper and hands it to Pergun.
   Pergun shakes his head. "Any end-day . . . and bring a few coppers.
That's all it takes."
   Dorrin scoops up the wood. "Probably not this end-day, but soon."
 
 
XXXIX
 
WITH A GROAN, Dorrin carries the staff into the open space in the middle
of the bam, beginning the exercises Lortren taught him more than a year
earlier-has it been so long already? Concentrating on the staff, he tries
to blend the order within him, the staff, and his movements. After a
time, he sets up the swinging target and launches it, then sets his
stance, trying to strike from the totally balanced position.
   "Offf..." He has stepped too close to the second stall, and the staff
ricochets off a wooden brace. Trying to regain his balance, Dorrin slips
on the loose straw and staggers. Incidents such as these both keep him
practicing and ensure that he practices out of sight.
   Finally, drenched with sweat, with odd pieces of straw and chaff
clinging to his damp face and arms, he sets the staff down.
   "Your moves are pretty good, but you're acting like it's an exercise."
Reisa stands just inside the doorway.
   Dorrin lets the end of the staff drop to the packed clay of the barn
floor.
   "You're not really following through, and if you had to use that, a
good blade would only have to step back a bit.
   "I know. Kadara kept telling me that." Dorrin gestures toward the
swinging target. "That's why I set this target up."
   "Just take another step forward when you make the follow-up thrust."
Reisa grins. "Actually, you're pretty good. Especially for a smith who's
also a healer. What could you do with a blade?"
   "Nothing."
   "That because you're a healer?"
   Dorrin wipes his forehead with the back of his bare forearm, then nods.
   "Are your friends that good with their blades?"
   "Better. Much better."
   A gust of wind blows through the open barn door, whipping Reisa's
trousers around her legs. "I wish .. ." The gray-haired and one-handed
woman shakes her head.
   "You wish you'd been born in Recluce?" Standing by Meriwhen's stall,
Dorrin unties the rope for his swinging target. "Where were you trained?"
   "A long ways from here." She looks over her shoulder. "Southwind."
   "Do you wish you'd never left?"
   "Sometimes. But you don't ever get what you wish for, only what you
can make happen." Reisa pauses. "You going to be here for supper?"
   "I don't mink so. I'm supposed to meet Brede and Kadara at the inn."
   "They're too good to be here."
   Dorrin lowers the target, waiting for the smith's wife to continue.
   "When you're too good for what you're doing," she reflects, her eyes
focused on the past, "chaos finds you. With you, it will take longer."
   "Why?" Dorrin coils the rope attached to the target.
   "You haven't learned all you need to know." Reisa smiles faintly. "But
don't pay too much attention to an old woman's ramblings. Have a good
time with your friends." She leaves the barn as quietly as she entered.
   After putting away his exercise gear, Dorrin takes out the curry brush
and starts to work on Meriwhen. The mare shivers slightly and edges
sideways in the stall. He pats her flank. "Lady, we need to keep you in
shape."
   Following the grooming, he washes up at the well and towels fully dry
in his quarters, putting on his clean traveling clothes- linen shirt and
brown trousers. Then he slips on the thin leather jacket and heads to the
barn.
   Dorrin saddles Meriwhen deliberately. Should he take his staff? He
frowns but places it in the lance holder and leads the mare into the
yard. Red dust puffs under his brown-booted feet.
   A spray of yellow straggles from the flower bed in front of the back
porch, and the purple of the sage brightens the green of herb garden in
the late afternoon sun. Taking a deep breath, he enjoys the scent of the
flowers and the herbs, almost lost in the smell of the meadow behind the
house.
   He swings into the saddle, far more easily than he ever would have
believed possible when he first climbed upon Meriwhen so laboriously.
Mora bleats from the pen beside the barn, and Dorrin waves-not that the
nanny understands-before turning and riding out of the yard and onto the
road into Diev.
   Scarcely has he turned onto the flattened clay beyond Yarrl's than he
overtakes an empty wagon bearing both Honsard's emblem and the master
hauler.
   Dorrin inclines his head. "Good-day, master Honsard."
   "'Day," grunts the hauler.
   Farther along the road, after the clay turns to the stones that lead
into the city, but before the low gates that are never watched, the
healer passes another wagon bearing stacked bales of hay toward Diev.
   White puffy clouds make a line across the western horizon, just below
the afternoon sun, when Dorrin reins in Meriwhen opposite where the inn
had stood. Faint smoke rises from the rubble.'*
   Coming from the west, a trooper in the blue of Spidlar reins up in
front of the leaning half-wall and the charred sign, not twenty cubits
from where Dorrin has halted Meriwhen. Part of the sign is legible-the
bottom of a tankard. The top third of the sign has burned away. Behind
the leaning and scorched bricks lies a man-high heap of still-smoldering
debris, covered with broken tiles from the roof that has collapsed.
   "Demons!" mutters the trooper.
   A woman holding a child sits on a stone at the edge of the
still-smoking rubble. Gray rags flutter around her grimy face in the warm
breeze of early summer. "A copper, ser, for my daughter and me to eat? A
copper to eat?" She extends a hand to the trooper. "A copper to eat?"
   The soldier pauses, then shrugs. "Would have drunk it anyway." He
tosses a coin toward the woman.
   The coin clinks on the pavement at her feet, and she leans forward,
painfully extending one hand. Another ragged figure darts from the far
side of the alley, the side not filled with rubble from the burned inn,
and scoops the copper off the stone, running in the general direction of
Dorrin.
   "Thief!" The beggar woman's cry is half plaintive, half shriek.
   Without thinking, Dorrin finds the staff in his hands, extended,
quickly enough to trip the urchin.
   "Bastard!" The youth, taller than Dorrin had realized, scrambles to
his feet with a short blade glinting. His eyes flicker toward Meriwhen's
legs.
   Dorrin shifts the staff, lets it move, and the heavy wood slams the
youngster's wrists. The knife skitters onto the stones. "Toss the coin
back to the woman!"
   The youth looks toward the knife, then up at Dorrin. He ducks forward,
then turns, and dashes across the street and into the other alleyway.
   Dorrin's staff misses this time. He should have practiced the mounted
exercises as well, as if there were ever enough time.
   The Spidlarian trooper-watching from the saddle-guffaws as Dorrin
dismounts and recovers the knife. "Never catch the little bastard,
fellow." Dorrin slips the urchin's knife-the metal ugly white and bronze
to his senses-into the small pouch at the front of his saddle, where the
hilt protrudes slightly. He would prefer not to carry the chaos-tinted
metal, fearing that the blade will slice the leather of the pouch.
   He also wonders where he should meet Brede or Kadara. They had said
the Tankard, not Kyril's Red Lion. The troopers frequent the Tankard,
while the townspeople tend more toward Kyril's, and call it Kyril's, not
the Red Lion.
   "Guess the Lion's all that's left 'round here, fellow." The trooper
turns his dappled gray back up the street.
   Dorrin takes a last look at the burned-out inn and lifts the reins to
follow the trooper.
   "My copper, ser? Would you forget me?" The woman waddles toward
Dorrin. The sense of chaos-not evil, but disorder-wafts from her.
   Dorrin scrambles into his pouch and finds a copper, carefully tossing
it to her. "Here." Then he takes the urchin's knife between two fingers,
and tosses it after the coin. "Take that, too. Maybe you can sell it."
   Meriwhen skitters sideways, as if the mare responds to Dorrin's
dislike of the chaos-tinged knife and the almost equally chaotic beggar,
before turning up the narrow stone way, passing from the reddish light
cast by the sun just above the horizon into the long shadows of the
shuttered dry goods store. Dorrin blinks as the hot wind carries grit
into his eyes. When he looks up, the beggar woman is gone from the street
before the smoldering Tankard.
   The stable at the Red Lion is filled, mostly with troopers' mounts.
Dorrin dismounts and, holding the reins, peers toward the end of the
narrow shed. He holds his staff in his left hand.
   "Healer?" The stringy-haired stableboy looks up from the bale of hay
he is dragging toward the second stall.
   "Hello, Vaos. You've got quite a stableful tonight."
   "Kyril'll be happy, but the troopers are a pain in the butt."
   "All of them?"
   "Demons, no. But you don't know which are happy drunks and which are
mean. And the mean ones are mean."
   Dorrin nods.
   "Put your mare in the end stall with Kyril's gray. He'll be too busy
to notice, and they're both good horses."
   "You sure?"
   "Trust me, healer."
   Dorrin grins, and pats Vaos's shoulder. "Thanks, friend."
   Vaos smiles back, but looks at the heavy hay bale.
   Dorrin sets aside the staff, hands the boy the reins, and shoulders
the bale. "Where do you want it?"
   "Dump it in the manger in the second stall. I'll cut the cords and
spread it from there."
   In the second stall, a white stallion whinnies, baring his teeth as
Dorrin steps up to the manger. The healer pauses, still balancing the
bale on his right shoulder, and tries to send a sense of reassurance to
the white. After a moment and another protest, the stallion whickers, and
Dorrin eases the hay into the open manger. His fingertips brush the
stallion's forehead.
   "The white is hurt, somewhere."
   "I didn't see him come in." Vaos leads Meriwhen toward the end stall.
   Dorrin walks to the stall door. Again, the stallion protests, but
eventually Dorrin's hands glide over his body, finding the whip marks.
With another deep breath, he provides a small measure of healing and
comfort, of healing and order-only a small measure, for the stallion is
at least four cubits at the shoulder. Vaos looks at Dorrin when he leaves
the stall.
   "Whipped too much."
   "Damned troopers." Vaos's words are not an expletive, but a statement.
   Dorrin wonders if he has missed Brede's or Kadara's mounts. "Not all
of them."
   "I'll get some grain for your mare."
   "You don't have to."
   Vaos grins. "You didn't have to help the stallion."
   Dorrin can't help but grinning back. "I do what I can." He reclaims
his staff. Vaos is rummaging through a barrel with a battered tin cup as
Dorrin steps into the twilight and walks toward the inn.
   "See! I told you he'd figure it out." Kadara's voice brings him up
short. She and Brede are waiting outside the door.
   "What did you do with your horses?" Dorrin asks.
   "Had to put them at the livery stable. What about you?"
   "Oh ..." Dorrin pauses. "Well. . . Vaos found a place for Meriwhen."
   "What did you do for him?" Kadara asks, almost condescendingly.
   "Nothing much. I just talk to him."
   "You come here alone?"
   "No. I've been a couple of times with Pergun. He works at the mill."
   Brede grins broadly. "See, Kadara. Your little friend is neither
little nor helpless. He just does things his own quiet way."
   "He's always done things his own stubborn and quiet way."
   Brede shrugs, as if to say, "I tried."
   Dorrin shrugs back.
   Kadara looks from one to the other. "Men ..."
   Brede claims a table vacated by two departing troopers, and Kadara
commandeers an empty chair. Before the three are even seated, a
heavy-armed serving woman stands there.
   "What's to drink?"
   "The dark beer."
   "Same."
   "Redberry," Dorrin adds.
   "Oh, it's you, healer. What about food?"
   "What is there?"
   "The usual-stew, fowl pie. That's for three coppers. For another you
can have chops. Don't bother. They're not worth it."
   "The stew," Dorrin says.
   "Same here," both Brede and Kadara say nearly simultaneously.
   "And here, I thought we were rescuing you from the continual drudgery
of the smithy." Kadara mock-accuses Dorrin.
   "You are. I do occasionally rescue myself, and Pergun does sometimes."
   "You still like working for the smith?"
   "I'm still learning. Yarrl keeps telling me how much more I need to
know. I think he's as good as Hegl."
   "Here you be!" Three mugs come down on the table in rapid succession.
"That's two for each."
   Dorrin offers up his two coppers, but Kadara hands a half silver and a
copper to the serving woman.
   I "You didn't-"
   "This time it's our treat."
   "Thank you."
   "So . . . how is it really going?" Kadara asks again.
   "All right. Yarrl lets me use the forge at night, and I've put
together a few things. It takes time."
   "You may have more than you thought," Kadara says in a low voice.
   "Why?"
   "Fairhaven's put a surtax on goods from Recluce."
   Dorrin sips the redberry. His stomach growls, and he blushes.
   "Don't you understand?" Kadara asks.
   "I'm hungry. But doesn't that mean-" His stomach growls again.
   "The man's hungry." Brede laughs. "What Kadara's saying is that she's
worried. With the tax, fewer and fewer ships will travel between Candar
and Recluce, and that when our time is done we won't be able to get home."
   "Aren't you?" Kadara looks at her beer.
   "What good will it do? Lortren won't have us back now, and in a year
anything can happen." Brede takes a deep swallow from the gray stoneware
mug.
   "You two." Kadara looks from Dorrin to Brede. "You're too stubborn to
give up your machines, and you're convinced that everything will work
out."
   Dorrin hopes his stomach won't rumble again, and looks toward the
kitchen for the waitress and the stew and bread.
   "I didn't say that," Brede says. "I don't see much point in worrying
about what I can't change. I can't stop a war between Recluce and
Fairhaven."
   "Will it come to that?" Dorrin asks in spite of himself.
   Brede shakes his head. "I think so. For the first time since long
before Creslin, the Whites have a truly great wizard."
   "Does that mean a war?" Dorrin asks. "I mean, what would they get from
it? If they destroy Recluce, they get fewer spices and wool, and they'd
cost more, and they wouldn't be able to sell as much grain. And if they
don't, lots of people get killed, and lots of gold is wasted."
   Kadara laughs. "You're too reasonable to fight anything, Dorrin.
You'll still be asking questions when the White legions march over the
hills looking for you. People don't have to be reasonable. You should
know that."
   The smith and healer smiles wryly. "I guess so. I know my machines are
only based in order, and it's logical, when you get right down to it. I
mean, chaos gums up anything complex. So, for a machine to work, it has
to be order-based. But no one is logical about it."
   Kadara and Brede exchange glances.
   "Ah ..." Kadara finally says, "I never thought about it that way."
   "Neither did I," Dorrin admits. His stomach growls.
   Brede laughs.
   "Here you go!" The serving woman drops three heavy bowls on the table,
one right after the other, all steaming. "Where's your coins?"
   Brede hands her a silver. "For all three."
   She hands back a copper, and a platter with a single long loaf lands
in the middle, still vibrating on the uneven and battered dark wood after
the server has turned to the next table. "More of the same, gents?" she
asks the pair of tradesmen.
   "Thank you," Dorrin says politely to Brede, even as he wonders if
people will always be looking out for him. His eyes burn from the smoke
and the closeness of the air. Kadara smiles at Brede, softly enough that
Dorrin wishes he were the recipient.
   "My pleasure, Dorrin." Brede takes a deep pull from the mug and raises
it until he catches the server's eyes. She nods, and he lowers the mug.
   "How long are you going to stay here?" asks Brede.
   "In Diev?" Dorrin pauses for another sip of the redberry. "Until I
discover who I am."
   "Oh . . . Dorrin." Kadara's voice breaks, and she looks down at the
table. "How cruel."
   Brede's eyebrows lift.
   "Lortren, she's a bitch. She knows how honest Dorrin is." Tears seep
from the red-headed blade's eyes before she wipes them. "It'll be years
..."
   "I'm sure that's what she had in mind." Dorrin's voice is dry. He
takes a spoonful of the heavily peppered stew, then breaks the end off
the brown bread. "Let's enjoy the food."
   "Might as well." Brede breaks off the other end and offers the platter
to Kadara, who shakes her head, still wiping her eyes.
   "Here's your refill, trooper!" The serving woman pours more beer into
Brede's mug, then looks at Kadara. The redhead shakes her head.
   Dorrin takes another spoonful of the stew, blinking. His eyes burn.
From the smoke, he thinks, from the smoke. For a time, none of the three
speak, and Dorrin finishes his stew not long after Brede. Kadara is still
eating, taking small nibbles from the chunk of warm bread in her hand.
   Dorrin yawns. "Tired, I guess."
   "Is smithing that hard?"
   "Well ... I am doing a little healing, mostly animals, and I work on
my designs sometimes at night."
   "Designs?"
   "It helps to draw them out before I try to make anything. Sometimes, I
carve it out in wood even. I'm working on gears."
   "Gears?" This time Kadara is the questioner.
   "You can't transfer power without gears. I read about them in the old
books in my father's library. And, I mean, the point of a machine is to
do something, and that means transferring power from something, like a
waterwheel or an engine."
   "But we have waterwheels on Recluce."
   "And there are gears, but I want to build a steam engine."
   "Oh . . . Dorrin," Kadara says once again, this time only shaking her
head.
   Dorrin yawns again. "I need to go." He stands up. "Thank you. I
enjoyed it. Will you be around for a while, or are they sending you out?"
   "Not for a while," Brede answers. "That could change tomorrow. If
there are highwaymen below Kleth or Syda, our squad would be the next to
go."
   Dorrin pats Kadara's arm. "Good night."
   "Good night, Dorrin."
   Dorrin picks up his staff from behind his chair along the back wall
and walks through the tables and past the soot-smoked lantern hanging
outside the Red Lion. The wind chills his face. Overhead, the stars
glitter coldly as he walks into the stable where Vaos snores lightly on
two bales of hay pushed together.
 
 
XL
 
"PASS THE SQUASH," grumbles Yarrl.
   Petra sets the bowl before him. "It's good, especially with the
pepper."
   "Pepper? Can't afford spices, can we, Reisa?"
   "It came from the garden. It's early and green, but it helps."
   "Oh . .. that your doing, young fellow?"
   "I helped a little," Dorrin admits.
   Yarrl shovels a pile of the mashed yellow squash onto the brown plate,
then uses his tin spoon to take a mouthful. He chews and swallows.
"Pepper helps." He takes another mouthful.
   Dorrin takes an early summer peach and slices it into quarters,
letting the quarters fall onto his plate beside the curried lamb. Then he
alternates mouthfuls of the hot lamb and barley with slices of peach.
   "You're a good healer," Petra says slowly. "That business with the
piglets-we would have lost all but one. And Mora..."
   Dorrin frowns. "I still worry about Mora-"
   "Not bad for a young fellow at the forge," mumbles Yarrl. "Except he
spends too much time with his toys."
   "They're cute," Petra protests. "They do things."
   "Still toys."
   Dorrin swallows another slice of peach-a trace green, but the tart
moisture cools his mouth from the heat of the spiced lamb. "They're
models, really. Someday, I hope to build bigger ones."
    "Need a light-blessed pile of iron," Yarrl declares. "And what would
you use them for?"
   "Whatever ..." Dorrin demurs. .
   "I still wonder why you'd be a smith, rather than a healer," Reisa
says as she ladles an additional scoop of lamb and barley onto her plate.
   "I'd like to be both," admits Dorrin, "but I have to learn to be a
good smith first." The drumming of the rain on the roof begins to subside
as Dorrin finishes the last slice of his peach. "Looks like it might
clear up."
   "We needed the rain."
   "Turns the roads into mud, and Bartov is supposed to deliver some
ingots and coal tomorrow."
   Petra covers her mouth and looks at her mother, her eyes still
crinkled in a smile. Reisa shakes her head.
   "Why are you shaking your head, woman?"
   "Just the rain, just the rain."
   "Well, pass the meat."
   Dorrin lifts the heavy bowl and sets it before the smith.
   "You going to work tonight, youngster?"
   "Not tonight, I think. I banked the coals and tightened the vents."
His stomach tightens at his evasion, but he sips the cool cider from his
mug without revealing his discomfort. "Not at the forge," he finally adds.
   "Good. Work too much ... fry your brain. None of us smiths got much
left."
   "I doubt that." Dorrin laughs. "Brugal certainly would. He claimed you
were sharper than the Prefect of Gallos."
   "Hmmmm . . ." Yarrl pushes himself away from the table. "Going to see
Honsard. Wants to talk."
   "He wants to get you tanked on that green wine and get a better price
for wagon work." Reisa's voice is tart.
   "Don't go and talk, and I get no work." The smith stands and pulls a
leather jacket from the peg on the wall.
   Dorrin carries his plate to the wash bucket.
   "I'll do that," Petra says. "You look to the spices, the sage
especially."
   "Sage . . . hmmphhh ..." Yarrl opens the back door and steps onto the
porch. "Clear night, leastways."
   "Keep a clear head, too," advises the gray-haired woman.
   Dorrin follows the smith off the covered porch and down the steps,
stopping by the spice garden while the smith ambles toward the barn, and
the bay he will ride to Honsard's wagonry. After surveying the spice
garden, Dorrin kneels and removes a few weed spouts, his hands brushing
the pepper bushes and the sage, for the heavy rains and dampness are
unsuited to either. He sees another set of weeds beyond the dill, and
absently removes those, waddling around the garden, touching, sensing,
and drinking in the scent and feel of the growing herbs.
   Standing, he brushes the dark dirt from his hands, noting again the
difference between the carefully composted soil of the garden and the
clay of the yard. Creating any garden from the red clay takes time and
patience. Reisa has supplied those; he has only added a touch of order.
   He fingers the small carrot in his pocket as he walks toward the
corner of the barn. He slips into the goat pen, and Mora butts him
gently. "I know, I know, but I didn't bring much." He slips the nanny the
wilted carrot, even as he touches her shoulder.
   She is close to term. That he can tell, but how close? With a shrug,
he leaves, checking the gate, placing his feet to avoid the worst of the
puddles.
   The sound of a bullfrog rumbles through the misty twilight as Dorrin
walks back to his quarters. He lights the lamp. On the floor, he now has
a woven grass mat, and a quilt covers his pallet bed. A crude planked
wardrobe stands in one corner, and the writing table has been
strengthened with iron braces. Two towels are hung on a rack he has
built, and a chipped but serviceable washbowl rests on the shelf between
the dowels that hold his rough cloth towels.
   As he sits on the stool, he takes a sheet of paper from the wooden box
and dips the quill into the ink, beginning to sketch out in greater
detail the idea that has been swirling inside his head. The better his
design, the less work at the forge-and that is easier on his body and his
limited funds for materials. He considers it work, but would rather not
mention it to Yarrl. Besides, Dorrin has promised Pergun he will go to
Kyril's the following evening. He hasn't gone recently, and he knows he
needs to, if only to hear what is happening in and around Diev.
   In time, he stops the sketch and takes out another sheet of paper,
this time slowly calculating as he places numbers at various points on
the sketch. He wishes the numbers were better- or that he had paid more
attention to the higher calculations at the Academy.
   Finally, he sighs and puts aside the quill, and places the papers in
the other wooden box-the one under his pallet with his notes on his
models. Then he strips off his trousers and shirt and climbs into his
bed. Thoughts of black steel and carts that move without draft horses and
boats that move without wind swirl through his thoughts until darkness
claims him.
   "Dorrin!" His name is followed by a rapping on his door. "Dorrin!"
   "Yes?" He struggles out of his bedroll and off the pallet, yanking on
his trousers. "What is it?"
   "It's Mora. I need some help."
   "I'll be right there." He pulls on his trousers, boots, and work
shirt, and unlatches the door. Reisa is halfway to the barn. Dorrin
follows.
   The nanny lies on a pile of straw under the slanting roof of the barn,
shuddering periodically. Reisa is bent over the suffering animal, her
good arm repositioning the goat's hind legs.
   Dorrin squats down to help, to help with whatever Reisa will direct
him to do, for he has no experience with any sort of birth.
   Mora moans, and Dorrin winces at the pain. Pain follows pain, with one
interlude of joy, and, after what seems an endless night, Dorrin slumps
against the fence. No order remains in the twisted body of the nanny
goat. Nothing he can do will change that. A single kid whimpers from
Reisa's arms.
   "Sorry-I tried."
   "I know. I watched you visit her almost every night."
   "I tried."
   "Youngster, some things will be. Not all the order in the world, nor
all the chaos, can change fate." She cradles the kid. "What about this
one?"
   Dorrin studies the still-damp kid. "If you can get some kind of milk,
broth, something, I can probably keep her alive until she can eat on her
own."
   "But you couldn't save Mora."
   "I'm not strong enough. This one's small."
   "I won't call her 'this one.'"
   "What will you name her?"
   "Zilda, I guess. It means 'lost one' in ... where I came from."
   "Aren't we all?"
   "I don't think you're lost, young Dorrin. You're solid. Where you are
is where you are. Don't lose that. Yarrl laughs at your toys, but he'd
give an arm to be able to make them. I'd almost give my other one to grow
herbs and heal like you." Reisa pauses as a faint whimpering "baaaa ..."
escapes from her arms. "I'd think either cow's or goat's milk would do. I
can trade some pepper with Werra or Ghunta. Some broth, tonight, I'd
guess."
   Dorrin touches Zilda again, trying to strengthen the blackness within
the kid. Then he takes a deep breath and straightens. "Now what?"
   ' Terra can take care of Mora."
   Dorrin understands, although neither will speak of it. All that can be
used will be, but Reisa will not ask that of herself, or Dorrin.
   Dorrin nods and turns back toward his quarters and his pallet.
 
 
XLI
 
JESLEK SMILES AS he looks westward at the needle peaks, still covered
with the ice of the winter. Behind him, the red-headed woman, also in
white, glances from the guards to the Westhorns and back to the guards.
The three guards look down at the whitened granite of the road.
   The wizard's senses begin to probe the chaos deep beneath the last
stretch of the high grasslands of Analeria, loosening a bond here,
leaving another untouched. The ground begins to tremble, and on a distant
hillside, indistinct dots that are sheep collapse into the high grass as
the shaking increases. Yet the road remains stable, with only the
faintest hints of vibration underneath.
   A faint haze spreads across the sky, and smoke begins to rise from the
grasslands on each side of the white road. Slowly, ever so slowly, the
road appears to sink, as if dropping below the surrounding terrain.
   Anya smiles nervously, while the guards keep their eyes firmly on the
granite underfoot.
   Jeslek's eyes focus downward also, following his senses deep beneath
the earth, opening channels of chaos, and letting the earth do its work,
thrusting small mountains upward, no longer restrained by the bonds of
order.
   "A great one, he is," murmurs the youngest guard. "They say he's the
one foretold in the Old Book."
   The* road shudders, strongly enough that Anya stumbles against the
guard who has spoken. The guard steps back from her with a start, as
though he had been burned.
 
 
XLII
 
DORRIN WIPES HIS forehead, then lifts the adz, driving it down into the
charcoal. He lifts the adz again, wondering why Tullar delivers charcoal
in such large chunks, and why the smithy bums so much-but he knows the
second reason. The sound of Yard's hammer interweaves with the impact of
the adz as Dorrin breaks the charcoal into smaller chunks. When he has a
reasonable heap of broken charcoal, he sets aside the adz and shovels the
charcoal into the wheelbarrow.
   He sets aside the shovel and wipes his forehead, the silence from the
smithy informing him that the smith has also stopped work-or moved to
something quieter.
   Dorrin blots his forehead once more with the back of his short-sleeved
work shirt. Unlike the smith, he needs the tattered shirt, if only to
keep the sweat under control.
   The summer air is still, humid, so silent that he can hear the swish
of the broom inside the smith's house. Petra or Reisa? Probably Petra,
since he doubts that the one-armed mother would use the broom-although he
has no doubts that Reisa can handle almost anything, one-handed or not.
   A fly buzzes toward him, and he waves at it. The insect veers away,
but he knows it will return as soon as both hands are back on the adz. He
blots his forehead yet again before returning to breaking up the larger
chunks before him. The fly circles, waiting for him to resume work.
   An almost shadowy projection of order keeps the vermin from his
pallet. Can he do the same thing with the flying insects? He concentrates.
   Hoofbeats drum through the damp and hard red clay of the yard, and two
familiar horses enter the yard. Dorrin sighs and looks up. Both riders
wear the dark blue of Spidlar.
   Dorrin glances down. He still hasn't shoveled enough charcoal. He sets
aside the adz, leaning it against the wheelbarrow.
   "Dorrin!" calls Brede.
   The apprentice smith nods. Kadara returns the nod. The sound of the
broom ceases.
   Dorrin wipes his forehead again. "You're off somewhere? Again? You
just got back less than an eight-day ago."
   "How could you guess?" Kadara brushes a strand of the flame hair she
has cut shorter and shorter off her forehead.
   "The packs, the travel uniforms, and the fact that you came to see me."
   "I didn't mean ..." Kadara shakes her head.
   Dorrin flushes. Once again, he has answered a rhetorical question.
Will he ever learn? He brushes back the insistent fly.
   "Anyway . .. we just wanted you to know."
   "Thank you." Dorrin gestures toward the charcoal. "I do keep busy."
   "I still think you'd be better off as a healer." Kadara eases her
mount closer to the pile.
   "Not if I want to build my machines."
   "Oh, Dorrin. Another year, and we can return to Recluce. If you'd ever
give up such ..."
   Dorrin finds his chin stiffening.
   "Kadara, could he ask you to be a hearth-holder?" Brede's mellow voice
is reasonable, even.
   "We're leaving in the morning," Kadara states, as if she had never
hinted at the stupidity of his desire to build machines.
   "When will you be back?"
   "They never tell us that." Brede laughs. "I think it's highwaymen
downriver of Elparta. Who knows?"
   Dorrin wipes his forehead.
   "Anyway ..." Brede says into the silence.
   "All right. Good luck."
   "Thank you." Kadara eases her mount back.
   After the sound of hoofbeats fades, the sound of the broom resumes.
Dorrin drives the adz into the largest chunk of charcoal, ignoring the
light footsteps on the porch behind him. After two more swings with the
adz, he sets it aside and lifts the shovel, scooping up perhaps a third
of what he has broken and dropping the shovelful into the wheelbarrow.
   "She's not for you." Dorrin jumps. Reisa stands almost at his shoulder.
   "I know. She only sees Brede, that..." He shakes his head. Brede is
intelligent, caring, and talented. What can Dorrin really say? "I suppose
it's natural. He's quick, strong, and intelligent. I'm just a sometime
apprentice, sometime healer."
   "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're a damned fine healer. I
should know. That wasn't what I meant."
   Dorrin lowers the shovel.
   "You told me you grew up with your red-haired friend. And she still
doesn't understand you. Doesn't that tell you something?"
   "I suppose so." Dorrin looks down the road, but Brede and Kadara are
well out of sight.
   Reisa snorts. "Men ..."
   Dorrin waits, but Reisa has turned and walks back toward the smithy.
He takes a deep breath and lifts the adz. Another few swings and he will
have enough to fill the wheelbarrow. Inside the house, the sweeping
continues.
   A flash of white appears on the porch. "Baaaa . . ." The small head
cocks at Dorrin. He reaches over and scratches Zilda between the ears.
The kid licks his hand. He strokes the soft curling hair once more before
lifting the adz, then grins as he realizes his fingers have left a faint
black shadow on the kid.
 
 
XLIII
 
DORRIN INCREASES THE tempo of the bellows, trying to contain and direct
the heat as best he can while Yarrl wrestles with the heavy wagon spring.
   The tongs move, and the hammer strikes. The smith returns the spring
to the forge again, then, after watching metal glow cherry red, grunts as
he swings it back to the anvil. Dorrin concentrates on striking the metal
exactly where Yarrl indicates, following the smith's signals.
   "There!" Yarrl straightens. "Thought we'd have to do that again, but
the heat held." He eases the heavy piece to the annealing shelf of the
forge and sets down the tongs to wipe his steaming forehead.
   "You know ..." Yarrl wipes his forehead again. "Been able to do things
. . . since you came." He looks at the coals, dying almost unnaturally,
as if robbed of energy now that the bellows has ceased its heaving. "Not
sure anyone else could do 'em. All folks from the Black island like you?"
   "No. I had to leave because I wanted to make things-machines like my
models. They said it wasn't order-based."
   The burly smith coughs and spits. "Demon-driven idiots. You put so
much order in your metal that no damned White could touch it. Temmil says
those shoes you did cured his old mare's limp. Didn't want to do
shoes-hate it, but poor old bastard can't afford Migra. Hope we got them
right."
   Dorrin frowns. Could ordered iron help hold off chaos? It makes sense,
even if he's never thought about it.
   The door rumbles as it eases open, and a gust of damp air follows
Reisa into the smithy, bringing with it the scent of cut grass from the
meadow uphill. Both men turn.
   "There's a trader fellow here. Claims to know young Dorrin."
   "Driving a cart?" Dorrin blushes. Every trader would drive a cart or a
wagon. "Not too tall, broad-brimmed hat?"
   "I guess you do know the fellow."
   "Liedral's probably why I'm here. Told us about Jarnish."
   "Well... go see your friend ... I can wind this up, and it's not like
you ever slack off."
   "Thank you."
   "Don't thank me, Dorrin. Sometimes ..." The smith looks at Reisa.
   "Just go see the trader."
   Dorrin still racks his gear before unstrapping his leather apron and
hanging it up. He swallows, trying to get the odor of hot metal off his
tongue and out of his throat, then walks toward the yard.
   Liedral has tied the cart horse to the same iron ring Dorrin had used
when he first came to Yarrl's, and she stands by the cart, the
broad-brimmed hat on the seat, the short and silky hair ruffled in the
warm and humid breeze that promises an evening rain. "You look very
smithlike."
   "I feel all too smithlike." Dorrin pauses. "I didn't think you ever
came to Diev."
   "I don't usually." Liedral looks up, and Dorrin turns to see Reisa
walking toward them.
   "Liedral, I'd like you to meet Reisa."
   Reisa inclines her head with a smile. "Any friend of Dorrin's is a
friend of ours. If you don't mind simple fare, you're welcome for supper."
   "I couldn't do that," protests Liedral.
   "Nonsense. You can trade for your dinner in tales and news, if that
makes you feel better."
   "I'd like to do that," the trader admits. "Inn fare or no fare gets
tiring after a while."
   Reisa nods, almost militarily, as if acknowledging a subordinate's
sound decision. "That's settled."
   As Reisa steps onto the porch and into the kitchen, Liedral shakes her
head.
   "What's the matter?" asks Dorrin.
   "Nothing ... do you always end up around military types or blades?"
   "Reisa? She was a blade for Southwind, I think." He walks toward the
well and removes the cover. "If you don't mind, I'd like to remove the
smithlike appearance and odor."
   Liedral looks toward the barn.
   "I don't think they'd mind. You can put your horse in with Meriwhen."
   "I'll take care of that while you wash up."
   As Dorrin lifts another bucket of water, Zilda bleats, and the thin
chain that tethers her to the porch clinks. "All right, little one." He
sets aside the water and steps to the edge of the porch, ruffling the
kid's fur and scratching between her eyes.
   "Is she your other lady?" Petra's voice is even, standing in the
doorway from the kitchen. With her gray trousers and shapeless shirt,
without the frizzy hair, she would bear a general resemblance to Liedral.
   "Zilda? I suppose. She thinks so." He gives the kid a last scratch.
   "I meant the trader. You don't see many women traders."
   "She passes as a man most places, especially near Fair-haven."
   "She came to see you?"
   "I don't know exactly why. She didn't say."
   "Dorrin, you men are impossible." Petra sighs. "Do you like her?"
   "Of course. She's been good and fair and helpful."
   "Leave the poor man alone, Petra, and give me a hand." Reisa's voice
is not quite stern as it carries into the dampness of the gray late
afternoon.
   "Just a moment, mother." Petra pats Zilda, then smiles at Dorrin. "I
think I'm going to like her, Dorrin." She steps back into the kitchen.
   Dorrin walks back to the well and begins to wash the worst of the
grime from his arms and face. First Kadara and Brede, and now Reisa and
Petra. Why had Liedral traveled five days out of her normal route? He
draws another pail of water to carry to his room, looking at the barn
where he can hear Liedral whistling as she curries the cart horse.
   Once washed, shaved, and dried off, Dorrin pulls on his lighter-weight
brown shirt and trousers, then his boots, and combs his hair. He looks
around the room, which seems suddenly stark, almost empty, before opening
the door and crossing the packed clay on the north side of the yard to
the porch.
   Liedral, Petra, and Reisa sit on stools under the overhanging eave
that serves as a roof. Zilda begs from Reisa, butting at her leg, and
clinking the thin chain that took Dorrin several evenings to fashion,
mostly to learn the technique.
   "... little one here always looks to him, like a father almost..."
   "... too young for that." Petra laughs.
   "You look less smithlike," Liedral says. She, too, has removed the
dust and dirt of travel, as well as the dark jacket, and wears a dark
green shirt buttoned up almost to her neck.
   "I would hope so."
   "Now, he just looks like an innocent healer."
   "Innocent?" asks Petra.
   Dorrin blushes.
   "Innocent," confirms Reisa, "but learnedlike innocence."
   Liedral smiles sympathetically.
   "Aaaa . . . ummmm," coughs Yarrl from the kitchen doorway.
   Reisa rises from the stool and picks it up. "Time for supper."
   "Was time a while ago," grouses Yarrl.
   "Oh, papa. You weren't washed up, and neither was Dorrin."
   "Washing up, washing down, wash, wash, wash . . . you'd think I was a
stinky old goat or something."
   "Well. . . not old," Petra affirms.
   "Child." Yarrl cannot quite hide the smile.
   As the others sit down before the wide stew plates, Petra lifts a
heavy crockery dish from the oven of the coal stove whose iron and
ceramic expanse gives it the look of a small forge. She sets the dish on
a clay tile in the middle of the oak table. Reisa sets a basket of bread
at each end. A small plate of dried fruit rests beside the stewpot.
   "Go ahead, trader." Yarrl nods to Liedral.
   "After you, ser," Liedral responds.
   "Only because you insist." But Yarrl is pleased at the deference.
   "What new is happening beyond Spidlar?" asks Reisa.
   "One hardly knows where to start." Liedral pauses, then continues.
"The White Wizards continue to build the mountains across the high plains
of Analeria, and they say the ground shakes all the time there. Fairhaven
has imposed an additional thirty percent surtax on goods from Recluce.
   "The Spidlarian Council must be pleased with that." Reisa ladles a
large helping of stew into Liedral's dish, and then a smaller helping
into her own.
   Dorrin wrinkles his nose. Even with the pepper he has coaxed from
Reisa's stunted plants, the mutton odor of the stew is overpowering.
Still, he is hungry.
   "They ought to be worried, but they haven't seen that far ahead. The
improved trade will just make Spidlaria a more attractive target for
Fairhaven once the wizards finish with Kyphros. Right now, they're still
pushing the Analerian nomads and their herds into the Westhorns."
   "Are there any left?" Reisa asks.
   "Not many. There's not much grass in the rocks, and they lose too many
cattle to the cats and wolves." Liedral takes a mouthful of stew and
swallows. "They say there's a new emperor in Hamor, and that the Nordlans
and the Bristans are boarding each other's ships. That's why Fairhaven
can tax Recluce goods. Not much is crossing the Eastern Ocean, except
from Hamor, and that's even more costly."
   "Hmmmm ..." mumbles the smith. "Sarronnyn is rebuilding the old
garrison at Westwind . . . the Duke of Hydolar died of the flux, and the
regent is another White Wizard, a fellow named Gorsuch. The Duke's son is
only four, and that means there will be a long regency ..." "Like
forever."
   "Fairhaven has doubled its orders of timber from Sligo, and most of it
is to be delivered to the shipyards in Lydiar . . . and there's a rumor
that Recluce has stopped sending questors to Candar, at least eastern
Candar ..." Liedral looks at Dorrin, then away.
   "How'd you get to be a questor, young fellow?" asks Yarrl. "When I
finished the Academy-that's the school for questors-they sent me here."
Dorrin's head throbs at the incomplete answer.
   "Didn't your parents have anything to say about it?" Dorrin laughs.
"It was my father's idea. He was offended by my wanting to build
machines."
   "Machines?"
   "You've seen my models. I'd like to build bigger ones. Like the steam
engine that I read about. There's no reason why you couldn't build one to
drive a mill or a boat."
   "You read about an engine that runs on steam ... What does this engine
do and where did you read about it? Is it some sort of magic?" asks Petra.
   "Hardly. Your kettle over there: when it boils, steam comes out of the
spout. When it boils too hard, if you put a plug in the spout, what would
happen?" Petra doesn't answer.
   "It would blow off the top or push out the plug," answers Reisa.
   "There's power in the steam. It's not magic. I want to make the steam
work for me."
   "A steam engine," muses Liedral. "But what fuels it?"
   "Coal would be best, but you could use wood or charcoal." The
conversation lags as Petra spoons out seconds of stew. Dorrin takes a
deep swallow of cold water.
   "Why would your father send you away because you wanted to build this
machine?" Reisa breaks a silence punctuated only by Yawl's noisy chewing.
   "Because he doesn't understand it, I think. He's afraid that it would
create chaos."
   "Would it?"
   "No. You can't build one that's not orderly-even a little one."
   "I don't understand," Petra says slowly.
   "Seems simple enough." Reisa refills her mug. "People don't like
change. They don't like changes or people who are different. Spidlar's as
open as anywhere in Candar. More than ten years since we came, and some
people still won't use your father's iron work, for all that it's twice
as good as Henstaal's."
   "Truth," snaps the smith. "Take the crap they know over quality stuff
they don't. Isn't that so, trader?"
   "I'm afraid it is," Liedral admits. "They don't like women traders,
and they always need reassurance that something is either from the same
person or just like that person's work."
   Another silence falls upon the table.
   "What about your parents? Do they even know where you are?" Petra asks.
   "Not exactly. There hasn't been exactly any way to send them word."
   "You could, you know," Liedral says after swallowing another mouthful
of the mutton stew. "The going rate is around a half silver for an
envelope. You give it to a Spidlarian shipmaster, and they'll carry it to
one of the factors in whatever country, who will send it to the town you
want with the next shipment. Sometimes it takes a season, but they do get
there."
   "Even to my parents on Recluce?"
   "If you're not in a great hurry, I can help take care of that."
Liedral sips the thin light beer from her mug.
   "When you go to Tyrhavven? Or Spidlaria? How long will that be?"
   "Spidlaria. I'm a bit late already. I really shouldn't be here, but I
wanted to see how you were coming. It's two hard days from Kleth."
   "Oh..."
   "This time it worked out all right. Jarnish's nephew found some
cammabark in the marshlands, and I'll offer it to the Spidlarian Council."
   "Cammabark?"
   "Fire powder-they use it in skyrockets and cannons. It's best if it's
mixed with black powder. Touchy stuff-if it gets too dry, it explodes."
   Dorrin nods. "I expect it wouldn't be much use against the White
Wizards."
   "They use fire well enough," Reisa adds coldly.
   Yarrl coughs once, then again.
   "My background is no secret to Dorrin. He's rather observant."
   "At least about some things," Petra adds.
   Liedral lifts her mug, coughs, and covers her face. Reisa shakes her
head as she looks at Dorrin.
   "Watch the women," Yarrl mumbles through a mouthful of meat. "Watch
the women. Least a few steps ahead all the time. Poor man's got no
chance."
   "Poor papa." Petra grins.
   Dorrin takes a sip of his redberry.
   Yarrl takes a final swallow of the thin beer and stands up, abruptly.
"Off to see Gylert."
   "He's been promising you iron work for seasons."
   "He is the head of the local traders' council."
   "Maybe he will provide work." Reisa shrugs and looks at Liedral. "What
do you think?"
   "I'd try a smaller trader. Good work at a lower price is more
important to the smaller ones."
   "Perhaps you could do both," ventures Dorrin, slowly.
   "How be that?" ponders the smith.
   "Thank ser Gylert for seeing you, and ask him to suggest some smaller
trader who might need unique or special work. That way, he doesn't have
to tell you 'no,' and he can't complain that you have ignored or avoided
him."
   Reisa swallows abruptly, and Liedral looks at Dorrin for a long moment.
   "I'll be thinking about that." Yard's eyes rest on Petra. "Did you
groom the bay, daughter?"
   "I did, papa." "Good." Yarrl tramps through the door, across the
porch, and down the stairs toward the bam.
   Dorrin finishes another chunk of the crusty bread and swallows the
last of the water in his mug.
   "Would you like any more, trader?" asks Reisa.
   "I've had more than enough. It's far, far better than inn fare."
Liedral leans back slightly in the wooden chair.
   A chain clinks, and Dorrin smiles. "Any scraps for Zilda?"
   "That greedy kid? A few might be managed." Reisa leaves the table and
reclaims a battered dish from the porch, scraping the leavings from her
dish into it.
   Dorrin brings over his dish and Liedral's. The table scraps barely
cover the bottom of the chipped brown stew dish. Reisa shakes her head
and adds a chunk of bread. Dorrin takes the dish out and sets it in the
corner away from the door where the kid can eat without being disturbed.
He ruffles her fur before heading back toward the kitchen. Liedral meets
him at the door.
   "Just talk to your friend, Dorrin," Reisa calls.
   "Can we sit here?" Liedral points to one of the stools.
   He takes the other. Inside the dishes clank, as mother and daughter
clean up. Outside, Dorrin studies the garden, the barn, and the low grass
of the meadow beyond. Zilda's chain clanks on the chipped crockery from
which the kid eats.
   "What happened to your friends?"
   "Kadara and Brede? They joined the Spidlarian Guard here in Diev.
They're somewhere around Elparta now, searching for highwaymen."
   "Most likely inspired by Fairhaven."
   "Oh?"
   "That happened in Kyphros, too. Thieves appeared where there hadn't
ever been any. Cattle disappeared. Fairhaven asked the Prefect to act,
but the Prefect's troops never could find them. Eventually, that was one
reason that the wizards gave for taking over the plains."
   "You seem convinced that Fairhaven will conquer all of eastern Candar."
   "I suppose so." Liedral gazes into the growing darkness. "I try not to
dwell on it. There's enough else to worry about, like being a trader."
   "You seem to manage."
   "You've seen how well I manage, scraping by on one cart and sometimes
a pack horse, rattling around in a barn of a warehouse that once was
a/ways full, letting half of what [bring in go to Freidr, just so his
political friends won't look too closely."
   Dorrin looks at the barn. What can he say? He has always thought of
Liedral as extraordinarily competent. The faint hum of a mosquito
punctuates the evening, followed by the indistinct words of a
conversation from the parlor between Reisa and Petra.
   "That was a good suggestion you gave Yarrl," Liedral finally says,
shifting her weight on the hard oak stool. "How did you come up with
that?"
   "It made sense. Powerful people don't like to be asked for money, or
for jobs. They do like to be asked for advice, and they don't like being
surprised." Dorrin disengages Zilda from his trousers before she can
worry a hole in them. He scratches the kid's head. The white fur makes it
easy in the dimness of early evening.
   "She likes you."
   "I'm not sure why." Dorrin runs a hand through his curly hair. It
needs cutting, but it seems to him like it always needs cutting. The
faint whine of a mosquito warns him, and he frowns, trying to recast the
sort of ward that will work to discourage the flying insects. He wishes
he had read those sections of his father's library far more intently, but
in concentrating on machines, he never considered the continual annoyance
of hungry mosquitoes, which always seem to prefer redheads.
   "lam."
   The kid's chain clinks as Zilda attempts to chew on Liedral's boots.
   Dorrin wipes his forehead. Has he gotten the ward correct? The sound
of the mosquito seems fainter, at least.
   "You're kind. Stubborn, though." After a pause, she continues. "I
meant that about the letter."
   "I do owe them something, I suppose." He waits, and sits quietly as
Zilda bounces into his lap and curls up. A faint breeze, smelling of
distant rain out of the Westhorns and sheep, caresses his smooth-shaven
face. "Why did you come here?"
   "You know why.'.'
   "I still have a lot to figure out," Dorrin says after another long
silence. "And I want to build my machines."
   "I know. But you'd better think about making golds, too."
   "Why?"
   "How can you afford metals, or wood, or whatever you need for
materials?"
   Dorrin laughs. "I guess I had better think about it. What do you
suggest?"
   "Me? I'm just a poor trader."
   "But what kind of things sell?"
   "Anything rare or well-made and functional or a necessity of some
sort."
   "Just the sort of things Recluce has exported for the past centuries."
   "Why else would anyone buy things from the Black Wizards?"
   "I'll have to think about that. I could grow spices. I'm pretty good
at that. Perhaps sell some of my models as toys. They are well-made."
   "You'd sell those?"
   "I'm not a collector. Some of them served their purpose once I
finished them. They didn't work the way I expected."
   "Oh..."
   "That's the way it works. You design it, and then you try it out. It's
a lot easier to make models than to spend the effort on building
something big. Of course, models still work better than the full-sized
machines, but most times, if the model doesn't work, the machine won't
either."
   "Dorrin, do you mind?"
   "That you came? No. I'm glad, but I couldn't tell you why." He grins
in the darkness, knowing that she cannot see the expression. "You are a
bit older, you know."
    "And wiser."
   "There is that."
   "I'll lea veil at that." She stands. "You have a letter to write, and
I'm leaving early in the morning." She has entered the house even before
Dorrin has managed to set Zilda on the porch. He shakes his head, then
turns back toward his quarters, thankful that, with his growing sense of
order, he needs no light, except for detail work like smithing or writing.
   Once inside his room, he lights the lamp with a striker and takes out
a sheet from the box of parchments he uses for designs. He finds a quill
and the ink. Then, after turning up his lamp, Dorrin smoothes the
parchment. What should he write? How should he address it? Carefully he
dips the quill into the ink, then begins, leaving a space for the
salutation. The dim light is more than adequate as he writes deliberate
word after deliberate word.
   I am well, working as an apprentice smith here in Diev. The smith is
brusque, but not unkind, and I have learned much more than Hegl would
have believed, and I no longer ruin good iron. I hope that Hegl is happy
that his lessons have not gone to waste.
   We passed through Vergren and saw the wonders of Fairhaven on the way.
I found Fairhaven too rich for my blood and am much happier where I am. I
now have a mare I call Meriwhen. You can tell Lortren that my riding
skills have improved.
   Kadara and Brede are with the Spidlarian Guard. For the past few
eight-days, they've been patrolling the northwest roads.
   The weather here is colder than in Extina, and even the spring ice
took some getting used to, but working in a smithy is not chilly even
when the snow gets knee-deep outside. It only has once, a late-spring
snow that was unexpected, although the older folks talk about the times
before the Black Wizards changed the world and the weather, when
everything was better.
   I have not found whatever it was that Lortren expected I would. If I
have, I don't know that I have. I hope Kyl has found what he must find,
and that this letter finds you all healthy and happy.
    Dorrin.
   After he rereads it, he dips the quill yet another time and pens in
the salutation, compromising with "My dear family."
   Then he lays it aside. He will fold and seal it in the morning for
Liedral to take.
   Liedral-how can a woman seem so much like a friend, and so solid a
person, and yet. . . ? He knows he does not lust after her, as he has
after Kadara, or even after the comely tavern singer, but he was glad to
see her, in the way he is glad to see the dawn, or the sunlight after a
cold rain. Is that friendship?
   He pulls off his shirt and trousers and lies down upon the pallet,
pulling the worn and somehow comforting quilt over his bare shoulders.
Outside, a bullfrog's burrruppp . . . echoes through the darkness,
underscored by the sighing of the leaves in the oak trees beyond the bam.
 
 
XLIV
 
THE SUN HAS not fully cleared the eastern lowlands when Dorrin steps into
the barn. Liedral is already harnessing the cart horse.
   "Here's the letter." He hands her the letter and a half-silver. "Is
that enough?"
   "That should be more than enough." She holds the harness in her left
hand. "Do you ever sleep? Reisa says some nights you work until midnight."
   "I don't need that much sleep, and Yarrl lets me use the worst of the
scraps, but they take a lot of effort. Sometimes I have to actually melt
them, and that's dangerous."
   Liedral frowns.
   "Iron bums when you get it hot enough ... if you're not careful." He
lifts the bag.
   "What do you have there?" She brushes the silky hair back off her
forehead. Dorrin glances at the broad-brimmed hat upon the cart seat.
   "Yes. I'm headed back to be the young trader-presumably male-that no
one really wants to look too closely at." She places the sealed letter
inside a leather case under the seat and turns back to the horse.
   Dorrin sets the bag on the cart seat as she buckles the harness. He
extracts the miniature sawmill blade and wheel. The black steel blade
glints in the light through the barn door, and the red oak is smooth and
polished.
   "It's beautifully done."
   "You turn the handle and the blade turns. It won't really cut much.
You think you could sell it for something?"
   "I won't sell it unless I can get what it's worth."
   "How much is that?"
   "I don't really know, except that Palace toys for Sarronnyn go for as
much as four golds. This is as good as some. Why are you giving it up?"
   "It didn't work the way I wanted."
   "How can you tell?"
   Dorrin looks toward the door before speaking. "Once it's built, and I
work with it, I can sort of sense the sticky spots, the points where the
design isn't right. This one ... it doesn't transfer the force from the
handle to the blade very well. I have a new idea, using an angled gear
and little iron balls. They're hard to make. Might just be easier to make
them bigger."
   This time, Liedral shakes her head. "You just might change the world
... if the White Wizards don't find you first."
   "Me? An apprentice smith and sometime healer?"
   "You." She takes the model, a half cubit long and less than a span
high, and puts it inside the case with the letter. "It does fit. Good."
Then she turns back to the smith. "I don't know when I'll be back. If you
need me, you know where I am. Jarnish can also get me a message."
   "You're leaving now?"
   "I have to make up lost time." She leads the cart horse toward the
door.
   Dorrin takes his leather bag and opens the door wide enough for the
cart.
   "Remember, Dorrin, there has to be a reason. You see that with your
machines, but it's true of people and countries as well." Liedral leads
the horse and cart clear of the bam.
   "I suppose so." He purses his lips, not knowing what else to say.
   Liedral slips up onto the cart seat. "Take care, Dorrin." She flicks
the reins, and the cart lurches forward over the hardened clay.
   He watches until she is on the road, but she has not looked back. He
heads toward the smithy, not feeling like eating. Not on this morning.
   He begins the day's work by breaking up the longer lengths of charcoal
to the proper size for the forge and by bringing in what will be needed
for the morning. As he completes his efforts, Yawl appears and unbanks
the forge, the coals still hot enough to smoke sawdust as he begins
laying in charcoal.
   "Get the heavy stock, Dorrin ... the big bar on the top end."
   Liedral's words still run through his mind. "Why are things the way
they are? There has to be a reason, doesn't there?"
   He fingers the length of wrought iron in his hands. What makes iron
different from copper, or tin? They are different, but why? And how is
cast iron different from steel or wrought iron? And why did ordering
wrought iron make it stronger than steel, yet less brittle?
   He looks at the metal, again, letting his senses enfold it.
   "Dorrin? Is it hot enough?"
   The apprentice smith lays aside the iron. "Almost. . ." He takes the
overhead lever of the bellows and begins to pump, evenly. Later, he will
have to make nails, a tedious job at best. Before that, though, he will
certainly have to get out the files and smooth out whatever Yarrl forges.
 
 
XLV
 
"NO SOONER DO we take action against Recluce than traitors here in Candar
steal the livelihoods and the coppers from our people ..." The words of
heavy-set and black-haired wizard garbed in white rumble across the
chamber.
   "Proud words, Myral..."
   "I stand with Myral." The wizard who speaks is soft-spoken, with short
brown hair, frail in appearance. "The renowned Jeslek and the noble
Sterol have done their best to improve the lot of our people. Can we do
any less?"
   "What's in it for you, Cerryl?"
   Cerryl smiles softly, letting the clamor die down before speaking.
"With such imposing figures as Jeslek and our High Wizard Sterol already
expressing their concern . . . how about survival?" He grins.
   A patter of nervous laughter circles the chamber as he steps off the
low speaking stage and edges into a corner.
   "While I would not be so direct as gentle Cerryl..." begins the next
speaker, a man with white hair, but an unlined and almost cherubic face.
   Cerryl pauses next to the redhead in the corner.
   "Most effective, Cerryl."
   "Thank you, Anya. I presume the effect was as you and the noble Sterol
wanted." He smiles softly. "Or as you wanted, should I say."
   She returns the smile. "You flatter me."
   "Hardly. With your ability . . ." He shrugs. "Perhaps you will someday
be High Wizard."
   "Being High Wizard in these times might require rather . .. unique
skills."
   "That is certainly true, a point which Jeslek is certainly not adverse
to making-repeatedly. I would prefer your approach, I suspect."
   "A woman as High Wizard?" Anya's tone is almost mocking. "You do me
high honor, indeed."
   "I recognize your talent, dear lady." His smile is bland.
   "You are ... sweet.. . Cerryl." She tilts her head. "Would you like to
join me for a late supper-tomorrow evening?"
   "Your wish is my desire."
   "You are so obliging, Cerryl."
   "When one is limited in sheer power of chaos, one must be of great
service, Anya."
   "I am so glad you understand that." She turns and steps toward a
broader wizard with a squared-off beard.
   Cerryl smiles faintly, nods to his colleague, and continues toward a
seat on the back bench.
 
 
XLVI
 
DORRIN WHISTLES AS he rides. In the rain, even under the oiled leather
waterproof, he is damp. On the east side of the road, he sees the golden
grain bending under the water that has fallen for days. His notes are
off-key, but whistling is better than complaining. Besides, so much rain
has fallen that a continual sheet of water now lies around the smithy,
and Yarrl is almost out of charcoal because the roads from Tullar's
forests and charcoal camps are impassable to the heavy wagons.
   Dorrin casts his senses into the heavy clouds in the west. He smiles
as he finds that the rain will break before long. He stops smiling when
Meriwhen tosses her head and sprays his face with horse-scented water
droplets.
   In the pouch at his belt are the three golds sent from Liedral through
Jarnish and then through Willum, at the chandlery in lower Diev, for the
model sawmill. His hand strays to the pouch Three golds? For a model? Or
is Liedral sending him more than she received for it?
   He has several others that he could sell. Would Willum offer one for
sale? Then he could get some idea of what they might be worth, although
people in Spidlaria could certainly pay more. He guides Meriwhen along
the grassy edge of the road leading down off the main road and into
Hemmil's mill.
   He has barely entered the covered area when Pergun greets him.
   "Ever see such crappy weather? The vintners are claiming it will ruin
the grapes; the farmers can't get the grain out of the fields; we're
having to slow down because no one can pick up anything because the side
roads are impossible. And here you are."
   "Why not? This hit just before we were due to get charcoal; and Yarrl
wants to save some just in case."
   "What do you want? More scraps?"
   "No. A small lorkin sapling, log, about this big around." He uses his
hands to indicate a diameter slightly less than a double thumb span.
   "Hemmil'll want to charge you dear for that."
   "I thought so. Where are they?"
   "At the far end on the side toward his house." Pergun shakes his head.
"I'm cleaning out the saw pit. Let me know when you find what you want."
   The smith wanders down the center of the warehouse. After a time,
Dorrin finally touches one of the black logs. One end is useless, with
fractured heartwood, but the remaining six cubits are certainly straight
and strong enough. He eases it out and walks back to the saw pit.
   Pergun climbs out, covered with sweat and dampened sawdust.
   "This one? How much might it be?"
   "A silver, at least. Lorkin takes years to grow," explains Pergun.
   Dorrin pauses, regretfully looks back toward the end of the warehouse.
"Perhaps a copper I might spare . . '. but a silver, Pergun?"
   "Half a silver, and you won't find a better bargain anywhere in
Certis. Hemmil doesn't like to sell the lorkin."
   "Two coppers, and that's if you trim it to my measure."
   "You may know plants, Dorrin, but timber is heavier and worth more,"
observes the black-haired mill man, winking and nodding toward the
office. "Four coppers, but only because I'd not want ill will from any
healer."
   Dorrin scrabbles in his purse. "I'd not do you in," he says firmly,
"but three and a bit is all that I have, save a single other copper with
which to eat." His head throbs slightly as he speaks, for Reisa does
indeed have some of his purse.
   The mill hand frowns, then shrugs. "Like as I'd rather not, but if it
is all you have, it's all you have. You carry the scraps to the bins,
though."
   "That I can certainly do, and a few others as well, if that would
help."
    The dark-bearded man grins. "I should have held you to that earlier."
   Dorrin laughs ruefully. Now all he has to do is trim the heavy
wood-which will take days with his knife-and, once he has earned a few
more coppers, spend more time at the forge. All for an idea he is not
even sure will work-but ordered wood and ordered black steel should make
a better staff.
 
 
XLVII
 
DORRIN SETS THE box on his writing table, plain enough red oak, except
for the butterfly hinges that, once again, he had been forced to make
twice before getting correct.
   "Aye, and you can do butt hinges, but any apprentice can do that."
That had been Yarrl's view. So Dorrin forged butterfly hinges. He also
had to make a second set for Yarrl, in return for the iron and the screws
for the hinges. Iron, that was the kicker. Dorrin had never realized, not
fully, how expensive and heavy it was. A cubit-long rod as thick as his
thumb weighs a stone and a half and costs nearly three pennies-more than
a meal at some inns. The smith's scrap pile makes a lot more sense in
that light.
   Dorrin runs the oiled rag over the oak again, lightly. Inside- resting
on the quilted padding Reisa and Petra contributed in return for a small
iron flower-is the model spring-driven wagon. As usual, the unusual-the
spring engine-had been the hardest, difficult enough that Dorrin knows
that a larger machine driven by springs will not work. Still, he is
learning, after his own fashion.
   After slipping the box into an oversized and battered saddlebag
recovered from a comer of the smithy, he walks out into the early fall
haze-and sneezes from the dust of the threshing from the fields. He
sneezes again, and again. His nose waters profusely by the time he
reaches the stable.
   It will be a long day. Yarrl's hammer rings in the background with the
harvest-related repairs to mower bars, horse rakes, and wagon tires and
braces. Dorrin has promised to work as long as necessary to make up for
the time he takes in Diev. Unlike smiths, chandleries close before sunset.
   After saddling Meriwhen and lashing the extra saddlebag in place, he
leads the mare out into the warm and dusty morning. Reisa waves from the
porch, where she has been checking the netting over the fruit-drying
racks before reentering the kitchen. Even between sneezes and mowing
dust, Dorrin can smell the pearapples and late peaches being jellied.
   Once on the road, Dorrin finds himself riding up behind two hay wagons
in a row. Each creaks, and the rear right wheel of the trailing wagon
sways out of true. As he passes the driver, he calls. "'Ware the back
wheel."
   "Thanks, fellow, but tell it to Ostrum-dumb bastard. Can't wait to get
this to the Guard barracks-while the price is good. Not your problem, but
thanks be to you anyway."
   Dorrin urges Meriwhen past the two-horse team. The road traffic is
heavy, and dusty, and Dorrin sneezes more. Ash and soot and charcoal do
not bother him, but harvest time and road dust do.
   The dust diminishes once he rides on the stone road into lower Diev.
Passing the rebuilt Tankard, he sees the beggar woman who continues to
plead for coppers. But there are no troopers there, not this early.
   Willum's chandlery is a long block shy of the trading compound and the
piers of lower Diev. The crossed candles of the sign have recently been
repainted, and the wood has been revarnished. So have the wooden floors,
and new hangings cloak the entrance to the back room of the establishment.
   A single man stands behind a counter on the right side. Opposite him
is a polished iron and brass stove, unneeded in the harvest heat.
   "I'd like to see Master Willum, if possible." Dorrin smiles politely.
   "It's always possible, but I don't know as it's likely unless you got
business planned with him."
   "That's what it's about."
   "No charity, no begging for alms for the poor, healer?" The man looks
over Dorrin's brown clothing.
   "I'm also a smith, and I work for Yarrl."
   "Can't be working hard if you're here now."
   "I'll be working well past your supper and bedtime." He forces a
smile. "But if one wants to do business with a chandler, one must do
business when the chandlery's open."
   "True enough, true enough, young fellow," interrupts a heartier voice
from the end of the counter. "And what might you be interested in
selling?" The speaker is blond, with a belly that flows over a wide brown
belt and almost submerges the heavy brass buckle. His shirt is brilliant
green, and his brown trousers match both belt and boots.
   Dorrin walks to the end of the counter. "You might say that it's a
curiosity, but you are known for having strange and unusual items..."
   "That I am, fellow. That I am. And I travel all the northern ports to
get and to sell. That's my business. So what is this curiosity?"
   Dorrin sets the box on the counter.
   "A box? Nice enough, especially the hinges, but Petron the
cabinetmaker does better, and certainly not a curiosity."
   Dorrin opens the top to show the wagon.
   "Hmmmm ... a wagon, but it has no horses."
   The smith takes out the model and sets it on the flat counter,
twisting the crank a half turn. The wagon rolls toward the far end.
   "Magic ..." whispers the first man from the corner.
   Dorrin shakes his head. "No. Just an ingenious little spring. It's all
mechanical." He tries not to smile as Willum closes his mouth.
   "Who did you say you were?"
   "Dorrin. I work for Yarrl."
   "The foreign smith fellow-does work for Honsard and Hemmil and types
like them?"
   Dorrin nods.
   "How come you wear healer brown?"
   "I'm also a healer."
   "A healer-smith. A smith-healer with a curiosity! That's worth a
silver just to say I saw one." Willum's voice is hearty, but his eyes are
cold.
   Dorrin retrieves the model wagon and replaces it in the box, but
leaves the top open for the moment.
   "Curiosities draw business, young fellow, but not many people buy
them. I'd buy it just to let people know the great Willum has another
one. But who could I sell it to?"
   "I'd suggest it to one of the Spidlarian Council members as a unique
present to a son. Or perhaps as a gift to the Sarronnese court."
   "Fine words."
   "It's good work. Worthy of a fine trader and chandler- especially one
with all the contacts that you have, Master Willum." Dorrin closes the
box. "I'd rather you ..."
   "Let's not be hasty, young fellow. It might be worth five silvers."
   "The last one sold in Tyrhavven for more than three golds."
   "You don't bargain much," Willum says, a trace sourly.
   "No, ser. I'm not a bargainer. I don't make many, and each one is
different."
   "Each one?"
   Dorrin nods.
   "I'll give you three golds for it-if the box comes with it."
   Dorrin frowns. ' Three golds and the box-if I also get a few cubits of
fine material to line the next box."
   Willum laughs. "Light! I'll give you three cubits of good material.
Roald! He can have the end of that Suthyan turquoise velvet."
   "I take it that the turquoise wasn't popular." Dorrin tries to keep
from grinning.
   "How was I to know that pale blue was the color that they said the
devil witch of Recluce wore? Some biddy started the tale, and no one
would buy that color. But it will look good lining a solid box, won't it,
fellow . . . Dorrin, is it?"
   "Dorrin." He waits as Roald appears with a small leather pouch and a
bolt of fabric wrapped in ragged flour sacks.
   Willum opens the pouch and counts out the three golds. Dorrin puts the
coins in his purse.
   "How soon before you might have another . . . curiosity ... ?"
   Dorrin smiles wryly. "As your man pointed out, there's a great deal of
very heavy and practical smith work to be done right now."
   "That might be for the best." Willum smiles. "Good day, young Dorrin."
   Dorrin inclines his head. "Good day, Master Willum."
   Clouds have begun to build over the northern ocean, clouds that
promise cooling later on, but little else. Dorrin fastens the empty
saddlebag in place. Meriwhen whickers as he mounts, and he pats her neck.
"Good girl."
   In the dust just beyond the end of the stone road, a kay beyond the
bridge into Diev proper, rests a tilted hay wagon, bales thrown off the
road. The carter is slowly stacking the hay by the roadside as he unloads
the wagon bed. The iron tire of the now-shattered rear wheel rests
against the side of the wagon.
   "Get that mangy team back ..."
   "You saw us coming ..."
   Two other carters, the outboard edges of their traces tangled, snarl
at each other, even as the two wagons block the road.
   Dorrin guides Meriwhen up onto the grass and around the confusion.
 
 
XLVIII
 
THE TWO TROOPERS ride van, half a kay ahead of the squad, their mounts
picking their way along the rough road around the south side of the
escarpment. The sun hangs low on the western horizon. Neither speaks.
Each listens for a branch cracking in the sparse firs to the north or the
crackling of dry grass in the seasonal wetland to the south. Above the
firs are the half-bare and twisted branches of the maples, partly cloaked
in faded leaves.
   The blond man reins up, nods to his left. The woman's eyes follow his
gesture to the trail less than fifty cubits ahead. He removes the bow
from its case, strings it easily, and opens the closed quiver. The woman
loosens the straps on the long sword; the Westwind shortsword is always
ready.
   With the faint crackling from the lowest clump of firs, the blond
spurs his gelding, and both riders charge toward the trees, low in their
saddles.
   An arrow barely misses the man, and he reins the horse up, nocks an
arrow, and looses it, almost before his mount has stopped.
   "Oooo ..." The indrawn breath and moan are clear enough.
   The blond trooper has a second arrow ready.
   "Hold your shaft! Hold your shaft! I'm a-coming down."
   The woman reins up farther along the trail. "Better come out, boy."
   "Spidlarian bastards! Let my boy go! He didn't do nothing." A bald man
with a straggly ginger beard and an arrow through his right arm lurches
onto the road.
   A youth, not that many years younger than the troopers, stands up,
still half-concealed by the browned tall grass.
   "Keep your hands up," orders the redhead.
   "You're a woman." He looks past her toward his father.
   "I'm a trooper." She flips the sword in the air, then catches it. "I
can also throw this hard enough to put it right through you."
   "Bitch ..." the youth mumbles.
   "I've been called worse. Now get up here. Where are your horses?"
   "Ain't got none."
   "The tracks show otherwise."
   The boy looks past her, then bolts uphill. Her arm goes back, and the
blade flies. The youth falls, moaning, and the trooper dismounts and
reaches him before he can move.
   "You killed my boy!"
   "I'll kill you if you move," snaps the blond trooper. He can hear the
clinking and footsteps of the squad behind.
   The redhead reclaims the shortsword, yanking the youth to his feet.
"The cut on your leg isn't that bad. If I'd wanted you dead, boy, you'd
be dead."
   He writhes, but her hands are like steel, and her shoulders are
broader than his, and more heavily muscled. She whips a length of rope
from her belt and binds his hands. By the time she has dragged him to the
road, the rest of the squad has arrived, and Brede has bound the bald man.
   "... hellcat got another ..."
   "... so'd the big fellow ..."
   "... you want to get in their way, Norax?"
   "What you got here, Brede?"
   "I'd say the two who tried to take that Certan merchant. Their horses
are somewhere back up behind the grove. If you'll take over this one,
I'll see if I can get them."
   "... let him take the risk ..."
   The squad leader nods, and Brede eases his mount into the narrow
trail. Kadara looks down at the youngster standing on the hard clay, then
rummages in her saddlebags and takes out a short length of cloth. She
dismounts again, and lifts away the ragged trousers, binding the long
slash in his leg.
   "... first human thing I seen from the she-cat..."
   "He's just a bandit, Kadara. They'll just hang him."
   "Don't hang him ... he's just a boy," pleads the bald man.
   "He helped you rob a peddler and try to take that Certan trader.
That's enough to hang for." The squad leader's voice is tired, cold.
   Kadara straightens and swings back into the saddle.
   At the sound of hoofs, the troopers look toward the trail. Brede leads
back two bony horses, both bearing packs. "Looks like some of the
peddler's copper work."
   "Good. Set them on their mounts. If you can call them that."
   Brede dismounts, hands his reins to Kadara, heaves the older
highwayman onto one horse, almost effortlessly, and then sets the youth
on the second.
   ". . . demon-damned ox he is . .."
   The wind, picking up as the sun touches the horizon, moans softly.
   "Let's head back. We can leave them for the magistrate in Biryna.
He'll hang them nice and proper." The squad leader turns the black
gelding around. "Kadara, Brede, you can have the rear."
   The two drop back behind the squad.
   "As for you two, try to stay in your saddles. Rather have you hang
than be a target for Shenz here. Not much difference in the end, I
suppose."
   "You damned Spidlarians! Bleed us friggin' dry." The bald man with the
ginger hair twists in the saddle of his gaunt horse. Both the animal and
the would-be highwayman show their ribs clearly. "You bastards and the
damned wizards. The wizards burned all the sheep, and you take our last
pennies for wormy grain. Can't afford shit, and-"
   "Shut up," snaps the squad leader.
   The younger captive looks back, in the general direction of Gallos.
   "You won't see that again," mumbles a trooper with one arm in a sling.
   Brede and Kadara exchange glances and slow their mounts until a wider
gap opens between them and the eleven horses of the main body.
   "They're starving." Brede's voice is low.
   "That's what Fairhaven wants. We'll see more as the winter wears on."
   "The more we hang...."
   "If we don't, no one on the roads will be safe."
   Brede shakes his head, and the horses carry them westward toward
Biryna, toward their tents-and the magistrate.
 
 
XLIX
 
WHITE LIGHT FLARES from the tall slender man as he strides across the
central square toward the tower.
   "He's come to claim the amulet, Sterol." A red-headed woman in the
white of chaos looks at the High Wizard. "So I will leave this to you."
   "You don't want him to know you were here, I take it?"
   "If he bothered to check, I couldn't keep it from him, but he's not
concerned. He knows he's the most powerful White." Anya's tone is ironic.
"And, after all, I am only a mere woman."
   "A mere woman? Now, Anya ... I doubt many here would call you-"
   "Unlike Jeslek, who believes himself clever and powerful."
   "He is very clever, and exceedingly powerful."
   "You're going to give him the amulet?" Anya steps toward the door.
   "How could I keep it from him?" Sterol sighs. "I promised it to him,
and he shall have it. Whether he can keep it is another question."
   Anya nods, turns, and departs.
   Sterol glances at the mirror on the table, thoughts not totally
focused, but wondering about the next challenge posed by the forces of
order. He finds a vague picture emerging from the white mists-a young
redhead hammering iron. Then the image dissolves, almost simultaneously
with the sound of a rap on the door of the tower room. The High Wizard
purses his lips-a young man forging iron? A second rap on the door
reminds him of his situation, and he turns to greet his successor.
   "The mountain wall now runs complete from south of Pass-era all the
way to the Westhorns, and the great road is protected on all sides."
Jeslek steps into the room and bows, but the inclination is minimal.
   "I understand that a section near the central ridge of Analeria was
somewhat disturbed," Sterol murmurs mildly.
   "I recall that the only stipulation was that I stand upon the road and
complete the work. If the mountains were to remain stable, some minor
redirections were necessary." Jeslek smiles.
   "Was It necessary to incinerate all those Analerian herders?"
   "I warned them. Most of them left, and those that didn't- well,
accidents do happen, Sterol."
   "You realize that the price of mutton will rise considerably, just as
you're placing another surtax on Recluce goods?"
   "I doubt there were that many sheep involved."
   "Not that many, but what will the rest eat? You did turn several
thousand square kays of high grassland into rather warm rock that won't
support much vegetation for several years, to say the least."
   "We'll pay for the extra through the surtax."
   "As you wish." Sterol removes the amulet and offers it to Jeslek, who
bends his head to allow Sterol to put the golden chain around his neck.
"If you don't mind," Sterol continues, "I will be removing my works to
the lower room. Derka will retire to Hydolar. He came from there, you may
recall."
   "How convenient."
   "Yes. It was." Sterol smiles blandly.
 
 
L
 
AFTER DORRIN FINISHES currying Meriwhen, he saddles the mare, patting her
neck. "Hard to believe you and I have been around Diev this long."
   When he leads Meriwhen out of the barn, Petra waves from the porch.
"Will you be late for supper?"
   A hail of red-golden leaves flies from the oaks behind Dorrin like a
momentary veil flung by the fall winds between them. "I hope not."
   While he needs to meet Quiller, the toymaker, he scarcely looks
forward to the encounter. He touches the staff, then nudges Meriwhen with
his heels. With a soft whinny, the mare sidesteps, then carries Dorrin
toward the road. They turn right, toward the Northern Ocean, which lies
beyond the single line of rolling hills, and down the hard-packed clay.
   The small cottage with the one-room shed off the sagging porch stands
less than a hundred rods down a muddy side road from the kaystone where
the stone paving begins on the north military road as it makes its last
wide arc to head west into upper Diev.
   Dorrin guides Meriwhen onto the brown-grassed shoulder of the side
road to avoid the water and cold mud. The sign outside the shed displays
a spinning top in flaking red and black paint.
   Dorrin wipes his boots on the fraying rush mat before stepping into
the shed. The man on the stool looks up, dull brown eyes focusing on
Dorrin from under a mop of brown and gray hair. "Don't have much today."
His face screws up before he continues. "Who are you? I don't know you,
do I?"
   "I don't think so. My name is Dorrin. I'm a smith apprentice to Yard."
   "You're the nasty one with the fancy toys! I heard about you!" Quiller
slams his knife on the workbench top, then grasps the bench to keep
himself, and the stool, from toppling.
   "No. I'm not a toymaker." How has Quiller heard about the models?
Dorrin has only sold two.
   "Why do you make those wonderful toys?" Quiller wipes his forehead,
squinting. The single half-shuttered window admits little enough light,
and the oil lamp on the wall is dark. "Willum just laughed at my wagon,
and he showed me yours. Why did you do it?" The man's voice almost breaks.
   "To solve problems, mostly," admits Dorrin. "I came to talk to you
about toy-making ..."
   "I knew it! You want to steal my secrets! You want my customers!"
   Dorrin takes a deep breath. "No. That's why I came."
   ' To take my customers? You admit it?"
   "No!" protests the healer. "I don't want your customers."
   "But they're good customers. Why wouldn't you want them?" Quiller
reaches down and massages his ankle. Quiller's right foot is twisted,
splayed somehow, larger than the left, and encased in a type of soft
leather moccasin. A heavy-handled cane stands in the corner behind the
toymaker.
   "Because," Dorrin explains patiently, "I am not a toy-maker."
   "Then why do you make toys?" Quiller straightens, exhaling loudly.
   "I make models of things I want to build. But I came to explain that
I'm not a toymaker, and I don't want to sell anything like what you make."
   Quiller rests his game leg on the rung of the stool. "Why should I
care, exactly, young master Dorrin? This here's a pretty free city, and
who would I be to tell you that you couldn't be a toymaker?"
   "I'm not a toymaker. I do make toys, but that's just to learn how
things work. But it costs me time, and I have to buy the materials."
Dorrin pauses. "I know you have a family to support."
   "Not a family-just a widowed sister and her boy."
   "That's family." Dorrin shrugs. "I don't know how things work here."
He pauses with the distractions of the older man's eyebrows and the pain
from the twisted ankle. Once again, Dorrin has started trying to smooth
the way for his machine-building, and he has to worry about healing
again. He wipes his forehead. Quiller twitches again.
   "Your foot? Has it always been like that?"
   "Don't know about always. Got crushed under a wagon when I was working
for Honsard, younger 'n you. Started carving, 'cause I couldn't do much
else."
   "Would you mind if I looked at it?"
   "Looked at it? Thought we were talking toys. You're still a toymaker."
   "Please ..." Dorrin is almost pleading, so clear is the man's pain.
   "Rylla couldn't help, you know." Quiller's left hand squeezes his work
table. "Pain still comes and goes." His face clears for a moment,
although his forehead is damp. "You Yard's apprentice?"
   "Yes."
   "The one who's a healer? Why are you here? You're a smith."
   "Could I look at your foot, first?"
   "Don't see as why not. One quack's like to another."
   Dorrin touches the ankle, frowning at the near-permanent
reddish-white. As he senses the foot, he touches and somehow changes a
few small patterns.  ,
   "What did you do?" asks the toymaker, squinting.
   Dorrin shakes his head. "The bone's healed all wrong. I can't fix
that, but most of the time, from now on, it won't hurt so much." He
slumps against the table, taking a deep wracking breath, then another.
   "Can't pay you," snaps Quiller.
   "I didn't ask you to," Dorrin snaps back. "I didn't fix the bone, and
I can't. I'm not a master healer."
   Quiller rubs his forehead. "Hard to remember what it's like without
the ache. But I get along."
   Dorrin rubs his forehead and then the back of his neck.
   "Suppose your making a few toys makes no mind ..." muses Quiller.
   "Not the kind you make," ventures Dorrin.
   "There be one thing, healer."
   Dorrin shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks at the
miniature wagon in front of Quiller.
   "You might be thinking about joining the guild."
   "The guild? Is there a healers' guild?"
   "Don't know of such a thing for healers. I mean the guild. That's what
they call it. The people who make the odd things- like my toys, or
Thresak's coats, or Vildek the cooper. Don't know as it helps much, but
it's only a few coppers a year, and the Spidlarian Council does
investigate their grievances."
   "Do you belong?"
   "Sometimes, when I can pay the coppers. Now, times are hard, and the
winter was cold. Have to pay for wood with this foot."
   "I appreciate the information."
   "Talk to Hasten, if you can get in a word." Quiller looks down at the
block of wood that will be an ox or a horse to go with the cart. "You
might as well be on your way, young master. Not much as I have to offer
you."
   "Good day," Dorrin says quietly, inclining his head.
   "A better day than in a time. Aye, a better day." Quiller picks up the
knife, and Dorrin steps out into the breezy twilight.
   Meriwhen whinnies as he swings into the saddle.
 
 
LI
 
USING THE TONGS, Dorrin slips the first iron band into place one-third of
the way down the staff, using his order skills to bleed the heat away
from the lorkin. The clamps slide into place, and the iron fasteners.
Sweat oozes from his forehead as he repeats the operation with the second
band, and as he struggles with iron, and heat, and order.
   After releasing the clamps, he eases the staff into the slack tank,
bathing wood and iron in liquid and in order. With the two middle bands
in place, he takes a deep draft from the mug of cold water. Then he takes
the first end cap in the tongs and sets it in the forge. Once it is
nearly straw-yellow, he slips it over the end of the staff and repeats
the quenching.
   He drinks the last of the water before setting the other end cap. When
all the black iron is on the staff, he lays it at the edge of the hearth
and wipes his forehead with the back of his bare forearm. The
almost-completed staff radiates blackness and order. He must wait for the
staff to cool before filing the black iron, and ruining a file in the
process, then smoothing the wood. At least, he can make his own files, if
laboriously.
   In the dimness beyond the forge, he senses someone, and he turns.
   Petra steps into the dim circle of light. She still wears trousers and
a heavy jacket. "What are you doing?"
   He gestures at the staff. "Making a better staff."
   She looks at the staff on the forge bricks, then shivers. "It's cold,
like the stars on a winter night."
   Dorrin racks his tongs and the hammer. The forge is still too hot to
clean out the old ash, and that means he will have to be up early.
   "In a way, so are you, you know. People think you're pleasant enough,
but your outside is as cold as winter compared to the forge fire deep
inside. I hope your little trader is tough enough to handle it."
   "Little? Her shoulders are broader than mine, and she's taller." Petra
studies the staff, not touching it, nor looking at Dorrin. "You're still
learning. Mother told me that, and I didn't believe it. Not then." The
jacket swings half-open, revealing a thin shift.
   Dorrin can see erect nipples under the thin material. "Why did you
come down?"
   "Father told me to watch you work. I used to help him sometimes-before
you came. I had trouble sensing what he needed. He kept telling me to try
to feel the iron. I didn't know what he meant. Now I do."
   "But why..."
   "I couldn't sleep. Someone was forging the world-that's what it felt
like. Every blow of your hammer echoed through me." She tosses the frizzy
hair off her forehead with a quick flip of her head.
   Dorrin follows her eyes and looks at the staff, sees the blackness
beneath the dark wood and black iron.
   "Good night, Dorrin." Petra clinches the jacket around her and turns,
walking back into the darkness on her way to the house and to sleep.
   Dorrin begins to sweep up. Forging the world? Absurd.
 
 
LII
 
"HOW ARE WE to deal with Spidlar?"
   "Repeal the surtax," suggests an anonymous voice from the mid-benches
of the Council chamber.
   Jeslek swivels toward the voice. "Who suggested that?"
   There is no answer.
   "If you don't want the Spidlarians or the Blacks making golds, then
you'll be making the Hamorians and the Nordlans rich," suggests the heavy
bald man in the first row. "Or the Suthyans and the Sarronnese. Trade is
like water. It has to go somewhere."
   "Why can't it flow here?" demands Jeslek.
   "That is easier said than done."
   "Why not increase the tax on Recluce goods?" asks another White Wizard.
   "Think again, Myral. The surtax is a hundred percent already."
   "So? Those are spices, wines, luxury goods. Besides, who can wear
their wool anyway? People will pay still more, and the Treasury will
benefit, but not the Hamorians and Nordlans."
   "Couldn't we use the tax to build a larger fleet?"
   "We could build the ships, but why do we need any more?" asks Cerryl.
   "To cut off outside trade to Recluce, of course," snorts Jeslek,
young-looking despite the white hair and golden eyes.
   "That would have worked three centuries ago, but after Creslin we had
neither ships nor money. It won't work now. All Recluce is doing now is
buying our grain from the Nordlans. The Nordlans pick it up in Hydolar
and ship it to Recluce. Then the Blacks sell their stuff to the Nordlans
in return. It costs them more, but we lose all that trade."
   "That's Jeslek's point," offers Anya in the silence that follows.
"Unless we cut off trade to Recluce, we lose."
   "That's fine in theory," snorts the bald wizard. "But I have yet to
see something that will work. Nor did any of our predecessors. Do you
honestly think, Jeslek, that previous councils have approved of the
growing power of Recluce? Did they lose scores of ships and thousands of
troops on purpose?"
   "Of course not." Jeslek frowns, then smiles. "But, remember, the
Blacks cannot use the winds now-even if they had a Creslin. What if we
put more wizards on our ships?"
   "How many would that take?"
   "Not that many. That way, we could blockade Recluce. The Nordlans
won't make enough off the island to want to lose ships." Jeslek's face
bears a smug look, the look of a man who has discovered a solution.
   Another wizard shrugs. "That may be. Bring the council a plan."
   Jeslek still smiles as the others turn their attention to the next
item of discussion. So does Anya.
 
 
LIII
 
"WELL . . . ASK HIM . . ."
   Dorrin senses the whisper, rather than hears it, even as his hammer
continues to weld the upset ends of the broken wagon brace. He thrusts
the brace back into the fire, noting the coolness of the iron almost as
automatically as he checks the grain and the crystal sizes. As the metal
reheats, he looks up to see Petra outlined in the smithy door.
   "Gerrol's dying . . ." protests another feminine voice, a deeper
hoarser one.
   "Dorrin's a smith," Yarrl says.
   "He's also a healer."
   "Who will pay for his time?"
   Dorrin's head throbs. Money or not, he cannot refuse what he knows
will be asked. He pulls the brace from the forge and turns it on the
anvil. Another series of sequenced hammer blows and the brace goes on the
forge bricks to cool slowly. Then he sets the hammer in its place on his
rack, followed by the cross peen hammer and the punch.
   "I will, if it comes to that."
   "Oh ... daughter. You ask him."
   Petra walks to the forge, followed by a young woman with straight
brown hair and bloodshot eyes. Both wear loose gray trousers and gray
jackets.
   "Dorrin?" Petra's frizzy hair flares away from the heat of the forge,
and she blinks from the heat and the tiny particles in the air.
   "Yes, mistress Petra?"
   "Will you help us?"
   "I can but try." He continues to rack his tools, in contrast to the
ordered disorder of Yarrl's hammers and punches and swages.
   "You didn't ask who or what." Petra coughs. "Sheena's little brother
Gerrol is fevered and dying."
   "It doesn't really matter. I am, like it or not, still a healer."
   "Oh . . ." Petra's sharp face softens. "How awful. I didn't know."
   "Do I have enough time to wash off quickly?"
   Petra looks at his smudged and sweating figure. "It might be best.
Honsard would not believe a sweating smith to be a healer."
   "Fine. I'll bring my staff." Dorrin grins briefly, as he grabs a pail
from the hook on the wall and heads for the well.
   "Do bring that staff," Petra says quietly.
   A chill northern breeze reminds him that it is near winter, despite
the clear skies and a bright midafternoon sun. Dorrin quickly lifts a
full bucket of water. As he straightens, his trousers are jerked.
   "Oh, it's you, little demon." He scratches Zilda between the ears and
ruffles the kid's neck. With a last scratch for the little goat, he
carries the bucket to his quarters, where he pours some into the wash
basin. Then he strips to his drawers and washes as quickly as he can,
using the water in the basin for his face. After drying off with a gray
towel, he pulls on one of his two brown traveling outfits and takes the
staff from the corner.
   Petra has already saddled Meriwhen by the time he reaches the barn. He
checks the cinches and mounts, following the two women, Petra on the bay,
and Sheena on a gray, as they start down the north road toward Diev.
   Honsard's wagonry is less than three kays downhill from the smithy.
Two barns flank a two-storied yellow house with a wide covered porch. A
matched team of Rumoag draft horses pulls an empty flatbed wagon from the
hauling yard. Their hoofs clop easily on the stones of the main road.
   Petra reins up at the rail before the house. Dorrin dismounts, leaving
his staff in the lanceholder, and follows them onto the porch.
   "This your famed healer, daughter?" Honsard is square-built, with a
paunch below heavy shoulders and chest. His small green eyes are set
deeply under thin eyebrows. His faded blue tunic and trousers are
mud-spattered.
   Sheena nods.
   " You're paying for him."
   "No, I'm paying for him," announces Petra.
   "Could I see the child, ser?" asks Dorrin.
   "Help yourself, esteemed healer. Or my daughter will show you the way."
   Dorrin studies the haul-master, sensing flickerings of chaos within
him. Then he leaves Honsard standing on the top of the stairs to the
covered porch.
   The boy is dying. The thin frame shivers from a chill, despite the
heat radiating from the parched forehead, despite the quilts heaped over
him, and the closed and shuttered window.
   Dorrin's fingers brush the child's forehead, and he concen-
   I trates. The fever alone will kill the child before too long. He
straightens.
   "He hasn't been cut or wounded, has he?"
   "No. He fell sick two days ago, and he just kept getting hotter, and
he wouldn't wake up this morning."
   "Is there a tub, one you can fill with water?"
   "A bath! You must be mad! Baths are the demon's invention, or the
legacy of the cursed Legend," rasps Honsard from the hallway.
   Dorrin's eyes harden into black steel and focus on the heavyset man.
"Do you want him to die?"
   The man's eyes say yes as he shakes his head.
   "The fever alone will kill him before long."
   "You're a healer."
   "I know my limits, ser. Without a cool bath to drop that fever, I
cannot help enough to heal. Even with a bath, it will be hard. Wait
longer, and no healer, not even the greatest, could save him."
    "Please ... father ..."
   "On your head, daughter! Have the man do as you will! You have
already. You brought this to pass." Honsard turns. ' There is a tub in
the kitchen."
   Dorrin looks at Petra. "Can you boil some water? Water from the well
will be too cold, I think." As the two scurry for water, Dorrin again
touches the fevered brow, letting his weak order senses touch what he
can. He does not know what the disease is, only that flickers of an ugly
whitish-red permeate the child.
   In time, a tub of lukewarm water stands in the kitchen. Dorrin lifts
the boy from his quilts and, with Sheena's and Petra's aid, strips off
his soaked underclothes.
   "He'll need a dry bedgown and bedclothes, and a towel in a bit."
Dorrin lowers Gerrol, moaning and thrashing, into the tub.
   "Now what?" asks Petra. "Will this stop his burning?"
   Dorrin shakes his head. "Some fever is not too bad." Not from what he
recalls of his mother's teaching. "But too much can kill. The water helps
also if he cannot drink. At least his skin can."
   He tries again to strengthen the black flames of order within the boy.
Has he succeeded? He cannot really tell, except that Gerrol seems to
breathe easier. He watches-how long he cannot tell-until the boy's skin
begins to raise chill bumps.
   "Can you get his bed ready?" he asks Sheena.
   She nods, her eyes bloodshot, but not tearing.
   Dorrin turns to Petra. "He's going to need several baths like this. If
he stays in the water too long, it will also raise the fever."
   "Bah ..." mumbles Honsard from the doorway. "He'll live or die, not
mattering what some quack does."
   "Are you telling me to let him die?" snaps Dorrin.
   "That's not what I meant."
   "Good," says Petra coolly.
   Dorrin lifts the light figure from the water and into the towel held
by Petra. She staggers under the boy's weight, and Dorrin slips an arm
under Gerrol's shoulders to help.
   "You're stronger than you look," Petra says wryly.
   "Your father works me hard."
   "Not as hard as you work yourself."
   They wrap Gerrol in the quilts again, and Dorrin watches.
   By the time the sun touches the horizon, Dorrin has immersed Gerrol
three times, and the boy's fever has clearly dropped and stayed lower.
Gerrol lies under the clean but gray sheet. A light sheen of perspiration
coats the boy's forehead, and the worst of the reddish-white flickers of
chaos have vanished.
   "You need something to eat," Sheena says.
   Dorrin's head feels light.
   "Sit down."
   The healer slumps into the chair, and a cup of broth is placed under
his nose. He sips, and the worst of the lightheadedness departs. He eats
three large slabs of bread with cheese. His head clearer, he studies the
child again, the too-long lank brown hair and the narrow face so like his
sister's. He touches Gerrol's forehead and lends a shade more order to
the still-faint blackness within. The red-white ugliness of chaos has
retreated into faint flickers of white.
   "He needs some boiled water."
   "Boiled?" asks the narrow-faced young woman.
   "Boil the water and let it cool in a clean and covered pitcher that
has not been used for milk."
   "I'll take care of it," Petra promises, as she leaves for the kitchen.
   Dorrin takes another slab of bread, understanding for the first time
why his mother often came home white-faced and exhausted. Healing is
every bit as hard as smithing.
   "Why does he need boiled water?" asks the sister.
   "It's easier for the sick to drink and keep in their body," Dorrin
simplifies. "You want a good clean well, don't you?"
   Sheena nods.
   "Boiled water is cleaner than even good well water-if you store it in
a clean pitcher."
   "Where did you learn all this?"
   "From my mother."
   "Does she live near here?"
   "No."
   "Oh."
   Petra returns. "The kettle is filled and over the coals. Is the old
gray pitcher in the corner cupboard all right?"
   "That's fine. Just be careful, please. It was mother's."
   "I can use another."
   "Use it. She'd be pleased."
   Petra leaves Sheena and Dorrin on the stools, watching the sleeping
boy faintly bathed in the flickering light of a single candle.
   Dorrin touches Gerrol's forehead again and nods. "I think he'll be all
right. Just make sure he has plenty of the boiled water and just breads
for a while until his stomach settles. Then try some soup, and little
bits of other things." He stands.
   "Thank you." Sheena's arms go around Dorrin, and her lips-hot and
dry-touch his . . . and cling, and her hips move suggestively against
him. ". . . all I can give ..."
   Dorrin gently disengages from her.
   "Don't you .. . ?"
   "You don't owe me for doing what I had to do."
   "No one else could have saved him."
   "I almost didn't, and it will be weeks before your brother's well."
   Sheena looks at the faded carpet, her eyes focusing on a rose pattern.
   "Darkness." Why hadn't he seen? "Your son?" Dorrin whispers.
   Sheena does not look up, but Dorrin can see the tears.
   "It is your secret." His voice is low, and his own eyes burn. "But,
then, you have more than paid." His hand touches her shoulder, and he
wills her what comfort he can.
   Finally, she looks up, muddy tracks streaking her cheeks. "Are they
all like you-the Black ones?"
   "They are good, mostly, but not like me."
   "They sent you away?"
   Dorrin nods.
   "Why couldn't they see?"
   "They and I have different dreams. For them, as for most people, what
is different is evil." He stands, then walks toward the door.   ' *
   Honsard stands halfway down the stairs.
   "He should recover," Dorrin says quietly.
   "What do I owe you?" the wagon-master asks peevishly.
   "Nothing." Dorrin pauses. "Unless you want to give Yarrl some more
paying smithy work." He steps out into the morning chill.
   Sheena stands on the porch. "I gave your mare some grain and water."
   "Thank you."
   Sheena is still standing on the porch when he turns onto the road back
to the smithy.
 
 
LIV
 
"THEY'VE ADOPTED ANOTHER surtax." The tall Black wizard opens the meeting
with his announcement.
   "That's not as big a problem as the Whites deciding that they want the
Fairhaven ships to sink all blockade runners." The slender dark-haired
woman's voice is level. "The Nordlans will not unload grain at Land's End
once Fairhaven threatens their ships-unless we'll take steps to remove
the White ships."
   "Why don't we?"
   "Because the only real weapon we have is the winds, and even I can't
bring more than one or two big storms-not without changing Recluce back
into a desert ... or a swamp." The air wizard lifts his hands. "Or
handing Jeslek even greater power than it took to raise mountains. We
already have given him too much."
   "What are we supposed to do-starve? Or forsake order just to keep a
White Wizard from getting power?"
   "I've given up more than you-far more! And we won't starve. We have
our orchards, and the Feyn River fields produce some wheat and more than
enough barley ..."
   "Darkness, Oran! We haven't had to eat barley for generations. Drink
it, yes. Why can't we grow more wheat, like the farmers have below
Extina?"
   "The ground isn't ready-not without a lot of healer work, and that
just strengthens Fairhaven's side of the Balance." Oran wipes his
forehead.
   "You've got so many demon-driven reasons why we can't do anything ..."
   "You were the one who opposed our building warships."
   "And what would we fight with? We can't use the winds-at least we
haven't had an air wizard who would dare in generations. We can't use
gunpowder or cammabark because the Whites would blow us apart with our
own powder. We've been coasting on Creslin's reputation, and they've
called our bluff. They'll burn any ships we have before we can get close
enough to board. Sure, black iron shields work fine on the ground, but
how do you get close enough at sea?"
   Oran shrugs. "We can work with some of the healers on switching the
oldest Feyn Fields."
   "What about timber? We're still-"
   "I know . .."
   "What will we do with the excess wool.. . ?"
   "... and what about the chaos-tinged ones we send to Candar and Nordla
or Hamor?" asks the white-haired blade.
   "We don't have to reach solutions right now," temporizes the air
wizard.
   "No," answers a quiet voice from the left corner. "But how will things
be any better next year or the year after?"
   Oran wipes his forehead again.
 
 
LV
 
DORRIN CHEWS THROUGH the last chunk of cheese he has cut and swallows it
quickly, hungry as he is, for he has slept later than he should have.
Healing Gerrol had been harder work than he thought it would be, far
harder, and he had gone right back to the smithy. His shoulders still
ache, and a dull throbbing ebbs and flows behind his eyes.
   "Don't try to swallow it whole, Dorrin. Papa knows how tired you are."
Petra refills the mug with warm cider. "Gerrol was so much better last
night."
   "Hee-yaaaa . .. hee-yaaa ..."
   All three look through the single kitchen window into the yard where a
small wagon has drawn up, heavily laden enough that the tires leave
narrow ruts in the yard clay.
   "That's Honsard's man Wenn. Why's he here?"
   Dorrin swallows the cider and bolts for the porch. The scent of the
forge, dried leaves, and moldering post-harvest fields swirl past him on
the light breeze. Zilda butts his leg as he hurries past the half-grown
goat. He reaches the carter before the man enters the smithy. "Ser . . .
might I help you? I'm Yarrl's striker."
   "I got a pretty load of work for your boss, fellow. Honsard's stuff."
   "I'll tell him."
   The man looks at the broken parts and sections heaped in the wagon
box, then at Dorrin.
   "Just wait a moment, and I'll help you unload."
   The carter nods. "That'd be fine."
   When Dorrin walks into the smithy, Yarrl jabs the hot set he holds
toward Dorrin's leather apron. "Need to get working, healing or no
healing."
   "Honsard's man is outside. He has a pile of work for you, and he wants
to talk to you."
   "Honsard? Cheap bastard said I charged too much. Said it'd be a white
day in heaven 'fore he'd come here. Course, he was tanked." Yarrl lays
the iron on the forge, shaking his head. "Let's see."
   Dorrin follows the smith to the yard.
   "This is what you and Honsard talked about last eight-day. He said
he'd hold you to your price." The carter looks down at the pile of dried
leaves by the porch steps, scuffing a foot in the clay.
   Yarrl glances from the heaped wagon to the carter and then to Dorrin.
A flutter of gray catches his eye, and he looks up on the porch, where
Petra stands. She nods at her father and points to Dorrin.
   "Can't do all this at once," the smith says.
   "Honsard knows that. When you get some done, let him or me know. We'll
get it. He'll pay as each bit's done."
   "I don't say as I understand, but that's what will be done."
   "I'll help unload," Dorrin volunteers.
   "Demons," mutters the smith. "Seeing as I won't get back to work until
it's done, might as well have everyone unload. You, too, Petra."
   The carter legs his breath out as Yarrl slides the big smithy door
open more than the normal two cubits.
   The fall breeze flings leaves around the trousers of the four, but
Zilda has only managed to clank her chain half a dozen times before the
wagon is empty and the carter is on his way.
   "Honsard ... be demon-damned." The smith looks at Dorrin. "Your doing?"
   "Well..."
   "Dorrin?" Petra is smiling mischievously.
   Dorrin thinks about evading the question, but the pounding behind his
eyes returns. "I suppose so. Honsard asked me how much I owed him.
Nothing, I told him. But I felt a little nasty. So I added that he could
send you some honest smith work.
   Yarrl shakes his head. "Must have scared the darkness right out of
him. He's a hard man."
   "Baaaa..." interjects Zilda.
   "Not as hard as Dorrin," Petra adds.
   "I'm not hard at all," protests Dorrin.
   Both Petra and her father raise their eyebrows.
   "Really."
   The smith puts his shoulder to the door, returning it to the mostly
closed position. "We got work to do, healing or no healing. Even more
now, with all this stuff." He gestures to the additional items stacked up
in order. "You get business, and you have to deliver."
 
 
LVI
 
OUTSIDE THE RED Lion, a low wind whines, promising snow and chill.
Inside, Dorrin sips from the battered mug, glancing toward the singer
seated on the high stool beside the fire.
 
   I watched my love sail out to sea,
   His hand was deft; he waved to me.
   But then the waters foamed white and free
   Just as my love turned false to me.
 
   Oh, love is wild, and love is bold,
   The fairest flower when e'er it is new,
   But love grows old, and waxes cold
   And fades away like morning dew...
 
   "Sings well." Pergun nods his head toward the thin woman in the faded
blue blouse and skirt. "Wonder if she's good in bed."
   "Why?"
   "Most tavern singers do both. She doesn't look the type."
   Dorrin sips redberry from the mug. The singer's long reddish hair
slips forward over her left shoulder, and she has an open and slightly
freckled face that is somehow pinched, even as her fingers glide across
the strings of the guitar. "Are we all types? Pieces on the game board of
chaos and order?"
   "Master Dorrin . . . begging your pardon . . . but what does have to
do with whether she'd sleep with me?"
   "She won't. Probably not with anyone. Not any more, at least."
   "Oh. Was worth a thought." Pergun lifts his mug, then sets it down.
"How'd you know? More healer wizardry?" Dorrin nods, listening to the
next song from the small woman, marveling at the depth of her voice and
the honest silver of her notes.
   Cuera la dierre, Ne querra dune lamonte, Pressente da lierra Queira
fosse lafronte . . .
   "What's that?"
   "Bristan, I think. I'd recognize any of the Temple tongues." Dorrin
sips his redberry slowly. He has no desire to spend more coins, not when
he has so many things he must purchase.
   "Sure she won't sleep with me?" Pergun gulps the last of his dark beer
and raises the mug.
   "You sure you want another one?" asks the serving girl.
   "Course I want another one." Pergun lays two coppers on the wood.
   "It's your head."
   "Whose head would it be?" argues the mill hand, but the serving woman
has left. "She talking to me?"
   "She likes you."
   "Some liking. Won't even take my coins!"
   "Pergun." The one word silences the mill hand. "Listen to the singer."
   . . . the soldiers, they searched for many a year. They ripped down
the mountains and tore up the trees. But never they found what they never
could hear. That dashing young man with the wind-bearing skis.
   "What's that?"
   "It's about Creslin."
   "Who's he?"
   Clunk! Another mug hits the table, and foam spills onto the wood.
Pergun rubs his finger in the liquid and licks it. "Mustn't waste any."
   "Your coins, fellow?"
   Pergun hands her the coppers. She looks at Dorrin, and Dorrin
understands that this beer is Pergun's last.
   I "After this one, we need to be going."
   "Going? What... I got to go for ... nothing . .. cold pallet ...
cold-hearted women ..."
   Dorrin sips the last of his redberry, then pulls his jacket off the
back of the chair. "Let's go."
   "... haven't finished ..."
   "Let's go."
   "Aw . .. right... no fun .. ."
   Dorrin retrieves the black staff from the floor along the wall and
stands. The serving girl looks at him, and the staff, and steps back.
Pergun fumbles into the battered sheepskin jacket and pushes himself
upright. Dorrin steadies the table with his free right hand, then guides
Pergun to the door.
   "Wonderful . . . wonderful beer ..." mumbles Pergun. He extends a hand
to steady himself, but the hand fails to touch the edge of the door, and
he staggers into Dorrin.
   "Come ... on ..." Dorrin roughly redirects Pergun. "Where's your
horse?"
   "Got no horse ... me ... horse ... ha... shank's mare ..."
   One of the two torches outside Kyril's has guttered out, and the winds
and the snow whip down the street. Dorrin looks toward the dark stable,
gripping the staff more tightly, then forcing his fingers to relax. His
boots squish through the mixture of slush and mud that covers the paving
stones.
   "... got no horse ... got no mare ... got no pearls ... got no girls
..." Pergun sings, so far off-key that the notes are leaden in the night.
   Dorrin supposes that Meriwhen can bear double for a short distance.
   "... got no mare ..."
   As they near the stable, Dorrin can sense the man in the darkness,
even before the blade appears, even before his eyes adjust to the
darkness, and his hands automatically reposition the staff. Meriwhen
whuffles, skittering back away from the armed man, who holds the reins in
one hand and the sword in the other.
   "You just better be going on your way, fellows. Off to a nice bed or
back to your master."
   "... got no horse ... got no mare ..." Pergun half mumbles, half
sings, putting out a hand to a timber. "... who are you ;.. who . . . you
. .. you . .. who .. . ?" He laughs.
   Dorrin takes a step forward. His guts are cold, but he knows that he
will not abandon Meriwhen to the stranger.
   The mare whinnies, and the highwayman wraps the reins around a peg on
which a wooden bucket hangs by its ropes.
   "... got no horse ..."
   "It's a pity, young fellow . . ." The blade weaves toward Dorrin.
   Dorrin's hands and arms react, flicking the heavy blade aside, then
reversing the staff and thrusting straight up through the diaphragm.
   "Ughhhh ..." The blade clunks against the bucket and drops into the
straw. The highwayman takes a half step, then sags slowly onto the dirty
straw, eyes going blank.
   Dorrin barely staggers to the stable door, his feet scrabbling through
the pile of straw and manure to the left of the entry. White burning
flares blaze through his skull.
   "... shit... no fun, Dorrin ..." mumbles Pergun.
   Dorrin's fingers claw against the wood, and he squints, trying to shut
out the light and the pain. Finally, he straightens up, still fighting
the headache that feels as though Yarrl were fullering his brain with
long heavy strokes. After looking at the black staff, he walks slowly
back to Kyril's, leaving a second set of tracks in the light snow that
falls like a curtain.
   He closes the inn door, and the half-empty room falls silent.
   "What's the matter, healer?" asks the heavy-set proprietor, running a
grayish rag across the counter.
   "One dead thief... in the stable."
   Kyril grabs the single-bladed axe from beneath the counter. "Just one?"
   "He's dead."
   "I hope so, but let's see. Forra!"
   A younger man, nearly as heavy as Kyril, but with broader shoulders
and less gut, sticks his head out from the back room.
   "Trouble in the stable."
   Torch in one hand, and a cudgel in the other, Forra leads the way to
the stable, where the three find two prone figures, one face up, the
other face down.
   Pergun looks up sleepily. "What took so long . . . ? Wanna go home..."
Forra prods the bearded highwayman with his cudgel, then rolls the body
over. The surprised expression remains frozen on the man's face.
   "Light! His chest's caved in." Forra looks at Dorrin.
   "His blade's there." Dorrin gestures with the staff.
   In the light of the torch, Kyril studies the dead man's face. "You do
this, young fellow?"
   "I didn't mean to, but he wanted to kill us and take Meriwhen ..."
   "Meriwhen?"
   "My horse, there."
   "You're that young healer who's also an apprentice to Yarrl?"
   Dorrin nods.
   "Where did you learn to do this?" Kyril gestures at the dead man.
   "When ... I was in school. . . they taught me the staff . . . can't
use an edged weapon." Dorrin's legs are shaking, and he sags against a
stall wall.
   "You got some coins coming, young fellow. This here's Niso. Council
has a reward. Not much-ten golds. He killed a trader on the piers last
fall." Kyril turns to Forra. "See why no one messes with a smith, even a
skinny one? Flesh and bone won't stand up to someone who beats iron."
   Forra, for all his bulk, looks from the dead Niso to Dorrin and back,
then wipes his forehead on his sleeve. "Lot more of this, these days."
   Kyril shakes his head, sadly, once more. "Hard times... The White
Wizards making it hard on everyone, and they're all coming here, thinking
they can steal from us."
   Dorrin shivers as a gust of wind blows snow in his face.
   "Dorrin . . . promised ... get me home ..." complains Pergun. The mill
worker has managed to prop himself into a sitting position against a
barrel.
   Kyril shakes his head again. "You take your friend home. I'll let the
Council know."
   "Dorrin gets a reward . . . Dorrin gets ... a reward . . ." Pergun
singsongs.
   "He'll get a reward, my drunken mill man. Believe me, he will. You
think anyone wants to cross him and Yarrl?" Dorrin represses a sigh and
helps Pergun to his feet, and onto Meriwhen, where the dark-haired man
sways. Dorrin puts the staff into the lanceholder.
   "... help . . ."
   "Just hang on." Dorrin unties the mare and leads her into the snow
squalls before swinging up behind Pergun. He can feel both Kyril's and
Forra's eyes on his back as Meriwhen bears him out onto the snow-covered
road that leads toward Hem-mil's mill.
 
 
LVII
 
DORRIN HOLDS THE sledge, waiting for Yarrl to bring the iron from the
forge to the anvil. As the iron goes down on the fuller, Dorrin begins
the routine-strike and recover while Yarrl slips the iron across the
bottom fuller, strike and recover, strike and recover-until the bar stock
cools and the smith reheats it. Then the fullering continues until the
iron is rough-flattened to the thickness of the heavy bam hinge. Next
comes the flatter, and the quick blows to smooth the fullered iron.
   Even though the smithy is warm, outside the snow continues to fall.
With each stroke of the sledge, Dorrin puzzles over the highwayman as he
automatically responds to the smith's directions.
   Petra appears at the edge of the smithy. This time she does not wait
for a break in the routine, but steps past the slack tank, ducking under
the bellows cross-lever, until Yarrl sees her and sets the iron on the
forge.
   "Better be important, girl."
   "There are two traders here. They say they're members of the Council.
They want to see you and Dorrin."
   "Invite them in, Petra, unless they want to meet in the kitchen."
   Petra hastens back toward the doorway to the rear yard.
   "What did you do, young fellow?"
   "I ... killed a highwayman. Kyril said there was a reward, but.. ."
   "You thought it was more hot air?"
   "I didn't know."
   "Demon-damned traders. Not one thing, it's another." Yarrl eases the
unfinished iron closer to the forge fire, sets down the tongs, and places
the flatter on the bricks.
   Two men in heavy cloaks of dark blue step past the broken wagon parts
awaiting repair and into the warm area near the forge. One is
white-haired and heavy, but tall, over four cubits. The other is
dark-haired, almost rail-thin, and short, shorter even than Dorrin.
   The heavier trader inclines his head to Yarrl. "Master Yarrl, I am
Trader Fyntal and this is Trader Jasolt. We are here on behalf of the
Council. Is this your striker?"
   "Dorrin? 'Course he's my striker. Didn't you just see him with the
sledge?"
   "And his name is Dorrin?" pursues Fyntal.
   "So far as I know, he's always been Dorrin."
   The functionary turns to Dorrin. "You were at the Red Lion last
evening?"
   "Yes, ser."
   "According to the innkeeper, you were attacked by a rogue highwayman,
and dispatched him with a staff. Is this true?"
   "Pergun and I were leaving. He was stealing my mare. He threatened to
kill us. I tried to stop him, but I didn't mean to kill him."
   "You must be well regarded by the smith, to use a horse," adds the
younger trader, so smoothly that his words ooze oil.
   "He's a good striker," Yarrl asserts, preventing Dorrin from having to
correct the misapprehension about Meriwhen's ownership.
   "Well then ... so long as that is clear. Your striker has . . .
resolved ... a matter of long-standing concern to the Council. The
highwayman he ... dispatched ... was the notorious Niso. This Niso person
was responsible for the death of Trader San-due, and the trader's family
offered through the Council a reward." The trader lifts a leather pouch
from his belt and bows, extending the pouch to Yarrl.
   Yarrl takes the pouch without inclining his head, and passes the heavy
leather to Dorrin. "Appreciate the honor of seeking out young Dorrin.
He's a good striker, and a fine fellow."
   "We're sure he is. Good day, smiths." Fyntal nods, not quite wrinkling
his nose at the smithy, and turns.
   Jasolt turns also, and the two walk heavily from the smithy. Jasolt
has to swirl his cloak to free it from a bracket on the main slack tub:-
A gust of chill air blows past the smiths, then drops as the door is
closed.
   Reisa and Petra appear. Petra is giggling. "They're so stiff. The
young one almost tripped over Zilda, his nose was so stuck up."
   "Aye," Yarrl says slowly. "Stuck up they are. But honest. More than
you can say for most."
   "You killed a highwayman?" asks Reisa.
   "He tried to take Meriwhen."
   "With your staff?"
   "I got very sick," Dorrin temporizes, looking sheepish.
   Yarrl laughs. "A good striker and deadly with a staff, but he gets
sick after killing a killer."
   Reisa nods. "But he's a healer, Yarrl. Don't forget that. He's a
healer."  _.
   Yarrl looks at the floor, then at the forge. "Out, women. We got work
to do. Look at all that work there."
   Dorrin grins as he reaches up and begins to pump the bellows. Yarrl
retrieves his tongs and the iron for flattening.
 
 
LVIII
 
THE TROOPERS RIDE uphill. On each side of the road stretch meadows
half-covered with an early snow. The right side of the road is bordered
by a low stone wall. Vulcrows circle a point over the crest of the hill.
   "Shit," mutters a wiry trooper in the van, wiping his forehead with a
neckerchief of Spidlarian blue, despite the chill wind that blows off the
ice-covered peaks to the west. "More trouble ahead."
   On the right of the wiry man rides Brede. On his right rides Kadara,
who is practicing with the Westwind shortsword.
   "... all she does is play with that damned sticker ..."
   "... lucky doesn't use it on you . . ."
   "... saved your neck more 'n once, Vorban ..." When the Spidlarian
squad reaches the crest of the hill, a handful of vulcrows explodes from
the carcasses and corpses on the downslope. One wagon has been driven or
rolled into a stone wall on the right side of the road.
   ".. . bastards .. ."
   "No one here, now," announces the squad leader, as he reins up beside
the wrecked wagon. "Been half a day, at least."
   The body of a fat man, dressed in the dark blue of a Spidlarian
trader, sprawls in the brown leaves between two patches of light snow.
Dark stains have soaked through the heavy cloak, and his hands are
extended, as though he had tried to pull himself toward the low dark
stone wall.
   Kadara studies the crumpled wagon, noting a bolt of blue silk
rough-slashed. She frowns, then looks over the rest of the wagon. Another
bolt of cloth is wedged under the spring seat of the wagon.
   Brede follows her glance, then dismounts and hands her the reins to
the gelding. He kneels at the side of the road.
   "What in darkness are you doing?" demands the squad leader.
   "Checking something."
   "Frigging bandits ..." mumbles Vorban.
   "So, Brede, just what brilliance do you have to show us today?"
   Brede looks up from the print in the clay next to the road. His face
is impassive as he swings back into the saddle.
   "That bad, big fellow?" asks the wiry trooper.
   "Worse. That's a standard road shoe."
   "Huh?" The squad leader closes his mouth abruptly.
   "They weren't bandits. Probably Certan troops."
   The squad leader motions, and Brede rides up beside the man. "You want
to explain?"
   "Kadara pointed out something. They didn't take some of the
cloth-there's a bolt of silk still left in the wagon. You know how much
that's worth? Then the shoe prints. They're all alike."
   "Light and all the demons." The squad leader swallows. "They just want
it to look like bandits."
   "Exactly."
   "I think we'd better head back. Giselyn needs to know this." He wheels
the bay and gestures. "We're headed back." He pauses. "You can check out
this mess and keep what you can find."
   Only the squad leader and the two from Recluce remain mounted while
the nine others paw through the three corpses and the two wagons.
   "... purses gone ..."
   "... crappy cloth ..."
   "... nice knife!"
   Finally, the leader calls. "Mount up!"
   "Thanks, big fellow." The wiry trooper grins from his saddle, holding
up a knife and sheath. "Hot food and a soft bed. That's for me."
   Brede shakes his head. "Enjoy it while you can."
   "So it's the Certans. They're not worth a copper."
   "I'm worried about who's paying the coppers."
   The wiry man pulls on his black neckerchief. "You always have a way of
spoiling things." He spurs his mount ahead and alongside Vorban.
   Kadara draws her mare up next to Brede. "I don't like this."
   "What can we do?"
   "We can't get home. The Whites have closed off all ships to Recluce
except smugglers. Right now I'm not desperate enough to take that kind of
a chance."
   "I'd rather not, either," admits Brede.
   "These aren't traces of chaos. It's the beginning of a damned war."
   "It does look that way," Brede agrees.
   "Looks that way? Is that all you can say?"
   "What can I say?" He sighs. "I sort of wish I were a healer or a smith
like Dorrin. I wonder how he's doing."
   "Probably healing and smithing and making people think he's wonderful."
   "Maybe." Brede flicks the reins to urge the gelding to close the gap
between them and the rest of the squad. "I imagine he has his problems,
too. It's been that kind of a year."
 
 
LIX
 
YARRL TURNS THE metal on the anvil. Dorrin strikes, evenly, stroke after
stroke as the smith moves the flatter across the iron. Dorrin sets the
light sledge down as Yarrl returns the metal to the forge.
   Yarrl's tongs bring the metal back to the anvil, where he sets the
drift punch in place. Dorrin gives the drift a light tap, and Yarrl flips
the metal over, positioning the bulge in the metal over the hardie hole.
Dorrin strikes the drift; the metal plug drops. Another strike, and Yarrl
nods, returning the metal to the forge. They repeat the process with the
other end.
   Next comes the twisting on the spring fork, which Yarrl handles by
himself. Dorrin takes the liberty of gently raking the damp charcoal at
the edge of the forge toward the working coals. Reisa steps into the
smithy and waits by the bellows and the slack tanks.
   The smith reheats the spring to cherry red before plunging it into the
big slack tank. Once the iron is gray, he lifts it clear and returns it
to the forge fire, checking as the tip of the heavy spring changes from
straw to brown to light purple. Then he plunges the spring into the slack
tank and swirls it through the liquid. Only when he has cooled the metal
and lifted it from the tank does Reisa speak.
   "There's a young fellow here for Dorrin. He says his name is Vaos."
   "Know him?" Yarrl asks.
   "He's the stable boy at Kyril's. Good boy, I'd say."
   "Wants a job, I'd bet," grumbles Yarrl.
   Reisa nods to the two and steps past the line of broken wagon parts
waiting for either Yarrl's or Dorrin's attention and back into the gray
light of the cloudy winter day.
   "You could use him."
   "Why? You planning on leaving?"
   Dorrin has not planned to bring up the subject quite so soon. "Ah . .
. well ... I had thought about doing some healing, too..."
   Yarrl spits into the comer. "Can't say as I'm surprised. When you want
to leave?"
   "I don't want to leave. I still want to work here. I want to spend
some time working at healing, too."
   "Man can't serve two crafts, Dorrin."
   "I think I can. Will you let me try?"
   Yarrl spits again. "Best striker I ever had. Do more in a half day
than some do in an eight-day. Would you still work midday to nightfall?"
   "I'd thought that. I like working here."
   The smith looks down and coughs. "Well . . . let's see this boy. Going
to need someone on the bellows and grindstone."
   Vaos has strawberry blond hair, green eyes, and a dark bruise that
covers most of his left cheek. He sits on the porch stairs, petting
Zilda, who stands on the pile of frozen snow trying to nibble the ragged
edges of his ripped leather boots. "Ser Dorrin ... ser smith ..."
    "Why are you here?" Dorrin asks softly.
   "The business with Niso . . . ser . . . Forra said it was my fault,
that I fell asleep. I worked all day, even unloading the hay wagon and
cleaning all the stalls. They took my coppers, said I'd work an extra
four eight-days ..."
   "Come here," Dorrin says.
   Vaos stands up and walks toward Dorrin with tentative steps. Dorrin
reaches out and touches the boy's cheek. He can sense the throbbing pain,
not only in the jaw, but across the youngster's back. "Did you strike
back?"
   "No, ser. But I ran."
   Dorrin's hand drops away, leaving a sense of order in the child, and a
black smudge over the bruise. "He's telling the truth. They beat him."
   "Do you want a job, boy?" asks the smith. "Feed you, and you get a
corner in the smithy, and a half-copper an eight-day."
   Vaos swallows. Then he squares his shoulders. "I got a half-copper an
eight-day at the stable, but I got a few coppers from the customers."
   Dorrin tries not to grin at Vaos's spunk. Yarrl purses his lips as
well.
   "Say a half-copper an eight-day, but I'll spring for new boots and
britches, and, if you're as good as you are spunky, an extra half-copper
every other eight-day."
   "Yes, ser. What do you want me to do first?"
   Dorrin grins at Reisa, who has eased out onto the porch to listen. Her
breath smokes in the cooler air trapped under the porch roof. Reisa
reaches down and ruffles Zilda's head. Then she straightens and grins
back at Dorrin, before opening the door and slipping into the kitchen.
   "You can pedal the grindstone for me." Yarrl smiles faintly at Dorrin.
 
 
LX
 
THE BANNER SHAPED like a three-lobed leaf hangs limply in the still air
outside the neat but small cottage. Dorrin ties Meriwhen to the fence,
and the mare whickers softly, lifting her feet as if to protest the chill
of the frozen snow underneath. He lifts the black staff from the holder.
   The herb garden that flanks both sides of the gravel walkway is
organized enough. Under the thin blanket of early winter snow, he can
sense the astra and the stunted brinn roots on the right, and sage and
dill on the left. The faintest sense of order pervades the garden.
   Dorrin refrains from reaching out to the herbs. Now, that is not his
business. Meriwhen remains tied to the fence, and the road back downhill
toward Diev is as empty as when he rode up it. In the clear cold air, he
can easily see the smoke of Yarrl's forge.
   Downhill through the scattered trees to the left are an abandoned
chimney and the stone-edged doorway to what may be an old root cellar.
His eyes turn toward the river of ice that will be a stream in spring.
The narrow wedge of ice winds through the tree-filled ravine to his
right, spilling down to a level expanse of ice that covers a small pond.
By midwinter the ice will be twice as wide, if it is even visible under
the snow.
   The red-haired youth steps up to the doorway. Someone is inside,
presumably Rylla, the older of the two local healers.
   Thrap ... thrap.. .
   "Coming..."
   Dorrin shifts his weight from one foot to the other, still holding the
black staff.
   "Yes?" The thin and gray-haired woman stands in the half-open doorway.
   "I understand that you might be open to a part-time apprentice ..."
   The healer frowns. "An odd notion that would be, young fellow. How can
one be something only part of the time?" Her eyes look up toward the
horse tethered by the fence.
   "Might I come in and explain?"
   "Might as well. You mean no harm; that's clear." She opens the door
wider. "Just come in quick now, and don't let the chill in."
   The front room of the three-room cottage contains a hearth, one large
and two small tables, and three narrow cabinets against one wall. The
plank floor is worn smooth, but swept clean. Over the low fire a kettle
hangs on a hook whose design Dorrin recognizes from Yarrl's work. Steam
seeps from the spout.
   The woman gestures toward the wooden armchair. The other three chairs
are all armless. Dorrin nods toward her, waiting for her to sit.
   A wry grin greets his gesture. "Well-mannered young fellow, too. What
do you really want, you young scoundrel?" Rylla takes her chair.
   Dorrin flushes, then manages to return the grin. He loosens his jacket
and sits in the armless chair across from her, laying the staff across
his knees. "I'm working at the smithy for Yarrl, but I was trained at
both healing and smith-work. I miss the plants ..." He has to tell more
of the truth. "And I need to earn more."
   "Ha! You've seen my garden, and my wealth of patrons, boy."
   "I might be able to help with the plants."
   The gray eyes under the silver eyebrows study the redhead again. "That
could be dangerous."
   "Selling spices isn't that dangerous, and healers are supposed to be
able to grow things."
   "And you'd do the growing and the selling?"
   "As I can."
   "Is it a girl, young fellow?"
   "I suppose so ... though more coins won't help now."
   "As old Rylla knows, healing's not much for glamour, boy. And
neither's being a smith. They won't get you the girl "
   With a shrug, he looks at the floor. "Still..."
   "I've got a few Winterspice seeds. Never tried them. Think you could
grow them?"
   Dorrin nods slowly. "If they're still alive ... I think so ..."
   "You're one of the outcasts, then."
   His eyebrows lift.
   "I may be a weak healer, boy, but I can still think."
   "Do you still want to take me on?"
   "Why not? I always wanted to see Winterspice grow. Even Elrik can't do
that." Her eyes narrow on him. "Will your master let you spend time here?"
   "I've worked it out. I'll spend the morning here."
   "What else do you want from me?"
   "Land."
   "You're an honest scoundrel, boy. What do you have in mind?"
   "I'd like to use the land by the pond, build some things. I'd pay you
rent for it."
   "You've not even shown me you can heal. Or that you have the power."
   Dorrin steps to her chair, where he lays the staff across her knees.
   Her fingers stroke the black wood for an instant. "Darkness, boy! You
don't need me. You the one who saved Honsard's boy? Fixed Quiller's foot?"
   He nods.
   "Being as I'm a foolish old lady, could ye tell me why you're asking
me for a favor? It doesn't seem as you need me." She strokes the staff a
last time and lifts the heavy wood to him.
   "Outsiders have problems. People who live in a town don't."
   "Ha! You're a sharp one, too. What's your name, boy?"
   "Dorrin."
   "You want to be the lumber miller's apprentice nextwise, so as you can
take over his place?"
   "No." A quick flash of pain strikes through Dorrin's skull. "I mean,
all I really want to do is build some machines, but I need iron and wood.
That means coins. And I'd like my own workroom and cottage."
   "But you don't want people a-thinking you're a danger?"
   "No. I'm not."
   Rylla laughs softly. "Boy, soft as you speak, and polite as you are,
you be the most dangerous man I've seen in a long life."
   Dorrin's eyebrows lift, involuntarily.
   "But that's no matter. I like you, and I'm an old fool."
 
 
LXI
 
DORRIN CLOSES THE barn door, his eyes going to the smithy chimney where
the hot air from the forge fades into the gray cold of early winter. He
looks down at the faded green cover of the book in his hand-The
Healer-with a wry expression on his lips. Somehow he had never expected
Rylla to be literate, or to have such a volume. Every time he makes a
critical judgment about someone, it seems, he is surprised.
   "Willow bark-you didn't use willow bark on the boy? Waste of your
energy, Dorrin. You won't always have it, you know." Dorrin represses a
grin. Working with the old healer has had its benefits.
   Creaakkkkk... As the heavy forge wagon turns off the road, Dorrin
hurries to his quarters, where he leaves his jacket, his book and staff,
and strips off the better shirt for his stained smithy shirt. The forge
wagon has only eased into the yard, pulled by four horses each almost
twice the size of Meriwhen, by the time Dorrin reaches the smithy door.
On one wagon side panel is the legend Froos & Sons. The carter eases the
wagon up to the side door of the smithy. By now, Dorrin and Yarrl stand
by the door, Vaos next to them.
   "He delivers iron to the shipwrights in the harbor," Vaos says quietly.
   "Long run up here." Yarrl coughs as the wind shifts and whips the hazy
and faintly acrid smoke from the forge chimney down into the yard.
   "The iron forge is only in upper Diev." Vaos's eyebrows lift.
   "Long run with fifty stone of iron bars. We're about the last on the
run." Yarrl steps forward, a leather pouch in his hand.
   Dorrin's eyes and senses pick up the animals' fatigue.
   The carter slowly swings down from the wagon seat. Heavily muscled
arms bulge under a stained brown shirt. He wears not a coat, but a
sheepskin vest and heavy gloves. "The lot comes to a half gold, Yarrl."
   "That's up a silver."
   "Froos can't help it. The Council's buying more iron, and he had to
install some more pumps."
   "You start unloading. I'll be back with your cursed half-gold." The
smith tucks the pouch in his belt and heads toward the steps on the porch.
   "I'm not supposed to unload until I've got the coin."
   Yarrl spits into the corner between the porch and the smithy. "I ever
shorted you?"
   The carter grins. "Seeing as it's you ..."
   Dorrin looks to Vaos. "You take the small stock, at the end, there."
   "I can take the bigger stock."
   Dorrin and the carter exchange grins.
   "Fine, boy. Take this." The carter hands a single flat bar, a span
wide and three cubits long, to Vaos.
   The boy staggers under the three-stone load, going to his knees before
Dorrin lifts it, saying mildly, "It's heavy."
   "Striker, you're stronger than you look."
   "He's good with a staff, too," Vaos interjects.
   "Oh ... you're the one." The carter looks down at the hard-packed damp
clay. "Makes sense you'd be with Yarrl." Then he shakes his head. "A
striker taking Niso down with a piece of wood."
   Dorrin lugs the flat iron stock into the smithy, and Vaos follows with
an armful of the smallest rod stock. Dorrin racks the iron. "The small
rods go there."
   "Yes, ser."
   "I'm not the smith."
   "You're almost one."
   By the time they return to the wagon, Yarrl has returned and is paying
the carter. "Still highway robbery."
   The carter lifts some midweight rods and follows Dorrin.
   "Set them there, if you would," Dorrin requests politely.
   The carter eases them onto the empty edge of the workbench, then
straightens. Vaos follows with the last of the small rod stock, which he
racks. All three trudge back outside to repeat the process. After the
last iron is off the wagon, the carter closes the tailgate and slides the
locking bolts into place.
   Dorrin steps up beside the wagon seat. "How much would a plate of iron
be, the same thickness as the thin stock, but- could you get one four
cubits by four cubits?"
   "Hard to say, but the miners in By thy a get some that's five by five,
and it's a silver a plate. Why do you want something that big? That's
heavy."
   "I'd guess fifteen, twenty stone."
   "Takes a six-horse team." The carter shakes his head. "And three big
men to lift those plates. Anyway, you'd have to talk to Froos." He looks
toward Yarrl. "See you next time, smith."
   "Just don't raise the prices again," Yarrl grumbles.
   The carter shrugs. "Times are tough. They say the Whites are pushing
the Analerians into south Spidlar. Dirty herders!" He spits toward the
brown stalks of the frost-killed herb garden. "Damned wizards! Not much
to choose between the two." He flicks the reins, and the wagon creaks,
though not so loudly as when it entered the yard.
   "Back to work." The smith slides the door to the smithy back to a
narrow opening. "Still have to finish Blygers's chain clamps." He turns
to Dorrin. "You still thinking about building that engine?"
   "Yes. But I haven't figured out the pistons yet."
   Yarrl frowns as if the word is unfamiliar.
   "Probably be better to make two smaller ones, on each side of the
shaft. If they're exactly opposite, I won't have the problem of
synchronizing them."
   "These pistons are round cylinders?" inquires the smith.
   "They could be any shape, but they'd be stronger as a cylinder."
   "Like rockets and firearms?" asks Vaos.
   "Don't the pump makers build iron cylinders?"
   "I wonder what one would cost." Dorrin reflects.
   Yarrl lifts several iron rods, those left by the carter on the bench,
into the rack. "Your friend Pergun's sister is married to a striker for
Cylder. He's a pumpwright for Froos." The heavy rods slide into the
timber rack. "Let's get the rest of these stored. Not only got to do
Blygers's job, but we need to get back to finish that stuff of
Honsard's," He turns to Vaos. "We'll need another barrow of charcoal."
   "Yes, ser."
   "Going to be a long winter ..." Yarrl lifts the tongs and slides the
partly forged clamp from the bricks into the fire, reaching for the
midsized swage as he does so.
   Dorrin begins to pump the bellows's lever until Vaos returns with the
charcoal.
   ". .. long cold winter .. ."
   Vaos wheels the barrow next to the forge, and the smith begins to load
the charcoal into the forge while Dorrin stores the last of the rod stock.
 
 
LXII
 
THE SMALL DINING table is set for two, and a bottle of wine rests in a
basket on the side table. Jeslek glances around the room again when he
sees the sheet of parchment on the white oak screening table. He picks up
the sheet, glancing toward the bookcase, then back at the words and the
numbers. The calculations show the need for another twenty wizards for
the additional ten ships under construction in Sligo.
   "I know just which twenty."
   Still holding the sheet with the numbers in his left hand, he frowns,
thinking about the problems created by order, and by the stubbornness of
the Spidlarians. Order and Spidlar-what is the connection? He looks at
the mirror on the table, concentrating on the two.
   The mists part for an instant, and the image of a red-headed man with
a hammer and tongs in his hands appears. Jeslek does not recognize him.
   L The sound of a gentle rap on the door reaches him. At the sound, he
straightens, letting the image vanish. Then he slips the paper into the
leather folder, which he slides into the corner of the bookcase. He is
careful not to touch any of the volumes, since each usage of a book
shortens its life.
   He opens the door, smiling at the scent of trilia that accompanies
Anya. "Good evening, dear lady."
   "Good evening, High Wizard." Anya's lips brush his cheek.
   He closes the door behind her, but does not lock it.
   "You didn't lock it." She smiles.
   "Why?" Jeslek smiles, turning away from the door and toward her.
"Locks scarcely stop screening, or anyone powerful enough to enter.
Unlike Sterol, I am a realist." He laughs softly. "So are you. Or you
would not be here."
   "Oh?"
   He stands by the table and pours wine into one glass and then the
other, before lifting the first and extending it to her. "You are more
powerful than even Sterol. But you know it is unlikely the Council will
ever select a woman as High Wizard." He inclines his head.
   "Yet you obviously enjoy putting yourself in a compromising position."
Anya takes the glass, and her eyes flicker to the wide couch beyond the
table. Then she smiles.
   "Dear Anya, no one can touch either of us ... and not even you and
Sterol are strong enough to take me on." He lifts his glass. "To you,
dear lady."
   Anya lifts her glass. ' To the High Wizard."
   They drink, each with eyes and senses on the other.
 
 
LXIII
 
A LOW WHINING moan shivers through the smithy building. Dorrin's breath
is white in the dim light.
   "Wonderful for practicing order control . . ." he mutters. While he is
comfortable in the chill, even with the waist-high snow that clogs the
smithy yard, even with the long icicles that hang like daggers from the
eaves, he still wishes the winter in Diev were not quite so cold.
   He looks again at the numbers, his fingers going toward the quill.
Instead, he sets the figures aside in the covered box and pulls out the
other box, the one with his scribblings in it, the one with the
semi-pretentious title on the front-Thoughts on the Basis of Order. He
glances over the last page.
   ... a staff, or any other object, may be infused with order.
Concentrating such order, if the Balance is maintained, must result in a
greater amount of chaos somewhere. Therefore, the greater the effort to
concentrate order within material objects, the greater the amount of free
chaos within the world.
   The logic is sound, but are his presumptions? He rubs his forehead. He
has nothing really to add to his presumptuous commentary this night. He
closes the second box.
   His hands turn down the wick of the lamp slightly, and he carries it
to the bracket by his bed. As usual, things are working, but not exactly
as he has planned. Assuming he can even build the steam-fired engine, and
that remains a question, how can he even afford the material? Of the
sixteen golds he has gathered from the reward from the Council and the
sale of the two intricate models, he has a little over twelve left.
   Still. .. that does include the iron that he has bought and the lorkin
left from the staff and the other wood that is his. But the iron and
copper alone for his engine will run nearly twenty golds. The fittings
and pumps-he shakes his head. And the first engine, if experience is any
guide, will not work well, if at all.
   He needs more coin-more than he will receive from either Rylla or
Yarrl. What can he do? Toys? He sits on the edge of the pallet bed and
pulls off his boots. What kind of toys? Can he do something different
from what Quiller has done? Will Willum buy somewhat less elaborate toys?
   He swings his feet onto the pallet and draws the quilt around him.
Then he takes out the letter and begins to reread the words on the
off-white page.
   Dorrin-
   I had thought to swing back through Rytel and down through the road we
had taken to Axalt, but the White guards have blocked the way. They claim
that Axalt owes Fairhaven trade duties. This letter, if it reaches you,
will have come through friends in Fenard, since apparently only the main
routes are safe for one reason or another, and I cannot afford the duties
to trade on the wizards' roads.
   Some goods are getting harder and harder to find at any price. Spices
are in short supply, as are dried or preserved fruits. If I could obtain
it, green brandy from Recluce would fetch two golds a bottle. And so
would a cubit-span of wound black wool yarn.
   Freidr has urged me to stay close to Jellico, but how can a trader
make coins if one doesn't travel? When I do get to Diev, it will probably
be by coaster to Spidlaria or Diev directly, and that means it cannot be
until spring when the ice has cleared the Northern Ocean.
   Most kinds of cloth are now dearer, because of the need for canvas for
the additional ships Fairhaven is building. Some of that is mere
speculation, I would guess. That doesn't make the cloth any cheaper.
   I would hope that you might consider making some more models for sale.
I could have sold several at that price. I also have more questions for
you when next we meet, whenever that may be. I wish you well and trust
that you are accomplishing what you find necessary.
   Liedral
   After his eyes have digested the words yet another time, he folds the
sheet and slips it into the back of The Healer. Then he blows out the
lamp and draws the quilt around him more tightly.
   Outside the wind moans and throws the snow against the wall with such
force that a dusting of flakes lies under the door sill and swirls gently
across the plank floor.
 
 
LXIV
 
ANYA OPENS THE lower tower door without knocking, enters, and closes it
silently. She slides the bolt. The room is lit by an oil wall lamp and
one on the side table by the closed window. The winter wind rattles the
casement.
   Sterol stands up from the screeing table, letting the white mists
cloud the mirror. His eyes are dark. "How are you?"
   "It's a strain, dealing with the great lover and chaos master."
   "You don't have to, you know."
   "That's easy for you to say. You know what the history of the Whites
is for women?"
   "Tell me anyway."
   "Don't patronize me, Sterol. Every one of you is out to lay me, and to
prove that, in wizardly matters, I'm no match for any man."
   "You're better than most."
   "And who will admit it?" Anya slumps into the chair across from the
former High Wizard. "Do you have any wine left?"
   "Certainly . .. certainly."
   "Darkness! I told you to cut the patronizing act."
   "My! Aren't we testy tonight."
   "If you want me to tell Jeslek you're up to no good, you're certainly
headed in the right direction."
   Sterol retrieves a glass goblet from the top of the bookcase, gently
blows it clean of the fine white powder that none of the Whites'
buildings-even the newest-seems to be without, and pours the rest of the
red into the goblet. "This is what's left. You're welcome to it." He
extends the goblet.
   "Thank you." She sips the wine. "He's not a very good lover."
   "I wouldn't have guessed. All force and no technique-like his magic?"
Sterol seats himself across the table from her, the mirror between them.
   "There is a similarity. His magic has more finesse."
   Sterol swallows silently before speaking. "What does he plan next?"
   "He intends to subdue Spidlar, but as he has discussed, gradually. He
hid something just before he answered the door, and the energy was still
in his glass, and it had the faintest trace of Black to it."
   "Jeslek? Calling on Black energies?" Anya frowns, then takes another
sip of wine. "This is turning already."
   "I apologize. It was only brought in tonight. What about the Black
energies?"
   "It was more like he was studying something Black, but it wasn't that
ponderous feeling you get when you study Recluce."
   "That's an interesting way you have of describing it. You and Recluce?"
   "Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I haven't studied Recluce."
   "So . . . he's found something or someone else that's focusing order.
Hmmmm ... I'd watch that closely."
   "I intend to." Anya drains the goblet. "Do you have another bottle?"
   "Actually ... yes. I thought you might like some."
   "You are thoughtful, Sterol." The redhead smiles at the former High
Wizard before he rises to get the second bottle from the ice bucket.
 
 
LXV
 
DORRIN PULLS OUT the sheet Jarnish had delivered just before supper and
slits the seal. Then he pauses. Had Jarnish come all the way to Diev just
for this? Had the seal already been broken and resealed? He lets his
perceptions study the hardened wax. Then he shrugs. After the vigor with
which he has applied his knife to the seal, there is really no way to
tell. Besides, what difference does it make whether some factor reads a
letter?
   Dorrin smoothes out the sheet and begins to read, pausing as he
realizes that Liedral had apparently not received his letter when she
wrote.
   Dorrin-
   I was going to travel through Passera and down river to Elparta. That
is no longer possible. The road guards now will protect only those
traders licensed by Fairhaven. They say that there have been more and
more highway attacks and robberies. Even the licensed traders are afraid
to take the roads in and out of Spidlar, although some will.
   The worst of the famine in Kyphros and Gallos has abated, they say.
That is because all those who were starving have died. Most of the
herders are gone, and their flocks with them.
   The winter snows continue to melt off the new mountains-the Little
Easthorns, some call them-that now separate Gallos and Kyphros. Another
trader-Dosric- told me taking the wizards' road is a frightening
experience. Snow melts off the hot rocks. That makes a constant fog that
you can hardly see through, and nothing grows there yet.
   Trade is slow here, and everywhere, but that is true enough in winter
even in good years. I hope to see you, somehow, before too long.
   Liedral
   Dorrin rereads the letter before refolding it and slipping it into the
box in which he has her other letter. Then he retrieves the sheet that
has his toy plans on it, and stands up, pushing the chair back. His
breath steams in the cold room, but the cold does not bother him much
anymore, at least not while he is awake. The quilt and blanket are enough
for sleeping.
   He takes a deep breath. The day has been long already, but he is far
from finished. He ducks into the light snow outside, closing the door
behind him, and follows the packed path around the smithy alongside the
chest-high snow piles beside the building.
   Once by the forge, Dorrin lights the single lamp with a pine splinter
touched to the forge coals. After setting the charcoal he had brought in
before supper around the coals, he pumps the bellows rod until the
charcoal catches and the coals reach forging heat.
   Dorrin looks at the sheet he has brought, then sets it on the back of
his workbench, reaching up and adjusting the lamp. He pumps the bellows
rod once.
   "Dorrin? Need some help?" Vaos stands by the slack tank.
   "I'd appreciate it, but... this is my work, not for any paying
customer. At least not yet."
   "Doesn't matter. It's cold. Petra gave me another old blanket, but
it's still warmer when you have the forge going. I'm not tired." Vaos
yawns. "Not too tired, anyway."
   "It's been a cold winter."
   "Coldest I can remember." The youngster steps up the bellows lever.
"What are you doing?"
   "Trying to see if I can make some toys."
   Vaos pauses. "I never had any toys."
   "What kind would you have liked to have?"
   "I don't know." The blond boy shrugs, and the blanket slips away from
his shoulders. He catches it and wraps it back in place. "I never saw any
up close, just in Willum's window. I tried to use a leather knife once to
make a top, but it didn't work real well. Forra beat me 'cause I dulled
the knife."
   "Oh..."
   "How hot do you want the charcoal, Dorrin?"
   Dorrin studies the glowing carbon, both with eyes and his senses that
go beyond sight. "Slow down on the bellows- about half as fast."
   "What are you going to make?"
   "A small windmill with a crank to make the blades go, I think."
   "Wouldn't it be easier to carve it?"
   "Yes. But it's more interesting out of iron, and I can use the
template to stamp out the gears."
   "Could you do that with real gears?"
   "Hardly. You have to cut them. They use special machines for the pump
gears." He takes the other half of the template, black iron, and sets it
where he can reach it quickly. "They have to fit together just right."
   Dorrin takes the tongs and lifts one of the smaller rods from his own
rack and eases it into the forge. "Here, for a toy, I don't have to be
quite as exact, but I need to make sure the two gears mesh just right."
   Vaos continues pumping. "This about right?"
   Dorrin nods again, watching as the metal heats. When it is cherry red,
he brings it back to the anvil and begins to fuller it into a smaller
octagonal cross-section. He returns it to the forge as necessary during
the fullering. When the cross-section matches the template, he sets the
circular die-almost like a round-bottom swage with a square base-into the
anvil's hardie hole, and places the metal in the forge once more.
   Next, using glancing blows on the end of the fullered rod, he begins
to upset the end that will fit into the swage die. Another reheating, and
two solid blows to the unfullered end, and the small gear wheel is
forged. A last blow with the hot set to cut the forged piece clean and he
sets the wheel on the forge bricks to cool.
   "You doing another one?" asks Vaos.
   "Probably three tonight. That's half. I'll do two more like that, and
then three of the end with the crank."
   "That's a lot of work for toys."
   "That's just the beginning. I'll have to grind the edges, file them
smooth, and polish them before fitting them to the wood." Dorrin
retrieves the rod stock from the forge. "A little slower on the bellows."
   Vaos wipes his forehead. "Least it's warm here."
 
 
LXVI
 
WHEN THE COLD air strikes Meriwhen like a whip, the mare whickers and
sidesteps. Zilda backs away from the cold air, looking up at Dorrin.
   "I don't think you want out here," Dorrin says. The goat chews on a
mouthful of straw.
   "Easy . . . easy." Dorrin pats Meriwhen's neck, then closes the barn
door. The breath from his words drifts away in a white line. He eases up
into the saddle, a saddle hard from the cold even inside the barn, and
turns the mare eastward, out toward Rylla's cottage. His hands touch the
staff. While he will not need it at the healer's, he may need it on the
way to see Willum.
   The strong plume of white from the chimney indicates that the healer
has been up for a time, and the two sets of fresh footprints in the
dusting of snow that covers the packed snow path to her door show that
she has visitors.
   Dorrin looks for a more sheltered place to tie Meriwhen before he
finally leads the mare up to the south side of the cottage, where he ties
the reins to an elder bush trunk. He leaves the staff in the holder-it
will be more than safe there.
   After stamping his boots mostly free of snow, he knocks and steps
inside, closing the door quickly. "Rylla, it's Dorrin." He takes the
small broom off the stand and brushes his boots clean, then opens his
jacket and takes it off, so warm is the cottage.
   "'Fraid I'd have to wait all morning for you, young fellow."
   In the room before the fire are a woman and a child. The girl-although
the mother looks barely beyond childhood herself-cradles her left arm
with her right, and her face is tight and pinched. She wears a cut-down
herder's vest, so worn that the sheep's wool is brown and the leather is
lined and grimy.
   "Little Frisa, here, got her arm caught in a stall door." Rylla's
voice is almost flat.
   "Gerhalm didn't see her in time. He really didn't," explains the
mother. Her voice cracks. She wears only a worn and patched wool cloak
that may have once been blue.
   Dorrin can see the redness in the mother's eyes, and a different kind
of pain than that of the daughter. He takes a step toward Frisa, but the
little girl shrinks back against her mother's stained brown trousers.
Dorrin stops, looking around until he sees that Rylla has moved the stool
into the far corner, almost touching the small three-shelf bookcase that
bears no more than a dozen volumes at most.
   "Frisa needs her arm looked at. She's a mite skittish," Rylla adds in
the same too-calm voice.
   The little girl's dark eyes flicker from the older woman to Dorrin and
back to the floor in front of the hearth.
   After picking up the stool, Dorrin seats himself and looks at Frisa.
"I don't know much about girls," he begins slowly, not looking directly
at the child, even while he tries to extend a sense of reassurance to
her. "I do have a mare. I suppose you'd call her a girl horse. Her name
is Meriwhen."
   "Silly name for a mare." Rylla's voice is gruff.
   "Well, she said her name was Meriwhen. What I could I say?" Dorrin
shrugs, then puts his hands on his knees. "Is your name
Kitten-in-the-Snow?"
   Frisa continues to look at the plank floor in front of the hearth.
   "Or is it Filly-Who-Runs-Too-Fast?"
   Dorrin lets the silence draw out before speaking again. "I suppose
Meriwhen was a filly once. She told me that she hurried too much when she
was little, but I didn't know her then."
   "Horses ... don't... talk."
   "Meriwhen does. When we ride a long ways, she has a lot to say.
Sometimes she talks about the grass, and sometimes she complains about
the horseflies, and sometimes ..." He pauses. "She's a big girl, but
you'll be a big girl someday, too." Dorrin swallows at the knife of fear
that strikes from the mother, forcing a smile instead, trying to reassure
the child. "Meriwhen can be silly. When we're out in the meadows,
sometimes she wants me to take off her saddle, and she wants to roll in
the grass. She likes the smell of green grass."
   "You're ... silly."
   "That's what my mother said to me a long time ago. I guess I never did
grow up."
   Frisa looks shyly at Dorrin, but remains with her back pressed against
her mother's legs.
   Dorrin looks into the fire, trying to build more reassurance into the
frightened girl. "Maybe that's why Meriwhen and I get along. After we
look at your arm, would you like to meet Meriwhen?"
   "You really have a horse?" asks the mother.
   "He's not exactly an impoverished healer apprentice, Merga," Rylla
says.
   .
    Dorrin grins. "Meriwhen is quite real. I did tie her to the bushes
next to the house-the elders, not the peppers."
   "She'd better not eat them," Rylla says.
   "I fed her before we left."
   "Can I pat her?" asks Frisa.
   "After we fix your arm," Dorrin responds.
   "It hurts."
   "I know. Where does it hurt most?"
   "It just hurts."
   Without standing, Dorrin eases off the stool and into a sitting
position before the mother and the girl. "Can I see?"
   Frisa remains against her mother, but does not shrink away as Dorrin's
fingers brush the arm.
   "Needs a splint, I'd bet," Rylla offers.
   Dorrin, sensing the break, nods. He can also feel the hunger. "Do you
have a slice of bread? If she could chew that..."
   "She might choke."
   He looks at Frisa. "We want to fix the hurt. It might hurt more for a
moment, but it will get better. When we finish you can have some bread."
   "Can I hold it now?"
   "Just an instant, child."
   Rylla appears with the splint-a contraption made of canvas and oak
ribs. Her eyes question Dorrin. He nods.
   "Help keep her still, Merga. Can you do that?" asks Rylla.
   Merga nods.
   "Oooooo ..." Frisa moans, and tries to twist, but Rylla holds her fast
as Dorrin, guided by his senses, lines up the ends of the bones, infusing
the girl with order and reassurance as he does. "Ooo ..." Her fingers
crush the scrap of bread.
   Rylla tightens the splint straps while Dorrin keeps the arm straight.
   Dorrin touches Frisa's forehead lightly. "It's done, Frisa. If you
don't run into anything, it should heal straight."
   Merga looks to Rylla, then to Dorrin.
   "Four to five eight-days, I'd guess," he says slowly.
   "Can I see your horse?"
   "I'll tell Merga what to do," Rylla says. "You show her your horse."
   "Can I have some more bread?" asks the child.
   "I'll get it," Dorrin says quickly, heading for the kitchen and the
breadboard, and ignoring Rylla's quickly smothered frown.
   Frisa grabs for the bread with her free hand when Dorrin comes back,
and he scoops her up, deftly, but gently, careful not to touch the
splinted arm.
   "Bring her back here in two eight-days for me to look at the arm.
Don't let anything hit it. . ." Rylla speaks slowly to the young mother
as Dorrin opens and closes the cottage door.
   "Here you are." Dorrin stops short of Meriwhen. The mare has nibbled
on a small elder bush, but halted after a sampling. The healer grins.
Elder bushes are bitter, very bitter. "This is Meriwhen."
   Whuuuffff... the mare responds.
   "She's . . . pretty." Frisa's breath forms a cloud around her head.
   The morning .air is still now, and the snow sparkles in the light, so
brightly that Dorrin must squint, a cruel brightness that reminds him,
absently, of Fairhaven.
   Meriwhen suffers her forehead to be touched by Frisa's unhurt arm.
Frisa shivers, and Dorrin turns. "We need to go."
   "'Bye, horsey."
   Inside, Dorrin closes the door and sets Frisa on the floor.
   "He has a horsey, a black horsey."
   Merga bows to Dorrin. "Thank you, great one." Tears streak from her
eyes, as she takes her daughter's hand. "We must go."
   Dorrin glances at Rylla, but the healer's wrinkled face is calm. He
opens the door and watches as they walk across the packed snow and ice.
   "Close the door, Dorrin. No sense in wasting the fire."
   "What did you tell her?"
   "I told her the truth. You're a great healer. A young one, but a great
one."
   "Darkness, I'm barely a decent smith, and not even that as a healer."
   "Look, boy. You got enough order in your bones to shiver a White
Wizard all the way to the tips of the Northern Ocean. I saw what you did
for that girl."
   "She didn't get caught in a stall door. Her father beat them both. I
really want to-"
   "You can't go settling people's lives for them."
   "I know. I did what I could. It won't be enough."
   "It will be for a little while. And in healing you do what you can.
Just knowing order isn't all there is to healing." The clear blue eyes
that seem oddly young in the wrinkled face survey Dorrin from head to
foot. "Does just a strong arm make a good smith?"
   "No."
   "Does growing herbs tell you how to use them? 'Course not! You're like
all the other Blacks." Rylla pauses and adds, "Maybe not as bad.
Leastwise, you listen. Take a broken bone, like Frisa has. Bone's
stronger when it grows at its own pace, and the bones have to be put back
where they fit together. How do you keep them together?"
   "You splint them, and add a touch of order."
   "I can do the first, but only a Black healer can do the rest."
   A knock on the door interrupts them.
   "Who be there?" rasps Rylla.
   "Werta . . . I still got this wart."
   Rylla grins at Dorrin. "Come on in and close the door behind you."
   Dorrin grins back. Warts, yet.
 
 
LXVII
 
THE STILLNESS HAS given way to a light wind, and the near-noon sun lights
a bright blue-green sky. Dorrin unties Meriwhen from the elder bushes,
swings into the saddle, checks his staff to ensure it is secure in the
lanceholder, and urges Meriwhen toward Diev. In the left saddlebag are
three sample toys-a small wagon, a windmill with a hand crank, and a
miniature sawmill. There are two complete sets in the other bag.
   Meriwhen's feet are sure upon the road now that the rollers have
pressed it into a hard surface. They pass a freight sleigh stacked with
barrels, whose driver cracks his whip as his two horses struggle in
toward Diev.
   On the town side of the Weyel river bridge, the rolled and packed snow
gives way to an uneven jumble of packed snow, ice, and partly uncovered
paving stones. Dorrin lets Meriwhen set her own pace, and he loosens the
top button of his jacket, conscious that he is making some progress in
learning how to let his body deal with a cold that never reaches Recluce.
   All four chimneys at the Tankard are billowing white smoke, and a
small stable boy is wrestling to unload a bale of hay from the farm
sleigh. The beggar woman is nowhere in evidence.
   The space before the chandlery is empty, but smoke also rises from
Willum's chimney. Dorrin ties Meriwhen, pats her neck, and swings the
saddlebags over his shoulder before taking his staff from the holder.
Then he climbs the steps and opens the door to the chandler's. The warmth
billowing from the cast-iron stove in the center of the store is
momentarily welcome, and he is careful to close the oak door behind him.
   The thin clerk behind the counter along the right wall looks through
Dorrin. "Your business?"
   "I'm Dorrin." He lifts the saddlebags. "I have some goods that ser
Willum might be interested in."
   "In late winter? Ha! Be on your way, fellow." The clerk sets something
on the shelf before him. "Selling to a chandler?"
   Dorrin turns to face the clerk head-on, and his eyes blaze. His voice
is quiet, and his words seem to fill the store. "I am here to see Willum,
and I do believe he will see me."
   His face white, the clerk steps back. "I'll see ... ser."
   Dorrin frowns as the other scuttles toward the back room. Why are
people so difficult? And why does insisting on simple things make them so
afraid? If Willum does not want to buy the toys, he certainly doesn't
have to.
   The blond chandler/trader steps out into the store from behind a dark
green velvet curtain. The counter does not quite conceal the heavy club
he holds, a stained oak length only slightly lighter than his brown
trousers and dark leather vest. "You-" Then he sees the brown shirt under
the jacket and the dark staff. "You're the smith who's the toymaker,
aren't you?"
   "Yes, ser. I thought you might like to see some new ones."
   "It's all right, Roald." Willum looks at the clerk emerging from the
back room. "Sorry, fellow-is it Dortmund?"
   "Dorrin."
   "Dorrin. We've had some smash and grabs lately. Times are hard." He
smiles politely. "Your curiosity was well received in Fenard. But"-he
shrugs-"I doubt many have golds to spare now."
   "So would I." Dorrin sets the leather saddlebags on the counter and
opens the left one. "These are a bit simpler."
   Willum looks at the three toys, finally picking up the windmill and
cranking it. "Well made. I have to say that. But times are hard."
   "I understand. That also means you must have trouble finding unique
items to trade."
   Willum grins. "You should have been a trader, young Dorrin. You haggle
with the best."
   "You flatter me, master chandler."
   "Hardly. You seem to have some idea of their value. And what are you
asking-not that I can pay much, you understand?"
   "I thought you might get a half-silver, perhaps six pennies, for each
of these."
   "Six is stretching. I could offer a silver for all three." Dorrin
frowns. "A silver plus two, would be more like it."
   "It's not worth my time to take just three."
   "If I made two more sets ... then how about three and a half silvers?"
   "That would be fine, but"-Willum shrugs again-"could you have them by
tomorrow? Otherwise, I could offer but a silver plus one."
   Dorrin smiles, and the chandler shakes his head.
   "Don't tell me you have them?"
   Dorrin offers a wry smile. "I had hoped ..." He opens the other bag
and produces the other six.
   Willum inspects all six, minutely. "You do good work, fellow." He
coughs. "Roald-three and a half, please."
   "Yes, ser." The clerk eases behind Willum's bulk and into the back
room, without so much as looking at Dorrin.
   The chandler purses his lips, then asks. "I might also be interested
in another curiosity .. . say by early spring?"
   "That might be possible." Dorrin's thoughts burn, since he has two
older models for which he has no use. "Very probable, in fact." His
headache subsides, but not completely. He needs someone else to do the
haggling, or he will have headaches severe enough that he will not be
able to think straight.
   Roald reappears with the coins, which he passes to Willum. In turn,
the trader puts them upon the counter. He still holds the club in his
right hand, although his grip is relaxed. "There are your silvers,
Dorrin."
   "I thank you, master chandler. Later, might you be interested in other
such toys?"
   "I might, but I know where to find you, should I need them quickly. If
not, see me in perhaps three or four eight-days." The chandler/trader
looks toward the door, where a tall thin man enters. "Good day, Nallar."
   "Terrible day, Willum. Terrible day. Need to talk about lamps."
   Dorrin scoops up the coins and slips them into his purse. Then he
nods, "Good day, ser Willum."
   Willum nods, but says nothing as he steps along the counter to meet
Nallar. Roald looks away from Dorrin's glance. Dorrin puts the empty
saddlebags over his shoulder and steps around the heat of the stove,
heading back out into the cold.
   Outside, he pauses. Now that he is truly selling toys, should he
follow Quiller's advice and join the Guild? With a sigh, he turns
Meriwhen toward the harbor.
   The harbor has but three piers, and the Port Council building is at
the foot of the center pier of the three, a gray wooden structure two
stories high. Next to the Port Council building is the smaller, shedlike
building that holds the Guild. After tying Meriwhen at the far end of the
rail that also holds a larger bay, Dorrin edges through the slushy snow
to the building. No matter how hard the snow is packed in upper Diev,
near the shore it is slushier, even when the sea is choked with ice
floes. Sometimes, a brave coaster will run the ice, but it is a run for
only the most experienced.
   Dorrin opens the pine door, stamping his feet to remove the snow and
slush, and looking around in the dim lamplight that contrasts with the
cold brightness outside. Because he does not know what to expect, he
carries his black staff.
   "Who ye be looking for, young fellow?" A gray-haired man stands up
from shoveling coal into the stove.
   "I don't know. Quiller told me I should come here."
   "Quiller-the crazy toymaker? Why would he do that?" The gray-haired
man closes the stove and walks toward Dorrin. He wears a heavy blue
sweater that matches heavy blue trousers.
   "He said that if I made things, I should join the Guild."
   "And who are you?"
   "My name is Dorrin; I'm a striker for Yarrl."
   "Yarrl never joined the Guild. You need a sponsor." The gray-haired
man sighs. "Why do you think you need to join?"
   "Well. .. I'm making toys and selling them."
   "To whom?" The man's voice is sharper.
   "So far, just to Willum, the chandler."
   "Oh ... that's all right. He belongs. Still ..." The man frowns. "I
suppose that could qualify as a form of sponsorship, and it's clear
you're trying to do the right thing. Toys ... probably an artisan, lower
grade, I'd guess. That won't break you, young fellow. It's four coppers a
year-until you sell more than ten golds. Then it's a silver for the next
year."
   "Is there something on parchment I sign, ser?"
   "No sers, here. I'm Hasten. You can sign your name?"
   "Yes. I write a little also."
   "Odd .. . never thought Yarrl was the type."
   "Does it matter if I'm also an apprentice healer?"
   "Oh ... dear... you're that one. I should have guessed from the staff.
No, it certainly doesn't matter, ser. Not at all. Just a moment... if you
do have the coppers?"
   Dorrin counts out four coppers and extends them.
   "Just a moment..." The older man fumbles across the desk with a quill
and a square of parchment. "Free artisan ... one Dorrin. Do you know how
to spell that? Silly, of course you do, but would you spell it for me?"
   "D-O-R-R-I-N." Dorrin tries not to frown as he still holds the coins,
but the fear emanating from the trader is almost palpable.
   "Here you are." Hasten hands Dorrin a parchment square. "That be your
receipt of dues in good standing."
   Dorrin hands him the four coppers. "Thank you, Hasten. I just wanted
to do things right."
   "I wish all ... all folks would. You have a good day."
   Dorrin realizes he has been dismissed. "You too." He turns, opens the
door, and shuts it behind him, trying not to shake his head. What has he
done to make the older man so afraid? Could it have been the incident
with Niso? Surely, people have killed thieves before?
   .Meriwhen whickers, and Dorrin shakes his head, almost to clear his
thoughts. The mare does not like the chill breeze off the water. He
resets the staff in the holder and remounts. Once back at Yard's, he will
have to brush Meriwhen and get the snow and ice out of her coat,
especially along her legs. Then he will have to work late to catch up on
the wagon work stacked along the smithy walls.
   Does he ever work less than late-one way or another?
 
 
LXVIII
 
A SMALL FIRE burns in the ancient and blackened hearth, warming slightly
the half-circle of bedrolls in the way station. A guard sits upright by
the half-shuttered single window, eyes flicking downhill and across the
starlit snow and the dark line that is a stone wall beside the highway. A
bow stands beside him, although it is not strung.
   "Crappy, frigging duty . . . hate that bastard Mortyl... out here
trying to stop farm raids . . . chasing spirits . . . finding burned-out
huts and barns . . . freezing our asses ..." The words come from the
bedroll nearest the fire.
   "Shut up, Vorban. You want to freeze your frigging tongue, you do it
quiet."
   "You couples got each other. You flaunt it, Sestal. All I got is this
bitch winter, and she's frigging cold."
   "Shut up." Sestal grins in the darkness at the lady blade he holds
under their shared blankets.
   In the far corner Brede and Kadara lie side by side. Kadara's lips are
almost touching Brede's left ear. "... will we ever get home? So tired of
the ice and snow."
   "... don't like the cold much, either," adds the sentry, "but why
complain? Doesn't help."
   "I never saw so many starving people, or so many mean ones." Kadara
wriggles closer to him.
   "It has something to do with the White Wizards."
   "Damn them. I want to go home. Lortren said a year."
   "She said at least a year, but unless you want to cross the Westhorns
in winter and walk to Sarronnyn or Suthya ..."
   "We can't take the wizards' roads. I know, but it doesn't make me any
happier. I feel sometimes like I'll die here. Yes, we can return after a
year, if we could find a ship. Lortren and her lies!" Kadara's voice
hisses. "It's fine for Dorrin and his damned machines. He has food and a
warm bed."
   "It looked pretty cold and empty to me. There's not even a fireplace
in his room. And he doesn't have you." Brede squeezes her shoulder.
   A loud cough fills the room.
   "Stop all the sweet talk. I want to sleep."
   "You're just jealous, Vorban," Brede calls softly.
   "Demon-damned right. I'm frigging jealous, and even more frigging
cold."
   "Just go to sleep, Vorban. Or take my place, and let me go to sleep,"
snaps the sentry.
   The way station settles back into low mumbles and an occasional snore.
   "Just hold me." Kadara shakes as she whispers the words to Brede, and
his arms go around her. "Just hold me."
   Outside, the wind brushes feather-light snow across the road and
walls, and the distant screech of a snow-hawk echoes under the distant
unwinking stars. The sentry shifts his weight on the bench.
 
 
LXIX
 
"DORRIN?" REISA STANDS by the small slack tank, next to the smaller
grindstone.
   Vaos continues pumping the bellows, and Dorrin holds the sledge,
waiting as Yarrl turns the iron in the forge.
   "Your trader friend's here to see you. It must be important." Reisa
grins briefly.
   Dorrin cannot keep the flush from running up his face. "It'll have to
wait until we finish these pieces."
   "Demon-dark right," grunts Yarrl.
   "She'll be in the kitchen. It's too cold to wait outside."
   Yarrl watches the iron until it reaches cherry red, then deftly turns
it onto the bottom swage set in the anvil's hardie hole. He brings the
top swage into place. Dorrin begins striking with the sledge. Despite the
chill that lurks around the edge of the smithy, he is sweating heavily
even before Yarrl returns the iron to the forge. When the iron is again
ready, they resume.
   How much later it is when the wagon crane frame is finished, Dorrin
does not know, only that his threadbare shirt is soaked, and Vaos has
stopped pumping and scurried out for another basket of charcoal.
   "Light-Fired awkward thing." Yarrl has set his tongs aside. The crane
frame lies tempered and cooling on the forge bricks. "Makes cart loading
easier, Honsard says." He coughs. "Go talk to your friend. Only need Vaos
for the bolts. You can grind the edges and file it later-or tomorrow."
   "Appreciate it." After wiping his face with the back of his forearm,
Dorrin steps out into the cold, cloudy afternoon, his sweat almost
freezing as he crosses the gap in the snow piles and takes the steps to
the porch and kitchen. He cleans his boots before entering.
   The large room is warmer than the smithy, since it has no drafts and
since Reisa has been baking.
   "Use the wash stand first," Reisa orders dryly. "I won't make you use
the well."
   "Thank you, mistress of the house."
   "Don't forget it."
   Liedral grins as Dorrin steps into the corner where the wash stand
sits in the winter months. After finishing, he looks at the dark water,
shaking his head. Then he walks to the door and down to the well. After
breaking the ice with the heavy iron chunk on the rope, he fills two
buckets and sets them on the bottom step while he ducks into his room and
changes from his ragged smithy shut into one more presentable. Then he
carries the buckets up the steps into the kitchen with the empty basin.
   "I think you did that to get more water," he says with a smile.
   Reisa gestures to the table. "Sit down and have a slice of fresh
bread. I opened some preserves. Darkness knows whether what we have will
last until the trees fruit. Sure won't get much from the harbor markets."
Reisa pours one bucket full of icy water into the big water kettle on the
stove.
   Dorrin sits across from Liedral. "How did you get here? I thought you
said you'd have to come by sea."
   Liedral grins, but the expression only emphasizes the blackness under
her eyes and her reddened face. "It took some doing. There's a coastal
sled run between Quend and Spidlaria. They run the beaches. They say it's
safer than running the ice floes. I brought in dried pork and a few other
things."
   "She brought supper-a good ham." Reisa does not turn from the ceramic
and iron stove. "They're dear, now."
   "Be getting dearer." Petra fastens her jacket before heading to the
barn.
   "Why . . . ?" Dorrin stops. Of course, with the Northern Ocean frozen
north and west of Diev, Spidlar is cut off from the western trading
routes. Few traders will dare the icebergs that dot the ocean between
Spidlar and Sligo. He shivers, considering the pinched faces he is
already seeing. It will be another season before even the early crops are
ready or the coasters from Sarronnyn or Suthya will travel the Northern
Ocean.
   "Thought it might make more coins. You trade where people need it.
Besides, I don't like staying around Freidr for too long." Liedral sips
the hot spiced cider. "And even if I go back empty,' I'll still be ahead.
Not much, but something's better than nothing, especially in winter."
   "It seems a mite risky," offers Reisa.
   "All trading is risky these days, thanks to Fairhaven. You risk losing
your coins or your life." Liedral takes another swallow of the cider.
   Petra sets a mug in front of Dorrin. "This time I got it for you. But
just this time."
   "Thank you. Next time you can get the water."
   "He's impossible," Petra confides to Liedral.
   "He's a man," answers the trader.
   Vaos hammers his way through the door and into the kitchen.
   "Don't touch anything," snaps Reisa, lifting the kettle with her
single hand and pouring warm water into the empty washbasin. "You need to
wash up before you eat."
   Petra adds some of the cold water from the bucket.
   "But, Reisa, I'm starving."
   "Wash."
   Vaos looks at Dorrin, then steps up to the wash table.
   "When's dinner?" asks Yarrl, shutting the door hard, and bending to
set his boots in the corner.
   "As soon as you wash up," Reisa repeats.
   Vaos grins as he hurriedly wipes his hands and face on the gray towel.
   "Sometimes . . .think you were a washerwoman by the river . . ." But
the smith follows Reisa's instructions. "Smells good."
   "The trader brought a ham."
   "A real ham out of Kleth, smoked the slow way," adds Petra.
   "Ought to taste real good." Yarrl washes hurriedly and sits at the
table. Reisa hands him a knife, and he begins to slice the meat.
   Vaos licks his lips, and Dorrin and Liedral look from the boy to each
other and smile.
   Reisa sets two platters on the table, one with a steaming pile of
vegetables, and one heaped with roasted yams. "Help yourself."
   Liedral spears two yams and takes a spoonful of beans. "Thank you."
   "What's happening with the White Wizards?" asks the smith as he lays
slab after slab of ham on the chipped .platter.
   "They're trying to cut Spidlar off without saying that's what they're
doing. They're talking about building more ships."
   "Let's enjoy the ham," Reisa suggests.
   Vaos's eyes remain fixed on the platter as it goes to the trader, then
to Dorrin, and Petra.
   "Here you go!" Petra holds the platter in front of Vaos.
   "Thank you, Miss Petra," says the boy as he takes the two top slices,
but his eyes linger on the platter.
   "Take another, imp."
   Vaos does, and for a time, no one speaks.
   "Good ham," Vaos says.
   "Very good," Dorrin agrees.
   "Personally," Liedral says with a smile, "I liked the roasted yams,
and the beans. You don't get those traveling."
   When Dorrin finishes his plate, he swallows the last of his cider and
turns to Liedral. "Do you want to talk? I need to finish up some things
in the smithy." Dorrin stands.
   "With all that hammering?" asks Liedral.
   "It's just filing and polishing."
   "He never stops," Reisa says dryly.
   "No one's ever seen him stop, anyway," adds Petra.
   "Not even me," adds Vaos from the end of the table.
   "Quiet, boy." Dorrin's voice is playful.
   Yarrl chews the end of the loaf of bread, methodically, before
speaking, his mouth full. "That's what makes a good smith. Not yammering
on and on."
   All three women look at the smith. Yarrl continues to chew.
   Dorrin grins, standing by the door.
   "Let me get on my jacket. I wasn't raised on a mountain-top."
   Dorrin does not protest that Recluce is milder than even Jellico; he
waits while Liedral pulls on her coat. They walk to the smithy, where he
lights the lamp. Then he takes off his shirt and puts it on a wall peg
before returning to the workbench and lifting the box with the iron toy
parts in it.
   "Aren't you cold?"
   "Not really."
   He sets the box on the clay, sits on the stool, and begins pushing the
foot pedal, dipping the iron piece in the polishing paste before setting
it against the grindstone.
   "Oooooo . .. how can you stand that?"
   "I suppose you get used to it." He turns the miniature gear power
train and continues to grind and polish the dark metal.
   Liedral watches as he works the metal.
   When he is done, he replaces the metal parts in the box and wipes his
hands on the tattered towel at one end of his bench.
   "Do you have any toys that are done?" Liedral's brown eyes meet
Dorrin's, then look over his shoulder at the forge as he pulls on his
shirt.
   "Not a simple as those. I have some like the first one. They're in my
room. Would you like one?" He snuffs the lamp and steps toward the yard,
waiting for her to leave the smithy before he closes the door against the
winter chill.
   "I can't afford one, not the way things are going, but once the ice
breaks, I'm taking a wild run to Nietre, upland hills of Suthya. It's far
enough from Rulyarth that most traders don't bother. Lousy roads, not
wide enough even for the cart. That's fine, because it's cheaper just to
take two horses on the coasters."
   "Things are really bad?" He stops by the well and draws some water,
pouring it over his hands, ignoring the chill.
   Liedral shivers. "Isn't that cold?"
   "Yes, even for me." He walks toward his room, and Liedral follows.
Once inside, he dries his cold hands on his working towel. Liedral sits
on the bed and shivers. He lifts the quilt and wraps it around her.
   "Your hands are warm already."
   "I've learned a few things already from being a healer." He settles
into the hard chair that has replaced the stool.
   "Your room is cold." Liedral wraps the faded quilt around her more
tightly. "You must be related to mountain cats, or something else that
prowls in the cold. And yes, things are bad. You don't even write me
back."
   "I've sent you a letter."
   "How?"
   "Like you told me. Through Jarnish."
   "You really did?" Liedral squirms on the hard pallet.
   "I did. I'll admit I only sent it an eight-day ago, but I did get
around to writing you. I didn't expect to see you this soon."
   "You didn't?"
   "Not from your letters. You were talking spring."
   "I didn't know about the beach runners."
   "Neither did I." He shifts his weight, then gets up. "What about
another model?"
   "I can't pay you . .."
   "We can do it the same way you did last time. This one's different."
   "That's probably better, if it's as good."
   "You judge." Dorrin returns with an object almost a cubit long.
   "What is it?"
   "A boat. You wind this, and these bands tighten."
   Liedral points at the stern. "What's that?"
   "Oh .. . that's a screw. It's like a fan, except it pushes water
instead of air."
   "But what does it do?"
   Dorrin grins. "When it pushes the water, it makes the boat go in this
direction. I made it to see if the idea really worked. The bands here are
a rubber and string mixture. They really don't work that well. The rubber
comes from Naclos. The druids don't always trade, and that makes it hard
to get."
   "I've heard. I never been that far south, though."
   "When I build a full-sized ship, it will have a real engine."
   "Engine?"
   "A machine that will turn the screw like the bands do."
   Liedral takes the model. "The bands seem simpler."
   "They don't work as well when you build them bigger."
   Liedral looks over the boat. "Why do you want to sell it?"
   "I've done better ones." He holds up his hands. "The second one has a
spring, but it isn't big enough."
   "You amaze me."
   Dorrin looks at the rough-planked floor.
   "You work like a smith. You're a healer, and you make wonderful toys-"
   "Models."
   "Models ... whatever..." She pauses. "Why did you write me?"
   "Because ... I think of you. It's different."
   "Would you sit next to me? Please?"
   Dorrin sits on the end of the pallet.
   Liedral edges next to him. "I came to see you. Not to make coins. Not
to make polite conversation."
   "I know. But I feel... so ... young."
   Her arms are surprisingly strong as she pulls him to her, and her lips
are warm on his.
   After the kiss and embrace that seems timeless, he looks at her. "I
missed you."
   "I missed you. And I'm not that much older than you, especially in
love."
   "But..."
   "Look at me, the way you do when you're healing."
   Dorrin does, and sees the rightness, the essential order. "Oh ..."
   "Now, do you see?"
   He nods. Knowing little of order, Liedral is still wise enough to know
that she needs order in her lover. He tightens his arms around her, and
her lips touch his again. Soon, not just lips touch, nor skin, nor souls.
 
 
LXX
 
"YOU'RE IMPOSSIBLE . . . AFTER last night . . ." Liedral's lips touch
Dorrin's, and his fingers dig into her bare back.
   "Last night... was just... the beginning."
   There is a rap on the door. Dorrin looks up. Another rap follows.
   "Yes?" Dorrin says.
   "It's Reisa. If you two lovebirds aren't too tied up, you might want
to bundle up and come up to the hilltop. I forgot. Tonight's Council
Night." Dorrin sighs. "Council Night?"
   "They'll be starting the fireworks soon."
   The two look and each other, then burst into giggles.
   ". . . fireworks, indeed," Liedral mutters, pulling on her shirt.
   "Couldn't we have both kinds?" Dorrin pleads.
   She throws one of her boots at him, but he ducks, and it crashes into
the wall. "All right."
   Dorrin shrugs, then frowns.
   She grins. "Don't worry about it. Let's go out into the cold and watch
the fireworks."
   Dorrin groans, but yanks on his shirt and boots. After they don
jackets, and Liedral pulls on a knit cap, Dorrin takes her face in both
hands, then brushes her lips with his.
   "Cold fireworks, first."
   "All right."
   Reisa and Petra stand on the hilltop, looking down on the frozen river
and the harbor beyond.
   "You did manage to venture out into the cold."
   "Ah . . . yes," Dorrin stumbles.
   The three women exchange knowing glances. Dorrin blushes and looks
toward the harbor.
   A skyrocket bursts, and pinwheels of light cartwheel from it, casting
momentary shadows of the leafless trees against the hills to the west.
The ice on the River Weyel shimmers.
   "It is beautiful." Liedral's voice is barely audible as the sounds of
the next skyrockets echo through the darkness. "What are they for?"
   "Celebrate the founding of the Council." Reisa snorts. "Not that the
Council'll last much longer unless they do something about the White
Wizards."
   Dorrin thinks about the skyrockets, about what powers them, and
whether the black powder would or could power a machine.
   Another crummp echoes through the velvet night as the shower of red
sparks it has delivered is already fading.
   "The Wizards don't move that fast," Liedral says slowly. "They're very
careful, very thorough. When they do move, it's usually too late to do
much."
   "Wonderful." Reisa coughs in the cold.
   Another rocket stews golden sparks across the black and white winter
sky. Petra clears her throat.
   Dorrin squeezes Liedral's hand, and she returns the pressure.
   Yet another explosion of light flares over the harbor.
   Reisa coughs, once, twice, and again. "Going in. Cold's too much."
   The three remain, near-silent, until the last rocket flares.
   Petra stamps her feet in the snow, turning back toward the house.
"Stupid time for fireworks. It's winter, for darkness's sake."
   Dorrin and Liedral grin at each other. Dorrin has to cover his mouth
and swallow hard.
   As they reach the yard, Liedral says softly. "Good night, Petra. Thank
your mother for telling us about the fireworks."
   "Good night, lovebirds." Petra's voice is warm, even as she closes the
kitchen door.
   "She's nice." Liedral squeezes Dorrin's hand again as the two cross
the frozen yard to his room.
   "She is. But you're special."
   "Like fireworks?"
   They grin again.
   Once inside the room, Dorrin slides the bolt.
   "I'm cold." Liedral has the quilt wrapped around her.
   "You need more fireworks?"
   A boot flies in his direction, and he ducks, then catches her. Their
lips meet again.
   "Fireworks ..."
 
 
LXXI
 
DORRIN AND LIEDRAL stand outside the barn in the cold, but bright,
morning light.
   "Do you want to take Meriwhen?"
   "Your precious mare?" She grins.
   Instead of answering, he bends down and crushes together the icy snow,
then straightens and throws it at her, spraying her with icy powder.
   "You ..." She edges closer to him, tilting her lips for a kiss.
   He bends forward, closing his eyes-and finds himself falling backward
into the hard packed snow next to the barn. In spite of himself, he
laughs, and she reaches down to help him up with gloved hands. Instead he
pulls her down and into his lap. They kiss once ... and again. In time,
he struggles upright, lifting Liedral with him.
   "You're much stronger than you look."
   "All that smithing. Do you want Meriwhen?"
   "No. I'll take the nag I bought."
   "What are you doing today?"
   "Being a trader. Trying to find what people will sell cheaply. I'll
know it when I see it. Part of it's just feel." She shrugs. "Just like
part of being a smith is feel."
   He opens the barn door, and they step inside, hand in hand. Dorrin
kisses her again, feeling the chill of her cheek and the warmth of her
lips.
   "Don't you have to go to the healer's this morning?" She breaks away.
   "I should." He sighs. "More hungry children, more broken bones."
   "Broken bones?"
   "Always women," he explains. "They say they have accidents. They're
lying, of course. When times are hard, the men beat them."
   "Can't you do something?" Liedral looks for the battered saddle for
the even more battered gray mare that shares the stall with Meriwhen.
   "What?" Dorrin takes a deep breath. "They won't leave the men. Where
would they go, especially in winter? What could they do? Most of the men
won't change." He pauses. "Look at you. You dress and act like a man. Why
can't you be a trader and a woman?"
   "People still fear the Legend, I guess."
   Dorrin hands her the worn brown saddle blanket, waits until she puts
it on the gray, and swings the saddle into place, deftly cinching the
girths.
   "You've gotten a lot better since we first met." She grins. "At a lot
of things."
   He finds himself blushing.
   "But you still blush the same way."
   He slips the gray's bridle in place.
   "I can do that. I was doing it before you knew what a horse was."
   "I know you can, but I like doing things for you." He hands her the
reins and begins to saddle Meriwhen. "Darkness!"
   "What?"
   "I forgot my staff. Have to get it on the way out." Meriwhen steps
sideways as he slips the hackamore in place.
   "That's a giveaway, you know?"
   "What?"
   "The hackamore. None of the great ones used bitted bridles, not
according to my father. He said even Creslin used a hackamore."
   "How did he know?"
   "According to the family tales, Creslin once was a guard for a distant
ancestor. That's why Freidr is so assiduous in courting the Whites in
Jellico." She snorts. "Much good it does us."
   Dorrin looks toward the barn door. "I suppose we ought to get moving."
   She leans toward him for another kiss. He obliges.
   "Later ..." she finally says, breathless.
   "That's a promise."
   She smiles as he opens the door. He watches until she turns left on
the main road toward Diev. Then he closes the door and leads Meriwhen
across the yard, leaving her outside for the moment it takes him to
reclaim his staff.
   After returning and setting the staff in the holder, he mounts, and
flicks the reins. "Let's go. Rylla will be complaining that I wasn't
there at dawn."
 
 
LXXII
 
DORRIN GLANCES AROUND the barn, but Leidral's gray is nowhere to be seen.
Quickly, he unsaddles Meriwhen, brushes her, and then hurries to his
room, where he deposits his staff and shirt. He looks at the stains that
resulted from his efforts to mix honey and spices. The shirt needs
washing, but washing is a chore in the winter. With a deep breath, he
pulls on the ragged shirt he wears in the smithy. He still thinks about
the fireworks. Can he obtain some cammabark or black powder? Where would
he store it? The old root cellar down the hill from Rylla's cottage?
   Vaos looks up from the grindstone. "Good day, master Dorrin."
   "Good day, Vaos."
   Yarrl sets the iron rod he is working back in the forge and wipes his
forehead. "Good thing you're here early."
   Dorrin sets the sledge on the clay by the anvil. "Why?"
   "Trader named Willum stopped by. The fellow who's a chandler." Yarrl
grips the tongs and nods toward the bellows. Vaos follows the implied
directions and begins to pump the bellows lever.
   "He was talking about one of those little toys you made for him,"
grunts the smith, withdrawing the metal from the forge.
   Dorrin shifts his grip on the sledge, following Yarrl's gestures as
the older smith moves the metal across the anvil's.horn.
   "... darkness good . . . smith ... for such a young fellow ..."
   The wiry young man has never mentioned his abilities to sense the
level of heat within the firebrick, or the order within the iron, nor
does he intend to, not after his brief visit in Fair-haven.
   The smith thrusts the metal back into the inferno. "Anyway, he's
headed down to Fenard in the next day or so ... wanted to know if you
could make him a few more . .. said he'd pay half silver each . . .
especially if you could do little boats of some sort. That mean anything
to you?"
   That Willum has stopped and asked for toys-and offered more coins-is
interesting. Dorrin does not whistle, but his lips are pursed. Nearly
automatically, he gestures to the bellows rod again, noting that the fire
needs more air. Vaos sighs and resumes pumping.
    "He likes my toys. I made a wagon, a windmill, and a sawmill. I could
do a boat, but that would be harder, especially to make it float
properly."
   "An iron boat? Even one that's part iron?" Yarrl coughs, then
swallows, wiping his forehead with the back of his bare forearm.
   "An empty bucket floats, doesn't it?-and it's part iron." Yard brings
the metal to the anvil, and Dorrin lifts the sledge.
   A half silver for his toys? He brings the sledge down, then lifts it.
Yarrl shifts the iron, and Dorrin strikes as they pick up an easy rhythm.
   At least twice, Dorrin looks over his shoulder, certain that someone
is there, but only the three of them are there.
 
 
LXXIII
 
"I DON'T WANT to go." Liedral's arms are tight around Dorrin.
   "I don't want you to go."
   "I've already stayed too long. You need more time ... and so do I."
   Dorrin wonders where the time has gone. Her horses-she has another
pack horse, bought cheaply because feed is scarce in Spidlar now-are
packed and heavily laden, and she can pick up one of the few coasters in
Spidlaria, but only if she leaves soon. Finally, he reaches out and
touches her, not just with his fingers, but with a touch of darkness,
blackness, that is soul. They stand, locked together, for yet one more
time before she breaks away.
   He watches the road long after the horses have vanished into the dawn
light. Then he washes and shaves in ice-cold water, and, as an
afterthought, washes the stained shirt he has promised himself he will
wash for almost an eight-day. He hangs it in his room and dons the
lighter one, and his jacket, then takes his staff and returns to the barn
to saddle Meriwhen.
   At least, he will be early at Rylla's. He snorts as he closes the barn
door and mounts. Meriwhen retorts with a whicker.
   "I know it's early. Traders get up even earlier than healers or
smiths." He whistles tunelessly as Meriwhen's hoofs crunch through the
road's crusted surface. Although the nights are cold, the days are
getting warm enough to melt the snow and ice. Spring will be welcome, but
how much mud will arrive with it?
   A feeling of melancholy brushes across him, and he straightens in the
saddle, for the feeling is somehow distant, not exactly his. His eyes
water. Is it from the wind? Liedral? How could he have asked her to stay?
Should he have gone with her? But what could he have done to make a
living? Now, at least, he is earning coins, from the extra smith work and
from his toys. When Willum had showed up the afternoon before, Dorrin
wished he had completed more than the half-dozen small toys. There had
only been one boat, and not his best work at that. But Willum had rubbed
his hands and paid on the spot.
   Meriwhen skitters slightly as a hoof slips on ice. Should he have
reshod her with ice shoes? It's too late in the winter for that, but
something to think about next fall. There is always something else he
should have done.
   He turns Meriwhen off the main road into the deeper unpacked snow of
the narrow way. The white smoke shows that Rylla, as usual, has a warm
fire burning.
   Dorrin ties Meriwhen at the post. The day will be warm-for winter. He
loosens his jacket as he walks to the door and opens it. Five people are
standing or huddling in the main room- three women, a boy, and Frisa, who
is held in Merga's arms, whimpering.
   Dorrin takes off his jacket and hangs it on the peg behind the door.
   "Least you're here when you're supposed to be." The grumpiness does
not hide the concern in Rylla's voice. "Kysta's got the flux; and
Weldra's covered with red blotches; and . . . maybe you'd better look at
little Frisa. Merga says she took a bad fall." Rylla's eyes fix on
Dorrin. "I still have some brinn that might help with the flux."
   "Do you have any astra?"
   "It's dried. Put 'em together, you think?"
   "With a herb tea. Rebekah said that it sometimes works."
   "Darkness .. . why not?"
   The thin and red-eyed young mother holds Frisa. "She can't walk."
   "You carried her here? How far is that?"
   "Down from Jisle's farm. A long two kays, master Dorrin."
   Dorrin gestures toward the stool. "Can you sit by the fire, Frisa?"
   A whimper answers his question.
   "You remember my horse? If you're good, I'll give you a ride home."
   "That not be necessary, ser," protests Merga.
   "You can't carry her back all that way."
   "I managed her here."
   Dorrin holds his sigh as Merga eases Frisa onto the stool. The child
winces. The young healer runs his fingertips along her neck, letting his
senses search out the injury. Pain and bruises cover her back and legs.
   The powdered willow bark will remove some of the pain, and he can
instill some order, but the child has little nourishment and less spirit.
   He studies the mother. Darkness on one cheek indicates a scarcely
healed bruise, and he can sense others, less well-healed. He stands
abruptly, glaring at the fire, his guts churning in rage. Finally, he
says softly, "I'll need to get something for you, Frisa."
   After walking to the kitchen and the cabinet next to the old-fashioned
hearth, which also burns, though little more than coals, he takes out the
jar with the willow powder and measures some into a small cup. Then he
pours a dash of herb tea into the cup and swirls the mixture. The taste,
he knows, is awful, but the potion does reduce pain and helps joints and
bruises heal. He stuffs a chunk of stale bread into his pocket when Rylla
is not looking.
   "... drink this," orders Rylla to the older crone with the cane. "None
of your nonsense, Kysta. Just drink it." The healer glances at Dorrin and
looks away.
   Dorrin carries the cup back to Frisa. "You need to drink this. It
doesn't taste very good, but it will make you feel better."
   "Don't want to."
   Dorrin looks at the battered child. "Please, child." His fingers touch
her wrist, and he tries to send a sense of reassurance.
   "Don't.. ."
   He looks into her eyes. "Please."
   "If I can have a ride."
   He nods and holds the cup. She gulps.
   "Awful. . .ugggg. .."
   "You were a good girl." He squeezes her hand, then stands up, looking
at the mother. "She can't walk yet. I'll give you both a ride."
   "But. .. Gerhalm ..." Sheer terror fills Merga's eyes.
   "I intend to see Gerhalm." Dorrin's words are like ice, and,
instantly, the entire cottage stills.
   "... darkness ..." whispers the old woman Kysta.
   The room is quiet long after Dorrin carries Frisa out to Meriwhen. He
boosts Merga up and then hands her daughter to her. He hands the stale
bread to the little girl. Then he begins leading the mare westward up the
hill.
   Jisle's farm is less than the two kays Merga promised, and Dorrin is
barely puffing when he leads the two into Jisle's barnyard. Three
one-room huts squat between the barn and what looks to be a fowl coop.
   "That be our cot." Merga points to the one nearest the barn, her voice
trembling.
   Dorrin sets Frisa on the flaking brick stoop. The door is of warped
and splitting pine with obvious gaps between the frame and the door
itself.
   "Who you be?" A squat man emerges from the barn and barrels toward the
three. He carries an axe.
   Dorrin lifts the staff from the holder, letting Merga dismount as she
may. "I'm Dorrin. I'm the healer that's trying to help your daughter."
   "Filling her head with ideas of horses. You're the one." Gerhalm holds
the axe in both hands.
   "Why do you beat them?" Dorrin tries to keep the anger from his voice.
   "Don't beat them. They just have ... accidents." Gerhalm's voice turns
oily.
   The blackness within Dorrin surges forth, and he drops his staff and
grabs the heavier man with both hands, letting the blackness flow through
him into the farm worker.
   Gerhalm tries to wrench free, but the smith's arms are as hard as
black iron. "... darkness ... no ... no ... NOooo ..."
   When Dorrin releases the man, Gerhalm sinks onto the step, the axe
dropping in the dirty snow by his feet.
   "You will never lift a hand to either Merga or Frisa. Ever!"
   Merga backs away from Dorrin and her man, eyes flickering from the
blackness that seems to enshroud the healer.
   Gerhalm drops to the snow, almost groveling. "Don't... not that..."
   "Get up," Dorrin orders.
   Gerhalm backs away from the healer. "Not again, master ... not again."
   Frisa sits on the stoop, still chewing on the last crust of the bread.
Dorrin turns to Merga, who has sunk onto her knees.
   "I didn't know," she whispers. "I'd a not done it to Gerhalm ..."
   "I didn't hurt him. He just won't beat you again."
   "I didn't know ..." The young mother refuses to look at Dorrin as he
remounts Meriwhen.
   "'Bye, horsey," calls Frisa.
   All the ill have left Rylla's cottage by the time he returns.
   The old healer shakes her head. "Darkness ... what you did! You put a
curse on Gerhalm, too?"
   "Hardly." Dorrin's laugh is forced. "I couldn't curse a soul. I did
put an order command on him. He can't lay an angry hand on either."
   "For a man, these days, that be a terrible curse." Rylla's laugh is as
harsh as his. "What will ye do when he leaves her?"
   "You think he will?"
   "Not in the next few eight-days, but by summer's end." She leans back
in the chair, sipping her herb tea.
   "I don't know." He takes a deep breath. "I'd better think about
planting spices and building my own cottage. If that's all right with
you."
   "Be fine with me. No one'd touch an old healer with a Black master
living near."
   "I'm not a Black master."
   "Maybe not yet. Nearest thing to one around, though." She takes
another sip from the chipped mug. "Might as well be getting you back to
old Yarrl."
   "Might as well."
   "Your mind still on your lady trader?" Rylla smiles.
   Dorrin shakes his head. That kind of understanding he will never have.
   The ride back is quiet, except for the splashing of Meriwhen's hoofs
in the melting ice and snow. When he opens the bam door, he sees Reisa.
   "You're back early." Reisa is breaking apart a bale of hay to feed the
mule and the bay.
   "I was helping a child who was beaten." He removes his staff from the
holder and leans it in the corner.
   "She'll just be beaten again. That type never changes."
   "No." Dorrin's voice is flat. "He'll never beat her again."
   "You didn't.. . use your staff?"
   "No. I was more cruel." Dorrin is all too aware of the darkness in his
eyes as Reisa steps back. "I bound him never to hit either the mother or
the child."
   "Darkness . . . some ways you scare a body."
   "Sometimes I scare myself." Dorrin finishes loosening the saddle
girths and removes the saddle, racking it carefully. He folds the
blanket, then removes the hackamore. Meriwhen is happier with it, and he
needs no bitted bridle. He takes the brush and begins to groom the mare.
Reisa stands and watches. Zilda clinks her chain from the far corner of
the barn.
   "Why did you let her go?" asks Reisa when he finishes. "The trader?"
   "Because she needed to go. Because I won't hold her when she needs
space. Because I'm still confused."
   "You're young." She frowns. "The young always make their own mistakes.
By the time you learn, you're old, and the young won't listen."
   Dorrin asks gently, "What are you trying to tell me?"
   "Life is short, Dorrin. Too short." She lifts her handless arm. "I
thought I'd always be able to match a blade with anyone. Sometimes, it
only seems like yesterday. Twenty years- gone in a flash. Most of them
were good years, but the good ones went with the bad."
   Dorrin closes the stall door and puts the curry brush on the shelf.
Meriwhen whickers softly.
   "White Wizards are closing in. Hope you see her again. Next time,
don't let her go, no matter what she tells you." Reisa coughs, wipes a
damp eye, and then takes the curry brush. "Bay needs brushing." She opens
the second stall door. "Better get into the smithy 'fore Yarrl kills
himself doing too much. That way, you two come from the same cloth."
   Dorrin walks slowly across the packed snow toward his room to change.
Was he wrong to let Liedral go? But how could he demand she stay? He can
barely support himself. His head aches as he thinks of the golds in his
strongbox. No-that is not true. He can only support himself if he wants
to build his machines.
   His eyes burn, even as his head throbs. Things had been simpler, much
simpler, before Liedral came.
 
 
LXXIV
 
A THIN LINE of smoke dribbles into the clear blue-green sky ahead of the
column of riders. Brede hunches down in his jacket to keep his ears
warmer against the wind, even as the squad plods east on the rolled and
packed snow of the road to Fenard. Unlike the bare-headed Brede, Kadara
wears a knit cap. Both wear heavy fleece-lined gloves.
   "Damned wind ..."
   "You're always damning something, Vorban."
   "Shut the frig up, Sestal."
   Brede and Kadara exchange glances and headshakes.
   "Why should I? You complain too much. Least we're getting paid. You
want to be some peasant farmer? Sit buried under this snow waiting for
the spring to turn it all to mud?"
   "Paid for what-freezing our asses off chasing thieves that aren't
thieves? Pretty soon, we'll be fighting Certan regulars. Then what?"
   "All right," snaps the squad leader.
   Kadara's eyes fix on the smoke. "Another trader, I'd bet."
   "On his way back," Brede adds.
   "How do you figure that?" asks Vorban, riding behind Brede.
   Brede turns in the saddle. "That way, they get his goods and coin, and
Spidlar gets nothing. It doesn't hurt their traders, just ours."
   "All right," repeats the squad leader.
   "... all right..." mimics Vorban, in a voice low enough not to be
heard beyond those around him.
   The riders plod onward through the packed and crusted snow that has
refrozen, melted and refrozen.
   "Check your weapons."
   On the opposite hillside, a fire bums, and a handful of riders trot
uphill and eastward, leading three horses, and leaving behind two
smoldering wagons. They wear the dull purple of Gallos.
   "... shit..." mumbles Vorban.
   Brede and Kadara look wordlessly at each other.
   "... light and darkness ... shit..." repeats Vorban.
 
 
LXXV
 
THE SLENDER MAN in white looks again at the object on the table, then at
the box from which it came. His hands draw away from the darkness that
surrounds both. "Where did you get this, Fydel?"
   "A trader named Willum. In Fenard," replies the bearded man, also in
white, although he does not wear either the gold and white starburst on
his collar or an amulet around his neck.
   "It feels like something from Recluce."
   "With the Blacks' disdain of complex tools?" The stolid White Wizard
snorts. "You aren't saying that those iron-headed conservatives would
ever allow this, are you, Jeslek?"
   "Hardly. But the combination of natural wood, black iron, and
order-who else could produce that? Did the trader say where he got it?"
   "Not at first. I pressed him a little, and he sweated, but he didn't
say. Before he saw me, he was telling people that it was a miraculous toy
brought from afar. Someone asked him if the Black devils made it. He just
laughed and say it didn't come from that far away. I got him later-solved
several problems. Before he ... ah ..."
   "You didn't use chaos-fire, you idiot?"
   "I'm not that dense. Plain torture works fine. Then we took him out
onto the main road and made it look like another highway attack. The
Gallosians all thought it was just that."
   "You're awfully prolific with illusions. Is that wise?"
   Fydel shrugs. "The burned wagons and loot were real."
   "What did you find out?"
   "The crafter who made it lives in Diev. His name is Dorrin. No one has
heard of him."
   "Where's Diev? That's somewhere near the Westhorns, isn't it?"
   "It's a small seaport and mining town on the coast. It's about a
hundred kays west northwest of Spidlaria."
   "That could be even worse," muses the taller wizard with the golden
eyes.
   "Oh?" The stolid wizard's eyes dart to the toy on the white oak table.
   "Well... you pick it up and hold it, then."
   "I'd rather not," Fydel says apologetically.
   "What if it were a full-sized windmill? Built like this?"
   "They wouldn't use that much black iron in proportion. Besides, why
would they want to?"
   "Fydel." Jeslek's voice is hard, and the other wizard steps back. "Say
it were a ship or... whatever. What could you do to it?"
   "I'd leave it alone-but they can't built ships like that."
   Jeslek shakes his head. "Am I surrounded by idiots? They don't-not
now. This proves someone can. Do you want it to be Recluce?"
   "But it's not from Recluce." Fydel nods at the toy he has brought in a
box to avoid touching it more than necessary. "One craftsman isn't a
community."
   "Look at it," snaps Jeslek. "That contains solid carving, or some sort
of equivalent woodworking, worked black iron, and a small infusion of
order. That means a smith, a woodcrafter or toymaker, and a healer-or
someone who's all three. If this Dorrin is ... I've never seen anyone
like that."
   "So ... making toys . .. what danger is that?"
   "None. Just so long as he keeps making toys. And so long as Recluce
doesn't get the same idea." Jeslek studies the toy again, walking around
the circular table.
   The bearded wizard ducks backward, his tunic brushing the white stone
wall behind him. "Maybe he was from Recluce. They probably exiled him for
doing something like that."
   "They can't stay that stupid forever," returns Jeslek.
   "They're still reliving the legends of Creslin."
   "Let's just hope that they continue to do so." Jeslek turns to the
other wizard. "Put out word to all the road guards and inspection points
... and anyone else-you know what I mean. If there's anything about this
Dorrin, I want to know about it. Do you understand?"
   Fydel nods.
   "I'll keep this . .. darkness-damned thing ... for now." Jeslek looks
toward the doorway, and the other wizard inclines his head.
   "Good day, High Wizard."
   After Fydel leaves, Jeslek ponders the toy, thinking about the young
smith who has forged it. Does he know what power he possesses? Clearly
not. Like all the Blacks, he sees only a fraction of what is.
   He smiles as a light tap strikes his door. "Come in, Anya."
   The red-headed wizard slips in, again sliding the bolt behind her.
   "You don't have to lock it. Who would intrude?"
   "I do prefer privacy." She smiles demurely.
   Jeslek glances toward the window, and the darkness outside, lit
faintly by the whiteness of Fairhaven itself.
   "Your efforts against Spidlar are proving unexpectedly beneficial."
   "You mean, the business with the increased chaos energy? Of course."
Jeslek laughs, but his eyes do not echo the sound.
   "It's effective. Spidlar requires more order to survive, and you
create more chaos in Gallos and Kyphros."
   "That may be." He gestures to the toy on the table. "What do you
think?"
   Anya makes no move to touch it. "About what."
   "The toy there. Go ahead. Pick it up."
   "Is this a joke?" The red-headed wizard laughs, uncertainly, but she
does not touch the toy.
   "I see Fydel already told you about it."
   "What if he did?"
   "Oh, Anya." He shakes his head sadly. "We need to crush Spidlar before
this toymaker makes bigger things. And you worry and plot about whom you
would make my successor, and how you would use your body to control him."
   "You're impossible."
   "No. Just realistic. And slow. But not totally stupid."
   "Not totally." Anya settles into the chair next to the wine. "Would
you mind if I poured the wine?"
   "Please do."
   "You don't seem terribly upset."
   "Why should I be? White is White. An adder is an adder. My views won't
change you, and you are lovely. So why shouldn't I accept what you offer?
You're no real threat to me. To Sterol or Fydel, yes."
   "You seem rather sure of yourself." She fills two goblets.
   "I'm dense about these things, actually. You know that. But it doesn't
matter. You know that as well, although I'm sure you haven't told Sterol
that. So does he, although he hasn't told you. You both are waiting for
me to overreach myself. In times of troubles, every High Wizard does, you
know. I'm hoping to be the first who doesn't. You're betting I'm like all
the others."
   Anya takes a deep swallow. "This is ... rather... amazing."
   "Not at all." Jeslek steps up behind her and runs a hand under her
collar and across the skin of her shoulder. "Not at all."
 
 
LXXVI
 
OUT OF THE black predawn sky, the rain falls like iron nails driven into
the sodden snow-snow that an eight-day earlier had been waist deep in the
fields and hard-packed more than knee deep in the smithy yard.
   Dorrin hurries onto the porch, where he knocks slush and mud off his
boots, then brushes them with the shoe broom. After that, he wipes them
on the mat before stepping into the kitchen. Warmer than the cold damp
outside, the kitchen is still cool and dim, lit by a single oil lamp set
on the table.
   Yarrl sits at the end of the table, two slices of bread, each with a
wedge of cheese, before him. "Slop season."
   "It wasn't like this last year, was it?"
   "It was-just before you came. Only seen one spring that wasn't slop.
Don't want to see another. Drought was so bad half the animals died." The
smith chews through cheese and bread, his left hand on the mug of cool
cider.
   Dorrin cuts himself bread and cheese and looks in the cupboard for
some dried fruit. "Any fruit?"
   "No fruit. Damned White Wizards."
   "If that's a curse, you don't need it. They were damned by better
people a long time ago, and Creslin was the only one who made it stick."
Reisa, wearing a heavy sweater and bulky trousers, steps into the
kitchen. "There is dried fruit. Liedral left us a small cask of it. Mixed
pearapples and something else. I haven't opened it."
   "Woman, you haven't opened it, and it's like there isn't any." Yarrl
grumbles through a mouthful of bread and cheese.
   "No, it's not." Reisa slips shavings into the cold stove, uses a
striker to light a candle stub set in a holder, then uses the candle to
light the shavings. She waits for the shavings to catch before adding a
shovelful of stove coal. "I'll make bread for dinner, and it'll still be
warm for supper."
   "Fat good that does me now."
   Dorrin pours cool cider into a mug.
    "Can't argue with women, Dorrin. They don't answer what you ask, and
answer what you never thought of asking."
   "You can't argue with men, Dorrin," Reisa says evenly. "They don't
listen to what you say, and they hear what they want to, not what you
said."
   "I guess that means you can't argue," adds Petra from the doorway. She
looks at the half loaf of bread remaining on the cutting board, then
takes the knife and cuts two slices, offering the first to her mother.
   "Thank you." Reisa takes the bread with an eye still on the wide stove.
   "Worse than White Wizards . . . have an answer for everything, and
they're sneakier."
   Dorrin sits at the corner of the table. "Brede and Kadara say the
thieves are riding horses with Gallosian horseshoes-the kind with the
funny angles on the sides of the cleats."
   "If the cleats are angled, they're not properly cleats."
   "Father," snaps Petra, "stop being so difficult."
   "That doesn't sound good." Reisa, measuring flour into a bowl, looks
up. "Oh, Petra. I'll need milk earlier today."
   "It's raining an ocean out there." Petra looks into the dim dawn and
the curtain of water, then closes the door.
   "I still need the milk." Reisa coughs. "Before long, the Pre- feet
will be claiming that the midlands above Elparta belong to Gallos."
   "They never have," snorts Petra.
   "We're going to need nails, couple of small kegs of common
flatheads-longs and shorts. Werthen always wants a keg right after the
mud clears." Yarrl grins. "Doesn't like Antra's or Henstaal's."
   Dorrin groans. He hates making nails, even if the pattern is now easy.
   "A true smith-groans at nails, but makes 'em good. Darkness, that's
why smiths got strikers-to make nails, draw scrap into rods and bars."
Yarrl stands and drains the last cider from his mug. "Let's get moving.
Where's that worthless scamp?" He pretends not to notice as Vaos slips
into the kitchen.
   Petra slices a hunk of bread for Vaos and hands him a wedge of cheese.
Then she pulls a tattered oiled waterproof off one of the pegs by the
door.
   "Where is that worthless scamp?" asks Yarrl, still ignoring Vaos.
   "Playing with Zilda, probably," Dorrin answers, winking at Vaos.
   "Better not be playing with her. That's a she-goat."
   "Father..."
   Vaos gulps the cider that Reisa hands him. Reisa glances at Dorrin and
shakes her head. They both know that for Yarrl work comes before
politics, and discussing politics doesn't make nails or bread-or milk the
cow.
   Dorrin swallows the last of his hasty breakfast and heads for the
smithy.
 
 
LXXVII
 
A LOW FIRE burns in the long barracks room, and half a dozen troopers sit
on stools around the coals. Others lie on pallets away from the walls
through which drafts convey the chill of the cold rain on the melting
snow outside.
   Brede and Kadara sit midway between the fire and the small closed room
where the section commander is meeting with the squad leaders. Behind
that battered red oak door, the conversation continues, a muted
discussion loud enough for those outside to recognize that an argument
takes place, but muffled enough so that they cannot decipher the
substance.
   "Someone's unhappy." Kadara leans against Brede's shoulder.
   "Very unhappy." He touches her hand. "I'm glad we're not out in this
slop."
   "Me, too." She squeezes his hand in return. "We will be before long."
   "Thank you for reminding me, dear one."
   The door opens.
   "Brede?"
   Brede stands. "Yes, ser?"
   "The regional commander would like a word with you."
   Brede raises his eyebrows, shrugs, then steps toward the small room
where the squad leaders meet. The other troopers look away as the tall
blond man makes his way through the pallets. The oak door shuts with a
heavy click.
   "Trooper Brede, this is Commander Byskin."
   "Yes, ser." Brede inclines his head in a gesture of respect, standing
easily before the table, looking straight at the regional commander, a
middle-aged soldier, still trim, if compact. The commander is half bald,
and his remaining short-cut hair is half brown, half silver.
   "Is it true that you come from Recluce?" asks Byskin.
   "Yes, ser."
   "What would happen if the White Wizards caught you?"
   "I doubt that would happen, ser. They'd probably not want anyone from
Recluce as a prisoner."
   "Are you saying that they would execute you on the spot?"
   "If they could, ser."
   "Would you be interested in becoming the squad leader of a new squad?"
   "That sounds interesting, but, if you wouldn't mind, ser, could you
explain a bit more?"
   "You're cautious, aren't you?" Byskin laughs.
   "... and oh so polite ..." The whisper seeps into the room.
   Byskin looks in the direction of the three other squad leaders, and
absolute silence fills the room. "As I was saying, I have decided that we
need to do something different to stop all the raids on our traders.
After the last raid, where a rather prominent trader was killed, the
Council has authorized a larger expenditure to recruit a few additional
blades and form another squad. This squad would operate independently,
almost, if you will, waiting near the points where attacks seem to occur
..."
   Brede nods.
   "In view of your background ..."
   "You are asking if I would lead this squad?"
   "Yes, Brede. That is exactly what I am asking. You would receive the
same pay as other squad leaders, plus risk pay when in the field. Oh . .
. and, if you are agreeable, your assistant would be Trooper Kadara."
   Brede smiles politely. "I see."
   Byskin frowns. "Do you want the job?"
   "Who do I report to?"
   Byskin smiles, coldly. "To me, Squad Leader Brede. You are accountable
to me for all actions."
   "When do we start?"
   "You'll get your first recruits within the next few days. You'll have
two eight-days to get them in shape."
   Brede listens as Byskin continues to describe his new duties.
   "... not necessary to take prisoners, except in unusual circumstances
. .. three eight-days out, one back . . . primary emphasis on safety of
Council traders ..."
   When Brede steps out of the room, he wears a gold collar insignia, and
the barracks room is hushed. He sits beside Kadara on a stool.
   Kadara shifts her weight on the pallet, without commenting, as Brede
explains. Both ignore the wide space accorded them by the other troopers.
   "... and it's all a rather nasty job."
   "Why did you agree?"
   "I thought the alternatives were worse. None of the squad leaders
really likes having us in his squad. Also, I think we can make a
difference. I'm getting tired of riding up to find dead bodies and looted
wagons."
   "You haven't mentioned something else."
   "I didn't think I had to." He shrugs. "Until this is resolved, we
can't find a ship home."
   "We could cross the Westhorns this summer."
   "I don't like running away."
   "It's sometimes safer."
   Brede shakes his head. "You just get an arrow or a sword in your back."
   "If you think it's best..."
   "It's not 'best.' You know that. What else can we do?"
   "I don't know. I envy Dorrin. At least, he doesn't have to go out and
fight for his life all the time."
   "He will." Brede's voice is soft, almost sad. "He will."
 
 
LXXVIII
 
"WHERE DID YOU get this?"
   "From one of our traders in Spidlar," answers the square-bearded Fydel.
   "This doesn't look like-"
   "It's not the original. I had it copied, and then had him send it on."
   "That was a good idea." Jeslek glances at the copy on the white
parchment of Fairhaven.
   Liedral-
   Your letter did arrive, and without much delay, given its path. I must
apologize for being so late in responding, but I am not a good writer.
   I was surprised to learn that my small models have any market at all,
let alone more than a single buyer. Perhaps I should go into the
toy-making business. It could not be much harder than smithing, and it
might pay somewhat more. Upon reflection, it might not. The winter was
cold here, and hard upon the less fortunate.
   I have been working as a healer also, and it is sometimes sad. The
chill is hardest upon the children and the old. In the cold, when the
flux struck, the old ones often died so quickly. I could sometimes save
the young ones, but there were too many to save them all. Rylla, the
healer who is teaching me, tells me that I cannot heal just the needy,
for a healer without coin soon needs his own healer. The water is
generally better in the winter, except in the towns, but people still
think I am strange when I tell them to boil it in a kettle before
drinking it. Most would rather drink beer or wine, but who among the poor
can afford either?
   Kadara and Brede spend much time on the road now. Even in winter, it
seemed like the banditry and raids continued. It does not seem natural,
given the impassibility of all roads except the main ones that are packed
and rolled by the traders. Even dried fruit is hard to come by, and spice
shipments are almost nonexistent. That may provide some more coins come
late summer, assuming you can reach Spidlar by coaster.
   In some ways, it seems as though I have known you much longer than for
two short times together, and I do hope that it will not be too long
before your trading brings you back.
   Dorrin
   "I assume you are following this to track the recipient?"
   "We already know. It's a trader named Liedral-"
   "That's obvious."
   "-who works out of Jellico. She generally passes for a man, but does
not pay dues to Fairhaven. She uses the back roads. Because she is less
successful, no one has paid much attention. That's also because she comes
from an old Jellico family. Her brother is active in local politics."
   "How active?"
   "He's on Sterol's payroll, I think."
   "Oh ... so our good friend Sterol continues his spy network?"
   Fydel raises both eyebrows. "You would expect any less?"
   "Not really." Jeslek grins.
   "Do you want some sort of accident to occur?"
   "Not yet. I need to think about this." Jeslek looks at the glass on
the table, then quickly out the window and into the rain.
   "Is that all?"
   Jeslek nods, but does not turn as Fydel leaves and closes the door
behind him. Then he looks at the mirror and concentrates. The image of
Dorrin appears in the mirror. This time the smith is working on something
black and small. Abruptly, Dorrin looks up, and his eyes appear to meet
Jeslek's before the mists close over the image.
   "Hmmm ..." The Black smith is getting stronger, much stronger. Still,
he is young and attracted to the female trader. Jeslek paces from one
side of the tower room to the other.
   Then, too, there is the problem with Fydel. Delaying giving the letter
to him for nearly a season-that was a bit much, almost an insult. Jeslek
laughs, thinking about the ships nearing completion.
 
 
LXXIX
 
DORRIN STRUGGLES WITH the wedge-shaped warren, slowly turning the clayey
soil to extend Rylla's garden for the whiter-spice and potatoes.
Gardening is even harder than smith work, or so it seems, but that may be
because of all the small insects that seek him out.
   He brushes away a horsefly, not wanting to spend time or energy on
wards. He wipes his forehead, wrinkling his nose at the pile of manure he
must yet turn into the soil. While there is certainly a growing market
for spices, or will be, if he can raise more, he still forgets that even
wonderful ideas take work.
   With a deep breath he starts on the second furrow. Halfway down the
row, he wipes his forehead again, swatting at some other flying insect.
He glances toward the knoll above the pond, mentally measuring. If ... He
shakes his head. Already he is aiming at another project. He has not even
set the foundation stones for the cottage and smithy, and he is planning
piping water.
   He takes up the warren again, thinking wistfully of the steaming
smithy and hammers, and even of making nails. He laughs.
   By midmorning he has completed what he has set out to do. Tomorrow he
will plant the seeds and cuttings. Rylla can do some of the watering.
   "That's not a garden; it's a field. I suppose you expect me to water
and weed it?" Rylla's voice is gruff, but there is a sparkle in her eyes.
   "Only some of the time. We'll need it all."
   "Have more spices than ..." She coughs. "Can you sell them all?"
   "I hope not, but I bet we will. Even the potatoes on the end."
   "This something you've learned from your blade friends?"
   "They made Brede a squad leader and added another squad."
   "Ah ... and the Council's never been known to be generous with its
coin, or favorable to someone tinted Black."
   Dorrin thinks about the need for... something ... to stop the Whites.
"Do you have any saltpeter?"
   "Not if you're a-fooling with black powder. 'Sides, a good White will
just set it off from a distance."
   "I had something else in mind."
   "Don't want my cottage in flames, Dorrin."
   'Til use the old root cellar."
   "I'll get ye some redberry." Rylla walks slowly back into the cottage.
   Dorrin hopes her comment is tacit assent. Is he trying too much?
Probably, but time is growing short. Something is happening, something
beyond the White Wizards' trying to bankrupt the Spidlarian traders, or
even take over Spidlar itself. The Whites are not all that good in
battle, and yet they control almost all of eastern Candar. Have they
accomplished it all through subversion? Greed? Bribery?
   He thinks of Fairhaven itself and laughs at the irony. They have held
what they hold because they have provided a basically more orderly
government than what preceded-and they really do not govern. They let the
old Dukes, Counts, Viscounts and Prefects govern, just leaving a White
Wizard at hand in each of the old domains. Shaking his head, he turns and
follows Rylla.
 
 
LXXX
 
DORRIN GUIDES MERIWHEN along the rain-splashed paving stones, past the
Red Lion and then past the Tankard. The beggar woman and her child sit on
the weathered mounting block that once served a building that no longer
exists.
   "A copper, master? Even a half-penny, for a widow and her child?"
   Dorrin knows he is not exactly charitable, but the woman's whine gets
on his nerves, and he has never seen her do anything but beg. He ignores
her cries and rides toward the chandlery.
   Somehow the building looks different. His eyes study the crossed
candles of the sign, and he realizes that there is no name above them. He
enters the store, carrying both saddlebags and staff. The potbellied
stove, unneeded now that the cold weather has passed, still stands in the
middle of the floor, and the oak counter runs along the right side of the
room. The hangings still block the way to the back room, and Roald still
stands behind the counter.
    "Yes, ser?" asks Roald, eyeing the staff warily.
   "The changes ..." Dorrin offers vaguely.
   "Not too many, ser. Ser Willum's son and widow have retained me to
continue the business and to train young Halvor."
   "I had not heard the details."
   "The highwaymen, ser. The guards found his body, but his goods and
profits were gone." Roald glances at the bags Dorrin carries. "You were
the one with the elaborate toys?"
   Dorrin nods. "Ser Willum held them in some favor."
   "Perhaps we might take one or two, ser Dor ..."
   "Dorrin."
   "Thank you, ser. We might take one or two, ser, but since we must rely
on others for travel now ..."
   "I understand." Dorrin removes an assortment of the smaller toys. "I
would presume that the smaller ones would be more appropriate."
   "I would think so. Perhaps the boat, here, and the mill? For, say, a
half-silver?" Dorrin smiles politely. "Even at his best, ser Willum paid
almost four apiece."
   "Ah ... but we cannot trade that much now. The best, and I would not
offend, ser Dorrin, would be a half silver and a penny."
   Dorrin can sense Roald's fear and concerns, and he nods to the man.
"Times are difficult all over. Six it is."
   Roald smiles, as much in relief as pleasure. "A moment, ser."
   Dorrin packs away the others, leaving the boat and mill on the counter.
   "Here you be."
   "Thank you." Dorrin inclines his head. "Might there be other iron
items that would be of use?"
   Roald pauses, then shakes his head. "None that I can think of."
   "Thank you."
   As he leaves, he thinks about Roald's manners. The clerk had been too
deferential to a mere toymaker or smith, not really as interested in
haggling as in getting Dorrin out of the store. And Roald needs iron
goods, but doesn't want to get them from Dorrin. Is Roald worried about
Dorrin, or something else? For whatever reason, it's clear that he will
have to find other ways to sell his toys, or other items to sell, or
others to sell to. What about Jasolt or Fyntal? Or should he talk to
Hasten at the Guild?
   Dorrin puts the staff in the lanceholder and swings up into the
saddle, turning Meriwhen toward the harbor and the small, shedlike
building that holds the Guild. The rail outside the building is empty of
other mounts, and the wind off the harbor carries an icy edge to it, as
if winter lingers on the water a season behind the land.
   Carrying his staff, Dorrin steps through the open pine door, looking
for Hasten in the comparative dimness of the long room.
   "Who ye be looking for?" Hasten looks up from some sort of ledger.
   "I'm Dorrin, Hasten, if you might recall..."
   "Oh ... the artisan fellow." The gray-haired man sits back in his
chair. "Sit down. Don't mind me, but the old bones haven't recovered from
winter." Dorrin sits, wondering if Hasten is the same man who had been so
skittish the last time he had come to join the Guild. "What can I do for
you?"
   "I was wondering if you might have some ideas-"
   "Ideas? Of course, I have ideas, but the free ones are worthless,
usually." The older man chuckles.
   "-about who else besides Willum trades in novelties like my toys."
   "Ah, yes, poor Willum. Fyntal told him it was a bad idea to go
overland to Fenard, not that you can go any other way. Ha ... ha ...
Traders in toys? Hmmmm? You make those fancy ones. I don't know for sure,
but that young fellow, Jasolt, ships high-end goods to Suthya. And
Vymil-he's over by the third pier-he has something going with the
Hamorians. They're big on novelties. Maybe that other old fellow ...
Risten ... he's got a small place by Jasolt's." Hasten shrugs. "Offhand,
that'd be where I'd be starting."
   "Where is Jasolt?"
   "Oh . . . he's at sea now, I understand, but his store is on the short
street-Pearapple Place, he calls it-behind Willum's place. Is it true
that his clerk Roald is running the chandlery?"
   "That's what I understand." Dorrin shifts in the hard chair. "Terrible
mistake, if you ask me. No business sense at all. Good at selling to
townspeople, but no sense of value." Dorrin rises slowly. "I appreciate
your advice." "Not at all. Not at all. You won't mind me if I don't see
you out, master Dorrin?" "Darkness, no."
   "Don't forget that your annual dues need to be paid before midsummer."
   "I won't." Dorrin heads back into the welcome cool of the harbor
breeze. Even the faint odor of decaying fish is preferable to the close
Guild office.
   He fastens his staff back in place and rides down to the end of the
third pier. He finds the sign easily enough-Vyrnil's. There are no
pictures, just the name, indicating the higher nature of the trader's
clientele.
   Dorrin walks inside the small building, looking at the open bins along
both sides of the walls. In each are different goods, and each set of
goods is neatly organized. A circle of chairs is formed around the desk
in the center of the small building. The single man in the building rises
and steps toward Dorrin.
   "Hmmm . . . dark staff, brown clothes, red-haired and younger than the
average tradesman-you wouldn't be Dorrin, would you?" asks the
white-haired man with a tanned but wrinkled face. The trader wears a
faded blue shirt above equally faded trousers. His boots are dark
polished leather.
   "Ah . .. yes. How did you know?"
   "Fyntal described you at the midwinter Council meeting. He said you
were dangerous, but most orderly. Then Willum told me you made ingenious
toys. Willum's dead, and Roald doesn't travel. Jasolt's at sea. So"-he
shrugs-"I guessed. It impresses people. What can I do for you?"
   "Buy some toys," Dorrin suggests, responding as directly as the trader
has opened the conversation.
   "I'd be happy to, in principle. In practice, that depends on the toys
and the price." The trader gestures to a small table beside the desk.
   Dorrin sets out the toys.
   Vyrnil studies each in turn, slowly, checking each one, walking around
the table as he looks, as if he can never quite stay in one place.
"You're stamping the gears here, rather than cutting them, aren't you?"
   "For toys, it doesn't seem to make much difference."
   "It probably doesn't. Besides, who could afford to cut gears for small
toys? The stamping idea is a nice touch." He sets down the boat. "I like
this best, but they'll all sell in Hamor and Nordla. I won't quibble the
way Willum did. Four pennies each, rounded up to the nearest half-silver."
   Dorrin lays out the ten toys he has left.
   "That'd be four and a half. Let's say five, if you'll let me see the
whole lot first next time."
   Dorrin studies the trader.
   "How did I know? I have a boy watching the competitors. Roald's sharp
enough to buy some of what you offer, but won't take risks. And no one
makes uneven numbers of different styles, especially someone as orderly
as you."
   Dorrin shakes his head and laughs. "I'm afraid you have me pegged,
ser." Vyrnil returns the laugh. "No. You have me pegged. I'm the one
buying."
   Dorrin shrugs, even as Vyrnil is counting out the five silvers.
   "Here you go, Dorrin. I probably can't take any more until after
midsummer. I hope to see you then." He walks Dorrin to the door and
watches as the younger man mounts.
   Dorrin tries not to frown as he turns Meriwhen back toward Yard's. Who
is Vyrnil? Just an abnormally sharp trader? Or more? He certainly has no
sense of chaos about him, and his building is orderly, even if the man is
personally overwhelming.
   The scent of rain builds as Meriwhen carries him past the Tankard and
back uphill into upper Diev.
 
 
LXXXI
 
"ARCHERS! NOW!" BREDE'S voice booms across the hillside.
   Nulta, Westun, and Clyda rise from behind the low wall and loose their
arrows, firing in succession, not in volleys. One arrow clunks on the
stone wall by the first wagon. Another slices through the purple clover
of early summer on the highland plains. A herd of distant black-faced
sheep graze on.
   "Ambush! It's an ambush!"
   One purple-clad rider grasps his shoulder. Another looks toward the
stone wall. "... where are the bastards?"
   The trader who has been fending off a saber with a staff uses the
distraction to deliver a crashing blow to another rider. The Gallosian
looks from the trader to the archers, and slashes wildly before urging
his horse back along the road to Gallos. One rider clutches at his chest,
tumbling off his mount, one foot tangled in the stirrup and hobbling his
mount.
   "... east! Back along the road."
   "Mount!" Brede's voice is low, but the response is instantaneous, and
the Spidlarian squad waits for the arrival of the raiders.
   Hoofbeats drum on the damp clay as the Gallosians pound down the road
away from the archers and their arrows.
   "Now!" Brede's sword is like lightning-two Gallosians fall before they
even understand the blond giant is among them.
   "... bastards . .."
   "... aeeii..."
   Kadara, double swords cutting through arms and necks, follows in
Brede's wake. Brede wheels and starts back through the Gallosian raiders,
dropping one raider, then another. The eight others do less damage,
cutting down perhaps four others among themselves.
   A single horseman struggles through the melee and heads uphill. Kadara
wheels her mare after the man, bending low in the saddle. He looks back,
sees the pursuer and spurs his horse.
   Kadara smiles, but lets the mare run easily. Another kay, and she is
within a rod of the flagging horse.
   The Gallosian turns in the saddle, sees the single female guard, and
grins, raising his saber.
   The grin drops from his face as Kadara drops the reins and lifts the
dagger-pointed Westwind shortsword-then hurls it into his back. She slams
aside his weak saber parry with the longer sword and rips it through his
throat backhandedly.
   When the raider slumps over his saddle and his horse slows, Kadara
catches the reins, slows, and cleans both weapons. Then she leads the
horse, bearing the dead Gallosian, back toward the rest of the squad.
   As she nears the site of the skirmish, she can hear the shovels. The
traders, of course, are gone, hurrying back toward Elparta, recognizing
the dangers of attempting to reach Gallos-at least on this day. "They'll
try some other road in another eight-day ... the idiots," murmurs Kadara.
   "... she-cat got another one ..."
   "... wouldn't want her after me . .."
   She reins up beside the other woman blade. Jyrin is digging a grave.
Kadara tumbles the dead raider from his mount, expertly removes perhaps
two silvers in assorted coins, as well as a knife, two rings, and a
pendant, and the saber and scabbard. "Want to take a rest and let me
start on this one?"
   Jyrin hands the shovel to Kadara. "Be my guest."
   Kadara cuts through the turf and lays it aside, then begins to dig
through the damp clayey soil. She does not halt as Brede rides up and
surveys the two partly dug graves.
   "Remember. Try not to leave too much in the way of traces." He rides
on the next group.
   "Don't know as it makes much difference," opines Jyrin. "What do you
think?"
   Kadara brushes away a fly as she does so. "I guess the idea is to have
these Gallosians disappear. How would you feel if a whole squad just
vanished?"
   "Don't know as I'd like that. That why you chased down the last one?"
   "Yes." Kadara continues digging.
   "I wondered about the shovels." Jyrin looks from the two bodies to the
blond squad leader overseeing another set of graves. "You two are scary .
. . real scary."
   Kadara brushes back the sweat from her forehead, wishing the heat of
summer had held off, before continuing to deepen the unmarked grave.
 
 
LXXXII
 
DORRIN STUDIES THE three piles, comparing each to the fourth, the one
filled with dark gray granules, letting his senses enfold one after the
other.
   Finally, he understands ... enough. Carefully he replaces the yellow
powder in its jar, the white in its jar, and the charcoal in its
container. The gray powder he carries over to the barrel in the corner,
where he eases the iron-bound wooden cover off and carefully pours the
powder back. After climbing up the packed clay steps, he lifts the
battered door, holding on firmly while closing it against the winds that
precede the thunderstorm.
   His caution in dealing with the powder only during storms may be
excessive, but he recalls the feelings of being watched and his father's
lessons about how storms disrupt the far-seeing powers of the White
Wizards.
   Leaning against the near-gale, he makes his way uphill from the old
root cellar, the one that has outlasted the house that once stood there,
past the trees that are more than saplings and less than mature oaks, and
back to Rylla's cottage. He glances toward the other knoll, the one by
the stream where he will build, if he can, his own cottage. He and
Liedral will need somewhere to live and to work.
   He pauses by the enlarged garden as heavy rain droplets begin to fall,
bending and letting his fingers caress the blue green of the Winterspice
sprouts and the pale, almost white brinn. If they continue to thrive,
there will be enough for Vyrnil or Liedral or someone to sell. He hurries
toward the cottage as the wall of rain walks down the hillside. Stopping
to untie Meriwhen, he leads her under the broad side eave of the cottage.
   Rylla is grinding herbs as he walks into the main room.
   "The storm's about to hit."
   "Like as to the demon's own," mutters the healer.
   "Me or the storm?"
   "Oh, the thunderstorms are like as to the White Wizards. Filled with
lightning and lots of rain. When they're over, they're over. You, Dorrin
. . ." She shakes her head. "You're like a deep river-all calm on the
top, the kind the rivermen love and respect, and fear."
   "Me?"
   "You. What you're doing with your twiddles, this old woman doesn't
know, but you're going to change the world if the Whites don't get you
first."
   "You believe that, and you let me stay here?"
   "This old world needs changing, child. What do I have to lose?" Her
hands hold the pestle, and she continues to grind in the deep mortar.
"Don't know as I like how you did it, but you stopped that Gerhalm from
killing Merga and her child. Already those sprouts in the garden are
taller than any I'd plant would be by midsummer."
   "Anything I can do?"
   "In a moment." She empties the mixture of dried and crushed leaves
into a small clay jar and corks it, then wipes the mortar clean. "You can
grind some pepper."
   "Just pepper?"
   "You asked if you could help."
   Dorrin takes the mortar.
   Rylla hands him the bowl of peppercorns. "Just a thumbful or so, for
soup. It's always chill after a mountain thunderstorm, and these old
bones get cold."
   "You're hardly that old."
   "All healers are old. Even you are. And start grinding the pepper."
   After the worst of the storm has passed, Dorrin reclaims Meriwhen,
pleased that she has not gnawed the bushes-not that she likes the elder
bushes anyway-and wipes the saddle as dry as he can. He really needs a
small stable to go with the cottage he plans. Every time he plans
something, it gets more complicated. Then again, perhaps that is life.
   The sun shines on his damp shirt by the time he rides into the yard
behind the smithy. He waves to Petra, who is raking out Zilda's pen, and
receives a quick wave in return.
   After he has finished a quick currying of Meriwhen, and as he is
closing the stall, Reisa walks into the barn.
   "That trader, the thin one from Diev, he stopped by this morning and
left this for you." Reisa hands Dorrin the folded parchment. "He seemed
almost relieved when I said you weren't here. He left in a hurry."
   Dorrin frowns, looking at the seal, letting his senses touch the wax.
Both the hint of chaos around the seal and the wax itself tell that the
letter has been opened and resealed. "He well might."
   "You don't like him?"
   "There's something there that bothers me," Dorrin temporizes, trying
not to reveal the discomfort the evasion causes.
   "It's more than a little something."
   Dorrin shrugs rather than say more about Jamish. "I need to get into
my smithing clothes."
   "I'll bet you read the letter first." Reisa grins.
   Dorrin blushes.
   "Still in love?"
   He keeps blushing, even as he walks toward his room.
   The room, shutters and window open, is still almost stifling as he
eases open the seal and begins to read.
   Dorrin-
   It took a long time to get back to Jellico, since the coaster's
captain didn't want to risk Tyrhavven and couldn't afford the dues at
Lydiar. We ended up in Pyrdya, a sad port, if you can call it that. I
rode my nags to Renklaar and took a river barge up to Hydolar. That took
two eight-days against the current, but I needed to save the horses for
the hills on the way home.
   I did sell your toy in Hydolar, but have kept the money until someone
trustworthy is headed in your direction. I hope you get this letter, but
since I cannot be sure, I am not sending coin with it.
   The warehouse was a mess. Freidr was upset because I wasn't there, and
the Viscount had insisted on inspecting all trading houses. The supposed
reason was that someone had stolen some goods belonging to the White
Wizards. Of course, no one ever said exactly what those goods were. And
we got such a thorough inspection that a lot of goods that were there
when I left are nowhere to be found.
   Spring had almost ended when I arrived home, and the heat of summer
has already begun to press down upon us. There may be some coin to be
made on a quiet run to Sligo northeast of Tyrhavven. I cannot leave too
quickly, because the warehouse will take some more work.
   I also miss you. I miss the laughter, even the snow in the face, and
sitting in the cold talking. Sometimes, I think I should have stayed, but
how could we have managed? I'm an impoverished trader, and you are a
struggling smith. For that matter, how could Freidr have managed? But I
miss you, my love.
   Liedral
   Dorrin purses his lips. Nothing in the letter is odd or strange. Why
would a White Wizard be interested in a letter between two lovers? And
what White Wizard? The one who looked over all of them on the road from
Fairhaven had dismissed them casually. Is Freidr tied up with the Whites?
Liedral's brother is certainly not a White himself; that Dorrin would
have known even when he met the man.
   He refolds the letter and places in inside the wooden box. He misses
Liedral, and the broken seal on the letter nags at him.
   He pulls off his brown shirt, now showing some considerable wear, and
pulls on the near-ragged castoff he uses in the smithy. Nails-he will
probably be making nails, or something equally stimulating.
 
 
LXXXIII
 
AFTER BRUSHING AWAY a fly, which buzzes towards Kadara, Brede takes a
deep pull of the cold redberry. "How do you keep it cold?"
   "In the well," answers Petra. "Dorrin says that the water comes from
the Westhorns."
   Kadara waves away the fly, looking toward the goat pen. "Is that the
one you saved?"
   "Zilda? The white terror?" Dorrin laughs. "She'll chew on anything. So
she spends more time in the pen these days."
   "Especially when company's here." Reisa brings out a chair from the
kitchen and sets it in the corner nearest the smithy door.
   Dorrin looks out at the long shadows and the reddish cast to the light
thrown by the setting sun. He shifts his weight on the stool, happy
enough just to be sitting.
   "Supper was good, thank you," Kadara offers.
   "Very good," adds Brede. "Especially the seasoning."
   "You'll have to thank Dorrin for that. Last year he took over the
spices, and we were able to dry everything from peppers to mustard to
sage. This year"-she gestures toward the patch of green behind the
well-"things look even better. Darkness knows how he has time."
   "How are things with your squad?" asks Dorrin quickly.
   "For now, they're fine," Kadara says. "But by late this year or early
next year, that will change."
   "Perhaps," adds Brede.
   "Perhaps, cowdung! He's been so good that we've been able to cut down
on the .. . thieves raiding our traders."
   Dorrin rubs his chin with his left hand, still holding a half a mug of
redberry in his right. "If you're successful in stopping them in Spidlar,
wouldn't they just wait until the traders got into Gallos or Certis?"
   Kadara tries not to look at Brede.
   Brede shrugs. "I imagine the White Wizards have their own ways."
"Besides," Kadara continues, "they can't very well make an agreement with
the highwaymen only to rob Spidlarian traders."
   "I would expect not," Reisa says from the corner. "Still, I hold with
Brede. The Whites will find some way. They always do."
   "By the way, Dorrin," asks Kadara, "how is Liedral? You've managed to
avoid answering any questions for most of the afternoon and evening. She
came during late winter, and you never mentioned that.
   "She's all right, according to her last letter."
   "That's not exactly ..." Kadara shakes her head. "She traveled through
frozen light to get here, and you just think she's all right?"
   "Kadara..." Brede says.
   "No, it's all right. I worry, but there's not a lot I can do. I
probably shouldn't have let her go ... but I wasn't thinking . .."
   "Oh . . . now it comes out. You're actually admitting you care for the
woman?"
   Dorrin looks at the barn, wondering if Kadara has forgotten how many
years he went next door searching for her. Or is this her way of
expressing relief that he has found someone who loves him?
   "You should have seen them," affirms Petra.
   "Now, Petra. They did watch the Council night fireworks with us in the
snow."
   "Where they stood melted."
   Dorrin hopes that the fading glow of twilight will hide his flush.
   "Shouldn't she be all right in Jellico?" asks Brede.
   "Her brother is somehow tied up with the Whites, and he knows we're
from Recluce. Their warehouse was rather thoroughly inspected, and some
things are missing."
   "You don't think her brother would ..."
   "No. But..." How can Dorrin explain the feeling he has of being
watched from a distance? Or letter seals that have been resealed? Or the
general unease that follows him, that sometimes drives him to working to
the greatest extent that his body will take? "You don't know what the
White ones will do," adds Reisa.
   "We're beginning to understand," Kadara responds dryly. "But why would
they be interested in Dorrin?"
   "I don't know." Dorrin looks blankly southward, up the sloping
hillsides toward Rylla's cottage. "They may not be."
   "You don't really believe that, do you?" The voice is Yard's. With the
older smith's comment, the conversation halts for a moment.
   "Why do you say that, papa?"
   "Man puts order in everything he does, even cold iron. Whites don't
seem to like that kind of order. Things just sort of fall into place
around young Dorrin. Were I a White, I'd be interested in what he was
a-doing."
   "So would I," squeaks Vaos, from the steps, where he munches on a
leftover bread crust.
   "You're still eating, scamp?" asks Petra.
   Vaos nods as he takes another bite.
   "Makes sense ... hi a way," muses Brede.
   And yet, in Dorrin's mind, too much is missing. What has he done
besides heal a few people, grow some spices, and make ordered models and
toys? Brede has killed more than a few chaos minions. Dorrin has done
nothing of the sort. Dorrin looks southward at the last hints of light on
the Westhorns. After all, what more can he say?
 
 
LXXXIV
 
THE GRAY STONE is heavy ... too heavy. Dorrin lifts the sledge and pounds
the tube into the space between the stones. Then he pours the powder down
the tube until it is filled. The cap is wedged in place, and Dorrin
lights the fuse-and sprints downhill and behind the rotting tree stump.
   Crummmppp. . .
   After trudging back uphill, he surveys the hole that will be his
cellar, shakes his head, and places another wooden tube. With luck, by
late summer he will have his foundation in place, one way or another.
Again, he lights the fuse.
   This time, the results are better, and he begins to shovel clay, soil,
and broken rock. Still, he is revising his plans. The cellar will be
smaller, far smaller, than he has planned. He wipes his forehead and
pauses, looking uphill toward the healer's cottage.
   Rylla walks through the grass, bringing a pitcher of redberry and a
ragged towel. Dorrin uses the towel first.
   "There's an easier way, Dorrin. And ye'd have more time for healing."
   "Oh?"
   "Right now, some of the farmers and farm hands have slack time for a
few eight-days. Not much, but some. You could pay them to dig out the
rest."
   Dorrin frowns. "How much?"
   "A half-copper a day a man."
   The healer is right; he cannot do everything. He should have asked,
but it is hard for him to ask others.
   "They dug the cellar for my cottage in two days. Yours would be
bigger, it be true, but you have a hole for them to work from."
   "How do I do it?"
   She smiles. "You put stakes at the corners, and make a rod showing how
deep you want the hole. I will talk to Asavah. He was my sister's man."
   Dorrin sips the redberry. He had not even known the healer had a
sister. "Do you have any nieces or nephews?"
   "A nephew, Rolta. He is a sailor, a mate, on ser Gylert's biggest
ship."
   Dorrin swallows the last of the redberry and points across the ridge
toward the.garden. "Now that you've solved that problem, let me go back
to checking the spices, especially the Winterspice. Can we get fine sand
somewhere? I think the soil has too much clay."
   "Asavah might have some." Rylla follows Dorrin up the slope.
   "At a few half-coppers a wagon?"
   "It might not be that much." The healer smiles. "The sand, even from
fresh water, is free. It's the time of the men and the use of the wagon.
We can get sand from the upper branch that goes into the Weyel. And don't
you worry, young fellow. This old healer can afford sand. Who knows? I
might even be able to work it into the garden with ye." Dorrin opens the
cottage door.
   "There ye go again, treating me like a fine lady, instead of the old
crone I am."
   "You're more of a lady than most who claim the title."
   "You'll turn my head yet, young scoundrel. I take it the fine words
mean you'll be on your way to the smithy? After not healing at all this
morning?"
   Dorrin blushes.
   "Now ... now ... you won't even let me have a compliment without
taking it away? Shame on you!" Rylla grins. "Off with you."
   "What about Granny Clarabur?"
   "She can do without your pretty face. Besides, all she wants is to
tell everyone how terrible her health be. She'll have been doing that for
near on ten years, and she isn't close to dying yet."
   Dorrin bows to Rylla's superior logic. "Then I'll see you tomorrow."
   "I'll see if Asavah can bring the sand, along with those strong
fellows to dig your hole. You just bring the coppers, in coppers, mind
ye."
   Dorrin is still shaking his head as he rides back to Yarrl's.
   When he arrives, he finds that Reisa has Vaos weeding the garden.
   "Master Dorrin, master Dorrin, you'll be needing me in the smithy,
won't you?" The imp's voice is as close to pleading as Dorrin has heard,
and he lifts his mud-covered hands almost in prayer.
   "Yarrl decided to deliver the wagon work to Froos," Reisa noted.
   "Froos is in no hurry to collect what he commissions, I take it."
   "Nor to pay," adds Petra from the barn.
   "He said you'd know what to do."
   "Harness work for Honsard and Bequa, and the old cooper..."
   "Milsta," Reisa finishes.
   "Master Dorrin?" asks Vaos.
   "I need to curry Meriwhen. It'll be a bit. You can finish there."
   "Yes, ser."
   Reisa grins from behind Vaos, "Just finish that row, young Vaos, and
then you can wash off all the dirt."
   Dorrin dismounts and leads Meriwhen into the bam, still grinning at
the thought of Vaos gardening.
   "You're mean." Petra leans against the hay rake.
   "Why?"
   "Just because you never played as a boy, you don't think anyone
should." She smiles, but her words are firm.
   "I played," Dorrin protests, unsaddling Meriwhen.
   "At what?"
   "Oh, I watched Hegl, or my mother, and sometimes I tried to build
boats and sail them in the surf."
   "Who was Hegl?"
   "Kadara's father. He was a smith. And sometimes Kadara and I played."
   "Likely story. You probably spent more time watching her father."
   Dorrin pauses.
   "I thought so." Petra shakes her head, then sets aside the rake and
walks toward the field where the cows are tethered.
   Dorrin takes out the brush and ponders. Has he ever really
played-except when Liedral has come to visit? Is that why he misses her?
The only reason? No ... that is hardly the only reason. He takes up the
brush. He still has too much to do, and he needs to get to the smithy.
   Once changed and in the smithy, Dorrin can see a broken wagon tongue
and the old harnesses that Yarrl has left out, and even a skiving knife,
should he need it. Vaos almost scampers into the forge area, his hands
still wet.
   "The big tank is low, Vaos," Dorrin says. "I'd say we'll need two
pails of water. But first bring in another barrow of charcoal. Yarrl must
have left even before midmorning."
   "Yes, master Dorrin, he did."
   "I'm not a master, you imp. I'm a striker, and flattery won't get you
out of getting the charcoal and refilling the slack tank."
   After looking over the work at hand, Dorrin lays out the tools he will
need, and then rebuilds the forge fire once Vaos brings in the charcoal.
   "Before you get the water, keep pumping this until we get white across
to here."
   Vaos nods glumly.
   "What's the matter?"
   "It's my mum. She's talking about hooking up with Zerto. He's a mate
on old Fyntal's Dorabeau. If n she does ..."
   "You sleep here most of the time, anyway."
   "It's not me. It's Rek. He's my little brother. He's ten."
   Dorrin waits.
   "She won't take him or me. She says my dad left us on her, and she's
had enough. I'm settled, but Rek ..."
   "What's the problem?"
   "He's got a clubfoot. So he can't run. Can't do stable work or quick
errands."
   "Can he stand or carry things?"
   "Yes, ser. He's as strong as I am."
   Dorrin realized Vaos has trapped him. "I'll take a look."
   "Would you?"
   "I said I would. But any decision's Yarrl's, you understand, and if
you say a word, I won't even try."
   "Yes, ser."
   "Get the water."
   "Yes, ser."
   , Dorrin checks the forge heat, then takes the tongs and sets the flat
iron on the bricks. With the cold chisel he cuts off the old rivets and
removes the broken sections, checking the iron. Finally he nods. The
tongue can be welded together, but he will need new stock. He frowns,
then walks along the junk pile until he comes to the assorted wagon and
sleigh spars and timbers. As he vaguely remembered, there is a square oak
brace that will do, with a bit of shortening.
   He clamps the brace in the box vice, measures it against the original,
and shortens it with the crosscut saw, then rasps and files it smooth.
After loosening the vice, he removes the brace and checks it against the
cracked original tongue, nodding. Finally, using the brace and bit, he
drills the holes for the rivets.
   Next comes the welding. First he takes the narrow bar stock and heats
it, fullering it down with hammer blows across the anvil horn until it is
thin enough to wrap around the cracked tongue. Then he sets the fullered
bar in the forge to heat, while he takes the tongue and heats it almost
to white-hot before removing it and using the hammer to scarf the contact
points and upset the edges where he will wrap the bar stock. Next come
several taps to remove the scale, followed by the flux. He sets the
tongue back in the forge until both it and the thin iron are white-hot.
Both come out, and Dorrin quickly hammers the two together, striking from
the inside out with a few light strokes. He sets the welded tongue on the
forge bricks to cool to forging heat before completing the shaping.
    While the iron cools to cherry red, Dorrin fullers the small bar
stock to rivet size, then uses the hot set to cut them, setting both on
the forge while he returns to the tongue and uses the flatter to finish
smoothing the tongue.
   After wiping his forehead, he dips the tongue brace in the slack tank
and sets it on the anvil. He heats the first rivet, then drives it
through the brace until it flattens against the round-bottomed swage.
   Dorrin lifts the ball peen hammer and with four quick offset strokes
finishes the top of the first rivet holding the iron of the wagon tongue
in place. With the tongs he lifts the second rivet from the forge and
slides it into place. A quick stroke flattens the bottom side against the
swage, and Dorrin follows up with another set of glancing strokes, first
on the top, and then on the bottom.
   After setting aside the hammer and tongs, Dorrin carries the heavy
tongue out into the corner for finished work and then lugs back in the
heavy leather harness, which he lays on the workbench. A heel chain
clevis, and two hame line rings need replacing, and that means reworking
and riveting the harness as well.
   With the cold chisel, he cuts away the old rivets and measures them to
get the right rod stock. He sets the stock for the replacement rivets
aside, and takes the larger rod he will need to fuller down to forge the
hame line rings. According to Yard, weight-bearing rings for carter's
harnesses must always be forged fresh. That may be, reflects Dorrin, why
Yard's work holds up better than Henstaal's.
   "You're almost as quick as Yarrl." Vaos's face is flushed, and sweat
runs from his hair.
   "Take a break and get some water," Dorrin orders.
   "Thank you, ser." Vaos does not scamper from the forge heat, but walks
toward the comparative cool of the yard.
   Dorrin looks at the boy's back, wondering why he has even agreed to
see Vaos's younger brother. If Rek can pump the bellows, perhaps he can
offer to pay part of his upkeep. Dorrin turns to the next harness.
 
 
LXXXV
 
AS THE LAST beam falls in place, Dorrin grins.
   "Why are you so cheerful?" asks Pergun. "It's only the frame for a
small barn." He points toward the large foundation less than fifty cubits
away, composed of neatly mortared stone. "You still haven't told me how
you're going to get the frame up on that."
   "The same way we did this." Behind Dorrin the rectangular frame
stands, even with what will be the doorway to the hayloft squared off in
beams.
   "Huuhnh?"
   "Look. That's why I build models. You figure it out on a small scale,
and then you do it bigger. This crane will work. I can do that. That
saves me coins so that I can hire others to do the things that take
time-or pay for timber at Hemmil's extravagant prices."
   "Why do you need a small building at all?"
   "For horses."
   "But that one is big enough."
   "Not for a house and a small smithy and a small warehouse. The smithy
doesn't have a foundation. It's on the other end- the cleared part."
   Pergun spits out away from the stable.
   "You want to earn your coppers? Get out that hammer. We need to frame
this and get the flooring across the top before we put the roof joists
up."
   Pergun lifts the hammer. "For this, I'm spending a free day?"
   "You're lucky you get free days."
   "Does everyone from Recluce work like you do?"
   "No . . . just those of us who got kicked out."
   "You know ... all the troopers are scared to death of your friends."
   Dorrin opens the small keg of nails he has forged. "Here. Why?"
   "Good nails. You make them?" Pergun slips a handful, more like
miniature bridge spikes, into the cloth pouch on his belt.
   Dorrin nods.
   "Vorban told me the she-cat threw a shortsword through a highwayman."
   "Through him?" Dorrin puts a plank in place, and, in three quick
blows, fixes the top in position. "Even for Kadara, that's hard to
believe."
   "He looked over his shoulder when he said it. They still would rather
follow the big guy, though. Vorban says that he knows what he's doing.
Most of the officers don't." Pergun works on the other side of the door
frame, framing the pine planks away from Dorrin.
   Before midmorning, the small stable is framed, and Dorrin has Meriwhen
and the crane lifting the prejoined roof trusses into place.
   ". . . that's it... a little lower ..." Pergun wipes his forehead.
"How did you think of those brackets?"
   "It seemed logical." Dorrin unstraps the leather cradle before moving
the crane to the other side of the building.
   "Never seen anything go up this fast." Pergun walks to the other side
of the floor, avoiding the square opening. "Better do a ladder here."
   "Good point. Need to box off one stall, too. But the roof should come
first." Dorrin resets the crane and puts the cradle around the other
truss.
   "First man I know who builds a stable for his horse before he builds a
roof over his own head."
   "It's simpler this way. Besides, I can see that I'll need different
brackets-heavier, too-for the main building."
   Pergun shakes his head and waits for the truss to rise to him.
   "If I designed some clamps, here," says Dorrin, half-aloud, "I could
do this alone."
   "Light! Don't you like people? You do everything alone, and you do it
better."
   "Of course, I like people. But I can't afford to pay all of them."
   "There is that."
   "Here it comes." Dorrin urges Meriwhen forward, and the truss is
lifted up to Pergun, who guides it into the brackets. Next come the cross
beams, which fit in the notches in the trusses, then the flat planks for
the roof.
   It is late afternoon when Pergun eases the borrowed wagon away from
the framed stable and the foundation of the main building. "You ever stop
working, Dorrin?"
   "There's a lot to do," Dorrin replies from atop the stable where he is
installing shakes. "Like you, I can't take off very often." *
   "You'll be here till sunset."
   "Probably until the roofs done. The rest I'll do in bits-until I put
up the house and smithy."
   "When will that be?"
   "At least a couple of eight-days. I want to get it up before harvest,
though. Rylla says there's a slack time just before that, and I can get
some help for not too much."
   The mill hand surveys the ridge. "They'll have you on the Council in a
couple of years."
   "Not me."
   "You make coins, and you don't have much choice." Pergun flicks the
reins. "Don't get caught up there after dark."
   "I'll try not to." Dorrin frowns at Pergun's last comment. Does making
money limit choices? How much? He continues nailing shakes into place.
 
 
LXXXVI
 
"HE'S GETTING TOTALLY insufferable." Anya takes a deep swallow.
   "Getting?" Sterol's fingers touch the edge of the screeing glass.
   "All right. He's always been arrogant. It's just bothering me more
now." Anya finishes the wine with a full swallow. "He flaunts his power.
He said he'll bring down Axalt singlehandedly. But not until the spring."
   Sterol represses a smile. "Do you think he can?"
   She refills her glass. "Of course. Whether it's wise is another
question."
   Sterol walks over to the dining table, where he fills his own glass.
"I take it that he's continuing to hide his plans from you."
   "If he has any."
   "Sarcasm that blunt doesn't become you. Jeslek has great plans."
   "He's concerned-not quite worried-about something in Spidlar.
Something to do with the Blacks. He's stewed about it all spring and
summer."
   "He's told you this?"
   "Of course not. But I can sense hints of it."
   "What has Fydel told you?"
   "You obviously know." Anya sips from the second glass more slowly.
   "Why would Jeslek worry about letters from a poor trader in Jellico?
So there must be something in the ironworker that isn't obvious."
   "You are so brilliant, Sterol."
   "The same Jeslek who would smash a city is tiptoeing around a mere
youngster. So who is the youngster?"
   "He's from Recluce," Anya says, conceding nothing the older man does
not already know.
   "Does that matter, really?"
   "It must, mustn't it?" She smiles crookedly.
   "You know, Anya," sighs Sterol, "you aren't nearly so clever as you
think. Neither is Fydel. Jeslek may be insufferable, but he's far from
stupid. Neither am I. You don't want to be High Wizard because you think
whoever is will fail in any confrontation with Recluce. So you want to be
second behind whichever of us is in control."
   "And if I do?"
   "That's dangerous, too. Not so obviously." Sterol shrugs. "In any
case, if Jeslek is worried about this smith ... he bears watching."
   "Are you telling me that just because this . . . ironworker . . . has
powerful parents across the ocean, Jeslek is being more careful of him
than ... ?"
   "Than you? That's exactly what I'm saying. If I were Jeslek, I'd try
something indirect, or have the young man perish in the fall of Spidlar,
but not before. Why risk getting Recluce involved earlier than necessary?"
   "It's not a risk."
   "Anya, dear, anything is a risk. Best you remember that." Sterol sips
from his glass, before responding to the knock on the door. "I believe
supper has arrived."
   "It's about time."
 
 
LXXXVII
 
"COME ON, GIRL." Dorrin urges Meriwhen forward, and the harness tightens
as the ropes thread through the pulleys and the last of the four frame
sections rises into place.
   Although the morning is yet cool, with the sun low in the east, his
work shirt is stained with sweat, and an occasional fly buzzes toward
him. With deft movements, he brushes a back a horsefly, clamps the lines
in place, and checks the antique-style crane before releasing the harness
tension. Then he walks to the northern post and eases one of the two side
stones into place in the hole, then the other. The keyed stones follow.
Once the four stones are locked tight in place, he begins to shovel the
clay around the outside. After several shovelfuls, he takes the heavy
short limb he is using as a tamper and compacts the clay. Then he repeats
the process with the other post. With this, all four posts, and the
longitudinal beams holding each pair together, are held in place, but he
cannot count on their continued stability until both cross beams are
raised, and lowered into position.
   Raising the cross beam will be tricky. First he must stand on the
short triangular ladder to undo the leather cradle, then reposition the
crane and fasten the cradle around the shorter beam. After loosening the
leather and ropes, Dorrin readjusts his makeshift crane and Meriwhen.
   "Let's go, girl."
   "I know. I know. You're for riding, not lifting and hauling. But
lifting and hauling is what we need to do."
   Finally, the cross beam hangs precariously in the air, just above the
brackets and notches that represent Dorrin's fusion of woodwork and
ironwork. Dorrin gets back on the ladder and guides one end into the
bracket, loosely tying it down so that the far end is correspondingly
higher. Then he eases up on the clamps to lower the beam until it almost
touches the bracket top at the far end. Again he moves the ladder and
readjusts the cross beam before releasing the clamps. The cross beam
locks into place. He has another six cross beams to go before he can
bracket the posts between them and the foundation sills.
   With a deep breath, he repositions the ladder, undoes the leather
cradle, and steps down. He moves Meriwhen, the crane, and the ropes and
pulleys, and their anchors to the other end of the foundation, where he
sets up for the same effort. After the main cross beams, he must do the
smaller frame for the smithy that will stand at the south end of the
structure.
   It is well after midmorning, and the thunderclouds have begun to form,
before the frame is locked in place. He sits down and drinks from the
pitcher of water and chews a hunk off the loaf of bread. Despite the
intermittent clouds, and the breeze, he is soaked with sweat. So far, he
has a foundation and the basic frame for the building that-he hopes-will
house him and Liedral.
   He wipes his forehead. Then he takes the wheelbarrow and the smaller
casks and trundles them over to the stream, where he fills the casks.
After pushing the cask-filled wheelbarrow back, he adds the water to the
mortar and begins to mix. Mixing the heavy substance by hand is tedious,
and he stops a number of times before the cement feels right. With the
wheelbarrow he has borrowed from Yarrl, he carts one load to the northern
post, and pours and shovels the mortar in between the heavy stones
bracing the post. He wheels the barrow back to the battered half-barrel
he uses as a mixing tub and refills the barrow.
   By noon, he has cemented in place all the posts, and bracketed the
sill beams in position, along with most of the posts that fit between the
cross beams and sill beams. Meriwhen is tied up and grazes by her
recently completed stable, presumably glad that she is not lifting beams.
   Actually, raising the frame of the main structure has been the easy
part. Designing, measuring, smithing, and assembling the frames and
trusses has taken most of the eight-days since midsummer.
   Dorrin sits on the front stoop and rests, thinking about the enormous
amount of work yet to do before fall, and especially before the winter
grips Diev ... and all for a place that may be in jeopardy from the White
Wizards even before it is truly finished.
   Why is he doing it? Why does anyone do anything? There's always a
reason not to do something. After all, he reflects as he walks toward
Rylla's cottage, wiping the sweat that will not stop off his forehead,
death is the result of life. So if you'll die, why bother to live? Or do
anything right?
   He wonders what his father or Lortren would think-Dorrin considering
solid work as a necessary protest against the futility of life and chaos.
   He looks back at the clear structure of order he has raised on the
ridge. Then he smiles and walks quickly toward the healer's cottage and
garden.
 
 
LXXXVIII
 
DORRIN SURVEYS THE small pool, noting the green scum around the edges.
Above the pond, the water flows down the rocky ledge, clear and fresh,
from the underground spring. His eyes turn from the rock face nearly
twice his height down the browning hillside toward the ridge his framed
house and stable share with Rylla's smaller cottage. Even with the
morning shadows, he can see the silver dew across the fall grasses.
   The healer has insisted on having the Guild document her sale of the
land to Dorrin. "What would ye do if lightning struck me dead?" she had
asked. "A dead person doesn't keep good faith."
   "You won't die," Dorrin had protested.
   "We all die. Now get that worthless Hasten out here and seal this."
   Hasten had come, bowing and scraping the whole time.
   Dorrin looks back at the near-stagnant pool and laughs softly,
ruefully, thinking of how the gray-haired Guild functionary fears a mere
healer and sometime smith, as if Dorrin were anything more than a
toymaker with dreams. After all, that is all he is. And his head does not
ache at the thought. Whhnnnnn...
   He swats at the mosquito-and misses. The insects must be hungry to be
so active so early in the day. A swarm of the insects gathers around him,
so many that his attempts to ward them away are nearly useless. He swats
another, pulping it on his neck, and getting his own blood on his
fingers. He shakes his head, then takes a deep breath, still trying to
wave off the hungry insects, before placing a powder-filled tube in the
muddy bank over which the water flows into the winding trickle that feeds
the pond below their houses.
   After striking the fuse, he retreats past yellowing oak saplings and
behind the flaking and crumbling stump of an oak cut for timber years
earlier. Crummmpppp. . .
   The charge creates enough of a hole in the bank that the small pond
begins to drain immediately. Dorrin picks up his shovel and begins
scooping out the muck. Once he cleans out the area, he will divert the
water while he installs the stone catch basin and the piping that will
lead to his water tank. There is no reason why he cannot have running
water in his kitchen, even if it will be cold, but he will have to ensure
that the piping and the spring are deep enough not to freeze.
   He continues to dig and swat until it is time for a late
breakfast-except that it would have been the time he once ate a normal
breakfast not too many years before in Extina. How things can change in
such a short while!
   Using the cold water from the spring, he strips to his waist and
washes up as well as he can, still avoiding the mosquitoes, and carries
his shovel and work shirt as he trudges through the bushes and low growth
back downhill.
   He wishes he could do more, but he needs to gather another assortment
of spices and deliver them to Vyrnil, not to mention checking with Rylla
to see if she needs him for any of those who may come for her services.
Some of the early corn is already being harvested, and there are always
harvest injuries. He glances back uphill at the spring. Will he ever be
able to put all the pieces together? The house and workroom are framed
and roofed and even glazed, and the plasterer has finished. But outside
of the forge, a stove he has built himself, and a bed, a table, and two
chairs, he has no furniture.
   He stops beside the stable; he has not fed Meriwhen. Setting the
shovel back in the barn and draping his damp shirt over the stall wall,
he fills her manger with hay. Then he levers the top off the grain barrel
and uses the wooden scoop to fill the smaller section of the manger.
   Whufff. . .
   "I know. I was late this morning. Better late than never." Dorrin
looks at the water barrel, still a third full. He can refill that later.
   He still has to gather the spices, bundle and package them and write
out the labels for the trader-and get to Rylla's. He closes the stall,
picks up his shirt, and heads toward the nearly empty house.
   After leaving his boots on the small covered porch, he steps into the
kitchen, glancing at the papers by the box on the corner of the table. He
picks up the letter, frowning again at the signs of tampering. Why are
the Whites so interested in Liedral's letters-and presumably his to her?
   His eyes skip down the page.
 
   . . . run to Sligo was profitable enough, but it was lonely. I did
pick up some fine black wool, almost as good as what they grow in Recluce
. . . These days I seem to miss you more, even when I am busy. Jellico is
quieter than when you were here, and Freidr has been encouraging me to
travel more ... especially after the Sligo trip . . .
   . . . word is that things have settled on the borders between Gallos
and Spidlar . . . but the word is that trade is still not safe . . .
except by sea . . . and that gets expensive . . .
 
   . . . perhaps after harvest I can work out something .. love you and
miss you ...
 
   His own letter-carefully set in the top of the writing box- is not
finished, not with the care he must take in writing something that is
clearly being read.
   Why are the White Wizards so interested in a lady trader and a
toymaker and smith? Even if he could make his machines, and his steam
engine, he certainly cannot make very many. And even if he does, neither
Fairhaven nor Recluce want them ... so who would use them besides himself?
   He looks out the window toward the healer's. Wool gathering will not
get the herbs gathered and bundled, or the harvest injuries treated and
healed. Or the iron work waiting at Yard's done.
 
 
LXXXIX
 
THE WHITE MISTS swirl away and reveal the fall brown grasses of the
upland meadows somewhere north of Fenard and south of Elparta. In the
center of the mirror, a trader's wagon plods southward. A red-haired
woman drives the wagon, and a thin dark man rides beside.
   Over the top of the hill waits another group, wearing the dark green
tunics of Certis. As the wagon nears the hill crest, the riders fan and
charge toward the two traders.
   Just as quickly, the redhead halts the wagon, and two men with bows
throw off brown cloths, aiming their arrows at the charging raiders. A
pair of swords appears in the hands of the redhead, and from behind the
raiders Spidlarian guards appear, led by a blond giant who strews bodies
before him.
   Not a single Certan raider survives. As the shovels appear for
gravedigging, Jeslek waves his hand, and the image vanishes from the
mirror. "Bah ... no magic at all. Just good tactics and cleverness. No
one survives; no bodies are found, and the rumor spreads that the
Spidlarians are using magic."
   "It doesn't exactly help to tell that to either the Viscount or the
Prefect," observes Anya from the chair by the window.
   "Or to admit it took more than a season and magic to figure it out,"
adds Fydel. "That's hard when they claim to have lost nearly a hundred
men over the last two seasons."
   "Do we know who is responsible?" asks the normally quiet Cerryl.
"Beyond the obvious?" He gestures toward the blank mirror.
   "Our . . . sources in Spidlar would indicate that most of the damage
has been caused by one squad formed for this purpose last spring.
Supposedly, the squad leader and assistant are outcasts from Recluce."
   "Supposedly? That's rich! They exile two people, and those two people
just happen to be in the right spot to block everything. Do you really
believe that, Jeslek?" asks Fydel.
   Jeslek does not correct Fydel's mathematics. "I said supposedly."
   "What do you plan to do?"
   "Now . . . nothing." He holds up a hand to forestall objections. "I'm
not playing Jenred's waiting game. But do any of you really want a winter
war?"
   Headshakes cross the tower room.
   "Once the roads clear in spring, I will personally direct our forces
in the invasion of Spidlar. Over the winter, we should step up efforts to
close off as much trade as possible-and, as possible, minimize the impact
of Recluce's meddling." He smiles at Fydel. "We need to make it a hard
winter indeed in Spidlar."
   "Spidlar isn't the real enemy; Recluce is," reminds Fydel.
   "You and I know who the real enemies are." Jeslek smiles with his
mouth. "And their time will come."
   "So clever, and so cryptic," murmurs Anya under her breath.
   Jeslek's eyes fall on her, and her lips are silent. His eyes glitter,
and she shivers. Fydel swallows, and Cerryl looks out the tower window.
 
 
XC
 
DORRIN TURNS ON the pallet. He should get up. The forge at his own smithy
must be finished, and he needs to find someone else to buy his toys, and
harvest is approaching, and Yarrl will need help .. .
   "Ooooo ..." He is hot, so hot. But he cannot seem to move.
   "Easy, Dorrin. You need to rest."
   Something cold presses his forehead, easing the fever, and he drops
into darkness. When he wakes, his forehead is hot, but dry. Someone is
talking.
   "He was up there in the hills, setting up that fancy water system, and
the mosquitoes got him. There'd be too many even for our smith mage to
ward off, I'd say. Oh ... you're waking, are ye?" Rylla leans over and
sponges off his forehead. The coolness is welcome, more than welcome.
"Drink this." She thrusts a mug at his lips.
   "What... is. . .it?"
   "Cider with willow bark and astra. It tastes terrible, but you need
it."
   Dorrin drinks, very slowly, trying to ignore the bitterness. He
finishes the concoction, and leans back, marveling at the effort merely
to drink.
   He is not aware of exactly when he falls asleep or even when he wakes,
except the sky outside is gray, and rain patters lightly on the roof.
   This time Vaos sits on the stool by the bed. "You awake?"
   "Sort of..."
   "I'll be right back." The boy scampers from the room, but returns
after a time, slightly damp, with Rylla.
   The healer studies the smith, touches his forehead. "You'll heal.
Wasn't totally sure about that before, but you're built like your forge
inside." She turns to Vaos. "About half of them that get the hill fever
die in the first couple of days. The rest live."
   "Wonderful," groans Dorrin.
   "Have some more of this," orders Rylla.
   "Ugghhh ..." But Dorrin drinks another mug of the bitter mixture.
   "Keep him drinking the clean water, boy," she addresses Vaos. "And
don't let him do anything but rest. Reisa will get me home now. He'll get
well by himself. Just be quiet." The healer nods to Dorrin and leaves.
   The smith rests, and sleeps, and wakes.
   Vaos is not there when Dorrin wakes, but a mug filled with cool water
is on the table beside the narrow bed. Dorrin's hand shakes, but he
manages to get the mug. He is sipping the water when Vaos peers into the
room.
   The youngster slips onto the stool. "Vyrnil came by. I said you were
away. He wants something new. He left a sketch of it-says it's something
he saw on a Hamorian ship."
   "Why don't you get the sketch?"
   "The old healer said you weren't supposed to do anything."
   "I can think," Dorrin snorts, ignoring the blurriness the gesture
creates. "Go on. I won't move." That is true enough. He is scarcely in
any shape to move anywhere, thanks to whatever fever the mosquitoes
carried.
   Before Dorrin has even thought much about moving, the
strawberry-haired youngster has returned with the sketch.
   "This is it."
   Dorrin squints. The drawing does not seem to make much sense at first.
"Turn it the other way."
   Vaos complies, but the lines still make little sense to Dorrin.
   "He said that it's a better way to sight the sun. Does that mean
anything to you?"
   Dorrin frowns, a glint of understanding trying to emerge from his
still-fevered brain. "Perhaps I will." He closes his eyes for a moment.
When he opens them, Vaos has set down the sketch.
   "Why can't you heal yourself?" Vaos sits on the stool.
   "Can you lift yourself off that stool?" growls Dorrin.
   "Sure." Vaos hops from the stool.      (
   "No," says Dorrin slowly. "Sit down."
   Vaos's eyebrows lift, but he sits.
   "Put your hands on your belt, and lift."
   "Nothing happens."
   "If I were well, could I lift you by your belt?"
   "Ah . . . yes."
   "Healing's the same way. You can only do it to others. Mostly," Dorrin
adds.
   "But why?"
   "I don't know, and I'm too tired to think about it now." Dorrin leans
back on the pillows and closes his eyes.
 
 
XCI
 
DORRIN RUBS HIS forehead, trying to reduce the throbbing in his head. Why
has it taken so long to heal from a fever? All he has been able to do is
move his few things into the new house-not even much in the way of light
smithing-and the moving .wouldn't have been possible without Vaos. He
wants to slam his fist into the wobbly wooden table.
   Instead, he sips the bitter mixture from the battered mug beside his
writing box. He sets the mug down, picks up the sheet, and reads silently.
   Liedral-
   I am sorry it has taken a while to answer your latest letter, but I
have been ill with a mosquito fever. I hope that, by the time you receive
this, I will be fully back at work.
   The house is finished. It should not take too much more work to finish
the forge itself. The anvil was the expensive part! Do you know how much
eleven stone of solid iron weighs? I also need more tools. Some of the
hammers, like the straight and cross peen ones, I have already made for
myself, and I have three sets of tongs. I also have some hot sets and
some forks and swages and fullers-but not nearly enough. Most of what I
have made from the toys and other devices has been spent. Being sick has
not helped at all.
   The house seems empty, even with Vaos living in the room off the
smithy. I look forward to your coming when you can, and trust you will
find the storage arrangements suitable for all that you might desire.
Yarrl and Reisa have made a number of observations about the now-unused
space, and Meriwhen is lonely. They often ask when you will be coming.
   I recall when you saw the bird, and I had to catch the cart on the
road to Jellico. That bird is still out there, flying around, I am
certain, but we are not together.
   Dorrin rubs his forehead again. What else can he say that will warn
Liedral and not tell the readers of his letter that he knows it is being
read? He takes another sip of the medicinal potion. He is stronger-that
he can tell-but not strong enough to lift hammers for long. He dips the
quill and resumes writing.
   Thrap. . .
   He looks up at the sound, glimpsing a figure through the small window
that opens onto his too-small porch.
   "Coming." He rises slowly, letting bare feet carry him to the door.
   "At least you're up." Kadara's face is smudged, and her blue uniform
is soiled. Beside her, Brede appears equally travel-stained.
   "Come on in."
   "You look like something the light fried." Kadara sits on one end of
the crude bench on the other side of the table.
   Brede closes the door and takes the other end of the bench.
   "Thank you," Dorrin says.
   "For what?"
   "You came right after you arrived, didn't you? You both look like
you've been riding for a long time."
   "We have," Brede admits.
   "Success is worse than failure." Kadara's voice is hard. "The better
we get, the more they give us to do."
   "I've got some cider." Dorrin walks toward the cooling tank in the
comer of the kitchen and pulls the jug from the icy water. "If scold."
   "You put running water in here?"
   "Such as it is. That's what got me sick. There were too many
mosquitoes up in the hills when I put in the catch basin and piping."
Dorrin pours cider into two crude glass tumblers, handing one to Kadara
and the other to Brede.
   "Why did you bother? Spidlar will be gone in a year, and we'll be on
the run." Kadara pours down half a glass. "Darkness, that's good."
   "Hrnrnmm," adds Brede.
   Dorrin waits and refills both glasses. Then he sits down, trying not
to wipe his forehead. "The Council won't give in to the Whites."
   "They won't have much choice. They've posted notice of spring levies
in Certis, Kyphros, Montgren, and Gallos."
   "Has the Council recalled Spidlarian mercenaries from other duchies?"
   Brede and Kadara exchange glances.
   "They have, but the Whites are making it hard for them to return?"
   Brede nods. "We'll get some back, but some have no desire to get
ground down under the levies in the spring."
   "Levies aren't as good as fully trained troops," Dorrin points out.
   "No, but there are a lot more of the levies."
   "And we can't even get the darkness out of here," snaps Kadara. The
cider splashes onto the table when she sets down the tumbler. "There
aren't any ships to Recluce, and Suthya and Sarronnyn have refused to
allow anyone from Recluce to land there."
   "Why?" Dorrin raises his eyebrows.
   "Fairhaven is paying top golds for grain, but the ban is part of the
agreement. We tried to book passage to Rulyarth."
   "It's going to be a long and cold winter," Dorrin says.
   "And a bloody spring."
   "Can you stop them?"
   Brede shrugs. "Do you have any machines that would help?"
   "No. Nothing I can make would help."
   "What good-" Kadara breaks off as Brede's eyes catch hers. "I'm sorry."
   "Let me think about it." He finishes his medicine and refills his mug
with cider. "Darkness ... I can't even make a sword, you know?" Dorrin
holds up his hands helplessly. "Maybe I can think of something else."
   "Well..." Kadara says, "we heard you were sick."
   Dorrin raises his eyebrows.
   Brede coughs. "It was ... sort of a joke ..."
   "I see. The wonderful healer can't even heal himself?"
   Brede looks down.
   "That's all right. My own helper asked me the same question. It sounds
stupid, but that's the way it works."
   Brede stands up. "We really need to get back to the barracks. We're
only here to get back up to strength and to resupply."
   "How long?"
   "An eight-day, if we're lucky." Brede steps toward the door.
   "Dreamer," mumbles Kadara. "We'll be out again in three days." She
drains the last of the cider. "Damned good cider." Then she too stands
and heads for the door.
   "Take care," Dorrin says. What else can he say? It is as though they
are slipping away from him.
   "You, too, Dorrin."
   He watches from the door as they ride through the cold misting rain.
Mud streaks both their horses and their trousers and boots. His eyes
flicker to the muddy streaks on the once-clean plank floor. After he
rests, then he will mop it again. And after he finishes the letter to
Liedral.
   A long cold winter, and a bloody spring-wonderful.
 
 
XCII
 
THE COLD RAIN that seems more like early winter than autumn continues to
pour down. Except near the forge, the air in the smithy is damp. Vaos
pushes the wheelbarrow inside, stops to close the door, and then wheels
the load of charcoal up the forge. Rek pulls the bellows lever. Yarrl
turns the iron on the anvil, and Dorrin strikes the cherry-red metal.
   Yarrl returns the iron to the forge. Dorrin sets down the sledge and
wipes his forehead. Usually, the heat doesn't get to him so much, but his
weakness may be from his hill fever.
   "So when are you going to open your own smithy and take work from me?
You got your house about done." Yarrl's attempt at humor does not hide,
his concern. "Keep pumping, Rek." The smith turns the iron in the tongs.
   Dorrin wipes his forehead again. "I'm wearing out poor Meriwhen riding
back and forth." He wants to add some humor, but his words sound flat.
   "It's a nice house. You do good work. The lady trader will like it."
   "I hope so, but I haven't asked her." Dorrin coughs. "But I won't be
taking work from you. Vymil is asking for more of my toys, more intricate
ones, and Jasolt wants something different. He wants me to duplicate some
navigation device used by the Hamorians. He sent me a picture, or
something." Dorrin pauses as the older smith takes the iron from the
forge and lays it upon the bottom fuller. Then Dorrin lifts the light
sledge.
   Clunnngggg . . . clunnggg . . .
   When Yarrl returns the iron to the coals, Dorrin continues. "I
wouldn't take work from you."
   "Vaos will want to go with you."
   "He's your helper."
   A smile creases the smith's sweating face. "He followed you to begin
with. Rek's my helper. Rek's a good boy. Likes the forge. Vaos likes
you." Yarrl shakes his head as he brings the iron back to the anvil.
   Dorrin again lifts the sledge.
   "When would be best for you?" Dorrin asks later, after the base of the
cart crane goes into the long special slack tank that they have built for
it.
   "You have to do what you need to, young fellow."
   "I can still come here and help with the heavy work."
   "You would, I think." Yarrl lifts the crane base, his shoulders
straining, and sets it on the back of the forge. "If I need you, I'll let
you know. You take care of that little trader woman before she gets in
trouble the way Reisa did." Yarrl looks into the dimness behind his
workbench.
   Dorrin waits, rubbing his forehead. Somehow, he feels flushed. He
wishes he that the aftereffects of the fever would pass more quickly. He
is sleeping more, and working less, and getting impatient in the process.
   "The world doesn't like strong women, Dorrin. Especially the
Whites-they don't at all. I wanted to protect her, but she wouldn't have
me then. Then she said a one-armed woman was no good as a wife. Bunch of
cowdung . . . take her armless . .. but don't you tell her that." Yarrl
looks back at the bench. "Need to do that arm now. Check the fire, would
you?"
   Dorrin smiles. Yarrl has never asked him to check the fire, and the
request is a tacit acknowledgment that he is a smith in his own right.
Perhaps a lowly one, but Yarrl is a good smith, and Dorrin values the
request, and the approval it conveys.
 
 
XCIII
 
As HE WALKS by the bookcase, the White Wizard tucks the folded parchment
back into the folder that sits in the top shelf: He pauses by the window,
enjoying the temporary warmth of a sunny day in early winter as it flows
into the tower room.
   "What was that?" Anya stretches in the white oak chair, somehow making
the movement more than just a stretch.
   "Nothing."
   "Nothing?"
   "A letter." Jeslek's eyes straying to the mirror on the table.
   "Don't tell me you're getting love letters?"
   "I don't appreciate the levity." Fire appears on Jeslek's fingertips.
"It has to do with the trouble in Spidlar."
   "Trouble? The great Jeslek admits there is indeed trouble in Spidlar?"
   Jeslek's lips tighten. "Sometimes, Anya. Sometimes ..."
   "You are so serious, dear wizard. You really need to unbend." She
eases out of the chair in a sinuous movement and steps up behind him,
close enough that she blows gently on his neck, then kisses it, slowly,
warmly.
   A faint smile plays across his mouth as Anya's lips warm his neck, and
as her hands reach for his white belt.
 
 
XCIV
 
THE CREAK OF the wagon as it jolts over the frozen ruts in the yard rides
over the even blows of Dorrin's hammer, as he deftly maneuvers the hot
set to cut the iron into the fish-shaped pieces necessary for the
compasses for Jasolt. Cutting the iron is easy, and arranging it to be
magnetic is no harder than forging black iron.
   He nods to Vaos, and the boy pumps the bellows lever.
   For Dorrin, the hard parts of the compass are ensuring the
watertightness of the copper casing-although the seeking arrow floats in
oil and not water-and not bending the copper rivets on which the needles
turn.
   He brings the hammer down-on the fullered iron, and the hot set cuts
through the iron that is almost parchment thin. While he could use
shears, the cut is cleaner with the hammer, and his shears twist thin
iron. He needs to remake them, but he has not yet had time.
   Another creak reminds him of the wagon outside. With a sigh, Dorrin
sets the iron on the forge bricks. He walks to the smithy door, and Vaos
follows.
   The cold air is refreshing, and Dorrin wonders if he did indeed make
the smithy a shade too snug. Still, at least Vaos doesn't freeze in the
cooler weather.
   Petra and Reisa sit side by side on the wagon seat. Both are smiling,
but wind carries the white steam of their breathing toward the stable.
   Vaos looks up at Dorrin. The smith steps toward the two women.
   "You'll need this sooner than later, we figure," Reisa announces,
vaulting off the wagon one-handedly. Her boots thump as she lands on the
clay that is nearly as hard-packed as that in Yard's yard-but only
because it is frozen.
   "Need what?" Dorrin walks forward to help Petra down, but she already
has set the wagon brake and is walking briskly to the tailgate.
   "A decent bed, of course." Reisa grins.
   Dorrin blushes.
   "This one Yarrl got years ago from Hesoll's widow, and it's been in a
corner ever since. It might need some new fittings in a couple of places,
but that's something you can certainly handle." Reisa uses her hand and
other arm to open the tailgate.
   Petra lowers the gate to reveal the cargo. The high headboard is
carved red oak, with matching scrolls on each side. A footboard mirrors
the design on a smaller scale.
   "Wow . . ." murmurs Vaos. Then he looks at Dorrin. "Maybe I could have
your old bed?" He grins.
   "Scamp!" Dorrin looks from Reisa to Petra. "All of you ... but why?"
   Reisa shakes her head. "You know why. You still give a great deal,
beyond the ironwork. We all felt that you-and your little trader
lady-would need this."
   "Liedral?"
   "She'll be here sooner or later," affirms Petra. "You don't even look
at your red-headed friend anymore."
   "He writes the trader when no one is looking," volunteers Vaos.
   Dorrin glares at the strawberry-haired imp.
   "It won't be long," Petra says. "Not if he's writing love letters."
   "Let's get this bed inside," suggests Reisa, "before we all freeze."
   "Where do we put Dorrin's bed?" asks Vaos. "Don't we have to move it
out first?"
   "All right, all right," Dorrin concedes. "You can put it in your room."
   The youth bounces onto the porch. "Does that make me a striker?"
   "Vaos! Don't push it."
   "Yes, ser. I'll take care of the old bed." The youngster scampers into
the house.
   "You have your hands full with that one," says Reisa dryly. "Somehow,
I imagine you were like that."
   "No..."
   "You would have been if you hadn't been raised on Recluce."
   As they speak, Vaos bears out the pallet section of Dorrin's narrow
bed. "This is great-a real bed."
   Petra stamps a booted foot on the hard ground. "This ground is hard.
We'd better not drop Dorrin's bed."
   "Yes, daughter." Reisa grins.
   Dorrin turns toward the wagon and takes one side of the massive
headboard.
 
 
XCV
 
THE RAIN, WHICH began as snow, has turned back into snow by the time
Dorrin has finished his latest toy forgings and banked the forge. He
pauses at the door to Vaos's small room, but can hear only a faint
snoring.
   Then he walks to the outside door, still ajar because the smithy stays
too warm in the early winter. From there, he looks across the ridge
toward Rylla's cottage, but all the windows are dark. He closes the door
and makes sure the latch catches. His steps drag as he walks through the
snow to the porch and the kitchen door.
   Although he can see objects well enough in the dark-most born of Black
families can-he has trouble with finer details, like writing. He lights
the small oil lamp on the wall, opens the cover on the cooling tank,
barely above freezing with the water from the high spring, and pulls out
the jug of cider. So far his design of the tank as a continuous flowing
system that carries the water to the pond below has kept the water from
freezing and limited the well in the yard to quench water for his slack
tanks.
   After pouring a tumbler of cider, he takes down the thicker box filled
with manuscript pages, followed by the quill and inkwell, and glances
idly through his efforts at describing order, starting with the almost
presumptuous title page-Thoughts on the Basis of Order.
   All physical items-unlike fire or pure chaos-must have some structure,
or they would not exist. . .
   Because all wrought iron has a grain created from the forging of its
crystals, the strength of the iron lies in the alignment and length of
the grain. Using order to reinforce that grain is the basis for creating
black iron ... Its strength lies in the ordering of unbruised or
unstrained grains along the length of the metal. ..
   He nods and begins to pen the words he considered earlier. Now, when
he forges most items, he can also-sometimes- think of other things.
   If order or chaos be without limits, then common sense would indicate
that each should have triumphed when the great ones of each discipline
have arisen. Yet neither has so triumphed, despite men and women of
power, intelligence, and ambition. Therefore, the scope of either order
or chaos is in fact limited, and the belief in the balance of forces
demonstrated . ..
   Dorrin pauses. Does the fact that no triumph has occurred show that-or
merely that no one of great enough power to do so has yet arisen? He
takes another sip of the cider. There is so much he does not know.
 
 
XCVI
 
"You NEVER COME here much, anymore," Pergun looks into the half-full mug
of dark beer.
   "I was sick for a while, you know." Dorrin sips redberry from his mug.
   "That was eight-days ago. You still work too hard. What are you doing
now that you have your own place? Just the toys?"
   "No. I still help Yarrl with heavy pieces, and he passes off some work
when he gets too busy. I did a few copies of that Hamorian sextant for
Jasolt." Dorrin pauses. "Hardest things I ever did. Had to do even
brackets for mirrors, and adjusting screws. And I had to do all of the
pieces in polished black iron so it wouldn't rust. It might have been
easier to do in copper or bronze, but trying to learn another metal. . .
The compass casings were a nightmare. Maybe I'll learn copper some other
time."
   Pergun drains his mug and looks across the half-full room toward the
serving girl. "I can't believe that Kyril's asking four coppers for a
mug. Four coppers for dark beer."
   "Everything's gotten dear."
   "Damned Wizards! Begging your pardon, master Dorrin."
   "I'm as damned as the rest of them."
   "Not you." Pergun finally raises his hand toward the serving girl.
   "Can you pay for it, big fellow?" asks the woman.
   Pergun opens his hand, showing the four coppers.
   "How about you, master Dorrin?"
   "No, thank you." Dorrin smiles at the woman, but she has already
headed for the kitchen.
   "Master Dorrin?" The painfully thin and dark-haired Jasolt stands at
the edge of the table.
   Dorrin rises. "I'm honored, trader."
   Pergun looks to leave, but Jasolt raises a hand. "Please stay, and do
sit down, Dorrin." Jasolt pulls up a chair and perches on the edge. "The
sextants work well, or so Rydlar tells me."
   "Make sure he keeps them as dry as he can. They really should be made
of brass or bronze."
   "I told him, and he will." Jasolt looks down at the table, finally
turning his dark eyes on Dorrin. "What do you think?"
   "About what?"
   "I overheard your friend here talking about the higher prices for
beer. It's like that everywhere, you know. I'm just glad you're here...
still."
   Dorrin's throat is dry. "I have as little choice as you, trader. Right
now, at least," he adds. "Is it that bad?"
   "You may have noticed there were no fireworks this winter to celebrate
the founding of the Council."
   "I must admit I didn't."
   "Also, Certis has posted notices for spring troop levies."
   "The false highway thefts didn't work," Dorrin says flatly.
   "Was that Recluce's doing?" Jasolt's voice is even lower.
   "I doubt that it was by intention."
   "You don't think the great ones of Recluce care?"
   "No." Dorrin does not want to elaborate.
   "What are you going to do?" Jasolt asks.
   "I built a new house, you know," Dorrin says conversationally. "I'm
hoping to live in it for a while."
   "Can you forge something that will help the Council guards? Something
. .. based on order?"
   Dorrin looks into his mug. Jasolt is asking the same questions that
Brede and Kadara have kept raising-and people are looking to him for an
answer. But what answer can he provide? He feels uncomfortable trying to
forge such items as knives-let alone swords.
   "Here's your beer, big fellow," interrupts the serving girl, setting
the mug before Pergun. "Where's the coin?"
   Pergun extends the coppers. "Light of a price for a single beer."
   "Everything's dear, big fellow." Pergun watches her sway toward the
next table.
   "Anything ...?" prompts Jasolt.
   "I don't know. I'll have to think about it. There might be something.
But being an ordered-smith poses a lot of restrictions."
   Jasolt frowns.
   "It's hard for me even to pick up an edged weapon, let alone forge
one. That's why I use a staff."
   "The way you use it you scarcely need a blade." Jasolt's voice is wry.
   "I don't know," Dorrin repeats helplessly. "I'll have to think about
it."
   "That's all we can ask." Jasolt looks straight at Dorrin. "You might
think about joining the Council."
   "Me? I'm scarcely in that category."
   "I doubt that it will be long. I did observe your new dwelling has
ample . .. storage ..."
   Dorrin does not want to mention that the space is for Liedral, not
with the Whites already reading their letters. "It's ... easier to build
it that way to begin with. I don't have any plans to be a trader." His
last phrase is certainly true. He has no real desire to be a trader.
   "Whatever..." Jasolt smiles politely and stands. "We hope you can
help. Cold winter . . . First time I've ever hoped it's long, and spring
comes late. Sad thing when a man has to hope for a long, cold winter.
Good evening, ser Dorrin." He inclines his head and turns.
   "Light..." murmurs Pergun, setting down his mug after a long pull.
"That dandy treated you like you ... like you were a fancier trader than
he is. Just what are you, Dorrin?"
   "I'm me. Sometimes I'm a smith, sometimes a healer, and sometimes I'm
not quite sure."
   Pergun sips the beer. "Need to make this last."
   Dorrin looks at the mug, and the few drops of juice in the bottom. He
finishes his redberry with a last swig. "I need to go. Do you mind?"
   "I think I'll stay," Pergun says. "Got nothing to go back to. Hemmil
keeps the place colder than lake ice." He jerks his finger toward a
ginger-bearded man dicing in the corner. "Gerba has a wagon. He'll drop
me off."
   "Are you sure?"
   "Asked him "fore you got here."
   "I'll see you later."
   Pergun nods and picks up his mug, heading toward the corner game.
   A boy Dorrin does not know is holding Meriwhen by the time Dorrin
reaches the stable.
   "Your horse, ser Dorrin."
   Dorrin parts with a copper. "Your name, boy?"
   "Alstar, ser." The youth looks down.
   "Thank you for taking care of Meriwhen."
   "A pleasure, ser." The child still does not meet Dorrin's eyes, and
Dorrin leads the mare out into the night.
   Only a single lantern lights the front of the Red Lion. As Meriwhen
plods through the slush toward the bridge, Dorrin surveys the houses they
pass. Most are dark, and those few not dark show only faint glows that
might come from single candles or lamps. Yet it is early. Despite the
bitter air, few plumes of smoke rise from the chimneys of Diev.
   The price of dark beer has doubled. It is cold, but few fires are lit,
and few candles or lamps. Yet Jasolt prays for a long, long winter.
   He pats Meriwhen's neck. "Easy, girl."
   Once he has ridden across the bridge, Meriwhen's hoofs drum against
hard-packed snow and ice, and the snow heaped on each side of the road
reaches nearly waist high. He turns in the saddle, but sees few lights or
fires.
   He shivers as he faces the uphill ride to his empty house. A long,
cold winter will kill all too many in Spidlar, and yet... so will an
early spring.
 
 
XCVII
 
AFTER FEEDING MERIWHEN, Dorrin closes the stable door and walks along the
path he has worn in the snow between his house and Rylla's. The snows
have reached knee-high, and the morning wind swirls the night's dusting
of powder across the packed surfaces. The gray clouds overhead are cold,
but do not promise more snow-not immediately.
   A thin gray plume of smoke twists from Rylja's chimney, carried by the
wind toward the Northern Ocean. He looks back at the smithy, where Vaos
is supposed to be building a tool rack. The faintest of white lines rises
from the forge chimney, indicating the heat in the banked fire.
   Dorrin stamps his boots on the porch, knocking off the snow, and wipes
them on the worn rush mat before opening the door and easing inside.
   A heavy older woman coughs .. . and coughs-deep wracking coughs. Her
face is mottled, almost purple, and between coughs, she wheezes like an
ill-constructed bellows. Rylla holds a cup, waiting for the coughing to
subside.
   Hunched beside the hearth of the main room is a man, twisted, bent,
who shivers, despite the heat from the low fire, and despite the layers
of ragged blankets that cover him.
   Dorrin sees the thin woman and the child in the corner, even before
Frisa asks, "Can I see your horsey?" She steps toward him, but her hand
does not let go of her mother's faded gray trousers. Merga-her thin face
sad-has on a herder's jacket, a larger and more tattered version of what
Frisa wears.
   There are no obvious physical injuries to either mother or child. The
farm woman looks at the plank floor, her eyes avoiding Dorrin's. The
heavy woman's coughs ease, and she takes a wheezing breath.
   "Drink this," orders Rylla.
   "It smells awful."
   "Do you want to cough your lungs out, Erlanna?"
   Erlanna takes the cup, and Rylla walks over to Dorrin. Her eyes flick
to Merga and Frisa. "Gerhalm walked away into the last snow. Asa van
found his body yesterday."
   "Why? He walked into the storm because he couldn't beat his woman?"
Dorrin tries to keep his voice low.
   Rylla nods toward the kitchen, and the two walk to the far corner, by
the back doorway that overlooks the ice and snow covered pond.
   "Gerhalm worked when he was told, did what he was told, and was paid
whatever Jisle thought was fair. When the crops were good, so were times.
When the weather was bad, so were times..."
   "You're saying that the man had no control over his life, and that the
only things he had control over were his woman and his child, and when I
took that away, when times got bad, he couldn't take it anymore?"
   Rylla nods. "Merga has no place to go. She's not strong enough to work
the fields for Jisle."
   "Darkness ..." Now what will he do? The two will likely starve or...
   "She can cook, I'm told, and she could be a serving maid. She was when
Gerhalm got her pregnant."
   "I don't really..." Dorrin sighs. "I'll work something out, I suppose."
   A heavy knock, repeated twice, thunders on the door. Dorrin looks up,
glances at Rylla. The older healer walks to the door and opens it,
admitting a heavy man in a long, blue woolen cloak. He sweeps off his hat
with dark leather gloves. "Is this where I might find ser Dorrin, the
healer?"
   Rylla points toward Dorrin. "There he be."
   The man's eyes fix on Dorrin, avoiding Erlanna and Merga. "Ser Dorrin?"
   "I'm Dorrin."
   "I'm Fanken, and I work for Trader Fyntal. His lady is quite ill, with
something of a fever and a flux, and the trader would request your
immediate attention." The words are polite, but stiff, as if the man has
been instructed to be polite.
   Behind Fanken's back, Rylla nods, pointing to the purse at her belt.
   "I will need a moment to finish here," Dorrin responds, "and to gather
a few items that may be of help to the lady. You can wait here, or ..."
   "I will wait by the door."
   Dorrin turns to Merga and Frisa.
   "Can I see the horsey?"
   Dorrin swallows, his mouth dry. "I heard that... hard times ... have
fallen on you ... I am . .. truly .. . sorry ..."
   "You did as you saw best, master Dorrin. The summer was good, and we
hoped ..." Merga chokes back tears, and shakes her head.
   "I... could use a cook and serving maid... Not much more than room and
board ... I'm not... that well-off." Merga's red eyes catch Dorrin's.
"I'd not accept such charity ... save ..." She looks at the dark-eyed
child who watches.
   "It need not be charity in time. This is sooner than . . I had
planned."
    The silence stretches out. Fanken coughs. So does Erlanna.
   "She can stay here for a while, Dorrin," offers Rylla. "You need to go
with Fyntal's man." She bends over and whispers in his ear. "Healers have
few opportunities for real golds."
   "There is that." He looks toward the door and the dour Fanken. "But if
Merga could stay here until I can rough out another room in the storage
area, mat might be better." Dorrin shakes his head. He has only a few
golds left, and even pine timbers and planks will not be cheap. Perhaps
nothing serious is wrong with Lady Fyntal. He nods toward Merga and walks
back toward the herb shelves in the kitchen.
   "I told you," Rylla says gently. "You be putting curses 'pon people,
and they come back."
   "It wasn't a curse. How can keeping a man from beating a woman be a
curse?"
   Fanken leans forward, his face stiff, as if to catch every word.
   "You can take the little bag there," Rylla suggests. "Brinn, astra,
willow bark..."
   The younger healer nods and begins to pack. He adds in pinches of
several other herbs, tied in twisted squares of cloth, and a small
stoppered bottle of liquid willow bark.
   "Remember," Rylla notes in a low voice as he picks up the bag,
"traders can pay in gold."
   Dorrin recalls that he has committed to taking on a servant he does
not need-all because he stopped a beating. As he passes Erlanna, the
woman coughs again, and his perceptions brush her. Like so many, she has
not eaten well, despite her weight, and the sickness preys upon her
weakness. How many will die of diseases simply because they have lost the
strength to fight them? Too long a winter, and Fairhaven may not have
much of a fight.
   Outside the healer's cottage, Fanken walks toward a thin gray. The
trader's man looks from the thin horse to Dorrin.
   "I'll be with you in a moment. I need to saddle my horse." Dorrin
points toward the bam, then continues in the direction he has pointed.
   Fanken grunts.
   The wind is sharper than earlier in the morning, and the clouds
overhead are darker. Without really trying, Dorrin can sense the heavy
oncoming snow, and he stops by his house to grab his heavy jacket before
going to the stable. Still, he saddles Meriwhen quickly and rides to join
Fanken.
   "Nice horse."
   "She's been good to me." Dorrin turns Meriwhen downhill on the main
road, toward the bridge. "Where is Trader Fyntal's house?"
   "On the ridge west of the harbor. Past the third pier and up the road."
   "Do you know how long Lady Fyntal has been ill?"
   "No."
   "Did the trader say any more about her illness?"
   "No."
   Clearly, Fanken does not like his role as messenger.
   "Are you from Diev?"
   "No. Quend. Came here as a boy."
   "Ever take the sled runs on the beaches?"
   "No. Damned fools who do."
   Dorrin asks no more questions, but concentrates on riding. Lower Diev
is warmer than upper Diev, but not that much warmer. Few fires burn
despite the chill wind, and the streets are empty except for one mounted
trooper bearing dispatch cases and riding out toward the Kleth road.
   All three piers are empty, except for a single small fishing boat tied
at the first. Beyond the breakwater, the sea is more white than blue, and
Dorrin can even see two ice floes tossing amidst the white-caps.
   "Too rough even for the Bristans." Fanken directs his horse up the
sloping road toward the ridge top where two solid dwellings of gray stone
and timber survey the harbor. Unlike so many houses in Diev, both houses
sport healthy plumes of smoke from their many chimneys.
   Fyntal's house is the one closest to the Northern Ocean, slightly
smaller, and with a view of both harbor and sea. Fanken rides past the
covered porch and around to the stable where a stable boy darts out.
   "Just stable the healer's mount."
   "Yes, ser." The boy looks away from Fanken, though his lowered eyes
glance sideways toward Dorrin.
   "Easy, girl." Dorrin dismounts, and pats Meriwhen on the neck. "Just
treat her gently."
   "Yes, master healer."
   Fanken hands the reins of the gray to the boy. "Be back in a bit." He
turns and marches across the rolled and packed snow of the yard.
   Dorrin smiles at the blond stable boy.
   A heavy white-haired man opens the door even before Dorrin reaches it.
He looks down from his four-cubit height at the healer, his bag, and the
black staff. "Master Dorrin, I appreciate your coming on such short
notice." His eyes turn to Fanken. "And I do appreciate your getting the
healer for us, Fanken. You may go, if you would like."
   "Thank you, ser. I'll be at the warehouse." Fanken nods and turns.
   Dorrin follows the older man into the foyer, placing his jacket on the
old branched cloak tree, and setting his staff in the corner behind the
tree. The foyer is paneled in dark-stained oak, and a leaf-patterned
Hamorian carpet is centered on the stained and varnished oak floor that
reflects the light of the two gleaming brass oil lamps in matching
sconces.
   "Leretia is upstairs. She had the flux-all of us did. I think it was
some bad fowl. But she just got worse and worse. Wine didn't help.
Neither did warm baths. Don't believe in healers much, but Honsard's girl
told Noriah how you healed her brother. I thought it couldn't hurt."
   "How long has she been ill?"
   "More than an eight-day. She just lies there." Fyntal's voice quavers
almost imperceptibly, and he coughs softly and starts up the stairs.
   Dorrin picks up the herb bag and climbs after Fyntal, whose booted
feet barely whisper on the carpeted steps, so lightly does the heavy man
move.
    Dorrin feels like his feet shake the stairs.
   Leretia lies on a wide bed, pale, thin-faced, and radiating heat. The
coverlet, rimmed in Suthyan lace, has been thrown back to her waist,
exposing a cotton nightgown also trimmed in lace. On a stool in the
corner sits a blond younger woman, eyes dark-rimmed and red, wearing a
soft blue blouse and matching trousers.
   "So . . . hot ..." murmurs the woman on the bed, but her eyes do not
seem to take in either Dorrin or Fyntal, or the younger woman.
   "Our daughter, Noriah," explains Fyntal in a whisper.
   Dorrin nods briefly to the younger woman, sets down the bag, and steps
to the bed, letting his fingers brush, first her wrist, and then her
forehead. He tries not to frown at the knot of white chaos centered below
her stomach, nor at the lines of sullen white fire that entwine her.
   If he could but cut out that small diseased organ ... He wants to
laugh. Even if he knew how, he has neither tools nor the skill to cut so
deeply. What else can he do? He steps back.
   "So sick ... am I going to die?"
   Dorrin forces a smile. "Not if I can help it, lady."
   "No 'lady'... just Lera... so hot..." Her eyes glaze as she looks
nowhere, and her chest heaves.
   Noriah sits up straight in the chair.
   "Will you not do something?" pleads Fyntal.
   "I could do much, but I would prefer doing the right thing." Dorrin
looks at the older man, who steps back. Noriah opens her mouth, but
closes it without saying a word.
   The chaos-pulsed section of Leretia's abdomen is clearly the problem.
Dorrin takes a deep breath and begins to weave a shield of order around
the small organ-but the chaos/infection fights back. He wipes his
forehead, then lets his perceptions examine her body again. There may be
a way.
   He turns to Fyntal. "I will need some additional materials. We can
discuss them." He walks into the hallway and waits for the trader.
   Fyntal closes the door.
   "You did not summon me first, did you?"
   "No. Sustro ... he said she would die. He said I should seek miracles.
I thought of... you."
   "She may still die. I am going to try something."
   "You aren't going to cut her open?" Fyntal's voice rises from a
whisper to a hoarse rasp. "That would kill her."
   "My skills do not lie in those areas. I will need a large basket of
clean soft cloths. I will also need a bottle of something like clear
brandy."
   "That sounds like a surgeon's stuff," protests Fyntal.
   "I will not touch her with an edged item," snaps Dorrin. "I cannot. Do
you want me to try for your miracle, or... ?"
   "I will get the cloths." Fyntal sighs.
   Dorrin opens the door and steps back into the bedroom where Leretia
moans. Her eyes open momentarily, then close.
   "Easy . . ." he says, his fingers touching her wrists, as he begins
building his walls of order, including the curved tube that runs from the
heart of chaos to the surface of her skin. He pauses and turns to the
younger woman, Leretia's daughter. "Would you help me?"
   She steps to the bed. "What do you want?"
   Dorrin sketches out a square area above the mother's stomach. "We need
her gown away from that area, so that it is clear to the air."
   Noriah frowns. "You aren't going to ..."
   "No cutting. I can't. But there is an infection beneath that, if I am
successful, will burst forth here. I can contain it, but it will be much
easier if the ... corrupt material does not become fouled in the gown."
   "I'll take care of mother. Would you ..."
   Dorrin turns and glances toward the window, through which he can see
the white-tipped waves of the Northern Ocean. His eyes touch on the
matched oil lamps, evenly set on each side of the window, and the
polished glass mantles.
   "Ooooo ... hurts ... so hot..."
   "Easy, mother. . . you'll be better soon."
   The door opens. Fyntal brings in a basket of soft, folded cloths. A
short man behind him carries a corked bottle. Dorrin takes the bottle and
extracts the cork, then lifts one of the cloths from the basket Fyntal
has set beside the bed.
   "Will this do?" asks the blonde.
   Dorrin turns. "Yes." He pours some of the brandy onto the cloth and
gently wipes the bare skin. Then he wipes his own fingers. The liquor
leaves them sticky, but he wipes off the stickiness with a dry part of
the cloth.
   He stands over Leretia and continues to build his walls of order,
using the pressure of order to constrain the chaos to a tighter and
tighter focus, driving it into a tighter and tighter line.
   His eyes burn as the sweat drips into them, and he shifts his weight
from one foot to the other.
   "Would a chair help?" asks Fyntal.
   "Yes." Dorrin does not look away from the patient, even as he sits
beside her, even as he reaches for the top cloth and lays it gently on
the bare skin.
   "Oh ... like a knife . .. darkness . .. hurts ..."
   Dorrin places one hand on her forehead, offering some sense of
reassurance. "It will hurt for a little, but we're all here."
   "Fyntal..."
   The trader stands on the other side of the bed, and Dorrin senses the
tears that flow down the craggy face. Fyntal says nothing, but holds
Leretia's hand as though it were the most precious of gems.
   Dorrin continues to press the chaos back into the diseased organ, but
the white fire begins to gnaw its way along the order tube toward her
skin.
   "Bums ... oh ... burns . .."
   Dorrin touches her forehead, willing her to sleep, wishing he had
recalled that option earlier.
   "What did you do?" asks Noriah.
   "Let her sleep," Dorrin answers, absently. "Should have thought of it
earlier."
   How long it is before the corruption gnaws through the smooth skin of
her belly Dorrin does not know. But he continues to sponge it away with
the cloths, discarding them in turn, ignoring the greenish cast on the
trader's face or Noriah's stumbled retreat from the room and her
chastened return.
   The lamps have been lit, and they cast shadows from the room when he
cleans Leretia's skin for a last time and sprinkles the wound, which
looks more like a circular bum, with crushed astra.
   "I... feel better ..." murmurs the older woman.
   "Don't move," Dorrin says. "Not much, anyway."
   "What did you do?" asks the trader from another chair in the corner.
"It looks like you did surgery."
   Dorrin squints, then holds on to the chair. He cannot talk. Then he
cannot see, either.
   "Catch him. .." When Dorrin wakes, lying upon a strange bed, he finds
the stable boy sitting on a stool. "Hello."
   "Hello, master." The boy's eyes avoid Dorrin's. "Let me get the
mistress." He darts out the door.
   Dorrin sits up. His head aches, and he rubs his neck. This kind of
healing is worse than smithing. Since the lamps are not lit, it must be
the next day. He hopes it has only been a day. He was supposed to help
Yarrl with a cart crane. He finds his boots next to the bed and pulls
them on.
   "You're awake." The blonde, now wearing a soft green blouse and
trousers, steps into the room.
   "I take it your mother is better."
   "She's better. But she's still hot."
   "She probably will be for days." Dorrin stands. "I need to see her."
   "I think you need to eat. You're as white as the snow."
   Dorrin considers the wobbliness in his knees. He grins sheepishly.
"You're probably right." He follows her down the back stairs to the
kitchen, where dried fruit, cheese, and fresh-baked bread are laid out on
the table.
   After he has eaten, feeling somewhat refreshed, he climbs the front
stairs to the main bedroom. Noriah follows. Fyntal, sitting by the bed,
looks up. Leretia's eyes follow the trader's.
   "Good morning," Dorrin offers.
   "Good morning, master healer," Fyntal says dryly.
   "Thank you," whispers Leretia.
   "I still need to look at that wound," Dorrin says.
   "Just a moment..."
   The healer looks out the window, noting that the Northern Ocean is
calmer, that only a few whitecaps dot the dark blue waters.
   "Here. . ."
   Dorrin lifts the dressing, as gently as he can.
   "Ooooo ..."
   "I know." He lets his senses check the wound. Small traces of chaos
still flicker around the opening and within. He concentrates.
   "Ohhhh..."
   "Oh ... I should have warned you." He looks for the brandy and some
more cloths. Noriah hands him the bottle and a cloth. He continues to
concentrate until a small amount of greenish pus oozes forth. Then he
cleans Leretia's skin again, and sprinkles the wound with the astringent
astra, and replaces the dressing.
   "This could ooze for a few days. Keep it clean with the brandy, and
change the pad daily, or if it gets sticky. If you get very hot again,
don't wait. Send someone for me immediately." Dorrin takes a deep breath.
   "You don't do this often, do you?" asks Fyntal.
   "No. No healer can."
   "I can see why," observes Noriah.
   "Why did you do it for us?" whispers Leretia.
   Dorrin tries not to blush. Then he swallows. "There were two reasons.
First, I came because I needed the coin. Second, I stayed because
everyone loves you."
   "Pretty speech," says the trader dryly.
   "I'm being honest." Dorrin looks at the trader, who looks away.
   "Honesty doesn't always impress people." Noriah's voice is gentle.
   "No."
   "Could anyone else you know have saved me?" asks Leretia, pulling the
bedclothes back up to her chest.
   Dorrin hesitates.
   "Be honest."
   "No. I wasn't sure I could."
   "You sound like there's no doubt now."
   "If the wound doesn't get infected, you should be fine within several
eight-days, perhaps sooner." Dorrin sits down on the single vacant chair.
His knees are still somewhat rubbery.
   "It's clear your kind of healing is exhausting." Noriah's voice is
almost impish. "Or you are not used to exercise."
   "I'm mostly a smith." The words come out before Dorrin can consider
the impact.
   "And a healer?" asks Leretia.
   "I said it had to be exhausting," points out Noriah.
   "Enough," says Fyntal. "I expect my lady needs some rest, and master
Dorrin has another life as well."
   "All right," concedes Noriah, standing.
   Dorrin rises slowly, nods to the woman in the bed.
   "No. Thank you," says Leretia.
    Dorrin blushes, but recovers, before he rums and steps into the
hallway.
   "I will meet you in the foyer, master Dorrin," Fyntal says firmly when
he closes the bedroom door.
   Dorrin nods and heads down the stairs. Noriah watches from the landing
as Dorrin recovers his heavy jacket and his black staff.
   Fyntal appears at the back of the foyer, apparently having taken the
back stairs. He hands Dorrin a heavy leather pouch.
   "But..."
   "You said you needed the coin," Fyntal states with a smile. "And I am
more than willing to pay for a miracle. Unlike some, I appreciate second
chances. I can't say I have need of your smith work, but should I need an
honest smith, I'll find you."
   "Thank you." Dorrin inclines his head to the young woman on the
landing and to the trader. "Remember to watch her fever. I don't think it
should come back, but get me if it does."
   "I will-never fear." A grin creases the craggy face.
   Dorrin steps into the bright chill of winter, realizing that the
warmth of the trader's house had made him forget the season. He slips the
heavy pouch inside his jacket, then one-handedly fastens the jacket as he
steps toward the stable.
   The same stable boy has Meriwhen saddled and waiting. Dorrin takes a
moment to check the girths and hackamore, but both are firm. "Thank you,"
he says, fumbling in his purse and offering a copper.
   "I couldn't, ser."
   "Yes, you can. You were good to Meriwhen."
   "I did feed her the grain mash, and she let me curry her."
   Dorrin grins. "Good." He puts his staff in the holder.
   "But you healed the lady, and everyone said she would die, and she's
too good to die."
   "Too many good people die," Dorrin says slowly. "This time ... I could
help." He has already wondered how many good people, like Erlanna, are
poor and dying. He takes a deep breath and swings up into the saddle.
   The boy waves as Dorrin rides into the yard. Fyntal still stands in
the open doorway watching until the healer rides down the drive and out
onto the road.
   L Dorrin does not need to open the pouch to know that it bears a dozen
golds. A dozen golds. He is glad he could heal Leretia, and he needs the
coin. But how many others will lose lovers and mothers for lack of such
healing? And, even if they could find him, how could he heal all of them?
His knees and legs are still weak.
   He rides slowly past the empty piers, past the chimneys that do not
waft smoke into the clear winter sky, past the empty yards of the Tankard
and the Red Lion, and over the bridge and up the packed snow of the road
to his house.
 
 
XCVIII
 
CRACCKKKK! THE WHITE guard continues to lash the figure strapped facedown
on the long table, and a line of red slashes across the legs.
   The White Wizard's hands move, fighting back the white mist that
threatens to appear in the mirror on the table in the corner of the cell.
Perspiration appears on his forehead as he maintains the image in the
midst of the mists. A red-headed young man stands in the center of the
white mists. At one edge of the scene stands a woman with short brown
hair.
   Crack! The lash cuts across the bare shoulders.
   "... hnnnn ..." The prisoner whimpers.
   The wizard frowns and the face of the man in the mirror
distorts-showing pointed teeth, blood dripping from the corners of his
mouth, and he lifts a jagged blade toward the woman. She backs away, and
he lunges.
   Crack!
   The image vanishes into the white mists.
   "Try it again," suggests Any a.
   "I've done it four times," he snaps.
   "You want the effect deep."
   Instead of responding, Jeslek takes a sip from the tumbler. Then he
concentrates once more. This time the red-headed man is moving slowly
toward the woman in the mirror. The woman has a knife in her hand. Jeslek
nods to the guard, and the whip snaps across the woman's bare back.
   "Oooo..."
   This time the image of the red-headed man lunges, growling, and the
woman plunges the knife full into his chest. The man vanishes in a welter
of black smoke.
   "Again ..." insists Anya.
   Jeslek wipes his forehead, and nods to the guard.
   Crack!
   The images re-form in the glass, with the red-headed man attacking and
being stabbed.
   Anya smiles. "That should do it."
   "Ohhhhh ..." The scream of the woman on the table dies away as she
faints.
   "Was that necessary?" asks Jeslek.
   "As necessary as anything you do, dear High Wizard."
   Jeslek gestures to the other wizard. "You know what to do, Fydel. We
might as well make a lesson in Jellico as well. Black sympathizers . . .
bah ..."
   The guard unstraps the unconscious woman and lifts her over his
shoulders like a sack. He follows Fydel from the lower Tower room.
   As the door closes, Anya slides in front of Jeslek, moistening her
lips, letting her hands reach up his back and drawing his body close to
hers. "We have a little time ..."
   Her lips burn on his.
 
 
XCIX
 
OUTSIDE, THE SNOW continues to pour down, coating the packed yard with
another soft white blanket. Dorrin worries about the ride home.
   Rek brings in another barrow of charcoal and wheels it next to the
forge. Then he wipes the water from his forehead.
   Dorrin raises the hammer and strikes, his thoughts more on the
carpentry that Pergun has done to turn another corner of the storage area
into a room for Merga and Frisa than upon the heavy bar before him.
Pergun can use the coppers, and, thanks to Fyntal, Dorrin has more coins
than time. And Dorrin cannot complain that someone else is cooking-except
that he has now had to worry about buying food-when it is in short enough
supply, and dear.
   A soundless scream whimpers in the distance. Dorrin shudders, barely
keeping the sledge on target. The impact on the flatter sounds dull, weak.
   "Careful there," admonishes Yarrl. "Got a problem?"
   Dorrin sets the sledge on the hard clay. Another shudder takes him,
with a wave of distant pain and whiteness. Slowly, he walks out of the
smithy and into the storm.
   "Dorrin. Darkness damned. Need to finish this strap."
   Yarrl's words are lost as he looks into the heavy gray snow clouds
over the Westhorns. Liedral? But what? Another wave of white horror and
pain washes over him, and he puts a hand on the ice on the stones of the
well ledge.
   For a time, with the hazy winter light fighting through the clouds, he
stands next to the well, enduring the waves of pain that are not his,
until they subside. Then, mechanically, he opens the well cover and drops
the bucket. Just as mechanically he hoists it back up. Was Reisa right?
Should he have made Liedral stay? But what has happened?
   ". . . just shuddered and dropped his sledge . . . like as he's not
here, daughter.. . Look at him."
   The cold water on his sweating face helps-the colder the better.
Finally, he swallows some of the water. That helps also.
   "Crazy . . . cold water on his face in midwinter ..."
   Something tugs at his leg. He looks down at Zilda, at the end of the
chain held by Petra. The goat is yanking at his trousers.
   "Sorry ..." he says.
   Reisa and Yarrl stand by the porch steps. Yarrl spits into the corner.
   "What happened?" Reisa smiles sadly.
   "Something with Liedral. It's stopped . . . now, but she's been hurt."
   "Do you know where she is?"
   He shakes his head.
   "Wizards' business ... no good to come of it," mumbles Yarrl.
   "Can you do anything?" Reisa pursues.
   "Not yet ... not yet." He takes a deep breath. "Might as well finish
the big straps-while I can."
   "You sure?" asks Yarrl.
   "I'll let you know when I'm not." Dorrin wipes his face and walks back
toward the smithy.
   Behind him, Reisa and Yarrl look at each other. Finally, Yarrl follows
the younger smith back to the forge.
 
 
C
 
FAT SNOWFLAKES FLOW past Dorrin's face as he rides uphill from Yard's in
the darkness of early evening. What has happened to Liedral? Why did he
feel the pain? Where is she?
   Somehow, in some way, it is connected to the White Wizards. Still,
none of it makes much sense. Dorrin has made little progress in building
the machines he has designed, even the simple steam engine. He cannot
make weapons, at least not the conventional ones, and he cannot return to
Recluce. He is a good journeyman smith, and, in some ways, a good healer.
   Liedral is a woman and a trader who can barely make ends meet.
   Unless he can do something, or unless Brede and Kadara are far more
successful than Dorrin, within a year or perhaps two, Spidlar will be
under the heels of the White Wizards, and there is a good chance he will
be in a work camp building roads, or dead. Yet the White Wizards are
worried.
   He nudges Meriwhen off the road and up the drive past Rylla's cottage.
The smoke from the kitchen chimney, the one serving the stove, shows that
Merga has been busy with something. He hopes it is better than his own
cooking. He dismounts outside the small stable. As he slides off
Meriwhen, he hears footsteps.
   "Can I feed the horsey?" asks Frisa, still struggling into the too-big
herder's jacket, snow coating her short black hair.
   "Her name is Meriwhen," Dorrin explains again, opening the stable door
and leading Meriwhen inside.
   "Can I feed Meriwhen?"
   Dorrin hands the girl the bucket, and opens the barrel. "Put three big
handfuls in the bucket and let me see it."
   While Frisa scrambles with the barrel and bucket in the dimness of the
stable, Dorrin loosens Meriwhen's saddle and racks it.
   "It's dark."
   "We won't be here long." Dorrin winces as the distant pain sears
through him. Somehow that agony is closer. But why? Can he find Liedral?
How?
   "Is this enough?"
   "What?"
    Frisa thrusts the bucket at him.
   "Three more handfuls," Dorrin decides. Her hands are much smaller than
his. He leads Meriwhen into her stall and takes out the brush. "This is
going to be quick, old girl."
   "Horsey's not old."
   "Meriwhen."
   "She's not old."
   "You're right." Dorrin continues brushing.
   "Is this enough?"
   Dorrin turns and looks at the bucket that Frisa holds, moving the
child back away from the mare's legs-not that he believes Meriwhen would
kick, but not all horses are Meriwhens. "That's fine. We'll put it here."
He lifts Frisa up to the level of the manger. "Pour it all out."
   "Good Meriwhen."
   Frisa stands outside the stall while Dorrin finishes grooming
Meriwhen. He picks up his staff and steps into the snow, waiting for
Frisa to follow before closing the stable door.
   Frisa darts ahead and is stamping her small feet on the porch even
before Dorrin's boots touch the steps. He cleans his own boots as Frisa
ducks into the house.
   "Good evening, ser." Merga inclines her head at Dorrin's entrance.
"Seeing it was wet and then snowing, and seeing as you're growing young
fellows"-she jabs a long wooden spoon at Vaos, who stands in the comer by
the stove-"I made a stew."
   Dorrin sniffs the welcome scent of stew. Vaos grins at the smith.
   The kitchen is dim with only the two oil lamps lit, but Dorrin only
has the two lamps-yet another shortcoming in his household supplies. He
also only has a single large jug of lamp oil. Building the house was only
the beginning of his expenses.
   Even the golds from Fyntal may not last long. Dorrin turns from
absently studying the lamp in the wall sconce to Merga.
   "Frisa and me, we set some snares near the pond, and we got two fine
hares. You had plenty of potatoes in the cellar, even some roots."
   "You snared some rabbits?"
   "Yes, ser. I had plenty of practice, and Jisle didn't mind. He said
that they only ate the crops."
   Dorrin tried not to smile as he sinks into the chair at the table.
   "But ser, for a proper pantry, you be needing more staples. A barrel
of flour, more potatoes, some yams ..."
   "Probably, Merga, I'll need all that and more. But could I afford it?"
   "Even these days, you could get a barrel of flour for a silver, and
you'd get a couple of coppers back for the barrel when you emptied it.
Potatoes are cheap, if you go to Asavah."
   Dorrin takes a deep breath. "We'll talk about what we need in the
morning. It's been a long day, and I am hungry."
   "Frisa, you can take this." Merga hands a worn basket to the child who
carries it across the room and sets it before Dorrin. The aroma of
fresh-baked bread fills his nostrils. "I got some yeast mix from Rylla.
She says it will do until your lady brings her own."
   Dorrin coughs, then rises and heads for the cooling tank and the
cider. He fills four mugs and sets them around the table.
   Merga sets the heavy pot on the wooden trivet in the middle of the
table. "If you'd serve, master Dorrin."
   The smith understands. Only the master or the mistress of a house
should distribute the food. But he serves Frisa first, then Vaos and
Merga. There is still plenty left.
   He takes a spoonful, then breaks off an end of the bread and hands the
basket to Vaos.
   "Begging your pardon, master Dorrin," Vaos says, "but this is better
than bread and cheese and fruit."
   "So? I'm not a cook."
   "The master is a healer," asserts Frisa.
   "He's a smith," counters Vaos. "A good smith."
   "I do both. Now, eat!"
   Vaos crunches through his large chunk of bread.
   "Yes, master," agrees Frisa. "Would Meriwhen like stew?"
   "I don't think so." Instead of shaking his head, Dorrin bites into the
bread, still warm and crusty. After several mouthfuls of stew and bread,
he looks up to see the other three eating equally ravenously.
   "Can you ride a horse, Merga? Or drive a wagon?" he asks later.
   "Yes, ser. I used to drive the teams for Gerhalm, when he wasn't
a-feeling well. Jisle, he looked the other way."
   There is a knock, and Dorrin's eyes flash to the door. He stands,
bumping the table, and has to steady his mug before he answers the knock.
   "Pergun? What are you doing here?"
   "Well... ser... I was just a-thinking ... it was looking like snow . .
. and I wanted to make sure the work I did ..." The mill hand looks up
sheepishly.
   "Come on in. Have you had supper?"
   "I ate a little."
   "Do we have another bowl?" asks Dorrin.
   "I've finished," Merga says quickly. "I can wash mine out." She stands
and offers her place on the bench.
   Not only does he need more crockery, but he needs more chairs and a
longer table. Dorrin takes another mouthful of the stew, watching Merga
smile at Pergun as she puts a bowl full of her stew in front of him. The
mill hand looks back at her.
   "Did you walk here?" Dorrin asks.
   "It's not that far," Pergun mumbles through a mouthful of stew.
   "Hmmmm ..." Dorrin almost feels like smashing things with his biggest
hammers. The more he does, the more out of control he feels. Everything
seems to lead to something bigger, and each time he manages to accomplish
something that he thinks will help him build his steam engine, his
efforts result in more problems than solutions. He wanted space to work
in; instead, he must support a growing household. He didn't want to worry
about a wife; now he worries about Liedral.
   Abruptly, he stands up. Everyone in the small kitchen stops and looks
at him. "I'm tired. You all enjoy yourselves. I need to lie down and
think."
   He walks slowly to the back bedroom and closes the door. Not all the
rooms have doors yet, but his does. Nor does he bother with the lamp as
he pulls off his boots and trousers.
   Lying under the coverlet on the wide bed meant for two, Dorrin tries
to cast his thoughts out-the same way he was taught so long ago by his
father, the air wizard. This time he is not seeking natural storms, but
chaos.
   Sparkles of white fire flicker from the countryside, a sullen white
different from the snow, but Dorrin is too tired to cast his thoughts
even to Kleth. While Kleth is nearer than that distant agony of
Liedral's, he cannot yet tell in which direction she lies-assuming that
the pain is hers. But to whom else could it belong?
   So he tosses and turns in the night.
 
 
CI
 
VAOS GESTURES AS Dorrin finishes the hammer stroke on the cherry-red iron
he is fullering into thinner strips for hinges. Somehow, between
everything, people always need things like hinges and nails. He holds his
stroke. "Yes?"
   "The big guard, the blond one, him and the red-headed one ... they're
here to see you."
   Dorrin lifts the iron and sets it on the bricks before placing his
hammer in the rack. "Have Merga warm up some cider and see if there's
some bread. Then bring in some more charcoal, and sweep up the place."
   "But... ser..."
   "Vaos."
   "Yes, ser."
   Dorrin still worries about Liedral, but his senses only tell him she
is closer than before, closer and in pain. And now Brede and Kadara will
bring more worries. He walks to the smithy door. Both an icy wind and the
glitter of the frozen white snow strike the smith as he steps into the
yard. The tracks of the two riders cross his own earlier prints out to
the stable.
   Brede and Kadara tie their mounts to the railing. Brede wears a ragged
beard, a fresh scar across one cheek, and his eyes are set in dark holes.
Kadara's face is an angular caricature, with deep circles around her eyes.
   Dorrin gestures toward the kitchen. "Can you have something to eat?"
   Brede nods tiredly. Kadara says nothing as she tromps up the steps.
   "You can stable them if you want."
   "Can't stay all that long," Brede grunts.
   "This is a lot warmer than where we've been."
   Both troopers knock the snow off their boots before stepping into the
kitchen and slumping into chairs. Merga looks up. "The cider's not quite
warm, ser. But I can set out some bread, and cheese, and there's a little
dried fruit."
   Dorrin takes off his leather apron and hangs it on a peg by the door.
   "That sounds wonderful," says Kadara.
   Brede just unfastens his jacket.
   Dorrin looks at Merga. "Why don't you and Frisa go see how Rylla's
doing? I'll take care of the cider."
   "Yes, ser. Might be as she could use some help with the heavy snow.
Frisa's in the room. I'll be going." Merga grabs for her herder's jacket
and scuttles out onto the porch.
   "Building a domestic empire, Dorrin?" Kadara's chuckle is hard, forced.
   "No. I ended up with them ... because I tried to keep her and her
daughter from getting beaten. The man committed suicide, and..." He rises
to get the pot in which Merga poured the cider and spices. Without
spilling much on the table, he fills both mugs.
   "Thank you." Brede holds the cup to his face, inhaling the steam.
"It's been a long winter." . Kadara sips silently.
   "You need something," Dorrin suggests into the silence.
   "Yes, we do," Brede answers. "The problem is that I don't know what I
need. Come spring-and winter cannot last forever-the Certan levies will
pour down the roads toward Elparta. They could use the rivers."
   "I can't make edged weapons. I could make some black iron shields."
   "They're heavy," Kadara says slowly.
   "They're what Recluce uses against the fireballs of the White Wizards.
I could make them pretty thin."
   "That might help-if we had one or two for emergencies." Brede nods.
"That won't be enough. We need something that will stop them on the
roads. Do you have some magic knives that slice up troops from a
distance?" Brede's laugh is harsh and cynical.
   "I never .. . besides ..."
   "I know. You get ill even thinking about edged weapons, let alone
forging them."
   "I can't do it." Dorrin sits in the chair across from her.
   "How convenient," Kadara says.
   Dorrin looks at her. "Every day I try to heal people who are dying
because their bodies don't have enough food to resist flux or consumption
or fever. Half the people in Diev are slowly freezing because they can't
afford wood and don't have the strength to get into the hills to cut it
and bring it back. I feel guilty because we have food. Even being a
trader has become a high-risk occupation-you know that. What do you want,
Kadara?"
   "I'm sorry, Dorrin. But I'm not. We're getting old and tired, and
you're getting wealthy and successful. You have a house. You have a clean
bed every night, and people look up to you. Everyone looks away when we
ride by. Death sticks to us like a leech."
   Dorrin looks down at the table.
   "This isn't going to help," Brede says tiredly.
   "Let me think ... I said that in the fall, didn't I?" Dorrin looks at
the table. Knives-what cuts like a knife that isn't a knife or a sword?
Can he do anything with the gunpowder? "Will they have White Wizards with
them-the Certans, I mean?"
   "Probably. Some detachments will."
   "How is your squad doing?"
   "It's Kadara's now."
   Dorrin looks at the two, realizing they both wear braid.
   "Brede's a strike leader, with three squads under him."
   "Oh ..." Dorrin tried to think. "Do they always use the roads?"
   Brede snorts. "We all use the roads. How else can you move troops
through the hills at any speed? Everything else turns to dust and mud."
   "Hmmmm..."     *
   "If it will help, good coin-oriented smith, the Council has authorized
me to buy up to two golds' worth of weapons ..." Brede's tone is ironic.
   "Use the coins for supplies," snaps Dorrin.
   This time Brede looks at the table. Kadara breaks off an end of the
loaf and chews on it.
   "I'll develop something-darkness knows what-but something ... and
you'll get a couple of shields." Dorrin stands and walks back to the
stove to refill their mugs. First, though, he pours himself a mug.
   "You've worked hard," Brede says slowly. "Maybe not as hard as a
trooper, but your eyes are tired, and there are new lines on your face."
   "I've been trying," Dorrin admits, "but everything takes more than I
thought. If I want to build an engine, I need coin for metal and tools.
To get that means working hard ..." He steps back to the table and
refills the mugs.
   "Dorrin, just what are you going to do with such an engine? What will
you use it for?" Kadara asks.
   "I could use it to run a sawmill or a ship or a grain mill. The ship
makes the most sense, because the ocean has more order within it."
   "You'd better build it quickly," Brede says, "unless you can find a
way to stop Fairhaven and its captive levies."
   "Have you seen your trader friend lately?" asks Kadara.
   "No." Dorrin sits. "She's been hurt, somehow, but I can't locate her."
   "And you're just sitting here?" Kadara sets her mug back on the table.
   "Where do you suggest I go?" Dorrin asks.
   "Sometimes, it pays to wait," Brede says. "And that is often the
hardest thing to learn." He breaks off a piece of bread and chews it.
   "Stop being so old and wise and philosophical." Kadara smiles faintly.
   Dorrin lets his breath out slowly.
   "Isn't that better than being young and rash and stupid?" Brede laughs.
   "Not a great deal. How about being young and happy once in a while?"
   "That was in another country, wench. But I will try." Dorrin takes a
bite of the dried pearapples, then sips his cider, thinking about shields
and invisible knives and roads . . . and the nearing agony that is
Liedral.
 
 
CII
 
THE RAIN SLASHES his face as Dorrin urges Meriwhen down from the ridge
road and along the muddy flat and toward the trees south of Jarnish's
yard.
   Liedral has to be at the factor's, or somewhere near. He had left Diev
once his senses indicated she was getting nearer. In Kleth, at least, he
will be closer to anywhere else in Spidlar- between the roads and the
river.
   The wind moans in his ears as he sees Jarnish's small warehouse.
Meriwhen's hoofs squish through the thin mud that overlies the stones of
the road. Kleth is noticeably warmer than Diev, and the snow has begun to
melt off, leaving the fields with a blotchy appearance.
   As he guides Meriwhen into the factor's yard, he recognizes the cart
tilted upward by the stable. Both the burning in his guts and the fear in
his heart are sharp-sharp enough to cut. And lying over the entire yard
is a sense of diffuse whiteness, a vague fog of chaos.
   Even before he dismounts, Jarnish is rushing from the kitchen.
   "I was going to send a message ... but no one was going to Diev ..."
The chaos Dorrin sensed clings to the factor.
   Dorrin swings down, and immediately brings the black staff into his
hand.
   Jarnish is bowing, almost groveling in the mud. "I did what I could,
master Dorrin ... I got the trader here ... I did."
   "Where is she?"
   "She? Liedral. .. that's the one I mean."
   Dorrin swallows. Jarnish does not know? "Where is Liedral?"
   "Couldn't put him in the house . . ." Jamish's eyes edge to the stable.
   Dorrin, staff in hand, marches into the stable.
   The agony welling from the beaten and whipped figure lying on the
pallet in the corner of the stable grasps at him, and for a moment, he
cannot see, so blinding is the pain in and behind his eyes.
   "I owe the trader . . . but not enough for the Whites . . . See what
they did ... Brother they fired in his warehouse. Thought you could
help." Jarnish pulls at his beard. "Can you move ... Don't want..."
   "I'll take care of... the trader . . . but I can't move ... not now
..." Dorrin's forehead beads with sweat, despite the chill of the stall.
   Liedral? Why? Just because she hasn't paid road duties or joined the
traders' association? Or because she carried his toys? Or because the
Whites are after him?
   "You'll move the trader as soon as you can?"
   His eyes burn as he turns on Jamish. "The Whites aren't anywhere
close, not the ones you fear. I'm the one you need to fear." He lifts the
staff. "You wouldn't even put her in the house, you gutless bastard."
   Jarnish backs away.
   "Get me some boiling water, clean cloths, and some blankets."
   Jamish looks at the healer, blankly.
   "You want us out of here? Then get me boiling water, clean cloths, and
blankets."
   As Jarnish stumbles from the stable, Dorrin wipes his eyes. Then he
takes a deep breath, and his hands touch the surprisingly small wrists.
   Blood is everywhere, crusted across her back, down her legs, matted
into her skull, yet none of the wounds is deep, as if they were designed
for pain, and more pain. Even worse is the feel of chaos that coats her,
although it mostly dusts her-unlike the factor, who seems infused with
the whiteness.
   His fingers brush her arms, sensing the infections beginning on her
back and thighs. At least the pallet and sheet on which she lies are
clean. Offering some directed order to Liedral before returning to
Meriwhen, he leads the mare into the stable and ties her in a corner,
then unloads the saddlebags with the herbs he has brought.
   Lyssa, the maid, struggles into the stable with a basket of rags,
which she carefully lowers onto the straw next to the stall door. "Jaddy
says it will be a bit for the boiling water."
   "Could you get me a bucket of clean well-water?"
   Lyssa does not meet his eyes. "Yes, ser."
   "And, when you have a moment, a clean shift."
   "A shift?"
   "The trader is a woman. She hid it to avoid something like this."
Dorrin's words are calculated.
   "They beat her ... for being a woman?"
   "The Whites don't exactly favor the Legend," Dorrin snaps. "Could I
have some water?"
   Putting Liedral in the stable, of all things. Clearly, Jarnish is
under the Whites' influence, and there is a terrible reason for the
beating. The Whites seldom engage in unnecessary cruelty, and with that
thought his fists clench momentarily. If only he had insisted she stay in
Diev . . . but he had not, and he cannot change that.
   Lyssa struggles back in with a bucket of icy water.
   "Thank you." Dorrin tries to soften his voice, but he reaches for a
rag and wets it.
   "I have an old shift. It's soft, and it's clean."
   "Thank you," he repeats softly, using one hand to brush back the
tears. He begins to clean away the dirt and the blood. How had Liedral
made it this far? Or did the Whites ensure that she did? Why? He pushes
away the questions as he works.
   The dark pulse of order finally beats strongly in Liedral's weakened
frame. Darkness has closed over the stable when Dorrin curls up on the
straw in one of the two blankets Jarnish has so reluctantly furnished.
The dark staff rests beside his fingertips, and he hopes that it will
alert him to any danger.
   Outside, the darkness remains when he wakes, grasping for the staff.
   "... no ... not that..." Liedral mutters, and each mutter brings a
turn on the pallet, and a fresh surge of agony.
   Dorrin touches her forehead.
   "...oh..."
   "Just rest easy ..."
   "Dorrin ... where ... ? So thirsty ... Why did you hurt me?
   Why?"
   Half of her words dwell on his hurting her-why? As he questions, he
eases the slightest trace of water between her lips, and uses his senses
to slide her back into a deeper and healing sleep.
   Whether he will sleep after glimpsing the horror in her thoughts is
another question. His fingers clench around the staff, and he wishes he
were a blade like Kadara and Brede. But how can he forge destruction out
of order? And if he can . . .  should he?
   But... Creslin did. The Founders did, and they survived.
   What kind of machine? What kind of magic knives, as Brede has put it?
He does not know, but he will heal Liedral, and he will repay the Whites.
Somehow.
 
 
CIII
 
LIEDRAL is PROBABLY not well enough to travel, but Dorrin will risk it,
muddy roads and all, before staying longer so close to the chaos that has
grown up around Jamish.
   He continues to pack the two sacks of assorted knickknacks that were
in the cart bed into sacks he has retrieved from the corners of Jarnish's
stable. He places a layer of clean straw covered with some rags on the
cart bed. The thin pallet will go over that.
   Next comes saddling Meriwhen and harnessing the cart horse. He is
thankful he has watched Liedral, although his smithing work has given him
some greater idea of how harnesses work.
   After readying the horses, he pauses, rubbing his stubbly face,
realizing that worrying about shaving is stupid. Time enough to shave
when he gets back to Diev. What else does he need? Food-of course, since
the trip will take at least three days, and perhaps four. He should have
thought of provisions earlier. He sighs, then glances at Liedral, whose
eyes find his He walks over to the pallet.
   "Dorrin . . . terrible .. . you hurt me . . ."
   She has used the same words over and over. He places his hand on her
forehead, trying to reassure her. "I'm here; everything will be all
right."
    ".. . thirsty ..."
   He eases more water into her parched throat, but some dribbles onto
the pallet because she has trouble drinking. Yet she cannot lie on her
back or sides, not with the terrible welts there.
   In a few moments, she sleeps again, almost as if to escape thinking
about the terrors she has endured. He loads the trade bags on Meriwhen,
and, with a look at the sleeping Liedral, heads toward the factor's
kitchen.
   After knocking the water and mud off his boots, he steps inside,
carrying the empty saddlebags.
   "How's the young trader? Terrible thing, that," says the cook. "And a
fearsome bunch are those White Wizards."
   "The trader's better. Could I buy a few provisions for the trip back?"
   "Sure and you won't travel the roads in this weather. The mud would
stop anyone."
   "It's a hard-packed road to Diev, and I made it here. Besides, we
cannot stay." Dorrin glances at the door to the rest of the house.
   "Sad thing it is when you must drag a wounded soul across all Spidlar.
And after such a long and frightful winter, too."
   "About the provisions?"
   "We've some, but not as many as we'd like. Yet how could I not refuse
a healer's coin?" Jaddy begins to rummage through the small barrels.
"Some dried apples and pearapples . . . and brick cheese. Here are some
road biscuits, hard but still good ..."
   Dorrin smiles at the running commentary and at the small pile of food
that appears on the cutting table.
   "... and the poor trader will need something that can be softened.
Just moisten the travel bread with water or cider. Moisten it; don't soak
it." The cook looks at Dorrin. "You understand, young fellow, healer or
not?"
   "Yes, I understand."
   "Well, don't just stand there. Pack it all up in your bags. Why else
did I get it out?" Dorrin can't help grinning momentarily. As he begins
to pack, he asks, "What might I-"
   "We're not so poor here that a little food can't be spared, even if
you are daft to take to the roads now."
   Dorrin is still shaking his head as he loads the food under the cart
seat. The half-smile vanishes as Jamish slides into the stable. Dorrin
turns and meets him.
   "Ye owe me-"
   "I asked your cook ..."
   "No. Pox on the food. Ye owe me, healer, for taking in yer lady
trader." Jarnish's voice is hard, but his eyes are fixed on the muddy
clay of the yard. "It were a big risk for me."
   Dorrin's hands reach to the staff he is about to place in the
makeshift holder beside the cart seat, where he can easily reach it in
this time of trouble. The fingers of his right hand tighten about the
dark wood. "It was little risk."
   "Ye owe me," Jarnish insists, his voice even harder, and Dorrin can
sense the prodding of chaos behind the trader's words.
   "Then I will repay you in like coin." Dorrin releases the staff.
   Jarnish looks up, and Dorrin's eyes catch the other man's, and the
smith's hands, hard and unyielding like the iron he fashions, seize
Jarnish's hands by the wrists.
   "I will repay you in order." Dorrin laughs, a harsh almost crying
sound, as he weaves order around the factor. "You will no longer be able
to tolerate chaos in the slightest of matters, and your skin will itch,
and crawl when it nears you." His eyes flare, and darkness falls from
them over Jarnish, who tries to break from the iron grasp.
   The trader has shivered, whimpered once, and ceased his struggle long
before Dorrin releases him.
   "You've killed me," the older man sobs. His hands rip at his clothes,
then he turns and shambles from the stable scratching his neck, and
pulling at his garments.
   Dorrin does not watch, instead returning to the stall and lifting the
pallet, Liedral and all, into the cart. Then he leads the cart horse and
Meriwhen out of the stable.
   Jarnish is standing in his underdrawers beside the well, pouring a
bucket of cold water over himself. "Another one ... another one."
   Jaddy scurries through the mud toward Dorrin.
   He waits. At least he owes her that.
   "A terrible curse you put upon him! No good will come from that, and I
thought you were a nice young fellow."
   Dorrin smiles sadly. "I only blessed him with a desire for order."
   "Oh ... that be an even more terrible curse! How could ye be so cruel?"
   Dorrin looks pointedly toward the cart bed.
   "You'll be thinking he beat her ... I know he didn't."
   "Had he beaten her," Dorrin says slowly, "he would not stand. Ever."
   "A just man you are, and that makes you all the more terrible." Jaddy
looks back toward Jamish, who shivers under another rush of cold water.
"No one could curse you more than you already are. For all those around
you will suffer, and suffer."
   "They already are," Dorrin admits. "They already are." He climbs onto
the cart seat and flicks the reins.
   The cook watches as the cart lurches through the mud of the yard and
out to the road.
 
 
CIV
 
CREAAKKK . . . DORRIN GUIDES the cart around the uphill turn and back
onto the straightaway. Behind the cart, Meriwhen whickers, still
complaining about the packs she carries. Liedral, lying on blankets and
between two pillows, sleeps in the small space behind the cart seat.
   Driving the cart is worse than learning to ride had been. The seat is
hard, and the roads a mess of mud and slush. And Liedral still moans,
sleeping or half-awake.
   "Holloa, the cart!"
   Two ragged figures sit on the fallen tree beside the road. Dorrin's
heart beats faster, and his perceptions fly toward the men. There are
only two of them, and neither carries a bow. Still, he reaches down with
his left hand and eases the staff into a position where he can grab it
easily.
   He might as well continue up the gentle slope and through the trees
too far apart to be a forest, since he cannot turn the cart quickly
enough to escape-and because he needs to get back to Diev.
   The two men amble into the road. Each carries a sword.
   "Holloa. We'd like to collect the tolls." The dark-bearded man stands
a half-head taller than Dorrin and waves a battered sword.
   "I wasn't aware that there were any tolls on this road."
   "There are now, my peddler friend."
   "Aye, and they're steep, too," growls the shorter man, who holds his
sword more like a bludgeon.
   Dorrin bends and brings the staff up with a one-handed fluid motion.
   "Ah ... the peddler has a toothpick."
   Dorrin reins the cart to a halt and drops to the muddy road, sliding
as he does.
   "Poor peddler . .. Aye, and he can't even stand." Both men come around
the left side of the cart horse toward Dorrin.
   Dorrin wiggles his boots, trying to get a firmer footing in the muddy
road, then squares the staff and waits.
   The taller man stops. "Now. Let's have the purse."
   "No." Dorrin doesn't care that much about the purse, but he has no
illusions that providing the purse will allow their escape.
   "Poor peddler . . . poor dumb peddler ..." The tall man swings the
sword.
   Before the blade even reaches forward, the black staff has thrust,
then cracked across the man's wrists. The sword lies in the mud, but the
would-be bandit lifts a knife and lunges. This time Dorrin is even
quicker, and one body lies in the road mud.
   The smaller, ginger-bearded man's sword sweeps toward Dorrin before he
can recover fully with the staff, and he ducks, but the blade tip rakes
across his forehead.
   Dorrin's feet slide on the muddy road, but he manages to lurch into
position with the staff before the remaining bandit can bring the sword
back. He waits for the clumsy swing with the old blade, parries it, and
then slams the end of the staff into the bandit's diaphragm. Even as the
man falls, Dorrin automatically follows up with a second blow.
   Then, as the white agony sears through his brain, he leans on the side
of the wagon, barely able to hang on.
   After the pain subsides to hammers banging through his skull, he
checks the wagon, but Liedral still moans in her sleep, and Meriwhen
whickers when he touches her neck. Then he drags the bodies into the
melting snow beside die road, and, atempting to be practical, checks the
robbers' purses. He finds one silver and four coppers, plus a gold ring,
all of which he slips into his own purse. He leaves the battered swords
next to the bodies, which he does not even attempt to bury. The winter
has also been hard for the scavengers.
   Dorrin has no illusions about his prowess. Neither man was a real
highwayman, and his work with the staff was clumsy at best. He uses one
of the clean rags he brought from Jarnish's to clean and blot the cut
across his forehead, trying to sprinkle it with some crushed astra, which
burns as he applies it.
   After climbing back onto the cart, he flicks the reins. Is this the
sort of desperation Brede and Kadara deal with all the time? What can a
mere smith do? He shivers, even as his free hand brushes Liedral's
fevered forehead, trying to instill yet more order and reassurance.
   The cart slides over the hill crest, and Dorrin can see the haze of
Diev in the distance, reinforced by the kaystone on the curve at the
bottom of the hill.
   "Thirsty ..."
   With one eye on the road, he fumbles with the water bottle, dribbling
some on Liedral's cheeks, but getting most of it into her mouth.
   "... Dorrin ..."
   "I'm here."
   Creakkkk . . . The cart hub scrapes the kaystone as Dorrin tries to
guide it around the curve while still reassuring Liedral. The wheels
barely have purchase on the slush that remains of the rolled and packed
snows of winter.
   "I'm here," he repeats, glancing toward die Westhorns beyond Diev, and
the gray clouds that promise another cold rain, even more miserable with
the pounding that surges through his skull. He hopes they will make it to
his holding before the rain does. "I'm here."
 
 
CV
 
DORRIN LOOKS AT the plate on the anvil. He has never done much
cold-working, but armor, even shields, requires cold hammer work. Yet
black iron cannot be hammered.
   He sets the larger plate aside and takes a smaller chunk of iron,
scrap from a strap, and uses the tongs to ease it into the forge. As he
watches the color of the metal, Vaos wheels in another load of charcoal
in the iron-tired wheelbarrow. The front wheel drips mud all over the
smooth clay floor.
   "Vaos, after you . .. Just clean up the mud."
   "But, ser, the floor is just clay, and I'll get more mud on it when I
go out again. It's pouring."
   "The mud bothers me. It may be unreasonable, but I need it cleaned up."
   "Yes, ser." Vaos trudges toward the broom.
   "Brush it off the wheel, too, if you would."
   "Yes, ser."
   Dorrin brings the iron to the anvil, strikes the metal to thin it down
to the thickness of armor, slowly infusing order to turn it into black
iron. When he is done, he sets the fullered and ordered iron on the back
edge of the forge to anneal, and searches for another chunk of scrap.
   The second chunk he fullers down to plate thickness and then turns
into black iron, placing it in turn on the back of the forge.
   Next he gets out the charcoal and tries to calculate on the smoothed
plank he uses for his smithy figures. If the shield is roughly a
twentieth of a span in thickness ... He checks the figures. Just the
metal surface of a shield one and a half cubits across will weigh more
than a stone.
   "Darkness!" The braces and frame straps will add more than a half
stone. What if he thins the metal further? Will it withstand a White
Wizard's firebolt? He wishes he knew more, Even Brede would not want to
carry a shield weighing a stone and a half. If he decreases the size of
the shield, and thins the metal...
   Dorrin sighs and refigures again, and again.
   While the metal anneals, he goes back to work on a hand-cranked,
metal-bladed fan-a novelty item for Jasolt-wishing that he had an answer
for Brede, besides the small shields for wizard fire.
   Hammering out the curved blades and setting them in the circular
centerpiece that connects to the two gears takes most of the afternoon,
but that is the hardest work left, since the gears are already forged and
cut on his makeshift cutter.
   Vaos has to bring in charcoal-and sweep out the mud- twice more before
Dorrin nods that he is done with what he will do on the fan.
   Then he picks up the chunk of black iron forged to plate thickness and
lays it on the anvil. He takes the half-stone hammer and strikes. The
shock nearly paralyzes his arm. There is the faintest of scuffs on the
metal. No, black iron cannot be forged cold.
   Setting aside the plate-thickness chunk, he retrieves the piece
fullered to the proposed thickness of his shield and sets it on the
anvil's cutting edge. Positioning the cold chisel, he lifts the hammer.
   The same shock runs through his arm, and the iron holds.
   At least, he can hot-forge the shields, since he doubts that any sword
wielded by a trooper can bring any more force to bear than his chisel
under the power of the heavy hammer. He lifts the roughly cubit-square
sheet of plate into the forge and motions to Vaos.
   "The light sledge."
   "You're going to let me strike it?"
   "I don't have a lot of choice if we're going to get this done. Strike
just one blow on each point where I show you, and make sure the face of
the sledge is even."
   "I know. I watched you and Yarrl."
   As he watches the youth lift the sledge, Dorrin wonders how Hegl ever
stood it with him. On the third blow, Vaos is off center, and Dorrin
dances aside as the hot iron sails toward his legs.
   "Vaos!"
   "Sorry, ser."
   "Don't be sorry. Just bring it down straight. We can make some extra
time. We can't make extra arms or legs."
   "Yes, ser." The hammer strikes are slower, but more careful from that
point on.
   Finally, when the iron, still iron, is roughly the thickness Dorrin
wants, he calls a halt. "That's enough for tonight. I need to do the
frame tomorrow, and then I'll use the bench shears to cut it before
turning the edges to accept the frame."
   "But I was just getting the hang of it."
   "You were also getting ready to hit my legs again with the plate. Now,
get this place swept up again, while I bank the forge."
   Vaos sets down the sledge. His arms shake. "Yes, ser. But I could have
done more."
   Dorrin grins. "You will. Don't worry about that." He turns to attend
to the forge. When he is done and has racked his tools, he looks at Vaos,
still sweeping the clay. "Don't forget to rack your tools." He takes off
his leather apron and hangs it on the peg beside his tool rack.
   "Yes, ser."
   After leaving his boots on the mat inside the door, Dorrin washes in
the kitchen, trying to avoid Merga's efforts with the mutton and
potatoes, before heading to the bedroom to check on Liedral.
   "Will your lady-"
   "She's not my lady, at least not yet."
   "Will the lady be joining us for dinner, master Dorrin?"
   "I would doubt it, but let me talk to her and check." He steps into
the short hall and walks to the end, easing through the doorway.
   Liedral is lying on her stomach, looking at the healers' book Dorrin
has borrowed from Rylla. "This is interesting."
   He touches her shoulder, and she winces. "Sorry."
   "It's not that... I don't know. Something's not quite right," "You
kept saying that I hurt you . . . but I didn't. I couldn't even find
where you were. And I came as soon as I could."
   "I know." She eases into a sitting position on the bed. "This is a
lovely bed, and you've been wonderful... and dear. Every one has been.
Reisa, she came today in this rain, and she was so nice." Her face
crumples, and a tear oozes from her right eye.
   Dorrin wants to touch her, to hold her, but senses that it would be
wrong. He is frustrated, because he can sense no permanent injury, no
lingering chaos, no compulsions laid upon her. Yet something is
definitely wrong. How could a whipping change everything between them?
Yet it has.
   "Are you hungry?" he asks softly.
   "Yes! I'm starving, and I'm tired of lying around. I can wear one of
your shirts over this."
   "Are you strong enough-"
   "Of course, I'm strong enough to eat with everyone in the kitchen.
Just let me get something on besides this shift."
   "Are you sure?"
   "Dorrin."
   He shrugs and grins.
   "Shoo. Let a woman have some privacy." She gestures toward the door,
and he closes it behind him.
   Dorrin looks into the small room next to the main bedroom, empty
except for the table he uses as a writing desk, a stool, and the pallet
he is using as a bed. He wishes that Liedral were better. It would also
be nice to sleep in a more comfortable bed. Right now, even Vaos and
Merga have more comfortable sleeping arrangements than he does.
   With another deep breath, he steps into the kitchen.
   "Master Dorrin," asks Merga, "would you carve the mutton while I
finish the biscuits?"
   Dorrin is reluctant to cut the mutton, but he is the head of the
household, such as it is. He takes the knife and begins to carve,
awkwardly, aware that Vaos sits at the table, leaning forward, staring
intently at the slab of meat. "Stop drooling, Vaos. You won't get fed any
sooner."
   "I'm hungry, and we don't get slabs of meat that often."
   "Thank Liedral for that. Reisa was so glad she came that she brought
over the mutton leg for us."
   "Thank me for what?" Liedral stands in the doorway.
   Dorrin, carving knife in hand, looks up and turns. "For fee-"
   "NOOOOOOOoooooooooo ..." Even as the blood flows from her whitened
face, Liedral is crumpling to the floor.
   Dorrin drops the knife on the table and stumbles to Liedral, touching
her wrists. Merga's biscuits spew across the floor.
   Frisa, sitting on the stool next to Vaos, lets out a small shriek.
   Dorrin can feel the pounding of Liedral's heart, but there is no
resurgence of chaos, no renewed illness or infection.
   "What happened?" asks Merga, looking over the two of them.
   "I don't know."
   "She looked at us, and she screamed."
   Vaos and Frisa stare from the table.
   "You can heal the nice woman," Frisa insists.
   Dorrin gently lifts her limp form, trying to keep his hands off the
welts and wounds on her back, and carries her back to bed. He lays her
gently on her stomach on the double bed.
   "Don't just leave her there like a sack of grain." Merga fusses at the
unconscious woman, gently turning her head, and making sure Dorrin's
shirt does not bind against her back.
   "Oh ... the knife ..." Liedral shudders. "Why did you hurt me?"
   Dorrin and Merga exchange glances.
   "Daft . . . out of her mind . . . You couldn't hurt a soul, her
especially."
   "She thinks so," Dorrin whispers. "I'm here. I didn't hurt you, and I
never will."
   "But... it hurt ... so much ... so much ... and you did so often." The
White Wizards-what did they do? How did they link the torture to him?
   "She'll still need something to eat," Dorrin whispers.
   "I'll bring a plate."
   "I'm here," he says helplessly as he sits on the stool. "I'm here."
   Liedral struggles up slowly, easing up until she sits on the edge of
the bed, her feet dangling. "What happened?"
   Dorrin frowns. "I was carving the mutton. You came in and looked at
me. Then you screamed, and began muttering about how much I hurt you."
   She blots her face with her sleeve. "It's stupid! I know you won't
hurt me, but I'm so scared. I hate not being in control of myself. I hate
it!"
   Merga steps back at the violence of Liedral's words.
   "And I'm not going to eat in here. I'm not a baby." Liedral pauses.
"Have you finished carving the mutton?"
   "Merga can finish it."
   "That I can. I'll just put your plate on the table, lady."
   "I'm Liedral."
   But Merga has gone back to the kitchen.
   Dorrin extends a hand to Liedral. Shivering, she still takes it, but
lets go once she is on her feet. They walk quietly to the kitchen.
 
 
CVI
 
"WHY AREN'T YOU working?" Liedral stands in the doorway to the kitchen.
   "I came in to see about you. I keep worrying."
   She shakes her head. "What about your projects for Brede and Kadara,
or your engine? You always used to talk about your engine."
   "This business . . . between us ... your fears that I'll hurt you,
that I have-makes it hard. I hate the damned White Wizards."
   "So do I. But you tell me that you can't do anything to heal me."
   "I've tried everything." Dorrin clenches his fists. "Rylla has no
ideas, either. We know what they did. Somehow, they linked the torture to
images of me. But I don't know why."
   "Darkness! Standing around won't solve either our problems, or anyone
else's." She walks to the table and looks at the wedge of cheese, then at
the knife. Almost without thinking her hands reach for the hilt, and her
fingers curl around it.
   Dorrin rums toward the table, frowning slightly. What can he do to
remove the distance between them? He rubs his head and turns.
   Liedral's eyes are blank as she shifts her grip on the knife and steps
toward Dorrin. The knife rises, as if she does not really see the blade.
   Dorrin's eyes widen, and he steps back.
   "Liedral."
   She continues to lift the knife, then draws back her arm.
   "Liedral." He backs up. She steps forward, both hands now going around
the hilt, the tip pointed toward his heart. Dorrin eases backward, noting
the blankness in her eyes, and gently, oh, so gently, tries to project
some sense of order, reassurance toward Liedral.
   She steps forward.
   Dorrin concentrates, and steps backward, but Liedral, eyes white,
lunges forward, the knife slamming like a firebolt toward his chest.
   He twists sideways, his hands grasping for her wrists, but she turns.
Powered by muscles knotted like iron wire, her wrists wrench clear of his
fingers, and the knife slashes toward him again.
   Dorrin stumbles as he backs away, and the edge of the table digs into
his hip as he tries to twist clear of the knife. His hands clamp around
Liedral's wrists, but the knife continues to move toward him-Liedral's
arms are like iron bars pressing down on him.
   "Oh ..." Merga stands in the doorway, eyes wide and mouth open.
   One of the benches crashes to the floor, and Dorrin staggers back,
losing his grip on Liedral's right wrist.
   The knife slashes. Dorrin twists frantically, and pulls Liedral toward
him, instead of resisting.
   A line of fire rips across his chest and shoulder, but he manages to
grab both her wrists and twist. The knife thuds dully on the floor.
   Dorrin gathers-too late-what little order-sense remains, and thrusts
it upon Liedral, but she has collapsed like a sack of milled grain, and
he staggers again, trying to hold her upright, even as the fire continues
to burn across his right shoulder.
   "Master Dorrin . . . master Dorrin . . . what be-" Merga's words stop
by themselves.
   Dorrin shifts his grip, trying to hold on to Liedral. How deep is the
slash across his shoulder? It does not feel deep, but how would he know?
He has never been stabbed before.
   "Why ... why did you hurt me?" Liedral's eyes flutter, and her voice
is almost childlike as she half rests, half lies in Dorrin's arms. Blood
oozes across the slashed edges of his shirt. "Hurt you?" Dorrin blurts.
"You took a knife to me." He tries not to wince as he sets Liedral in a
chair and quickly kicks the knife across the floor toward Merga. "Take
care of that, please."
   "Yes, master Dorrin."
   "But you hurt me ... you whipped me. Didn't you?" Liedral's voice is
less childlike. "You whipped me. It hurt."
   "I never touched you. How could I?" Dorrin lets his senses examine the
long, shallow wound-more than a scrape, but not deep enough to cut into
the muscle. It already stings. He winces as he thinks of the crushed
astra compress he needs.
   "Indeed ... how could he?" repeats Merga as she scoops up the knife
and wipes it clean, her eyes flicking from the bloody slash across
Dorrin's shirt to the woman at the table.
   Liedral's eyes open wide, and she shudders. "I tried to kill you. I...
tried... to kill... you..." Her hands touch the table, and she bends
forward, her body convulsing in heavy, wracking sobs.
   Merga points silently to Dorrin's shoulder, then steps toward the
table. "We all do things we shouldn't..."
   Dorrin opens the door to the storeroom, and to the herbs and dressings
within. He hurries as he fumbles out what he needs, listening to Merga.
   "... that man of yours ... he wouldn't hurt anyone ..."
   Dorrin's jaw sets. There are some he will hurt.
 
 
CVII
 
DORRIN LIGHTS THE lamp on the table in the predawn darkness of the
kitchen. His hand strays to the dressing that covers the shallow gash
across his right shoulder, then drops as he hears steps.
   Liedral stands by the doorway from the hall, a blanket wrapped around
her shift.
   "Are you all right? I didn't want to wake you." He adjusts the wick
and straightens up.
   "Yes ... No ... What am I supposed to say? Darkness! They wanted me to
kill you ... to kill you ..." Liedral shivers, one hand on the wall.
   Dorrin extends a hand.
   "No ... I'm sorry. I can't help it." She shivers again. "I love you,
and I can't touch you! Darkness! I hate them." Dorrin pulls out the
chair. "At least you can sit down." Liedral leans forward with her arms
on the table. "... hate them..."
   After a time, Liedral sits up. "What did you do to them? Why are -they
so afraid of you, or us?"
   The smith shrugs. "I don't know. They've been reading your letters to
me, and mine to you, I think."
   "You didn't tell me?" "How?" Dorrin asks dryly. Liedral laughs. The
sound is harsh, bitter, short. "You need something to eat. You're pale.
I'll get you some cheese to go with the bread." Dorrin's head turns
toward the cutting table; he sees the knife that Merga has left and
frowns. "I'm still hungry, if that's what you mean." She looks at the
knife, so like the knife that she used on Dorrin, and shivers. "Where are
the things that were in my cart?"
   "They're in the racks in your storeroom. Why? What does that have to
do with cheese?"
   "My storeroom?" "I built it for you."
   Liedral sighs. "Why didn't you ask me to stay last time?"
   "Because I was young and stupid." Dorrin looks at the plank floor.
"What do you want from the storeroom?" "I can get it. I'm not made of
glass." Dorrin grins and points to the solid door at the far end of the
room. "I thought it should be easy to get to." He picks a lamp from the
sconce and uses his striker before heading to the door. "It has an
outside door too." "You need more lamps."
   "I need more of a lot of things." He opens the door. "All your goods
are in those racks. Some of them ... I don't know what they are."
   "That's why I could still make coins." Liedral's slippered feet
whisper across the packed, cold clay floor.
   Dorrin follows her with the lamp as she rummages through the shelves.
   "Here we are. A cheese cutter." Dorrin raises his eyebrows. "How does
it cut cheese? There's no blade."
   "You'll see. I thought it might be useful for people like you."
Liedral shuffles back to the door, then steps up into the warmth of the
kitchen.
   "How about you?" Dorrin follows her back to the cutting table,
snuffing the lamp and replacing it as he passes the sconce.
   "It might have been better if I had an aversion to knives."
   "You didn't want to use it." Dorrin touches her shoulder ever so
lightly.
   "No. But I did. It wasn't like I did, but I still did it." She looks
to the window, and the drizzle outside. "Would you put the knife away?"
   Dorrin bends and takes the knife, putting it back into the cutlery box.
   Liedral adjusts the cutter and applies it to the cheese, ignoring what
Dorrin is doing. "See . . . The wire cuts just like a blade, maybe
neater." Liedral slices off three thin wafers of cheese, one after the
other, and drops them onto the battered plate.
   "Wire . . . You wouldn't think ..." Dorrin's mouth drops open. "Wire .
. . black iron wire, or black steel wire . . . Magic knives, and I'll bet
they couldn't even see it. Need to build a drawing wheel, and special
dies-but it should work." He reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, and she
shivers and backs away.
   "I'm sorry ... I can't help it." Liedral eases away from the smith.
   Dorrin looks at her. "I'll talk to you later." He turns and walks out
the kitchen door, heading through the drizzle to the smithy.
   "What are we working on this morning?" asks Vaos, pumping the bellows
to bring up the fire.
   "Wire drawing."
   "I haven't done that."
   "We'll be doing a lot of it, I think." While he still doesn't know
exactly how he will make his magic wire knives, Dorrin knows they will
work-and the White Wizards deserve whatever havoc they cause.
   "Go get some breakfast." He nods toward Vaos.
   "Yes, set."
   Magic knives-the White Wizards deserve those and more. His fingers
whisper across the iron bars.
 
 
CVIII
 
DORRIN REINS UP outside the barracks. He wipes the mixed sweat and water
from his eyes, wondering if the continuing rain will wash Spidlar away
and save the White Wizards the problem.
   Where will he find Brede or Kadara? He finally dismounts, tying
Meriwhen to the only rail he can find outside the long one-story
building. A single trooper lounges outside the door. As Dorrin
approaches, the man sits up.
   "I'm looking for a strike leader named Brede," Dorrin says.
   "Who are you?" The trooper, hand on blade hilt, eyes the staff, the
saddlebags, and the flat and leather-covered object that Dorrin carries.
   "Dorrin. I'm a smith."
   The trooper straightens. "Wait here, master Dorrin. I'll be right
back."
   Dorrin waits in the cold drizzle, but not for long. The door opens,
held by the trooper, who beckons Dorrin inside. Dorrin shifts his grip on
his things and turns sideways to get past the soldier.
   "Dorrin. It's good to see you. Kadara has her squad on a local patrol.
She'll be sorry to have missed you." Brede is clean-shaven. His leathers
and blue tunic are clean, and his boots polished. But the circles under
his eyes remain, and his face is so thin as to be gaunt.
   Several troopers watch from the space before the hearth, which
contains only dying embers.
   "It's not a pleasure call."
   "Before we get to that ..." Brede clears his throat. "We have a
mystery. Dorrin, didn't you just bring Liedral back from Kleth? She was
sick, Kadara tells me."
   "She was tortured and beaten," Dorrin says sharply.
   "At least she's alive. With you, she should get better." Brede coughs.
"Did anything strange happen to you on the way back?"
   "Was it that obvious?"
   Brede chuckles, almost harshly. "Two dead bandits with all their
clothes. One has a broken neck, and the other's chest is caved in with a
single blow. Their blades are lying by the bodies, and there are cart
tracks in the mud."
   "Yes, I had some trouble. Liedral was fevered, and I wasn't sure she
was going to make it."
   "Why did you travel with her, then?"
   Dorrin sighs. It gets so complicated. "Because Jarnish is tied up with
the Whites, and she was there."
   Brede stares. "You didn't do anything? When we're in a war for our
lives?"
   "I didn't say that," Dorrin snaps. "The last time I saw Jarnish, he
was in his undergarments scrubbing chaos off his body with freezing
well-water."
   "You did that?"
   "I just made sure he couldn't ever get near chaos again."
   Two of the troopers who have been inching closer abruptly turn away
and edge back toward the fire. Brede shakes his head.
   Dorrin starts to lose his grasp on both the saddlebags and the heavy
leather-covered object, and he fumbles with all that he carries.
   "You need a hand?"
   "Take the big one. It's yours, anyway."
   Brede reaches for the leather, then grabs, as he realizes the weight.
"What. . . ? This is heavy."
   "It's as light as I could make it. That's the problem."
   Brede pulls back a corner of the leather to see the black metal, then
motions toward the left end of the long building. Dorrin follows the
gesture toward a small room with an oblong table and half a dozen armless
chairs. Brede closes the door to the small room and sets the shield on
the table.
   Dorrin takes one of the armless chairs, turns it sideways, and sits.
   Brede lifts the shield. Then he sets it down and adjusts the straps
before trying to use it. "It's not too bad, but it's really not quite big
enough."
   "I can make them bigger, but they're heavier. There has to be a
certain concentration of the black iron for it to throw off white fire.
There's probably some trick to it that I don't know, but I thought I'd
make one for you to try out."
   "I'll see." Brede nods. "You look like you have something else."
   Dorrin points to the saddlebags. "I think I might have something like
a magic knife."
   Brede raises his eyebrows. "I thought you couldn't deal with edged
weapons."
   "I can't. I have trouble even carving meat for more than myself."
Dorrin opens the bag and extracts what he has brought.
   "What is it?" Brede frowns.
   "This is really a model." Dorrin explains, as he stretches the wire
taut between the two black bars. "You can wedge the black iron bars-I
could make them as handles-in trees or behind boulders."
   Seeing Brede's confused expression, Dorrin takes out the dried cheese
and sets it on the table, then stretches out the wire and forces the bars
apart.
   Thump . . . The wire slices through the cheese, and both halves bounce
on the table.
   Dorrin hands one half to Brede. "Try to cut it with your belt knife."
   "No, thank you." The strike leader fingers the hard cheese.
   "How would this help?"
   "You told me that the levies will have to use the roads. This wire is
strong enough-I'm sure-to cut through a man or a horse that rides into
it. Because it's black and order-based, it's hard to see, especially in
the rain or at dusk."
   Brede winces. "I don't know. There's something . . . almost evil. . .
about something like this."
   "You don't know?" Dorrin snorts. "You complain that you want weapons,
and I do what I can, and you're upset because it's nasty. Darkness! Any
weapon is nasty. That's why I get sick when I use a staff.
   "You want nasty? What about the Whites? They tortured Liedral with
whippings and beatings-and visions of me. They did it to plant an image
of her using a knife on me, and she did. They're twisting minds-"
   "The trader took a knife to you?" Brede studies Dorrin.
   "The slash is just about healed." Dorrin shrugs. "Anyway, they're
twisting minds, and you're worried about whether their levies get chopped
in half by your strong right arm or by my cheese-slicer."
   "Cheese-slicer?"
   "That's where I got the idea."
   Brede smiles wryly. "I'd hate to think what you'd be like if you
didn't have some restraints."
   "It would make life easier." Dorrin takes a deep breath. "How many of
these can you use?"
   Brede reaches for his purse and empties two golds on the table. "As
many as I can buy. No . . . don't give me that business about food. If
you won't use the coin personally, buy more iron to make your cheese
slicers. But don't give them to anyone but me or Kadara. And don't tell
anyone else."
   Dorrin understands. The more it seems like unknown magic, the better.
 
 
CIX
 
COLD RAIN DRIZZLES across the panes of the closed tower window. A small
fire in the hearth warms the room.
   The thin wizard concentrates on the glass on the small table. The oil
lamp in the wall sconce flickers. Perspiration has beaded his forehead
for a time before the white mists in the mirror finally part.
   The red-headed smith sits on one side of a rude table; the
brown-haired woman sits on the other. They talk, and the smith frowns.
The woman cries. A serving woman sets a platter on the table, but neither
looks up.
   "Light!" mutters the White Wizard, as the mists close over the scene
in the glass. He walks to the desk where a map of Spidlar is unrolled.
   Diev is a goodly distance from Fenard, Elparta, or even Kleth, and
there are few ways to get there easily except by the main roads-or by the
sea. "The Northern Ocean?" He shakes his head. "Traders are still strong
on the water."
   His eyes study the map once more before he takes the weights off the
corners and rolls it up. The winter has been long, but spring is
arriving, even in Spidlar.
 
 
Part III - TRADER AND ENGINEER
 
 
CX
 
THE THREE MOUNTS gallop around the last switchback. One is riderless. One
White guard wavers in the saddle, crossbow bolt through his shoulder. He
mumbles as they rein up before the White Wizard.
   "You see how they reacted," the unhurt guard snaps.
   Jeslek's eyes blaze. "Idiot! What did you say?"
   "Just what you told me. Offered them amnesty if they opened the gates.
Big fellow told us Axalt had stood for a millennium and would stand after
we were dead. Then he turned the crossbowmen on us."
   One of the guards in the retinue surrounding the two wizards finally
grabs the reins of the riderless mount, while two others ease the wounded
trooper from the saddle. The second wizard, red-headed and female, smiles
as she watches the fires of chaos build around the High Wizard.
   "They probably had us in their sights from the beginning. There's no
way to approach the walls without being totally exposed."
   The High Wizard nods. "We don't need to approach the walls." He
laughs. "So mighty Axalt has stood for a millennium. We shall see about
that."
   He dismounts and walks toward the canyon wall. His senses penetrate
deep beneath the rocks. Shortly, the road shivers underfoot, once, twice.
   The wounded trooper moans from the wagon where he lies. Two other
guards glance from each other toward the white mist that surrounds the
High Wizard.
   The road shivers again.
   "So .. . mighty Axalt."
   Beyond the switchback, which lies less than fifty cubits from the
Fairhaven force, beyond the point where the canyon widens, the ancient
stones of Axalt's walls climb a hundred cubits. The iron-bound gate is
closed, and the squads of soldiers in gray-quilted uniforms have their
crossbows trained upon the narrow gap through which the Fairhaven
soldiers must come. The stone sentry box outside the wall remains vacant.
   "Just wait," calls the broad-shouldered guard captain. "It has been
such a long time since you were able to practice on real targets. But now
you can use your bolts on the White guards. If they even dare approach
again."
   The boulders and solid rock underneath the walls shiver- once, twice.
   Nerliat's eyebrows lift.
   The wall shakes, and one soldier loses his balance and sprawls on the
stones behind the parapet. The walls rock, and stone cracks like thunder.
   A thin spout of hot gas lances upward through the crumbling wall,
sulfurous, followed by steam and boiling water.
   The crashing rocks, the steam, and the falling walls and avalanches
from the west rim of the Easthorns all drown out the brief screams of
human flesh.
   By sunset, all that remains is a steaming, boulder-strewn depression
blocking the mountain road between Certis and Spidlar.
   A small party of white-clad individuals rides quietly eastward. No one
speaks to the two White Wizards. No one speaks, except for the wounded
guard, who moans with each turn and switchback.
 
 
CXI
 
"THIS ISN'T SMITHING," grumbles Vaos, as he carries a basket full of
mixed weeds and grass downhill.
   "No," agrees Dorrin cheerfully. "But it is coin. Do you want to have
me fire up the forge and work on the scrap pile?" Vaos groans. "That's
not much better than being a farmer."
   "Smithing's not easy work." Dorrin turns the soil along the row,
leaving small depressions for the herb seedlings he has nursed through
the late winter and cold spring. He hopes they will grow quickly and
provide Liedral with another trading good when the last of the ice floes
clears the Northern Ocean.
   "... not smithing ..." Vaos dumps the greenery into the compost pile.
   Dorrin stoops and plants, stoops and plants, taking seedling after
seedling from the crude flats and patting the soil around each. "You can
start bringing the buckets of water over here."
   "I didn't want to be a light-busted farmer ..."
   "Neither did I," Dorrin responds, "but I like eating, and so do you."
   "Doing the iron scrap might be easier ..."
   "We'll do that later, when it's dark."
   "Darkness . . . you never rest, master Dorrin."
   "That's for when I'm too tired to do anything else."
   Vaos slowly picks up the buckets and trudges to the pipe faucet Dorrin
has added to the water line to the house. "At least, I don't have to
climb up from the pond."
   "After you water all these-and don't wash them out, or you'll work all
night on the scrap with me-clean up and meet me in the smithy."
   "Yes, ser."
   Dorrin follows Vaos to the crude faucet. It leaks, and he has been
forced to put stones down, and a trench to the garden to carry away the
thin dribble of water, but at least it reduces some work. When it gets
cold, he will have to remove it, and bury the piping more deeply so that
the line does not freeze the way it did on the colder days of the last
winter.
   After Vaos fills his buckets and heads toward the seedlings, Dorrin
washes off with the cold water and shakes the excess off his hands before
drying them on a towel that is really a rag. "Don't forget to wash up,"
he calls.
   "Yes, ser."
   Grinning at the resignation in the youth's voice, Dorrin walks across
the slowly greening grass on the west side of the house toward the door
to the smithy. Once in the smithy, he dons the leather apron and then
begins to bring up the fire, setting in the charcoal.
   Asavah wants a plow fixed. The share has been worn down and rusted,
the point ripped off by a buried rock. Although Dorrin does not usually
do plows, Asavah's help with the foundation and framing of the house
saved Dorrin many days, and Jisle's chief hand needs the plow for
planting-now.
   Dorrin sets out the fullers and the hammers, studying the scraps he
has already begun to gather and the rod stock. Finally, he pulls out a
partial plate left from the shield-making and sets it on the anvil.
   Vaos trudges into the smithy, still shaking the water off his hands.
He looks at the plate on the anvil and grins. "I get to do some striking?"
   "We're replacing the share point on Asavah's plow. Actually, it's
Jisle's plow, but I owe Asavah." Dorrin shrugs. "Then I need to make some
more wire for Brede." He points to the bellows lever.
   "Do those wire things work?" Vaos pulls the lever to build the forge
fire.
   "Kadara says they do." Dorrin takes the heaviest tongs and sets the
iron in the forge. "They won't do enough, but I hope they help."
   "Can you forge something else?"
   "Forging isn't the problem. Finding what to forge is." The smith
readjusts the position of the heavy iron in the fire.
 
 
CXII
 
"THERE THEY ARE!" yells the first squad leader.
   A squad of Spidlarian troopers, apparently upon seeing the green
banners of Certis, rein up, quickly re-form, and retreat back down the
road to Elparta.
   The Certan strike leader studies the depression between the two hills,
but sees little but meadows barely turning green. A rock wall, tumbled in
places, runs along the left side of the road that angles along the
highest point in the depression between the two ridges before turning due
north again.
   Near the lowest point of the road, just before it widens into a wagon
turnout, on the side opposite the stone wall are two gnarled trees
bearing pink blossoms.
   The Certan officer studies the road and the trees, but there is no
cover in the lower area, and the Spidlarians have already disappeared.
   "Let's get the bastard traders!"
   The first two squads, maintaining their order, spur their mounts into
a quick trot. The strike leader nudges his mount after the lead squad.
   Despite the attempt at order, by the time the first squad is nearing
the wagon turnout several riders are moving faster than a mere trot.
   Abruptly, the leading trooper flails in midair, and his body seems to
separate into a top and a bottom half separated by a bloody mist. Two
other troopers twist off their mounts, and a horse crumples under another
rider.
   Suddenly the depression is filled with bodies and horses.
   Then the arrows begin to fall, and they fall like death upon the
congealed mass on the road.
   The strike leader and half a squad struggle back uphill in time to
watch the Spidlarians return, led by a blond giant.
   When two Spidlarian squads detach themselves from their completed
massacre and start up the hill, with a handful of mounted bowmen, the
strike leader digs his spurs into his mount's flanks, and the handful of
Certan troopers flee for the camp beyond the border.
 
 
CXIII
 
DORRIN SETS THE kettle-piston on the forge bricks and feeds charcoal
around the banked coals. He adjusts the air nozzle and gently pumps the
bellows's lever. Then he adds the water to the kettle and flicks the
clamps in place over the fill plate. Finally, he eases the kettle into
place on the adaptor to the hanging iron he has added to the forge. Once
the device is clamped in place, Dorrin eases the angled iron over the
forge fire and increases his pumping of the bellows.
   Before long, the thin trail of steam from around the fill clamps
betrays the increasing pressure within the kettle, but neither the piston
rod nor the wheeldriver attached to it move. Dorrin uses the narrow-edged
pickup tongs to move the piston. He wipes his steaming forehead as the
piston chugs through two cycles and stalls again.
   "Darkness!" He swings the kettle off the forge. The intake valve has
jammed-again. Theoretically, the valve should be easier to make in a
larger size, but he cannot afford the materials to experiment in large
sizes.
   As he waits for the kettle to cool, his senses study the piston and
valve assembly. It should work, but it does not. He wipes his forehead
once more. Even though all the doors to the smithy are open, the air is
so still that it seems to weigh down everything.
   He turns, certain a figure stands by the small slack tank, but the
smithy remains empty. He studies the valve on the kettle device, finally
nodding as he considers changing the angle of the tubing.
   Outside he hears the sound of a wagon and a horse.
   "There! Easy, big fellow . .."
   Dorrin grins at the sound of Vaos's voice. The boy still loves the
horses. With a last look at the kettle device, the smith turns and walks
toward the yard and whoever has arrived.
   Vaos holds the harness while the gray-haired man in the heavy blue
sweater and blue trousers climbs off the wagon. Merga and Liedral stand
on the small porch outside the kitchen. Frisa hangs on the railing,
looking at the horse. Then she stands and grasps her mother's hand.
   "Master Dorrin?" The gray-haired man bows as the smith approaches.
   "Hasten, is it time for annual dues or something?"
   "Well . . . master Dorrin, it is about money, or services." The
gray-haired man bows again.
   "Come on inside." He looks at Merga. "Do we have anything to drink?"
   "Not really, ser. Not except water." Merga frowns. "It would take a
while, but I could brew some herb tea."
   "Water would be fine," Hasten affirms, using a soiled square of
off-white cloth to blot dust and sweat from his forehead. "Even though
it's been a late summer, it's hot now." He picks up a thick leather
folder and heads toward the steps.
   Dorrin nods to Vaos to water the horse. Vaos smiles.
   "Can I help?" asks Frisa, as Vaos ties the horse to the stone post and
lifts the bucket.
   Merga looks from the horse to Vaos, then says. "You be careful, girl."
   "You, too, Vaos," Dorrin adds.
   A smile flits across Liedral's face, but vanishes as Dorrin turns
toward her, and the two men climb the steps to the porch and the kitchen.
   Almost as soon as both men are seated, Merga serves two mugs of cold
water. Dorrin motions to Liedral, who has remained in the doorway,
wearing a loose brown tunic and trousers. Her hair has been cut short.
   "Hasten, this is trader Liedral. Liedral will be the one trading some
of what I forge and grow." Merga looks out toward the yard, then scuttles
out. Hasten inclines his head to Liedral, ignoring Merga's hasty
departure, although the eyes question the slim figure. "Pleased to meet
you, trader. Where might you be from?"
   "Liedral is originally from Jellico, but now has stored some goods
here." Hasten frowns.
   "I'm assuming that Liedral's fees to the Guild, as a traveling trader,
would be similar to mine," Dorrin adds.
   "Ah . . . well... I do suppose you could act as the sponsor, although
it is rare for an ... artisan smith ... to sponsor a trader." Hasten
coughs. "And that is partly why I am here."
   "Coins?" prompts Dorrin.
   "You know, of course, that the Whites have persuaded Certis and Gallos
to raise levies against us." Hasten coughs again. "The Council is ...
frankly . .. hardpressed"
   "How much?"
   Hasten swallows. "Ah . . . double . . . roughly. A silver for you, and
it would be two for the trader."
   Dorrin sighs. "I think we might be able to manage it-this year.
Darkness knows if this continues ..." Even the hint that he might not be
able to manage the dues creates a dull throbbing in his skull. He shakes
his head.
   "I know, master Dorrin. I know." Hasten looks to Liedral. "But we
don't charge near what the Whites require." Liedral smiles crookedly.
"The Whites do extract a high price."
   "... and our ships can no longer travel the Gulf or the Eastern Ocean.
The White fleet ..." The Guild functionary looks at the tabletop, then
lifts the mug and takes a swallow of the cold water. "The Council may
have to call levies and services, yet."
   "Services?" Dorrin takes a sip of his water.
   "Military goods-supplies, that sort of thing. For you, some forging
that the troops can use, harnesses or wagon brackets, perhaps caltrops."
   "You either provide services or carry a pike?"
   Hasten nods. "It may not come to that."
   "It will," Dorrin says wearily. "It will." He pauses. "Let me get the
coins, and you write out whatever papers we get."
   Hasten opens the folder and extracts several squares, a quill, and a
small bottle, which he uncorks carefully, and into which he dips the
quill.
   Dorrin walks back into the storeroom, closing the door. He lifts a
rack containing a few toys to reveal the iron-bound strongbox, from which
he takes the three silvers. He replaces the strongbox, the rack, and the
toys.
   When he returns to the kitchen, Hasten is still scratching on the
parchment squares. "A terrible time it is ... terrible ..." Hasten takes
a sip of water, then wipes his forehead, and a drop of water or sweat
splats on the table, narrowly missing the parchment and the wet ink upon
it.
   When the receipts are finished, the functionary stands. "A pleasure
doing business with you, master Dorrin, and you also .. . trader Liedral."
   Liedral inclines her head.
   "A pleasure, Hasten," Dorrin says, leading the way back to the yard.
   Merga is blotting Frisa with an old dry rag, trying to wipe mud off
bare legs, and shaking her head. "I cannot leave you alone . .. not a
moment, and you are in the mud."
   Dorrin tries not to grin.
   "You did not give her too much, young ser?" Hasten asks Vaos.
   "No, ser. Just a little, a bit at a time, just as she wouldn't take to
colic. Then a bit more."
   "Good fellow."
   Vaos hands the reins to Hasten after the functionary climbs onto the
wagon seat.
   Dorrin marvels at Hasten's clothing. A woolen sweater in summer yet,
and the perspiration scarcely fazes him. After the Guild man is safely on
his road to further collections, Dorrin steps back into the kitchen for
more water before returning to the smithy.
   Merga has commandeered a bucket of cold water and is liberally
applying it to her daughter's muddy feet and legs. "You will sit here on
the porch until your legs are dry!"
   "Yes, mummy."
   Liedral waits by the table. "Why did you pay the dues for me? I can't
pay you back. Darkness, I can't even hold you!" Liedral's voice cracks.
   "You still need to be a trader," Dorrin says lightly, though it is an
effort to keep his voice cheerful. He still wishes he could hold her.
Instead, he stands up.
   "What would I trade?"
   Dorrin raises his eyebrows. "There's plenty to trade." He walks to the
door to the storeroom, where he uses a striker to light the small lamp
inside the room. "Come on."
   "I didn't have that much, even if you brought it all." Liedral follows
him to the storeroom.
   "I've been busy."
   "I thought you were selling it to local factors."
   "I did sell some to Willum, but the White raiders killed him. And I do
work for Jasolt, and some of the others, but they can't sell much,
especially now." Dorrin gestures toward the racks. "Here are some of the
small toys. These are decorative latches. When I made the latches for the
doors I made a few extra. And ..." He laughs. "Here are some more
cheese-cutters."
   Liedral looks in the racks, eyes widening. "You're building up all
this to trade. This is worth more than any three loads I've ever carried.
Why?"
   "To get more coin. I need it to feed everyone. And," he adds as the
deception starts his head throbbing, "to be able to build my first
engine."
   "You must really want to build it." Liedral's eyes scan the bins and
racks. "How did you afford all the iron?"
   "A lot of it came from scrap. I charge a little less for my repairs if
people bring scrap. Most smiths will take it, but they just pile it up.
We both work on it, but I'm having Vaos learn how to turn it into rough
stock."
   Liedral glances at the bins and racks again. "This is worth a lot."
   "I hope so. Can you sell it?"
   "If I can get it to Suthya."
   Dorrin nods. Getting in and out of Spidlar may indeed be the hardest
task. He inclines his head toward the door back into the kitchen. With a
last look at the goods, Liedral heads back to the kitchen. Dorrin blows
out the small lamp and racks it, then closes the door.
   "You did all that work just for more coin so that you can afford to
build your engine. Why do you want to build the engine? What good will it
do? How will it help anyone?" Liedral draws herself a mug of cool water
and sits on the edge of a chair, wincing as she lowers herself.
   "Are you still sore?"
   "It's not bad ... About the ship engine?"
   Dorrin ponders. "I'm not sure I have a good answer. I've been thinking
about using it to power a ship. It works on the models."
   "What's wrong with the ships now?"
   Dorrin looks from his chair to hers, then out and down at the pond,
where dragonflies hover in the late afternoon, skimming across the water.
"They can only go as fast as the wind, and where the wind lets them."
   "That's an excuse, not a reason."
   "No. How many ships get stuck in contrary winds?"
   "Some ..." the trader admits.
   Dorrin smiles, and she shakes her head.
 
 
CXIV
 
"WHAT HAPPENED?"
   "The levies chased the Spidlarians ... I don't know-except that the
first two riders were sliced almost in half, and no one was. around. No
one ..."
   Jeslek's hand slams into the field table. "No one? Or no one that they
could see?"
   "Did you stop to see what happened?" Anya's voice is calm.
   "Yes ... ser ..." stumbles the Certan officer. "Well... not exactly.
The lead horses and riders were sliced apart with invisible swords. That
got everyone clogged together on the road. Then archers popped up out of
hidden pits. Before things got untangled . . . we lost almost three whole
squads."
   "Invisible swords?" asks Jeslek.
   "That's what it looked like. Byler's body was sliced into two pieces.
Like a blood sausage."
   Anya swallows and looks down at the small portable table before her.
   "Were there walls or anything tall beside the roads?"
   "No, ser. Not that I recall... Maybe one scrubby tree on one side, but
this was in those rolling plains, not near Elparta or the woods." The
officer scuffs his boots on the dirt floor of the tent. "Begging your
pardon, ser, but... I mean ... it's hard to fight magic."
   "I understand," Jeslek says slowly. "We'll do something, but I'll need
to look at the situation." His head inclines to the glass on the table,
and he frowns. White mists swirl in the mirror.
   The officer's eyes follow the wizard's, widening as a scene of an
empty road appears, then disappears into the mists.
   "You may go," Jeslek suggests softly.
   "Thank you, ser."
   Anya's eyes take in the broad shoulders of the officer. She watches
the back of the sweat-stained green tunic as he marches stiffly back
downhill.
   "Another clever tactic," Jeslek snorts. "I'm sure there's no real
magic to it."
   "Does it really matter, dead High Wizard?" asks Anya lazily, a cold
edge to her voice.
   "Of course not. But why . . . ?" He looks back at the mirror.
   "Why what?"
   Jeslek clears his throat. "There are a number of 'whys' ... why women
equate appearance with ability, why so many soldiers fail to think, why
people who plot always think they won't be discovered ..." He laughs
softly, and the mists swirl in the glass.
 
 
CXV
 
THE CART HORSE snorts, and the pack horse echoes the sound as Liedral
climbs into the heavily padded seat.
   Dorrin takes Liedral's gloved hand and squeezes it. "Be careful."
   "I will. There shouldn't be a problem. The ship's Suthyan, and so far
the Whites have avoided taking on either Suthya or Sarronnyn. The longer
I wait, the more dangerous it will be. Besides"-her voice almost
cracks-"what am I supposed to do? Sit here and damn them for what they
did to us?"
   "It's better."
   "A little, but I can't just sit here. There's no trading going on in
Spidlar, and now's the time to make coins."
   "That's not why you're going."
   "No. I'm going because I can't sit here and look at you loving me. I
need some time to think without worrying about you, and you need to get
on with your engine and helping Brede and Kadara."
   "When is she leaving?" Frisa's high voice carries across the yard from
the pen where Merga is feeding Gilda, Zilda's first kid, which Reisa has
insisted belongs to Dorrin.
   "See?" Liedral says lightly. "She knows I should be going."
   "You'll be back by fall?"
   "Before then, I hope. That depends on ships, weather, an how well a
lot of this ironmongery sells."
   "It isn't-" He has to laugh as he sees the glint in her eye.
   "You still take things too seriously, love. At least you'll get to
sleep in a comfortable bed." Liedral lifts the reins, and Dorrin squeezes
her hand a last time.
   He watches until the cart disappears down the road to lower Diev and
the three small piers where the Suthyan coaster is tied. Then he turns
toward the herb garden, where Rylla is already selecting fresh astra and
brinn. The healer waits for him as he walks past his stable and along the
ridge line toward the herb garden that he has expanded each year.
   "I'd be thinking we need more this winter," she says. "Even with the
larger gardens. You won't be able to feed all those who do not have
enough."
   "There will be enough food," the smith says. "Everyone is planting.
But we will need the healing herbs."
   Rylla nods. "Some will not be a-coming home. Glad I am that Rolta is a
seafarer."
   "Everyone is talking about the need for levies, but..."
   "They cannot ask for them until after the planting is finished." Rylla
looks across the gardens. "Still,- there is more here than an army would
need, and you dried much of last year's herbs."
   "I sent some with Liedral."
   A smile creases the older woman's lips. "You'd be a fool if you had
not. Let's get on with it. Are you ready for warts and burns?"
   Dorrin sighs.
 
 
CXVI
 
"Die, DAMN IT!" snaps the squad leader.
   "We're not frigging farm hands," complains the trooper with the shovel.
   "No, you'll be a dead trooper if you don't keep digging."
   "This isn't fighting . . ." mumbles another trooper, but he keeps
digging at the low point in the road.
   The squad leader looks to her right, her short red hair glistening in
the sun that has barely cleared the plains to the east. Uphill, three
others labor at another trench. Two others have concealed the heavy road
stones that they have pried out of position under brush and turf. "Why
are we doing this?"
   "To kill the damned Certans," answers the squad leader. "They still
like to use the roads, the idiots."
   The two troopers with shovels look from the hard-eyed woman with the
twin blades toward the rising sun. "... not sure which is worse ..."
   She ignores the comment, watching and listening as the hole that will
fill with water deepens. Watching and listening as the archers on the
slope above dig in.
 
 
CXVII
 
DORRIN CONTINUES TO watch the iron until it reaches the orange-red just
beyond cherry red before lifting it onto the anvil. There he
painstakingly fullers the metal into the octagonal end necessary to fit
the gear. His face is sweat-streaked, his eyes burning from the sweat
before he lays aside the hammer. The delicate work is harder, much
harder, than hammering out braces or log peaveys. Especially when he must
add order as he shapes. The engine work, as always, has taken longer than
he would have wished.
   Then he reheats the two pieces, carefully scarfing them before welding
them together with deft blows from the hammer, and setting them on the
bricks next to the forge to anneal.
   After wiping his face with the back of his forearm, he steps out into
the still afternoon, squinting against the sun, walking toward the
kitchen for some cold water. Once he gets a drink, he needs to find his
errant striker, although he suspects Vaos is in the barn, currying
Meriwhen or the broken-down bay thai Merga uses to go to market. Even
after his limited healing efforts, Dorrin has doubts about how long the
bay will last.
   Every time he turns, he must add more to his establishment He waits a
moment in the shade of the house, looking down across the grass toward
the pond, and the narrow mud flats thai show the lack of summer rainfall.
Turning toward the west, he wonders how Liedral fares, but senses nothing
amiss. At least, he feels no pains, nor the agonies of their last
parting. Still, she has been gone more than half a season, and he has
heard nothing, not that he would expect anything with the few ships that
reach Diev or Spidlaria. The news of the fall of Axalt has not helped,
either. He would not have believed that the White Wizards would so
cavalierly turn a city into crushed rock, yet Brede and Kadara must fight
that evil... all too often.
   He looks into the heat of the day for a time longer. Then, after
wiping his sweating forehead, he walks around the porch and up into the
kitchen, looking for his mug, but Merga has already filled it, and hands
it to him.
   "We'll be having a mutton soup, ser."
   "That sounds fine . . . Mutton?"
   "Asavah liked the plowshare, and the extra nails you sent."
   "I only had a handful..."
   "Might it be all right if your friend Pergun joined us?"
   Dorrin tries not to shake his head. "That would be fine." He drains
the cup. "But it will be a while."
   "The soup will riot be ready until later." Merga smiles.
   Dorrin understands. Pergun will not finish at the mill for a time,
either.
   Vaos is in the stable, currying Meriwhen and talking to the mare.
"You're such a pretty girl..."
   "Stop the sweet talk, striker. We've got some work to do for Froos."
   "Those heavy wagon pins?" Vaos groans.
   "They pay the bills. Then we need to work on some of the scrap. I need
to make more of those gadgets for Brede. And Jisle ordered some log
peaveys."
   "Jisle's a farmer."
   "They're going to cut some timber from the woodlot for the Council.
That's their service call." Dorrin pauses. "We have to do more nails-the
square-ended spikes. Two kegs' worth."
   "It's going to be late tonight, pretty girl," Vaos tells the mare.
   Meriwhen whickers, and Dorrin nods.
 
 
CXVIII
 
"HAVE YOU DISCOVERED how this is happening?" Jeslek's voice is calm.
   "Yes ... ser..." stumbles the Certan officer. "We found a black oak
post on each side of the road, wedged in place, and there were black
wires."
   "And, of course, they set up some decoy, and all of your troops ride
after them full speed and run into the wires?" Acid drips from Anya's
words.
   The Certan officer looks down at the mud-smudged carpet. Then he looks
up. "They weren't obvious decoys. One time it was a small squad. Another
time it was a pair of traders with fat packs. Another time-"
   "Spare us," Jeslek says tiredly. "Do you have any evidence of this?
Something that will help us track it down?"
   "Might I see it?" Anya asks.
   "Yes, ser." The officer extends a small coil of wires wrapped around a
small iron bar toward the red-headed wizard.
   Anya puts out a gloved hand. Even so, a faint acrid odor rises from
the leather as the black wire touches it. "Order-based ..." Her lips
twist. "It smells like Recluce again."
    "You may go," Jeslek orders the officer.
   "Yes, ser." The officer releases his breath slowly, stiffly turns, and
leaves the tent.
   "And you still think that Recluce won't help Spidlar?" asks the
square-bearded Fydel. "Who made that... thing?"
   "You know as well as I do-that renegade smith. The one whose letters
you so conveniently held for a season or so before letting me see them."
   "Are you accusing-"
   White fire shrouds Fydel.
   "Don't tempt me, Fydel. I'm tired of all of the second-guessing and
scheming and plotting that you all think I'm too dense to see."
   "You're not exactly infallible, dear Jeslek." Anya's voice is
honey-coated. "Clearly, your trap with the smith failed. Unless there is
more than one Recluce-trained smith in Spidlar."
   "I don't see why this slows everything down so much," says Fydel.
   "Because," Jeslek responds with deliberate slowness, "it is hard to
travel over meadows, woods, and hills. The levies prefer the metaled
roads where wagons, food, and horses don't get bogged down. There aren't
that many roads from Fenard into Spidlar, and they are narrow. The
Spidlarians use that to pick off our troops unit by unit." The thin
wizard takes a deep breath. "If it's not black iron wires, it's water
traps in stone-paved roads. Before long, as we near Elparta, they'll
probably destroy the bridges over the streams. That will slow our advance
even more."
   Anya and Fydel look at each other.
   "I know, I know." Jeslek shakes his head. "You're probably asking why
we don't use the river to send troops to Elparta, and then cut off their
forces? Because," he answers his own question, "Elparta is heavily
fortified along the river, for just that reason. We can't use the river
until after we take Elparta. Unfortunately, we can't take it until we can
get there, and the streams are too small this far inland."
   "The levies are getting unhappy. They've been fighting all summer, and
we're no more than a hundred kays into Spidlar. You took control here,
great wizard. What are you going to do?" Fydel makes a deep ironic bow.
   "If that is what you want," the High Wizard states, "then, whatever it
takes, we'll have Elparta before winter."
   "You said we'd have all of Spidlar before winter, and that was last
fall," Anya notes coolly.
   "You must admit," Fydel adds, "that it is difficult to explain how a
great White Wizard can destroy a city like Axalt utterly, and yet not get
his forces across a bunch of rolling plains."
   "You both know the difference."
   "I don't think so, dear Jeslek," Anya says.
   "Fine. We will have Elparta." Jeslek gestures at the two. "Go off and
plot somewhere else."
   Both the redhead and the bearded wizard stand up.
   Anya smiles at Jeslek. "Remember, you did suggest it."
   "I know," Jeslek says calmly. "You are anyway, and it would be amusing
if it weren't so pathetic." He watches for a moment as the two walk
across the camp side by side.
   "Idiots..."
   He looks toward the fire of the setting sun, thinking of the fires he
must summon. "Idiots!"
 
 
CXIX
 
To THE SOUTH of the hill, pillars of black and gray smoke swirl into the
gray sky, marking small farms and isolated cots that continue to burn.
   The Spidlarian group leader stands in his stirrups for a moment to
survey the forces moving along the road. Before the green banners of
Certis and the purple banners of Gallos walk two hundred men, women, and
children, flanked by Gallosian lancers. As the Spidlarian officer
watches, a man ducks and scrambles down a ditch beside the stone-paved
road, squirming through the mud, out of sight of the Gallosian lancers
flanking the plodding peasants.
   A White Wizard rides partway into the peasants and lifts a hand. White
fire lances into the ditch. A scream fades, and an acrid odor rises on
the wind carrying the smell of fear northward on the road from Fenard to
Elparta.
   The White Wizard looks toward the hilltop where the blond man watches.
A firebolt flies northward, but the cavalry officer has spurred his mount
below the ridge line and toward the troopers who wait on the far side of
the hill, on the road that the combined army marches across.
   "That bad?" asks Kadara as Brede reins in.
   "Worse. There are at least two thousand of them, and they're using
villagers as a shield, walking them in front of the troops." He points
toward the city that lies less than five kays up the road. "They've given
up on taking it. Instead they'll destroy it.
   Like Axalt."
   "We could get some with archers," offers another squad leader.
   Brede shakes his head. "If you get close enough to hit the levies,
you'll be close enough to get fried by the wizards. We've forty bodies
left. They've got fifty times that, and there's no cover once they reach
the crest."
   He gestures, and the three squads ride toward the gray walls of
Elparta.
   Kadara rides beside Brede. "You thought they'd do something like this."
   "Yes." He coughs, clears his throat. "It had to happen. When they
couldn't take over Gallos with smaller units, they created mountains and
fired the grasslands. They won't raise more mountains, but the rest will
come."
   "They'll take Elparta-and then?"
   "They'll take the river towns and split the country, then follow each
road. They'll just burn anything that resists."
   Kadara shudders.
   "It's a wonderful choice. If Spidlar doesn't resist, the wizards take
over and burn those who resist. If Spidlar resists, they destroy
everything."
   "We could leave."
   Brede snorts. "Where? People from Recluce haven't been welcome in
either Sarronnyn and Suthya for generations, and those are about the only
places where the ships can go now- unless you want to spend a year at sea
going around the continent and across the western ocean to Hamor."
   "A year at sea-that doesn't sound too bad." She looks behind him at
the pillars of smoke and fire.
   "Probably not. Do we have the golds to purchase passage?"
   Kadara takes a deep breath. "It's never easy, is it?"
 
 
CXX
 
"MASTER DORRIN?" VAOS'S voice penetrates the smithy.
   He turns the tongs to ensure an even heating of the metal. "Yes?"
   "Liedral's back."
   "I'm coming."
   "I'll tell her, ser."
   "No, you won't. You clean up the smithy." Dorrin sets the tongs on the
fire bricks, ignoring the clatter, runs to the front of the smithy, then
walks into the fall coolness.
   "But..." Vaos's protest is lost as Dorrin leaves.
   "You do look like a smith." Liedral stands by the cart, grinning.
   He steps forward to take her hand, wishing he could hold her.
   She hugs him, but she steps back. "I'm better, and I'm learning."
   They stand, looking at each other.
   "You have a few more muscles, I think," she finally says.
   "Ser ..." Vaos says, tentatively, "I could stable and curry the
horses."
   "Ah . . . yes. That would be ... wouldn't it?" He looks at Liedral.
   She nods solemnly.
   "She's back! Liedral's back!" Frisa's squeal carries from the garden
where she and Merga have been harvesting the long yellow gourds.
   Dorrin takes the cart reins from Liedral's hand and gives them to
Vaos, who has still followed him outside. Liedral turns and hands Dorrin
a small chest from the closed compartment under the cart seat. They walk
across the fall-dampened ground toward the porch steps, and Dorrin wipes
his boots while untying his leather apron. He opens the door, waits for
Liedral to step inside, and hands her the chest before hanging his apron
on the peg.
   "We finally have some early cider." Dorrin retrieves a jug from the
icy water of the cold box and wipes the dampness away.
   Liedral sets the iron-bound wooden chest on the table, which shivers
with the thunk that accompanies it. She sits on one bench. Deep circles
ring her eyes, and her clothes are loose. "It was a long trip."
   "Would you rather wash up?"
   "I'm hungry."
   "And of course you arc," snaps Merga from the doorway. "The smith,
begging your pardon, master Dorrin, is thinking about drinks when you
need solid food. We have some bread I baked this morning, and there's
some brick cheese, with some apples from Rylla's trees."
   Dorrin pours two mugs of cider and sets one before Liedral.
   "Did you go on the big ships all the way across the Northern Ocean?"
demands Frisa as she leaves the kitchen door open. "Close the door,
Frisa," her mother orders. "Is the trader back?" asks yet another voice
from the porch. Pergun peers through the half-open door.
   Liedral begins to laugh. Dorrin coughs, trying not to choke as he
stifles laughter.
   "I don't see what's funny," says Frisa solemnly.
   Merga cuts three thick slabs of bread and hurriedly puts the knife
away before using one of Dorrin's cheese cutters on the yellow brick.
Then she sets the platter before Liedral.
   Frisa takes two apples and offers them to the trader. "These are the
best ones."
   "Thank you." Liedral takes the one from Frisa's left hand.
   "You take this one, master Dorrin," the girl insists.
   "Now . . . Frisa, we need to finish with the squash," Merga says
firmly, but she smiles as she speaks.
   "But, mummy ... I wanted to hear about her trip ..."
   "Later," Merga insists. "You, too, Pergun. You can help us Dorrin and
Liedral smile as footsteps trail off the porch, and voices drift from the
garden.
   "... never cared much for squash ..."
   "... you never had squash the way I fix it, you picky mill hand.. ."
   "... this one's really big, mummy ..." Dorrin takes a long swallow of
the cider. "How are you?"
   "I'm better. I told you. Tired ... hungry. And I'm glad to be back.
Even if things aren't going well."
   "I've had to make nails, brackets for wall barricades, even ship
spikes."
   "Ship spikes?"
   "That was so the harbor smiths could do things like caltrops and
stimuli. Pretty soon, I'll have to do caltrops, or get Yarrl to do them
for me."
   "Caltrops?"
   "Pointed iron stars to get in horses' hoofs, sometimes enough to
destroy the animal or the rider."
   "Ugghhh ... are we down to that?"
   "Yes. I think so," Dorrin says tiredly.
   "The trade rumors are that the wizards and their levies have reached
Elparta. Have you heard from Brede or Kadara?"
   "No." Dorrin shakes his head. "They've been gone since early summer.
He's sent a messenger or two for some things I've forged for him."
   "Your magic ... cheese-cutters?"
   "You, too." Dorrin finishes the mug. "You know, it's really amazing."
He sets the mug on the table with a thump. "People seem to think it's
perfectly decent to forge a blade that's light enough, sharp enough, and
strong enough to cut through mail and turn a man or woman into dead meat.
But you figure out how to do the same thing with wire and steel, and
everyone shudders. Dead is dead."
   Liedral frowns. "I didn't mean that."
   "Sorry. I guess I felt that because Kadara and Brede felt that way.
Even Vaos gets this sick look on his face."
   "It was sort of my doing," she says slowly.
   "Don't feel guilty. The people who tortured you are the ones-"
   "No ... they're not. The wizards always escape. Some poor soldier gets
killed. I'm not blaming you, but usually the dukes and viscounts and
prefects all escape their wars. Everyone else has to pay."
   Dorrin reflects-even in his own life, that has been true. His attempts
to keep Frisa and Merga from being beaten resulted in Gerhalm's suicide.
The Whites' attempts to manipulate him have resulted in pain for Liedral
and Jarnish. Being involved with him has cost Kadara something, perhaps
her life, for he has not heard from either Brede or Kadara in nearly a
season, and not even a messenger for the past five eight-days. He
swallows.
   "I didn't mean you."
   "I'm not so sure I'm not the same as they are."
   "No . . . you're not." Liedral reaches across the table and squeezes
his hand.
   The silence draws out, punctuated by chatter from the garden.
   "I did a little better than I thought," Liedral says slowly. "In the
trading, I mean." She opens the chest, from which spill silvers and
golds. "I did much better. You're very well off, Dorrin."
   "We're well off. You took all the risks. At least half belongs to you."
   "We'll talk about that later." Liedral tilts the chest and eases the
coins inside. "Do you have a safe place?" She looks toward the storeroom.
   Dorrin stands, lifting the small and heavy chest. "Let me show you."
   She follows him into the storeroom, where he shows her how the false
rack works and sets her chest by his smaller and far lighter one. Then he
replaces the rack and closes the storeroom door.
   Liedral reseats herself and continues through her second slice of
bread and cheese before speaking again. "I was hungry." She finishes her
cider, and Dorrin refills the mug. "You were right about the brinn. The
Councillor's healer paid two golds for one of the bags. So did another of
the healers. He wanted to know where I got it. How did you know?"
   "I didn't, for sure, but it's hard to grow, even for me, and I can
grow most herbs. Brinn only grows east of Brista, unless you use order to
help. So I thought it might bring a lot more than the more common ones,
and it's good against the flood flux."
   "I must have gotten twenty golds for the herbs." She takes another sip
of cider. "Even the simple toys went for more, but that's because a lot
of your competition has been cut off."
   "Things from Recluce?" Dorrin asks.
   "The only goods from Recluce are coming the long way- along the Great
Canal of Hamor to the Great East Highway through the Kryada Mountains and
then down to the ports of Western Hamor. Fairhaven has changed all the
trading patterns. They all flow from east to west." Liedral coughs
gently. "That raises the prices a lot for anything from Recluce ... if it
even gets to Sarronnyn or Suthya."
   Dorrin finally straightens in his chair and looks directly at Liedral.
"I missed you."
   "I missed you, too." She lets out a long deep breath. "Things are
better . . . not so many nightmares. But I think it will take a long
time." Liedral brushes at a lock of hair that is too short to stay in
place. "It's not fair to you." Dorrin looks down at his own mug. "I'll
wait."
   "That's easy to say now. How will you feel in a year?" "We'll see in a
year." He forces a grin. "And we'll be busy ... very busy." He clears his
throat. "I've gotten more done on the engine."
   "Are you still going to use it on a ship?"
   "How would you like to have your own ship for trading?" "Ships come in
two varieties-those that make you rich and those that are more trouble
than they're worth. Most are the second kind, I suspect."
   "Then it will keep us busy." He extends a hand halfway across the
table.
   She takes his fingers, squeezes them, and holds them lightly. "... I'm
hungry . .." Frisa's shrill complaint penetrates the kitchen.
   "... we're almost finished ..."
   ".. . but my tummy hurts now ..."
   Liedral shakes her head. "I think it's time to let Merga back into the
kitchen. I'm going to take a real bath, and you probably need to work on
your engine if you really intend to put it on a ship." She stops. "Won't
you have to build a ship?"
   "Build it, or buy it," Dorrin concedes.
   "There are a lot of golds in the chest... but I doubt there are enough
to buy even a small ship."
   "Then I'll see what it will take to build one."
   Liedral stands. "I meant it about the bath. You do still have that old
metal tub, don't you?"
   Dorrin nods. "But I rigged a shower off the smithy. I use that,
mostly. It's cold."
   Liedral shivers. "Not for me, thank you." She walks to the door and
waves to Merga.
   Dorrin goes to reclaim the tub from the corner of the smithy, even as
Frisa skips toward the kitchen.
 
 
CXXI
 
STEAM RISES FROM the water, boiling as it rushes downstream toward and
then past the walls of Elparta. Smoke thicker than winter fogs cloaks the
hills, and tongues of flames dance across the now blackened grasslands to
the south of the city.
   Under the green-edged white flag, the three messengers approach the
southern gate. A man in a blue cloak waits for them, his short white
beard hastily trimmed. A smudge of soot or dirt mars his left temple.
   "A request of the city ..." begins the messenger in the middle, his
sonorous voice almost droning.
   "Forget the fancy language," replies the older man in blue. "What do
the wizards want?"
   "... from the honorable Jeslek, and the commanders Grestalk and
Xeinon," continues the messenger, "beseeching that the citizens of
Elparta, in the interests of justice and mercy, lay down their arms and
pay homage to the greater hegemony of Candar..."
   The man in blue takes a deep breath and waits.
   "... that the river gates be destroyed and the water piers be open to
all... that the battlements be cast down ... that unmarried women be made
available as consorts for ... that all followers of the Black heresy,
including the officers of the Spidlarian Guard who have committed
atrocities and used evil magical tools against the hegemony, be turned
over to the honorable Jeslek . . . that reparations from the granaries of
the city be made to the forces of the hegemony . . . that all able horses
are to be turned over to the representatives of the hegemony for proper
redistribution . . . that all members of the so-called Council of Traders
be returned to the Candarian Guild for proper disciplinary action ..."
   The man in blue holds up his one good hand. The other rests in a
sling. "If I understand the thought behind the fancy words, we must make
the city totally defenseless. After that, our daughters get to be whores
for your troops; all the good officers are to be executed, all the
traders slaughtered, and all the horses and all food for winter taken."
   "Not so ..." protests the messenger. "These are honorable terms,
especially given the depredations committed upon all Candar, the
unfairness in trading, and the slaughter of defenseless traders."
   "How long do we have to consider these terms?" asks the man in blue.
    "Until sunset."
   The Elpartan emissary glances at the midafternoon sun. "Very generous."
   "Oh, extremely generous is the honorable Jeslek."
   "You will have an answer by sunset." The man in blue limps back toward
the walls.
   The emissaries in white turn and walk back toward the mass of soldiers
and horses who wait on the plain overlooking the river and stretching
toward the small city.
 
 
CXXII
 
DORRIN LIFTS THE iron back into the forge, using his right hand on the
bellows lever. In time he removes the piece and places it in the end
curve in the swage block. Using the block is harder than using a
hammer-driven swage, but is the only way he can shape the iron
single-handedly. Whether the swaging is harder or the mental
concentration to avoid suffusing the raw metal with order is more
difficult, he is not sure, only that he is sweating from more than the
heat of the smithy when he is through.
   With a sigh, he lays aside his work, a stubby length of metal hammered
into an octagon at one end and welded to a blank circle of iron at the
other. Then he sets down the hammer and walks out to the stone-walled
water tap to wash off his face and get a drink of cool water.
   Outside, he lowers the bucket under the dripping tap and turns it,
letting the bucket fill with icy water. He begins to rinse away the grime
and other residues from the smithy. The shower would be quicker, but he
does not feel up to total immersion in icy water.
   He wishes that his efforts to build the engine have not taken so long,
but with each idea, each discovery, something else is required. The
situation is getting more and more critical, but how can he and
Liedral-or anyone-return to Recluce any time soon? Should he be thinking
more about leaving Spidlar? But where would he go? As a Black healer and
a man, he will not be terribly welcome beyond the Westhorns. Assuming
that Recluce would have him back-which is rather unlikely, as he is still
building an engine-to get there he would have to circle the world-and
that is a disturbing thought.
   He looks up from the water tap to the house. Merga and Rylla have
dried and stored everything from the gardens, and he has dried herbs, and
even driven the wagon borrowed from Yarrl halfway to Kleth to bring back
barrels of apples and pearapples for both families. He shakes his head at
the thought of his household as a family.
   How long the Spidlarian Council will retain its tenuous rule in the
face of the inexorable advance of the White Wizards is also a question.
According to rumors, the Spidlarian Guard has already lost more than two
of every three squads, and now must rely on levies. It is the first time
levies have been required in Spidlar in centuries. The "requests" for
smithing services are also growing with each eight-day.
   Even the seas are not free from the heavy hand of Fairhaven. From what
Liedral has heard, the vessels of Fairhaven have still cut off most of
the trading ships to and from Land's End, and the price of spices has
begun to rise even in the marketplace of Diev.
   Dorrin shakes his hands dry in the cool fall air, cooler already than
would be the case on Recluce. He looks at the wheelbarrow. When Vaos
returns from the market with Liedral, Dorrin will have him bring in more
charcoal from the bin behind the small stable.
   Charcoal is getting dearer, perhaps because the Certans and Gallosians
have pushed into the lower wooded hills west of Elparta where the
charcoal burners have operated. Would coal be usable for the smithy?
That, at least, can be gotten locally, and it would be ideal for fueling
the steam engine he has envisioned. Still. . . where could he find
hundreds of stones' worth of coal? And how could he pay for it? Besides,
he has no ship- not yet.
   "Master Dorrin ...?"
   He looks at Merga. "Yes, Merga?"
   "Have you eaten since breakfast?"
   "No..."
   "A starving smith does not work well. You're always forgetting to eat.
I have set out some bread and preserves and some cheese."
   Everyone is always trying to make sure he does what he is supposed to.
He follows the small woman up the wide wooden steps. Once on the porch,
he views the yard and the ridge leading toward Rylla's. For now, there
are few complaints of sickness, but the harvest has been good, although
some of the ground vegetables are still in the fields, and not all the
grains have fully headed because of the cold spring that made early
planting impossible.
   He checks the road, but sees no sign of Liedral and her cart- or Vaos.
He steps into the kitchen. Merga has already laid out a dinner for him,
and Frisa has finished half of what is on her plate.
   "Master Dorrin . . . could you make me a toy?"
   "I gave you the windmill." Dorrin slathers the preserves on the bread.
   "I meant... a special kind of toy?"
   "Frisa..." Merga says.
   Dorrin holds his hand up. He wants to hear what the girl has to say.
"What kind of special toy? A doll or something?"
   "Dolls are stupid. I wanted something like an iron wagon, one like the
kind that brings your iron."
   "I can't make a horse for it."
   "That's all right." Frisa gulps the last of the cider from her mug.
   Dorrin grins at the patronizing tone, and chews through the half-warm
bread. He is still eating the last morsels of his dinner when he hears
Liedral's cart and heads for the door. As he steps onto the porch, Merga
calls after him, "I'll set out some dinner for them."
   Vaos is unhitching the horse, and Liedral is carrying a basket of
potatoes to the porch.
   "How did it go?" Dorrin lugs another basket.
   "There's plenty of root crops, but not much flour yet, and it's still
dear. No fruit except for local things, and no spices."
   "We don't need spices."
   "I know. It shows that there's nothing coming in, though."
   "Sorry. I wasn't thinking like that. You are the trader."
   "Don't forget it." Liedral smiles.
   Dorrin sets down the potatoes and squeezes her shoulder. She brushes
his cheek with her lips, then turns back to the wagon.
   "You got a lot of potatoes."
   "Merga said to get a lot of them if they were cheap. They were the
only thing cheap. I dropped some off for Reisa, and she sent a mutton
leg. She also said that you could have three bales of hay, but you ought
to pick them up today because it looks like rain before long."
   "Can we have it tonight?" Vaos walks back from the barn to the house.
   ' Tomorrow," affirms Merga from the porch. "And for that, you can take
these down to the root cellar."
   "Oh ..." Vaos looks at Dorrin. "Do I have to, master Dorrin?"
   "No," Dorrin says. "Not until after your dinner."
   "Yes, ser."
   Dorrin looks to the low clouds in the north. "I hope the rain holds
off until more of the grains head."
   "Vaos can help me with the hay, if you can do without him fora while."
   "I'll need him for a bit after he eats, probably until midafternoon."
   "We can do it after that."
   Dorrin touches her shoulder. "You need to eat, and, if you and Vaos
are going to get the hay, I need to get back to the forge."
   "All right." Liedral touches his shoulder for an instant.
   Dorrin heads around the porch to the smithy, to rebuild the fire and
to finish working on one of the engine gears.
   "What's this?" Vaos walks in after his meal and points to the metal on
the side of the hearth.
   "That will be a gear," responds Dorrin absently.
   "Out of iron? How will you make the teeth regular?"
   "A lot of work with a template, sort of like a hot set. A cutter won't
work on black iron."
   "That must be real special. Can I help?" Vaos bounces on the balls of
his feet.
   Dorrin looks at his striker's already splitting boots and shakes his
head, then wipes the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. He will
have to send Vaos to the bootmaker within the eight-day. If it is not
expenditures for iron and copper, it is expenditures for food or clothes
or something.
   "We've got to do another batch of spikes for the Council."
   "Oh . . ." Vaos wilts. "Spikes? Will you use the rod stock?"
   "We'll use the scrap. I know it's more work, but they're not paying
for this. Get those rusted brackets at the end of the pile there."
   "Yes, ser."
   Dorrin levers the bracket into the forge with the heavy tongs and
waits until the metal heats enough to cut it. Then he brings it to the
anvil and lifts the hammer, thankful at least that his muscles no longer
ache all day, only in the late afternoon. With his slender frame, he will
never have the massive biceps of a smith like Yarrl.
   ... clung ...
   Vaos says nothing as the hammer comes down on the iron, cutting the
bracket into two workable sections.
   Dorrin nods at the piece on the floor. "Take the tongs there and set
it aside for later." As he talks he returns the half in the tongs to the
fire.
   "A little more on the bellows. Then, while I work this into shape, you
need to break up the charcoal and bring in a couple of barrows full.
We've got a lot of spikes to do, and I want to work on the condenser
case."
   "Condenser case?"
   "Part of the steam engine."
   Vaos puts the cut section of the bracket against the forge where
Dorrin can reach it when the time comes, then racks the tongs. "I was
going to help Liedral with the hay."
   "You still like the horses?"
   Vaos looks at the hard-packed floor. "Never mind. After you bring in
the charcoal, you can go with Liedral to get the hay. You did carry the
potatoes down to the root cellar."
   "Yes, ser. Merga made sure I put them in the right places." Vaos
pauses. "You're buying a lot more food this year, master Dorrin."
   "This winter may be even worse than last."
   "Do you think the White Wizards will come here?"
   "Eventually . . . maybe sooner." Dorrin pulls the iron from the forge.
"Get the middle sledge. There ..." Clung. . . The sounds of iron work
preclude further conversation.
 
 
CXXIII
 
"MOVE, DAMN IT!" screams Kadara at a gray-haired woman with twice her
weight upon her shoulders, as she stumbles into two other women, equally
laden. The woman looks up dumbly as the redhead reaches down from her
saddle and yanks the woman upright. "Move, if you want to live!"
   On the other side of the gate, another guard in blue stretches from
his saddle and slams a figure in the crowd with the flat of his sword.
The thief drops the chest and runs, while a heavy, bald, and bearded old
man staggers onward toward the open northern gate, and the downriver road
to Kleth. The wiry trooper glances at the red-headed squad leader until
he catches her eye. Then he gestures toward the road.
   Kadara studies the thinning crowd and the long line of figures
trudging northward toward the clouds rolling up the river valley from the
distant Northern Ocean. Then she yells, "Green squad! Green squad!"
   The six troopers ease their mounts through the jostling crowd.
   "Please . . . take me ..." A pale and thin young woman reaches and
grabs for Vorban's saddle. "Don't leave me here! Please! I'll do
anything." The trooper reaches back and touches her shoulder, then
reaches farther, but the girl does not protest, instead tries to swing up
behind the trooper.
   "Vorban!" snaps Kadara. "Either carry her or leave her."
   The trooper lifts the woman behind him.
   "... scheming bitch! Harlot. . . !" Mutters run through the crowd,
even as the fleeing Elpartans spread on the far side of the causeway,
some plodding through the mud and grass to avoid bumping into others.
   Most carry more than they will be able to manage on the long walk to
Kleth, and some items-a stool here; a box there, ripped open by some
later refugee-already line the stone-paved road. Those lucky enough to
have had mounts or wagons are visible on the ridge line ahead.
   Kadara and her squad form a tight-knit wedge as they trot toward the
first bridge below the city, where they will re-form with the other
squads.
   "'Ware horses! 'Ware horses!"
   "Why couldn't you save us?" screams a white-haired woman.
   "Greedy guards! Saving their own skins ..."
   Kadara glances over at Vorban, and her blade flashes, then turns and
smacks the shoulder of the fair-skinned woman. A knife drops to the stone
below, but the clink is lost in the hubbub.
   Vorban looks up.
   "Take your purse back," Kadara snaps.
   The young woman smiles, and says, "I'll throw it."
   "You do, and you're dead!" snaps Kadara to the woman.
   The woman hands the purse to Vorban.
   "Get down!" commands Kadara.
   The woman sneers. Kadara's blade flashes, turning and leaving a red
welt across the thief's temple-even as a dull clunk sounds and the young
woman's fingers loosen on Vorban's jacket.
   "Dump her!"
   Vorban sets the dazed figure on the road. She staggers to the side and
sits in the muddy grass. The trooper slips his purse into his tunic.
   Brede and the other two squads wait at the bridge. The blond officer
turns toward the west, where the sun touches the rim of the low hills
that lead up to the more distant Westhorns. "Let's get across!"
   Three troopers swing out into the road, and halt the pedestrians.
   "Armed bastards..."
   "... own the roads ..."
   The rest of the squads cross the swirling and steaming waters, trying
not to breathe deeply of the odors of boiled fish and sewage. Brede calls
a halt several hundred rods beyond the bridge, on a flat rise where the
low walls of Elparta can barely be seen.
   "Why we stopping?"
   "Hold!" snaps Brede. "Watch Elparta. Just watch!"
   Even as he speaks, the ground shivers, then shudders. Firebolts play
across the distant walls.
   Another shudder rolls across the plains, and a handful of horses
whinny and whicker.
   Several older refugees stagger and sprawl on the road or the grass,
then try to regain their footing before another quake shakes them back
onto the ground.
   A trooper's mount skitters, staggering as if one leg had given way.
   With yet another shudder, the ground heaves. To the south, the walls
of Elparta shiver, and the stones begin to tumble. Fires play across the
city, and the pall of smoke begins to increase.
   With each successive temblor, more stones fall from the walls, some
into the river, others into the city. But in the end, the walls are
rubble, and a column of greasy smoke pours into the sky.
   "Anything left?" rasps Vorban.
   "The center parts, away from the walls and the river, don't look too
bad," hazards Kadara.
   "Just enough for their winter quarters," Brede says dourly. He looks
northward, toward Kleth. "Let's go."
   They ride past stumbling men and women, past crying children, past
discarded packs of clothes, past old men and women panting in the muddy
grass, past a troupe of brightly painted women who shriek obscenities,
and past a dead, white-muzzled mule ...
   None of the troopers speaks as they ride north, girding themselves
against the occasional ground shock that persists.
 
 
CXXIV
 
TIME-THERE IS never enough. Dorrin rubs his shoulder, and sets down the
mug on the kitchen wash table. The sky is gray, but no rain falls. He
wishes Hasten had not come with the Guild demand for caltrops-not that it
was at all unexpected. He still worries about Kadara and Brede, but with
the chaos to the south no one has heard who survived the fall of Elparta.
   Instinctively, he would know if Kadara had fallen . . . but where are
they?
   He thinks again about forging caltrops and shakes his head. All he can
do is ask Yarrl for a trade ... or pay the older smith. He crosses the
kitchen and slumps into the chair at the end of the table, knowing that
he should either return to the smithy or ride over to see Yarrl about the
caltrops. Instead, he tries to massage his shoulder with his left hand.
   "Are you stiff?" asks Liedral, lifting her eyes from the ledgers
spread across the other end of the kitchen table.
   He shakes his head. "Not really."
   "That means you are." She rises from her chair and edges behind him
with the faintest of limps. Her fingers knead into his shoulders.
   "Ah..."
   "Not stiff? Really?"
   "You lift hammers all the time, and sometimes you'll get stiff."
   "You're upset about the Guild order?"
   "Of course. Caltrops are edged weapons, even if they're designed to be
used against horses. They want three score within a couple of eight-days.
I really should go to see Yarrl... see if I can trade with him, or pay
him."
   "You could afford to pay him. You're on your way to being a wealthy
man." Liedral continues to work out the knots in his shoulders.
   "You're the one who's making it possible." He tries to relax under her
fingers, enjoying the quiet before Merga and Frisa return.
   "How about us?"
   "All right. I'll take that. I just wish ..." He wishes that he could
hold her for more than a few instants fully clothed-but even that is an
improvement.
   "So do I, but talking to Rylla helps."
   Dorrin should spend more time with the older woman, or in the smithy.
   "You need to go."
   "Why do you say that?"
   "You've got that expression. You need to get back to work." As Liedral
shakes her head, the dark hair fluffs away from her face for a moment.
"And you still worry about your friends."
   "What can I do? I'm not a soldier. Darkness, I feel like I can't even
get everything done around here."
   "If it helps ... I did arrange for regular shipments of the brinn to
Suthya. Old Ruziosi likes the idea, and he hates the Bristans. That's
worth twenty golds a consignment. Will that help?"
   "All I have to do is grow it."
   "You have three years' worth in the cellars. Your first consignment is
due at Vyrnil's-he's their agent here-in two eight-days." Liedral sits
back in front of the ledgers.
   "You do work wonders."
   "Too bad we have to rely on their ships."
   "I'm working on that," Dorrin says. "It's all because of something you
said." Dorrin takes a last bite of the bread, crusty and not all that
fresh.
   Liedral holds the heavy mug as though it were a crystal goblet, then
sets it upon the wooden table. Dorrin admires the grace of the gesture.
   "Something I said?"
   "We've talked about this before. About the importance of speed in
trading, and going where and when other people couldn't. And I wondered
about ships. They have to go where the wind goes. Well, fans make the air
move, and I asked why they couldn't make the water move."
   Liedral's heavy eyebrows knit, but she does not speak.
   "Well... if you paddle a boat, you sort of move the water, and that
moves the boat. It's really not that simple, but it works. So I thought
about a machine that would move paddles, but that seemed really too
complicated, and you'd have to build a huge wheel to hold all those
paddles." Dorrin grins. "Anyway, that's why I was building the toy boats."
   "You've been working on those, according to Reisa, since the day you
arrived in Diev-or almost."
   "It takes time. The engine is mostly built."
   "I still can't see why it would be better than a well-built sloop or
brig."
   "Trust me ... even if I can't explain exactly why." Dorrin stands. "I
guess I will go talk to Yarrl."
   Liedral smiles. "Don't take too long. It looks like rain."
   "I don't mind a little rain."
   As he saddles Meriwhen, he can sense the wind rising, but Yard's is
only a short ride, and Meriwhen needs the exercise.
   Vaos waves from the herb garden, where he is helping Merga and Rylla
cut the last herbs for drying. Dorrin waves back, then turns the mare
downhill.
   The light rain gusts around the smith, but, by the time Dorrin reins
up in Yarrl's yard, the falling water slices in almost like knives.
   Reisa steps onto the porch. "Put her in the barn." Her voice barely
carries above the howling of the wind and the splatting of the cold rain.
   Dorrin rides over to the barn, dismounts, and leads Meriwhen inside.
The third stall is still vacant, and he ties the mare there. As he steps
away from the stall, a white form butts him in the leg. He stops to
scratch the nanny between the ears. "How are you, girl?"
   Zilda looks up almost placidly, then tries to nibble on his trousers.
Dorrin shakes free, and the goat attempts to follow, until the chain
brings her up short.
   "Still at it..." He closes the barn door and hurries through the rain
and across the muddy yard to the smithy. He should have paid more
attention to the weather, but the Council summons delivered by Hasten has
bothered him.
   Reisa stands inside the smithy. "This came up so sudden. Wizards'
doing, you think?"
   "No. Just a nasty storm. It feels normal, anyway." He casts a feeler
at the low clouds, but the storm winds are clean and cold.
   "How's Liedral?"
   "Fine. She was more tired than she realized, but she's resting up."
   " Yarrl's working on his services. The Council extended it beyond
Guild members." As Reisa gestures toward the glow of the smithy, Dorrin
looks at her left arm, and the bruises. He lifts his hand, as if to touch
her arm, but she starts to back away, then laughs, harshly. "You are a
healer." She lets him touch the bruises, and infuse some order, although
they are nothing more than bruises.
   "Left-handed?" he asks. "You and Petra?"
   "What else can we do? You heard about Elparta?"
   Dorrin nods. "But they'll winter there."
   "And come next spring?" Reisa asks.
   "They'll use the river to take Kleth and Spidlaria."
   The wind shakes the smithy roof.
   "You're here to see Yarrl?"
   "Yes. I wanted to ask if I could trade some services."
   "You don't do blades or sharp things, do you?"
   Dorrin looks at the damp clay underfoot. "How did you know?"
   Reisa chuckles. "You're a healer, and you use a staff. Go talk to
Yarrl. I've got some bread in the oven."
   Dorrin steps into the circle of light cast by the forge, watching. Rek
controls the bellows lever as Yarrl works a length of iron perhaps a span
long and half as thick. With even strokes, Yarrl points each end, then
reheats the iron in the forge. Deftly, he retrieves the piece and splits
each end on the hardie. After another return to the forge, each split end
is bent at forty-five degrees. The result looks like a four-pointed iron
star.
   After he sets the star on the forge bricks, alongside at least half a
dozen others, Yarrl lowers the tongs and hammers, and nods to the
youngster on the bellows rod. "That's enough, Rek. Go get yourself a
drink of water."
   "Yes, ser." Glancing from Dorrin to Yarrl, Rek heads for the open door.
   "He's a good boy, Dorrin."
   "I'm glad." Dorrin nods toward the metal stars. "Those your services?"
   "Caltrops. For cavalry. Scatter them on a road, especially one that's
got a muddy surface, and you chew up a lot of horses' hoofs."
   "Cruel weapon," Dorrin says. No matter how the caltrop is thrown, one
pointed end will always face up, ready to impale anything that steps or
falls upon it. "Do you think the Whites will attack this winter?"
   "No one's saying. Does your red-headed friend know?"
   "Kadara? I haven't seen them. I hope they survived the fall of
Elparta. We all knew this was coming a long time ago."
   "After the Whites brought the mountains down on Axalt..."
   Dorrin recalls the guard captain friend of Liedral's, so certain that
Spidlar would fall first. "A Council request?" He points to the caltrops.
   "More like a Council order. All the smiths have to provide five score
every two eight-days for the next season."
   "I know," Dorrin says dryly. "I have a small problem. I can't make
them."
   "Course you can. Easier even than butt hinges ..."
   "I'm a healer, remember?"
   "Oh . . . darkness ..."
   "Exactly. I wanted to know if I could trade some other services for my
quota or pay you. Vaos isn't far enough along to do them quickly."
   "He still likes the horses?"
   Dorrin grins.
   "Told you so. Rek likes the metal, bad leg or no. Well ..." muses
Yarrl. "I promised Fentor an iron moldboard plowshare. Scratch job-you
supply the iron and do it, and I'll do-how many are you supposed to do?"
   "I'm considered an artisan, because of the toys-so my share is three
score over the next two eight-days."
   "Do you have plate for the share?" asks the older smith.
   "Yes. I've some left from another job."
   "All right. I'll give you some rod stock. You have the plow done in
ten days, and I'll have the caltrops and the stock for you."
   "I can use Liedral's cart to bring it down." Dorrin inclines his head.
"Thank you."
   "It's not a problem, young fellow." Yarrl looks toward the door. "Rek!
Let's be at it."
   "Yes, ser." The boy limps up to the bellows lever. "Good day, master
Dorrin."
   "Good day, Rek."
   Yarrl swings the stock into the forge for another caltrop.
   Dorrin nods to the smith again, and steps from the smithy into the
gusting wind and icy rain.
   "Dorrin!" Petra gestures for him to come into the kitchen.
   After knocking the mud from his boots and wiping them as dry as he can
on the tattered mat, he steps into the warmth of the kitchen.
   "You need to take this," Reisa explains as Petra hands him a battered
basket covered with a waxed canvas. "There are a few things that your
trader lady should enjoy."
   "But..." Dorrin protests.
   "Just do it."
   All stop talking as a gust shakes the house, and a long cracking sound
rips through the moaning of the wind. The house shakes again with a dull
thud. Dorrin rushes to the door to see that the center tree of the three
that border the field has snapped halfway up and fallen into the field.
   Reisa looks through the rain-whipped afternoon at the jagged stump.
"This is one of the worst I've seen. I hope no one was caught offshore in
it."
   "I'm glad I wasn't," Dorrin affirms, as he takes hold of the basket.
   "You aren't going?" asks Petra.
   "I'll be all right." He touches her arm and then dashes for the barn.
The ride back will be wet, but he does not want to leave Liedral and the
others alone in such a storm-not that he can probably make any real
difference, but that is the way he feels.
 
 
CXXV
 
"YOU LIKE WORKING for Hemmil?" Dorrin rummages through the scrap bin for
the red oak for his toys. More and more the wood is getting harder for
him than the iron-or the iron work is getting easier, more likely.
   "Hemmil's fair enough," answers the dark-haired journeyman with a
shrug. "But the mill's going to Volkir, and ... well, Hemmil's fair."
   "Couldn't you start your own mill? Last week I heard Hem-mil say that
he couldn't deliver some timbers for at least three eight-days."
   Pergun smiles tightly. "I could run a mill, Dorrin. Tell me how I can
afford to buy one."
   "What about building one?" Dorrin adds another short length of oak to
the pile he has set aside.
   "What about starving until it's finished? How can I afford the steel
for the saw blades or the stonework for a millrace or land with enough
water?"
   The simplest questions have complex answers. "I wonder..."
   "Finish up. Hemmil's looking this way." Pergun pauses.
   "You wonder what?"
   "Do you always want to be a mill worker?"
   "What else do I know?" Pergun pauses. "Merga's a nice girl."
   "She's a woman with a daughter." Dorrin laughs. "And you do visit a
lot."
   "Do you mind?"
   "Hardly. So long as you're good to her."
   "Dare I be otherwise with you around?" Pergun looks toward the front
of the building.
   "Am I. .. ?" Dorrin lifts the wood into the carrying straps. "This is
all. How much, do you think?"
   "I'd let you have it for a copper, but-"
   "Hernmil would charge at least three," finishes Dorrin with a laugh.
"How about two coppers?"
   "What are you going to do with this?"
   "Same as before. Make some toys." Dorrin offers two coins.
   "Quiller doesn't mind?" Pergun takes the coins.
   "I'm very careful not to make anything like what he does."
   "Pergun! Finish up there. We need to change the blade." The
millmaster's voice echoes between the rows of rough-sawn boards and
timbers.
   Dorrin's brows remain knitted in thought as he carries the wood out
into the yard where Men when is tied. The mare's breath is a cloud of
steam in the fall drizzle. Meriwhen skitters as he loads the wood into
the saddle baskets.
   "Easy, lady. Easy." He should have asked for Liedral's cart, but he
enjoys riding Meriwhen, and he never gets much wood for toys.
   Wheeee ...
   He pats her neck and shoulder firmly. "Easy ..." Then he mounts and
rides through the continuing light rain toward the road.
   Rivulets of icy water leave the stone pavement more like a paved river
than a road, and Meriwhen tries to edge toward the warmer mud and grass.
Dorrin edges her toward the crown of the road.
   Along the highway lie trees toppled by the storm of days earlier, and
Dorrin has heard that a schooner lies beached off Cape Devalin. A
schooner?
   Whheeeee. . .
   "Easy, lady. Easy..."
   Whhheeeee ...
   "Enough!" Dorrin snaps, still thinking about the beached ship.
   Guiding the mare onto the rutted road that leads to Rylla's cottage,
and to his own house and workshop, he wonders when if he and Liedral can
ever regain what they once had-or how long it will take.
   Ahead, he can see the smoke from the chimney. The house will be warm,
against a chill that promises, once again, a long and cold winter, and a
summer that will be filled with blood.
 
 
CXXVI
 
SITTING JUST SHOREWARD of the center pier, the Port Council building is
two stories high, and less than forty cubits broad. The unpainted plank
siding has faded into gray, despite the years of oiling.
   Dorrin wraps the heavy brown cloak about him, brushes the unseasonably
early light snow out of his eyebrows, and opens the heavy oak door. After
closing it, he knocks the sides of his boots with the black staff to
remove the slush. The sole light comes from a dim single oil lamp in a
tarnished brass bracket dangling from a support timber. The once-white
plaster has dimmed to yellowed gray. Both doors on the lower floor are
closed, the one on the left with the port master's sign and the one on
the right with the customs seal of the Spidlarian Council.
   Dorrin climbs the worn and hollowed steps to the upper floor, where he
finds an open doorway.
   A clerk on a stool looks up. "Might I help you, healer? The
portmaster's office is below."
   "Thank you, but I was looking for ser Gylert."
   "Might I tell him the matter at hand?"
   "A matter of commerce. My name is Dorrin."
   The clerk slides off the stool and inclines his head. "My pardon, ser.
I will tell him." The man's dark and greasy hair, bound at his neck with
an ornate copper clasp, swirls as he slips inside the rear office that
overlooks the piers.
   The front office contains a small iron stove, two desks with stools
for clerks, and two shoulder-high red oak chests with iron-bound doors
and locks. The other desk is dusty.
   The clerk returns with another bow. "Ser Gylert would be most pleased
to see you, ser."
   "Thank you," Dorrin responds gravely. He steps inside the second door,
closing it behind him.
    "Good day, master Dorrin." Gylert, lean, balding, and muscular,
stands behind a narrow writing desk in the corner of the room, angled to
allow the shipper to view the piers through the three sliding windows.
Two are shuttered against the wind and cold fall rains, and now snow, but
the center window has no exterior shutters. A hanging dual-chimneyed lamp
illuminates the office, also leaving the faint scent of soot and oil.
   "Good day to you, ser Gylert."
   Gylert motions to the wooden armchair beside the writing desk.
   "You told Kinsall you wished to discuss a matter of commerce?"
   "I did. I understand that since the crew of the ship that grounded off
the cape perished, the shipper's council is acting as the salvage agent."
   "That is correct. Once the weather clears, we'll be offloading what we
can, and clearing the canvas and fixtures."
   "Honsard will provide the wagons?"
   Gylert nodded. "You wish to bid on the goods?"
   "No." Dorrin smiles. "I was wondering about the masts and hull."
   "For iron scrap? There won't be much of that."
   "For a number of purposes."
   "Hmmmm ..."
   "According to... a few... most don't think the ship's worth the effort
to refloat. That means she's scrap lumber."
   "I wouldn't say that, exactly."
    "Do you have the right to convey title?"
   Gylert frowns. "Are you thinking you would enter the shipping
business?"
   Dorrin holds up a hand. "Not to carry any cargoes that you would
carry. That schooner's too small for most bulk cargoes, and not all that
speedy."
   "Spice runs?"
   "That's possible. I promised Liedral..."
   "The young trader from Jellico?"
   "I owe a debt."
   Gylert nods. "Some would say otherwise, but you have been honest and
fair. Not that honesty's any great virtue, and we all know that the
Harthagay is not a long-legged vessel. Perhaps a hundred golds."
   Dorrin forces a smile. "It would take me more than that to refit her,
assuming I could get her off that sand. Besides I'd be helping the port."
   "Are you certain you have no trading background?"
   "Thirty golds," counters Dorrin.
   "You don't want a ship. You want firewood at that price."
   Dorrin sighs, loudly. "Twenty for the rights to salvage her, and until
next summer to get her off the sand. If I get her to port, another twenty
when she arrives, and ten more before she leaves again."
   Gylert frowns, then glances out the window.
   "Dessero says she can't be broken clear of the strand," Dorrin adds.
"If that's so, the council gets twenty golds and will regain salvage
rights."
   "Unlike Dessero, I'm not convinced that you cannot work something out.
Honsard swears you can do miracles. The man's terrified of you, you know."
   "Me?" Dorrin doesn't have to counterfeit surprise. Gylert smiles.
"Well.. . why not? We all gain if you can do it."
   "If you would have your clerk write up the papers ..."
   "You read Temple, don't you?" Gylert asks with a wry smile.
   "Yes," Dorrin admits.
   "I thought I'd ask, not that I doubted it. About the twenty ... before
we get to the agreement stage ..."
   Dorrin sets the purse on the desk, and counts out twenty golds.
   "How many did you bring?"
   "Twenty-five," admits Dorrin involuntarily.
   "There is this five-gold processing fee ..."
   Dorrin opens his mouth to protest before he catches the glint in
Gylert's eye. Instead he shakes his head.
 
 
CXXVII
 
HONSARD BOWS TO Dorrin. "Good day, healer."
   "Good day, ser." Dorrin gestures toward the sea. "Could you tell me
who might be in charge of the ship?"
   "Varden is acting for the Traders' Council. He's a thin man, wearing a
purple slash on his jacket. He has a black mustache. He was down on the
wreck." Honsard glances from Dorrin to Liedral, then back at the wagon.
"Keep them bags on center, Noskos!"
   Honsard turns to Dorrin, almost apologetically. "Got to get these back
to the port 'fore it warms. Hard to carry heavy loads through the mud,
and the flour and grain would spoil-what hasn't already."
   "Good hauling," Dorrin says.
   Low bushes and stubby pines cover both the bluff and the sloping
ground beyond, which drops off toward the Northern Ocean. The underbrush
and trees block any view of the beach itself.
   "He's afraid of you," Liedral says. "Why?"
   "I healed his son."
   They walk down from the coast road, following the muddy track churned
in the slope by the dozen or so men struggling up through the low brush
and between the sea-swept low pines. The rest of the hillside retains a
dusting of snow under the gray sky. As the various barrels are carried
past them, Liedral studies each. Dorrin studies Liedral.
   "What do they tell you?"
   "Your ship's not all that watertight."
   "I can do something about that, given a little time."
   "I sometimes think you feel you can do something about everything."
She laughs, and one of the laborers grins-until he sees Dorrin's face.
   The Harthagay's stem rests firmly on the sand, although the stern
almost seems to float free in the low chop coming straight in. Even in
the chill air, the odor of uprooted kelp and seaweed seeps across the
beach, and gulls and other sea birds dive at the line of detritus that
marks the high-water line of the storm that grounded the schooner.
   Varden stands in the hard-packed sand by the planks that serve as a
gangway, watching the barrels being rolled down the planks. "Easy . ..
there!" He turns to the newcomers. "This is Council salvage."
   "I'm know. I'm Dorrin. I assume ser Gylert-"
   "You're the one. Well ... be a day or so before we've got her
offloaded. That's if another storm doesn't rise, and if Honsard's wagons
don't get trapped in the road mud. Too bad the coast road up there's not
stone, like the main highway."
   "Do you mind if I look over the ship?"
   "Darkness, no! Suppose you qualify as the owner, much as anyone does,
leastwise." Varden twists the black handlebar mustache. "Easy! Them
barrels'll break if they run together. One at a time!"
   Dorrin waits until the barrels are coming down smoothly. "The
agreement was that the front and back winches were to remain."
   "Aye, and they will." Varden grins. "It be in my interest that they
do. Gylert bet me ten you couldn't get her off-at ten to one." The
Council man looks toward the gangway. "Light! Don't be banging them
together!"
   Dorrin scrambles up the rope ladder that has clearly been added by the
salvage crew. Liedral follows.
   What canvas that remains is in tatters. A section of the port railing
between the bowsprit and midships is missing, and the lighter color of
the decking indicates to Dorrin that the removal was recent.
   They circle around the open hatch from which the salvage crew hoists
barrels in a leather sling. The man controlling the rope and pulley
arrangement nods curtly.
   Dorrin steps onto the low poop deck and checks the wheel, which,
surprisingly, rotates easily. Further examination reveals that cables to
the rudder have snapped, either the result of the grounding ... or its
cause. Dorrin has no way of telling which, only that the problem must be
remedied before the Harthagay is pulled off the strand.
   "What do you think?" he asks Liedral. "You have some work to do. Not
to get her ready to float clear-she's not that firm-but to turn her into
something. She's been neglected for a long time." Keee... aaa. .. keee
... aaaa. . .
   He looks to the gray of the sea and the circling gulls who take turns
landing and pecking at the weeds and storm-tossed offal on the sand. "It
will be a busy winter."
   "I do not look forward to spring." Liedral takes his hand for a moment
before releasing it.
   "I don't either, but spring will come, like it or not." Keee...
aaaa... keee. .. aaaa ... The gulls circle as the barrels rumble across
the deck and down the heavy planks onto the sand.
 
 
CXXVIII
 
A SINGLE TROOPER, bearing two swords, rides into the yard, brushing snow
from a winter cap. The rider heads for the lighted window behind the
porch.
   Liedral opens the door.
   "Liedral?"
   "Kadara! Are you all right? Where's Brede?"
   "He's fine. No, he's not. He's tired. He's not a marshal, but there's
no one else. He couldn't come. So he sent me." The redhead dismounts.
   A dull clanging resounds from the smithy.
   "He's still at it? Does he always work this late?"
   "I think everyone from Recluce must." A touch of bitterness edges
Liedral's voice. "If it isn't Council services, it's goods to sell. If it
isn't goods to sell, it's engine parts." Liedral brushes snow from her
uncovered hair. "I'm sorry. Let's put your horse in the stable. I'll get
you hot cider ... and whatever else we can offer."
   The two women walk toward the stable.
   "Is he still working on that darkness-damned engine?"
   "Yes. He's even found a ship to put it on-if he can salvage it. He's
arranged for space in the shipwright's yard, and he stays up all night
calculating how to put his engine into that old hulk."
   "I don't know." Kadara's voice is hoarse, and she coughs. "Maybe . . .
well, come next spring or summer, owning a ship might be damned good."
   Liedral opens the barn door and gropes for the lantern and the
attached striker. "It's small, but at least it's out of the weather."
   Kadara looks around the small barn. "Most places I've slept lately
make this look like a palace. It's even dry."
   "I know. It was good to come back to."
   "At first, I thought he had it easy. He never makes anything easy,
does he?" Kadara ties the reins to an iron ring on the wall near
Meriwhen's stall. "Hello there, girl." She coughs again. "It's hard,
being a trooper. Oh ... I don't know what I'm saying. I'm so damned
tired."
   Liedral touches her shoulder. "You need something warm."
   "Brede needs more magic knives . . . something for the rivers ...
anything that Dorrin can think up ..." Kadara slips as she steps out of
the barn onto the packed wet snow that comes down almost as thick as
rain. She puts a hand out to the barn wall.
   Liedral blows out the lamp and rehangs it before closing the barn
door. Meriwhen whinnies as the barn door comes shut with a dull thump.
   "Have to go back to Kleth before too long." Kadara straightens.
   "Darkness, I'm tired."
   "Is that where Brede is?"
   "That's where all the Guards are. That's where the Whites and their
damned levies will be come summer." Kadara's feet are heavy on the porch
steps, and her motions are slow as she stamps and brushes her boots.
   "Now . . . you can't get things too hot. . ." Merga explains as she
peeks at the bread in the oven. "... shouldn't be too long..."
   Frisa sits on the stool watching her mother.
   "Frisa . . . ?" Liedral asks. "Would you tell Master Dorrin that his
Mend Kadara is here?"
   "Go ahead, but mind your footing, and take my jacket off the peg
there, child," Merga cautions.
   Kadara slumps into the chair.
   "Won't be a moment before the cider's warm," Merga explains as Liedral
removes five mugs from the cupboard and sets them out on the table.
   "I'll get some cheese from the cellar." Liedral slips out the door to
wrestle with the root cellar door next to the porch.
   "You just stay there," suggests Merga.
   Kadara looks blankly at the table, then slowly removes her leather
cold-cap, revealing short and limp red hair.
   Liedral returns shortly, carrying a square block of cheese wrapped in
wax, which she sets on the serving table. She looks toward the cutlery
box.
   Merga follows her eyes. ' Til take care of that, mistress."
   "I'm not the mistress ..." Liedral shakes her head.
   Kadara's grin makes a caricature of her drawn face.
   The door opens, and snow and a light wind follow Frisa into the
kitchen.
   "Wipe your feet, girl!" snaps Merga.
   "They'll be here soon as master Dorrin banks the fire and splashes the
grime off his face and hands." Frisa looks around the kitchen. "That's
what he said."
   "Your feet, girl."
   Frisa stamps back to the porch and wipes her feet before returning and
closing the door. She stands on tiptoes to replace the jacket on the peg.
   When the door opens again, Dorrin steps into the kitchen, followed by
Vaos. The lamp in the wall bracket flickers with the gust of wind that
flows around it, then steadies as Dorrin closes the door.
   "Kadara!" He touches her shoulder lightly.
   Merga is pouring warm cider into the mug at the redhead's elbow, then
goes on to fill all the mugs. "Bread's almost ready. I'll be a-cutting
the cheese now."
   The smith seats himself at the end between Liedral and Kadara. Vaos
slips into the place almost at the end of the table, nearest the comer
where Frisa perches on her stool.
   Merga sets the plate of cheese slices in the center of the wooden
table. Vaos immediately reaches and takes two. Dorrin looks at the boy,
and Vaos hands one slice to Frisa.
   "You look tired," Dorrin says into the silence.
   "Darkness-tired, Dorrin. Been a light-fired long year." Kadara coughs,
covering her mouth. "Brede sent me. Couldn't come himself. They made him
marshal. Don't call him that, but it amounts to that."
   "What does he need?"
   "Anything . . . everything. More of those magic knives . . . something
that will work on the rivers next spring . . . something you can't see
that kills people. Brede thought of mines- using gunpowder-but you can't
get close enough to the levies with those damned wizards to light the
fuses. Same problem as guns-they see anything that looks like a gun, and,
poof! There goes the powder and anyone who's near."
   The smith touches his mug.
   "Just don't have enough arms and trained people." She coughs again,
then takes some cheese and slowly begins to eat.
   Vaos reaches for the cheese again, and Dorrin glares at him.
   "Just one," the smith says. "You had a full supper." He knows Vaos is
well-fed, but Kadara is thin and drawn.
   "But he's hungry," Frisa says.
   "He's always hungry."
   "When did you get back to Kleth?" asks Liedral.
   Kadara swallows before answering. "Yesterday. We had to find space and
arrange for reshoeing about half the mounts. I took a spare horse. Not
mine. Used to be Josal's, until they got him." She absently takes another
piece of cheese.
   Dorrin waits until she finishes it. "What happened at Elparta? No one
seemed to know how it all happened-just that it did."
   "They decided that Spidlar was too hard to conquer. Much easier to
destroy." Kadara dears her throat.
   Dorrin motions for Merga to sit down at the table. The dark-haired
woman shakes her head and points toward the oven.
   "They burned everyone who opposed them. Everyone who even looked like
they supported order. They boiled the river and shook the earth until the
walls fell. Then they killed every man and woman left in the city-except
they used the women first. The damned fools-we told them to leave, and a
lot did, but not enough." Kadara's voice is even, level, and colder than
the snow that falls outside the kitchen. The steam from the hot cider in
her mug drifts past her chin, past the worn braid on her officer's jacket.
   By the stove, Merga makes the sign of the one-god believers, then
glances toward the corner where Frisa sits on the stool.
   "Your magic knives and Brede's tactics killed several hundred of them.
Slowed down their advance. Also got them madder than light." Kadara
coughs, a racking cough.
   "Let me get you something for that," Dorrin says.
   The redhead sips from the mug. "Hot cider helps. Almost forget things
here."
   Dorrin enters the storeroom and finds the packet he wants, carrying it
back to the kitchen, where he crushes some of the leaves, then eases them
into another mug. He spoons out a dollop of rare honey-Frisa watches with
open eyes-and pours hot cider into the mug, stirring the mixture. "Here."
   Kadara swigs down the mixture in one gulp. "Uggggh ..."
   The eyes of the little girl in the corner open even wider.
   "Best get it over, girl," Kadara says. "Don't ever let the men see you
weak." She sets aside the medicinal cup and takes several more sips of
the hot cider. "Brede made the wizards mad. Don't like not getting their
way. Come spring, they'll burn their way north."
   Liedral glances toward Merga, who is lifting bread from the oven. The
aroma wafts toward the table.
   "Still hard to believe," Kadara says. "Warm house, good food."
   Dorrin stands behind her, and touches her wrists, trying to let a
little order flow into her tired frame.
   "Feels better." She shakes his hands off and lifts her cider.
   Dorrin eases into his chair and waits. Behind him, Merga slices a loaf
of bread, muttering, "Really too hot..." She sets the three others on the
cutting table to cool.
   "I take it the cheese-cutting things didn't work too well at the end."
   "No. They just walked villagers in front of them-slowly. Took their
time. Ran horse troops alongside the roads with archers."
   Merga sets the sliced bread in front of Kadara. Vaos looks from the
platter to Merga and then to Dorrin. Dorrin shakes his head.
   "Let him have a piece," Kadara says. "Life's too short." She leans
forward and puts her head on the table, then slowly sits up.
   Vaos puts down his hand.
   "You're staying tonight," Liedral says firmly. "You need the rest and
the food." She stands up and steps behind Kadara's chair. "She can sleep
in the main room, on the cushions."
   "Sleep on the floor," mumbles the trooper.
   Liedral guides her toward the main room, which was designed to be a
parlor someday but which contains little but cushions and two old chairs.
   Vaos reaches for the bread once Liedral and Kadara leave the kitchen.
   Dorrin carries his cider to the kitchen door, opening it and looking
out. The heavy snow continues to fall, and there is already no trace of
Kadara's tracks to the house.
   Only the faintest glimmer of light penetrates from Rylla's house.
   Dorrin closes the door and swallows the last of his cider. What can he
possibly build for Brede? How will it make any difference? He carries his
mug to the wash tub and sets it in the lukewarm water.
   Outside, the snow keeps falling.
 
 
CXXIX
 
DORRIN AND VAOS slowly fuller the heavy stock into a square bar, strong
enough, Dorrin hopes, to hold the greater length of black wires. He nods
at Vaos to strike again after he turns the stock. When he sets the second
piece on the back of the forge to anneal, Kadara steps past the slack
tank.
   "I need to go." While Kadara's face is pale, some of the darkness
beneath her eyes has lightened.
   Dorrin walks with her toward the smithy door and the welcome cool
outside. They stand by the porch, where a wanner breeze blows in from the
south, a wind warm enough that, under the midmorning sun, the snow has
melted into a layer of slush barely covering the toes of Dorrin's boots.
   "You were up early, Liedral said." Kadara looks toward the barn.
   "I'm working on something for the rivers. The Whites can't walk people
ahead of boats, but the wires have to be heavier, and so do the stocks.
That will make them harder to carry." Dorrin sighs. "Maybe that won't
matter. I'll work on some way to use gunpowder, but that will take some
doing."
   "Brede has confidence in you. He says you have all winter." Her laugh
carries a bitter undertone. "And don't abandon your ship . .. we may need
it."
   "I've begun to think about that." His eyes turn across the
slush-covered yard toward Liedral, who is leading Kadara's mount from the
barn. "Still, it's only one, and, come spring, the Whites may have dozens
offshore."
   "Perhaps you'd better get it refitted earlier." The redhead coughs and
covers her mouth.
   "If I don't figure out how to help Brede, we won't have that long."
   "How long before you have those river sheers?"
   "I can have a few within the eight-day. Why?"
   "It might be nice to have them in case the White Wizards don't wait
until spring." She coughs again.
   "They'll have to do something before there's ice on the river."
   Kadara takes the horse's reins from Liedral.
   "You shouldn't be riding."
   "I've ridden with worse. So have most of my squad."
   "He's been fed and curried." Liedral strokes the neck of the bay.
"There are supplies in the saddlebags: dried apples and cheese, and some
crushed astra for that cough. And a loaf of good bread. Give some to
Brede."
   "If there's any left." Kadara smiles.
   "Even you can't eat all of what we packed," responds Liedral.
   Kadara swings easily into the saddle.
   "I'll bring what I have in an eight-day or so," Dorrin says.
   "Send a messenger. It's a long trip if we're not there."
   Dorrin looks at Kadara.
   "Sorry. There aren't any spare horses, are there?"
   He shakes his head.' The Council left us alone, but they took one of
Yard's, and all but the plow horses from Jisle. If you're not there, or
Brede isn't.. . then what would you suggest?"
   "Ask for Brede. If he's not there, he'll leave instructions. That's
probably the best we can do."
   "Tell Brede we're thinking about him," Liedral offers.
   "I will." Kadara touches the reins, and the bay eases across the yard,
each step squashing through the slush and mud.
   Dorrin reaches out and takes Liedral's hand as they watch Kadara ride
down the ridge drive toward the main road. He squeezes her fingers
lightly, and is rewarded with a tightening of her fingers around his. As
he stands there, her lips brush his cheek, but only for an instant. He
turns to her, catching the tears in her eyes.
   "It's so hard, sometimes," she says. "So unfair."
   "Yes." Dorrin has thought that, especially over the last year. Chaos
seems to triumph over order, and those, like Liedral or Kadara or Brede,
who try to hold back chaos seem to suffer more than those who accept it.
   "She looks so tired," Liedral continues.
   "She is tired, and it will get worse."
   "You look tired, too."
   "That's going to get worse also." Dorrin forces a laugh.
   "But why? Why do bad things keep happening to good people?"
   "I don't know. I only know that I have to do the best I can." He takes
a deep breath. "And it's not half the price that Brede and Kadara are
paying, and they don't even want to stay here in Spidlar." Liedral
squeezes his fingers a last time before letting go.
   "I'm sorry. You need to be held. So do I."
   "Shall we try?" Again, Dorrin tries to make his voice light.
   For a long moment, they embrace, standing in the slush and mud.
 
 
CXXX
 
"YOU'VE SPENT NEARLY a full year, Jeslek, dear," says Anya coolly, "and
you have exactly one small city. Not the most promising of campaigns."
   Jeslek matches her smile, looking out the tower window. "It's nice to
be back in Fairhaven."
   "So you can check up on everyone, I suppose."
   "Do you really think I care about all the little plots? I'm more
interested in you." He glances toward the table set for two.
   "What about your renegade smith? Or your Recluce-trained warriors?
Don't you need to worry about them more than about the Council?"
   Jeslek gestures, and the mists of the screeing glass part to reveal
the red-headed smith, working with a large wheel in his smithy, aided by
a youth.
   "What's he doing?" asks Anya.
   "Drawing wire, it looks like. Much good it will do him."
   "Maybe he has some other use for it." "Perhaps. But it doesn't matter.
We've still only lost a few hundred levies, and perhaps four or five
score cavalry-and none of the White company. I'd rather take some time,
and fewer casualties."
   "You are so rational it makes me sick."
   "Does it now?" He steps toward her, reaching for the clasps to her
gown. "Does it now?"
 
 
CXXXI
 
AFTER GLANCING AT the clouds overhead, Dorrin rolls the last barrel down
the path toward the Harthagay. The dull rumble of thunder echoes off the
flat gray of the northern sea. A jagged flash illuminates whitecaps
beyond Cape Devalin, barely visible in the moments after dawn. The fine
cold mist of the winter sea rain bites at his face, mixing with the sweat
from his forehead.
   He pauses at the edge of the narrow beach, looking down at the old
schooner. His eyes flicker to the three hummocks beyond the sand where
the Guild buried the bodies that had washed onto the sand-what little had
been left by various scavengers.
   With a deep breath, he resumes easing the barrel down to the ship.
Each movement is gentle, and his senses almost caress the barrel, looking
for the signs of chaos that will send him scrambling for cover.
   The sands are hard and flat shoreward of the ship, but he eases the
barrel halfway across the sands, then stops. Leaving the barrel upright,
he walks to the ship.
   The Harthagay, according to Liedral, had scarcely been the most
seaworthy of vessels even before her grounding, but most of her problems
had rested with her captain, the young and presumably dead Jarlsin.
   Dorrin runs a hand along the clinker-planked side, letting his senses
check the wood again. The hull remains sound, and even the mainmast is
intact. The winds have left only shreds of the canvas, and Dorrin had
been forced to cut away the pieces of the dangling lower crossbeam. The
winter current has shifted the sand so that the Harthagay's stern half
floats in three cubits of water. The low waves lap two-thirds of the way
to the stem, which remains hard on the dune that now lies less than ten
cubits from the high water mark.
   More than an eight-day of work has cleared the beach and built what
amounts to a channel behind the stern. Now he must loosen the stem-hoping
his calculations are correct.
   Dorrin walks to the barrel and takes his pry-bar, levering off the top
and extracting the first wax-dipped basket. He walks toward the low dune
where the shovel waits.
   He digs two cubits into the sand before he places the basket and
lights the fuse with the striker. Then he runs, throwing himself behind
the hull.
   Crumpppp!! Sand flies with the noise.
   Dorrin returns and surveys the hole in the sand, deciding that he
could have dug somewhat deeper. He checks the hull. Outside of a thin
coating of sand driven into the varnish, no damage appears.
   He digs again until he is ready to go for another basket, which he
places within the hole, and lights, repeating his dash around the stem.
   Another explosive charge, and the hole under the stem fills with water.
   Dorrin begins on the northern side. After the first charge, his
too-shallow sand pit is filled with water, and he is forced to use the
baskets with the long wax-coated fuses.
   Four more explosions and the Harthagay settles onto an even keel,
rocking in a long pool of cold water.
   Next comes more work-work and faith. He straps the bladder around his
waist and steps into the boat that dips ominously under his weight, and
the weight of the small toothed anchor. Slowly he rows seaward, watching
the line uncoil, until there remain but a dozen cubits. After inching his
way toward the stern, he levers the anchor overboard. The boat lifts in
the water, rocking him backward and jamming a davit into his back.
   "Darkness ..."
   He rows slowly back to the Harthagay. Even under his leather gloves he
can feel blisters forming. Rowing is not the same as smithing, not
exactly.
   After tying the boat to the ship, he walks to the stern and the
waiting winch. Slowly he turns the handle. The schooner rocks, grinds on
the sand, and edges seaward perhaps a cubit. Dorrin cranks again, but the
ship remains motionless. Soon he is cranking easily, but only to retrieve
the anchor and to start over.
   Before long, he is back in the boat rowing seaward again, to the
north, where perhaps the bottom will offer more to hold the anchor.
   At least the sea is almost flat in the late morning as he rows back
and climbs back aboard. He pauses and takes a deep drink from his water
bottle, sitting on the poop deck, his feet on the ladder to the main deck.
   Once more, he takes the winch and turns-slowly. The cable tightens. He
cranks again. The cable creaks. He edges another quarter turn, and the
Harthagay shivers. Another turn, and another, and the schooner shivers
backward toward the sea.
   When the stem is even with the former shoreline, Dorrin takes another
quick sip from the water bottle before increasing his efforts.
   By midday, the schooner floats free, anchored, but with less than
three cubits of water under her keel.
   Dorrin takes the first rocket and puts it in the circular trough, then
clicks the striker.
   Quickly, but deliberately, he ducks behind the mast of the Harthagay.
   The green flare explodes-as designed-a good hundred cubits above the
sea toward lower Diev.
   Dorrin waits, then takes another signal rocket, and repeats the
process.
   He finishes the water bottle, and eats a wedge of cheese and a half a
loaf of old bread.
   Three gulls wheel about the bare mainmast of the ship, then dive
toward the chop of the sea. Dorrin scans the horizon for Liedral and the
Mocked Hare, but no canvas appears from the south. He turns toward the
north, finally, and there, bearing in on the Harthagay, is the Suthyan
coaster, easily twice the size of the sloop.
   Dorrin waves the green flag and watches until the coaster dips her
flag.
   Then he triggers the striker and touches the fuse. The rocket carries
the line, but veers in front of the coaster, plowing into the water.
   The Mocked Hare trims into the wind, and a seaman with a hooked pole
leans down, jabbing at the line in the water. After three attempts, the
man snags the line.
   Gently, Dorrin pays out the heavier line, and then the cable.
   Once the cable is taut, he uses the axe and cuts the anchorline.
   The Harthagay swings about, and the cable squeaks as it takes the
schooner's full weight. Dorrin wonders if the cable will hold.
   The schooner rolls and turns slowly in an arc after the Mocked Hare.
According to Kusman, skipper of the Hare, all he must do is keep the
rudder straight until they near the breakwater for lower Diev. Dorrin
hopes so.
   When the Mocked Hare sheds sail outside the breakwater, the captain
dips his ensign again. Shortly, a boat and four sailors bounce across the
chop, guided by the cable. The four tie the boat to the Harthagay, and
climb aboard.
   "You're a clever man, master Dorrin. Not a soul thought you'd bring
her off." Kusman checks the ropes from the wheel to the rudder, and
motions another man to take the helm from Dorrin.
   Dorrin flushes. "I almost didn't, and may not yet. She's taking a
little water." He releases the wheel.
   "Light! If it's only a little, you're doing a demon-damned sight
better than Jarlsin did. Say his crew pumped half the day." Kusman
studies the harbor. "Have to winch her in, but that's no problem." Then
he grins. "That's where your problems begin. Owning a ship is nothing but
headaches."
 
 
CXXXII
 
MERIWHEN'S HOOFS CRUNCH through the ice-crusted snow that covers the
stone pavement. Dorrin glances at the thin plume of smoke rising from the
Red Lion. All the windows, save the one closest the front door, are
shuttered. The Red Lion is open, unlike the Tankard, which once hosted
the troopers, until the previous summer, when all squads were rushed
southward to protect the river road against the Certan incursions.
   The cold damp wind from the Northern Ocean rattles ' shuttered windows
of the Red Lion, and Dorrin fumbles the button of his jacket closed.
   Wheeennn .. . Even the heavy-coated mare protests.
   "Easy, girl." Dorrin pats her neck as they turn down toward the
shipwright's. He touches the black staff he feels he must now carry
everywhere, then looks down the near-deserted street.
   A man in a heavy herder's jacket is pounding the knocker of a doorway,
and two young men, their breath like steam, are wrestling a barrel out of
the cooper's shop. Nothing else moves except the overhead clouds. Like
the previous winter, only a handful of chimneys show smoke against the
gray sky.
   Dorrin looks north toward the ocean, where the clouds are lower and
blowing southward, promising more snow, more cold. Meriwhen tosses her
head.
   All the piers in the harbor are empty, the warehouses shuttered tight.
   At the shipwright's, where the Harthagay rests on blocks beside the
foot of the western breakwater, Dorrin ties Meriwhen inside the open
shed. There a fishing boat or some craft under construction normally
rests, but the blocks are empty. Then he takes the leather case and walks
toward the building beside the schooner.
   The shipwright opens the door. "Only could be you in this weather."
   Dorrin unfastens his jacket and spreads the drawings he takes from the
leather case across the drafting table, weighting them on the corners
with worn brick fragments.
   He points toward the top drawing, his eyes flicking to Tyrel. "I'd
like a platform, braced like this, right here. Ladders ..."
   The shipwright swings the lantern bracket over the drafting table,
ignoring the faint black smoke and the acrid odor of the not-quite-pure
lamp oil, and studies the drawings. "That platform's heavy. You need
something that strong?"
   "It might have to support a hundred stone of iron."
   "You need something that strong, maybe even a cross-brace set here."
The shipwright looks up. "That'll play demon-light with your aft cargo
hold, and how will you get there?" Tyrel walks over to the fireplace and
eases a small log onto the coals. "Another ass-freezing winter. Like the
frigging wizards ordered it."
   Dorrin looks at the drawing. "What do you suggest?"
   Tyrel recenters the log with a poker. He returns to the drawing,
worrying his lower Up with a pair of buck teeth. "I can move this aft
another couple of cubits ..."
   Dorrin frowns. That will make the angle from the engine to the shaft
even steeper, when he has been trying to minimize the angle, but he will
save some weight by using a shorter shaft. "All right, but that means
these braces for the shaft have to be changed."
   "We can do that." Tyrel gestures toward the door. "What else we going
to do? Once you get her in the water again, you'll need guards."
   "I know."
   "What about sealing this shaft of yours? It's well under water..."
   Dorrin looks over the drawings again, while the lamp sputters for a
moment and releases a thin line of black smoke before settling back into
an even yellow light.
   Outside the long shedlike building, the wind whistles, and light snow
drifts under the eaves and falls toward the timbered floor like white
dust.
 
 
CXXXIII
 
AFTER SPRINKLING DRIED willow bark and astra into the mortar, Dorrin
takes the pestle and begins to grind the mixture into a finer powder.
   Rylla, adding a touch of syrup to crushed brinn, clears her throat.
"You really don't have to be here, you know."
   "I suppose not." He looks to the small south window, one of the few
unshuttered. Outside, granular snow skids across the crusty white
surface. Even though the window is small, Dorrin squints against the
glare.
   "Merga says you're still trying to build an engine for your ship."
   "The engine's mostly built, but I need to finish the boiler and get
the pieces down to the shipyard." He continues to grind, although the
best he will do with the willow bark is to create very small, striplike
pieces.
   "Boilers, engines-they're all magic." Rylla spoons her mixture into a
small cup, then adds steaming cider and stirs. "And your lady?"
   "Things are better . . . but . . ." He shrugs. "I wish there were a
quicker way than just being loving and patient."
   "Did you build that engine in a season, or learn how to?" Rylla's
voice is somewhere between sharp and amused.
   "Of course not. It doesn't make things any easier." He funnels the
mixture into a bag, which he carefully ties and carries into the main
room.
   A stocky woman bundled in faded woolens stands by the armless chair
where a thin and pale youth slumps. Dorrin can feel the boy's fever, and
has already strengthened his system with some slight addition of order.
He hands the bag to the mother. "Add two pinches of this to a cup of
something hot at breakfast and supper. It will help keep the fever down."
   "Thank you, healer. He's better for a time when he sees you, but it
doesn't seem to last."
   "I do what I can."
   She presses a copper upon him. He does not refuse, for he will pass it
to Rylla. Dorrin closes the door behind them and watches as Rylla brings
the small cup to a white-haired woman.
   "You need to drink this, Gerd."
   "It's vile stuff, Rylla. Vile ... smells like the river where the
fisherman leave their offal, maybe worse."
   "I've sweetened it with syrup and cider."
   Gerd lifts the cup and sets it down. "It smells vile."
   "You want to die of the flux, go ahead," Rylla snaps. "I just wish you
hadn't wasted my good herbs."
   "I'll drink it, but I don't have to like it." She lifts the cup and
swallows. "Uuughhhhh ..."
   Dorrin understands. While brinn is effective against the flux, its
bitterness is legend, even buried in sweetened cider.
   "You'll feel better afore long, Gerd." Rylla hands her a tiny folded
square of cloth. "Put this in something hot tonight. Drink it all."
   "Do I have to?"
   "No. You can have your guts run out the jakes on you until you're so
weak you can't walk here."
   "You're a hard healer, Rylla."
   Rylla snorts.
   At last, the thin figure wraps her cloak around her and totters out
into the cold white glare. Rylla closes the door and rums to Dorrin. "You
don't need to be here," she repeats. "Scat! Get on your jacket and be on
your way to that smithy. All you do here is humor an old woman."
   "I need to be here, and it's not humoring you. What I'm doing for
Brede is creating death. This helps a little."
   "That's the way of the world. Fighting death with death." The healer
shakes her head. "But we're done for now, and you best be going."
   "I keep trying to find a better way ..."
   "Aye ... and that's a problem, too."
   Dorrin pulls on his coat and waits.
   "New ways aren't always better."
   "You sound like my father."
   "Ha!" Rylla cackles. "Old ways aren't always better, neither. People
pick a way, be it old or new, and then they want to do it that way. Takes
a strong soul to accept the best of both the old and the new." She
cackles again, then motions toward the door. "Scat. We can't tell if your
engine thing will be good or bad, leastways, not until you finish it, and
you won't be finishing it jawing with an old healer."
   Dorrin is still grinning when he reaches the smithy. Perhaps he can
add Rylla's words to his growing penned thoughts on order and chaos.
 
 
CXXXIV
 
THE SQUARE-BEARDED wizard studies the unfolded parchment on the table.
Beside it lie fragments of blue wax from the seal that had closed it.
   Whistling outside the window, the wind still cannot drown out the
clink of masons' trowels and stones. The candles in the three-branched
candelabra flicker with the gusts that find their way around the
ill-fitting window.
   The White Wizard walks to the cloudy glass of the window Below,
conscripted villagers toil with the stones of the walls slowly dragging
them back into position for the masons. Dart clouds, overhead promise
snow or rain, but neither yet falls.
   Finally, the more slender wizard, hunched in a heavy white wool cloak,
speaks. "What are they offering?"
   "Just about everything to save their necks." Fydel laughs. "They'll
turn over any of the 'unfaithful'; effectively disband the Guards by
reducing them to a handful of squads; open the roads to our traders."
   "Why aren't you taking their offer?" asks Cerryl.
   "You assume too much."
   Cerryl laughs softly. "I'm assuming nothing. You won't take the
Spidlarian Council's offer. I'd just like to know why."
   "Isn't it obvious? Why hand it to Jeslek? He's back in Fair-haven,
enjoying fires, good food, and a few other pleasures." A wide grin
reveals large white teeth. "Who knows? We might get a better offer before
spring."
   "We won't. What you're hoping is that Jeslek will have to face some
mighty Black. But that won't happen. Do you really think that Recluce
will send more warriors or wizards to Spidlar?"
   "No." Fydel smiles. "But there's no reason to make it easy for Jeslek,
is there? No real reason to hand him an easy victory after he's muddled
through a year of doing nothing, is there?"
   "What about the levies? Why kill them off unnecessarily?"
   "You're too soft, Cerryl. What are a few hundred peasants one way or
the other?"
   Cerryl shakes his head, but says nothing.
   The wind whistles, and the sound of stone work echoes through the
window, and the candles flicker in the late afternoon.
 
 
Part IV - ORDER-FORGER
 
 
CXXXV
 
FROM THE ROOM next door, Dorrin hears Liedral's breathing, and he wishes
he were lying with her. While they can now hug each other, or exchange
brief kisses, the internal scars from her torture have only faded, not
disappeared. Outside, the low wail of the wind reminds him that winter is
not yet over, even though the days are getting longer once more.
   Dorrin slowly sets the paper back in the box, and leans back for a
moment in the chair, reflecting on order. His father, his mother,
Lortren-they all equate order with good. Yet Dorrin himself has used
order to create destruction. Is destruction of those who would impose
chaos by force good?
   In an ideal sense, probably not. But pure order almost invariably
loses to pure chaos. Yet even Creslin used order to create destruction to
stop the Whites.
   Is it wrong to use ordered metal to destroy or stop the spread of
chaos? He frowns. If all destruction is evil, then, could not those who
oppose order claim that the use of force to oppose chaos is also evil?
   If use of destruction is good for some purposes, then cannot any means
be justified by a good enough end? He shakes his head. Logic will not
solve his problems there, for he can certainly think up good excuses for
anything.
   Still, his father has said that there is always an order-based way to
solve a problem. He smiles grimly. Supposedly, the White Wizards can
enchant someone's eyes so they see what is not there. In some way, that
is what they did to Liedral-made her see false images of him.
   Conversely, could he not use order to show true images? But what good
would that do? Yet... he cannot tell a lie, but as a child-and even as an
adult-it has not been as uncomfortable to tell part of the truth.
   He looks at the lamp, then at the small mirror on the chest. He stands
and places the lamp before the mirror, then stands behind the lamp. If
the lamp were not there, the mirror would only show him-and that would be
part of the truth.
   He concentrates on somehow letting the image of himself flow around
the lamp, as if it were not there. For an instant the room is plunged
into darkness-so dark that he cannot see, and he can always see in the
dark. He can sense where things are, but not see. Between surprise and
speculation, he loses his concentration, and the room fills with soft
lamplight again.
   He laughs softly. Of course, if the lamp were not there, neither would
the light to see by be, and the room would be dark. But since the lamp
did not move, did he merely imagine the darkness? Or did he somehow
remove the. image of the lamp and its light?
   His forehead is damp, and he has a slight headache. With a deep breath
he finishes putting away his scribblings.
   Outside, the wind still moans. Next door, Liedral turns uneasily in
sleep, and somewhere in Kleth, Kadara and Brede prepare for the spring
invasion of the Whites. Dorrin turns back the quilt on the narrow bed
that has replaced his pallet-once he realizes that Liedral's recovery
will be slow. Then he blows out the lamp.
 
 
CXXXVI
 
"FORCE LEADER BREDE, is it not true that, unless the Certan and Gallosian
forces are stopped before Kleth, they will take over all of Spidlar?"
   Brede looks across the table at the white-haired man in the royal-blue
velvet. "Yes, Councilman. They intend to take all of Spidlar."
   "Do they not intend to destroy all traders in Spidlar?"
   "I cannot read their minds, ser."
   "Let me put it another way, Force Leader. So far, have they allowed
any traders or anyone else who opposes chaos to live?"
   "Not within Spidlar."
   The Councilman spreads his velvet-covered arms. "Then we must stop
them before they advance farther."
   The two other members of the Council, one on each side of the
Councilman, each also in the blue velvet, nod.
   Brede inclines his head respectfully to the Council. "What do you
suggest? And how would you recommend we accomplish this effort? You have
managed to gather perhaps three hundred half-trained cavalry and two
thousand levy troops. The Whites have twice that many garrisoned in
Elparta, and have posted levies for the spring for another five thousand.
They also have a company of White Wizards who throw thunderbolts."
   "We leave the details of such to you, Force Leader. But you must stop
them before Kleth."
   "Might I ask if you have tried to negotiate with them?" Brede asks.
The Council room is suddenly hot and stuffy.
   "We have sent intermediaries," concedes the Councilman.
   "And?"
   "It was suggested that until either victory or stalemate developed,
negotiations would be premature."
   "Then, could I presume that you are ordering an all-out effort to hold
Kleth, regardless of cost or losses?"
   "We leave the military details to you, Force Leader. But if Kleth
falls ..." The Councilman shrugs. His cold eyes center on Brede.
 
 
CXXXVII
 
"THEY'VE BUILT SOME fortifications around the southern side." Dorrin
leans in the saddle toward Liedral. In the rear of her cart are eight
sets of slicers adapted for use on the river. His other works of
destruction are still in progress, but the spring melt has come sooner
this year, and Brede will need the river slicers soon, once the runoff
dies down.
   "Will that do any good, really?" Liedral fingers her bow.
   "Against a White Wizard who can raise mountains and topple walls?"
Dorrin's laugh is hard. "Not if they get close to the city."
   The day is bright, even with the white puffy clouds that dot the sky,
and the wind blows warm out of the south. The road mud is only damp,
rather than ankle-deep. The road itself is empty, save for Dorrin and
Liedral, and flattened, bearing the imprint of many feet, all headed from
Kleth.
   Four soldiers stand by a rough hut meant to guard the western approach.
   "Where you bound?" asks the stocky man in an ill-fitting breastplate.
   Dorrin studies the ironwork for an instant, dismissing it. "I have
some equipment ordered by Brede. We're delivering it to him."
   "Aye, and you've also got fine wines for us all, no doubt," cracks a
soldier with a goatee.
   Dorrin rests his hand on the dark staff. "I don't think he would be
too happy if he didn't get what he ordered."
   "Sure, and you've traveled this road from far Diev just to deliver a
small cart?"
   The staff is in Dorrin's hands, and then at the guard's throat, almost
like black lightning. "My name is Dorrin. I am Brede's smith, and you
will let us pass. If you wish, you may escort us to him."
   "Dorrin ... oh ... shit..." mumbles the man in the rear.
   "This here's the Black smith ..." The front guard swallows. "Ah . . .
Fredo will escort you, master smith."
   "Thanks for nothing ..."
   Dorrin leaves the staff ready until the cart is rolling toward Kleth.
   "The red-headed cat told Ralth you might be a-coming, but he never
believed her," Fredo chatters. "But I told him that mighty as the great
Brede is, he can't be doing it all without some help . . . and terrible
as Kadara of the blades is, she's not enough, either..."
   Liedral rolls her eyes and looks at Dorrin. "They say that the High
Wizard of all of the Whites is leading the hordes.'Must want to trample
us poor folks pretty bad, but I don't see as why. After all, Spidlar's a
pretty thin country, leastwise compared to Certis or Gallos, and all we
have are animals and traders. Course sometimes it's hard to tell which is
which"-Fredo laughs, and continues-"but our traders, leastwise, leave us
be and mostly don't raise levies or try to fatten their purses through
taxes ..."
   More than half the houses in Kleth are deserted, some obviously so,
with shutters fastened tight and planks covering unshuttered windows.
Others are just empty, and a few have gaping doors and emptied interiors.
   On the main road, a single store is open, more of a food stall than a
market, and around it gather a handful of levies and blue-liveried
cavalry. A handful look at the cart, watching as Dorrin and Liedral pass.
After another three kays, they reach the houses on the southern side of
Kleth that serve as barracks and headquarters.
   "There be the headquarters place, where all the squad and section
leaders meet." Fredo gestures toward a larger house, with a split-slate
roof and moss-tinged brick walls.
   The smell of the stables wafts over them from the building behind the
headquarters house, and Dorrin coughs. Idly, he wonders what that much
manure would do for his herb gardens in the clayey soil of Diev. Liedral
halts the cart in front of the doorway with a blue-coated sentry. After
dismounting, Dorrin hands Meriwhen's reins to the trader and steps up to
the blue-coated sentry. "My name is Dorrin. If you would convey to Brede
that-"
   "I'll be telling him immediately, master Dorrin. If you would just
wait here."
   Fredo shakes his head. "If Ralth could see this ... the headquarters
guards treating the smith like a Guildmaster or a Councillor ..."
   "He is a Guildmaster," Liedral whispers. "Everyone in Diev bows to
him, and he hates it."
   "He hates it? A Guildmaster who dislikes respect, but o'course it
wouldn't be respect, would it, him being so young? It'd be fear, and no
man with any self-respect wants to be feared, less he's a bully, and your
smith seems like a decent enough sort."
   "He's more than decent. This sort of work is hard on him." She stops
as Dorrin returns and takes the mare's reins, absently patting her on the
neck.
   A squad leader Dorrin has not met follows the sentry out, and Brede
follows the squad leader. "Dorrin!"
   "Brede. I have some of what I promised." Dorrin gestures to the cart.
   "Cirras will show you to the armory, where you can unload. Then he'll
help you stable your horses, and we'll talk."
   "Kadara?" asks Liedral.
   "She's on patrol." Brede looks back to the building. "I'll see you in
just a bit."
   "That would be fine." Dorrin senses the many demands on Brede's time.
   "If you would follow me," begins Cirras.
   The armory is a barn behind the headquarters. Dorrin studies the forge
and the slack tanks, including one containing an oily solution. The anvil
has a larger horn than his and a wider variety of stakes for the hardie
hole.
   In addition to the armorer, there appear to be two strikers, and
several boys. One is bringing in charcoal, another handling the bellows,
and another one powdering some sort of ashes, presumably for a flux
paste. The armorer sets aside the hammer and lifts the iron that will be
a helmet off the stake form, placing it on the fire bricks, before he
steps to the doorway.
   "There are some weapons that go in the locked room," Cirras tells the
lanky armorer. "Made by master Dorrin for Force Leader Brede."
   Dorrin dismounts, but does not move to enter the armory.
   The armorer nods to Cirras and steps around him. "Master Dorrin, I'm
Welka, the Guard armorer here."
   "I'm glad to meet you."
   "I wanted to meet you ... especially after I saw the stocks of those .
. . devices ..."
   Dorrin looks down for a moment, then back up. "I'm not . . . not
totally pleased about making weapons, you know?"
   The armorer smiles wryly. "I can sense that. It's good for us that
you're not. That shield you made Brede? What was it?"
   "Black iron."
   "I thought as much. Too bad. That's not something that can be taught,
is it?"
   "Not unless you can handle order."
   As they talk, Cirras and two armorer's aides unload the eight
canvas-wrapped packages and carry them through the iron- bound door into
a back room whose mismatched timbers reflect hasty construction.
   "Well . . . you do good work, master Dorrin. Right now, I wish you
could handle edged weapons, but I've only met a couple of order smiths,
and they couldn't either. You seem somewhat .. . more . . . adaptable ..."
   "Much more adaptability may be my undoing," Dorrin blurts.
   "I won't ask what's in the canvas."
   "It's probably better that way." Dorrin looks at Liedral and the empty
cart. "I guess."
   "Why are you doing this?" asks Welka. "If I might presume?"
   "I owe Brede and Kadara... and I owe Spidlar for accepting me, and I
feel bound to oppose chaos."
   "You take your debts seriously."
   "Very seriously," adds Liedral quietly.
   Welka nods to Dorrin. "Good to meet you, master Dorrin." He steps back
toward the forge and the half-turned helmet.
   "Darkness ..." mumbles Fredo. "Special he is, your master Dorrin, when
the master armorer pays his respects."
   "The stable is this way," suggests Cirras.
   After unsaddling Meriwhen and unharnessing the cart horse, and sending
Fredo back to his duties, the three walk across the packed clay of the
yard to the building where they had met Brede. Cirras takes them past the
sentry, and into a small anteroom with chairs.
   "I'll tell Force Leader Brede you're here."
   After the young officer leaves, Liedral grins at Dorrin from her
armless wooden chair. "You. are very important, master smith Dorrin."
   "I'm not that much of a master smith, just one who can twist Ms soul
farther than most." The chair creaks as Dorrin shifts his weight and
looks toward the closed door.
   "You really dislike building weapons, don't you?"
   "Yes. But I don't see any alternatives now. Force is all that seems to
hold chaos at bay. I don't like that."
   Outside, the hoofs of another squad of cavalry echo against the closed
window, as the troopers head out toward the field.
   "Force or violence?" asks Liedral.
   Dorrin smiles. "You're right. Force doesn't seem to be enough. It's
the violence I don't like."
   "The world is filled with violence."
   "Recluce isn't."
   "Do you think they sent you away to find that out?"
   "It could be," Dorrin says slowly, "but I think it was more because of
my fixation on building machines."
   The door opens with a low creak, and Brede stands there. "I'm sorry it
took so long." He brushes the blond hair off his forehead and gestures
toward the room behind him. It contains little more than a round table, a
half dozen chairs, and an open cabinet with shelves stacked with various
maps.
   Brede waits until Dorrin and Liedral seat themselves. "What did you
create this time?"
   "A variation on the cheese cutters. These are designed to use on the
river. I did eight sets, but the way the spring arrived, I decided I
didn't have time for any more."
   "The runoff is already dropping to normal flow." Brede rubs his
forehead. Finally, he looks at Dorrin. "I need your help."
   "How?"
   "I want you to go with Kadara and set up your devices. I'm trying to
organize things here."
   "Things are that bad?" interrupts Liedral.
   "Yes. The Council has told me to defend Kleth at all costs There are
no alternatives."
   "That's so they can buy their way out if you can't stop the Whites,"
Liedral says. "Dorrin's not exactly a warrior."
   "I know. Kadara can take care of that-"
   "But you want me to see the Whites, and you think that might be able
to figure out something else if I see them in action. Is that it?"
   "Yes." Brede's eyes meet Dorrin's.
   Dorrin looks at the scratched wood of the table, then at Brede. "AH
right. I don't see that I can do less, but I need to gel back to the
engine."
   "I'm just asking you to set them up the first time."
   "I understand." What Dorrin also understands is that he is on the way
to being at least a part-time combat engineer, an occupation not exactly
suited to someone who tends to get blinding and incapacitating headaches
in the commission of violence.
 
 
CXXXVIII
 
DORRIN'S BOOTS SKID as he steps onto the slippery ice in the shade of a
boulder. "Darkness ..." He catches himself on the rock, thankful for his
gloves. A long scratch in the leather hints at what could have happened
to his hand. To his left the river swirls, strongly, but without the
turbulence of eight-days earlier, the major runoff time past.
   Upstream, Dorrin knows, float the flatboats and barges of the Certan
and Kyphran levies. The Gallosians will be plodding northward along the
road.
   Dorrin calculates, then waves to the figures across the narrow section
of the river. Here the river is as narrow as it gets, a little more than
three rods of smooth-flowing water.
   "Is this about right?" asks Kadara. An archer stands by her elbow.
   "If we put the first set up there"-Dorrin points upriver to a larger
boulder-"and these here, and the third set down there ... there's a
chance, at least. I'll set them at different heights."
   The archer lifts her bow and releases the shaft that carries the light
line across the river.
   Dorrin carefully scrambles upriver to the boulder he pointed out.
There he takes the midweight sledge from the makeshift belt sheath and
the first of the black-iron stocks from his pack.
   In time, the first stock stands firm, invisible black wires running a
cubit or so above the water to another stock on the eastern side of the
river.
   They repeat the process twice more before a rider trots up. "The
barges are coming, squad leader."
   "Take cover!" Kadara snaps. She gestures to the depression behind a
stump. Dorrin eases into the space.
   "Are you sure you want to stay?" she asks.
   "No. But unless I get a better idea of how you fight, how can I design
things?" He wishes he were not there. He is not a fighter, not a hero,
and not even the staff behind him offers much comfort. His head begins to
ache.
   The handful of archers hide in their concealed pits, and the horse
troopers ride downstream.
   "More archers would help ..." he whispers to Kadara. "Do you know how
long- Never mind, we just don't have that many."
   Dorrin understands. After two years, Vaos is barely a striker.
   Then again, Vaos also loves horses.
   The dark water, the empty dark water, flows between the apparently
deserted banks of the river. Because the area is mainly used for grazing,
few trees grace the banks. Dorrin and Kadara wait.
   The river flows.
   Around the gentle curve plows a dark-hulled barge, followed by two
others. On the first barge, bearing the green banners of Certis, are
archers, and perhaps a score of foot levies. The second barge carries
archers and levies under a gold banner, presumably of Kyphros, while the
third bears both banners and levies. There are no white banners.
   Holding his breath, Dorrin waits as the lead barge nears the upstream
wires, wires that should cut like knives.
   Cut they do, as the first three archers are swept, bloody and
screaming, into the dark water, but their weight momentarily drags the
low wires down, where they catch on the barge's hull. With the screaming,
the Spidlarian archers rise from their pits and loose a volley at the
barge. Archers from the second barge lift their bows.
   Dorrin winces, ducking behind the stump, realizing that nothing is
going quite as planned. Kadara releases one arrow, then another. Bodies
fall from the lead barge, almost in slow, slow motion, as the barge
struggles against the order-reinforced wires.
   Sensing the fraying of the wire beyond the power of order to hold,
Dorrin shouts, "Down!"
   Kadara remains upright, nocking yet another arrow and aim-ing toward
the barges. Beside her, Vorban also releases his arrows.
   Dorrin stands, and lunges, knocking the redhead to the muddy ground.
   "Bastard! You-"
   "Stay down!" snaps the smith, as he rolls and yanks Vorban's feet from
beneath him. "Stay down!" The wiry man scrambles away from Dorrin.
   Thwannnnngggg...
   Like the invisible knives they are, the three wires part nearly
simultaneously, and like giant iron whips, slice through water and back
toward the second barge, which has nearly caught up to the slowed first
barge. The black iron knives lash four archers into the water, then
continue in their backlash.
   "Aeeeeiiii..."
   As the recoil from the black iron wire slices Vorban into two
asymmetrical sections, flames burn through Dorrin's skull, and he sinks
to the ground, arrows of pain slamming through his eyes. He shudders as
silently as possible as his mind and skull are slashed by the unseen
white whip.
   When he finally straightens, Kadara has fired several more arrows into
the barges. Levies dive from the first barge as it passes under the
higher second set of wires, and three standing officers are sliced apart.
   The rudderman of the third barge, seeing the disaster ahead, has
managed to ground his vessel on the eastern side of the river, upriver
and across the water from the bulk of Kadara's squad.
   The archers on the second barge flatten themselves on the deck, as do
some of the levies. The second wires slice through those who do not.
Another handful of arrows rains on those lying prostrate.
   The first barge runs under the last wires, which clear the decks and
then catch on the tiller post raised by the rudderman.
   "Down!" snaps Dorrin, although he must force the words past the heavy
hammering within his brain.
   "Down! Now!" screams Kadara as she flattens herself.
   The arrows from the Spidlarians cease as the third wires part
explosively, gutting first the rudderman who caught them with the braced
and raised tillerpost, and sweeping back across the second barge.
   The tillerman on the second barge ducks, but some of the incautious
levies who thought the first wires were the only wires are slashed by the
recoiling wire whip.
   After the wires pass, the tillerman on the second barge manages to
swing the heavy craft shoreward, this time toward the western shore,
where it grinds to a halt, less than a handful of rods from Kadara's
squad.
   Of the nearly two score men originally upon the barge, less than ten
stagger shoreward. None make it more than a dozen steps from the barge.
   The empty first barge wanders downstream, grinding over sand and
gravel, but not quite catching.
   The levies from the third barge, however, remain untouched, and form
up on the far side of the river, using the barge as partial cover.
   Dorrin looks at the bodies, and parts of bodies, bobbing in the water.
He swallows hard, and puts his fingers across his forehead, trying to rub
the pain away.
   "Let's go!" Kadara stoops to recover Vorban's sword, belt, and purse,
then continues downstream, exhorting her squad They carry four bodies,
including Vorban's, downstream and out to the dusty trail flanking the
river. The main stone-paved highway runs a kay east of the river.
   Dorrin follows, trying to stand up against the pain behind his eyes.
Kadara has eight troopers from the dozen who had waited He clears his
throat and spits the bile onto the riverbank.
   "No way to get to them and really not much in the way of arrows left,"
Kadara explains. "We'll regroup farther downstream."
   A trooper looks wide-eyed at Dorrin, then back at the carnage in and
out of the water. He looks at the black staff and the heavy sledge and
slowly shakes his head.
   Dorrin wishes he could shake his head, but with the pain of the
trip-hammers behind his eyes, he is having trouble walking, let alone
thinking. As they walk northward, Dorrin can hear hoofbeats as horses are
brought to them.
   With the mounts comes Brede. He looks down at Dorrin and the brownish
specks on his boots.
   Dorrin mounts Meriwhen. "The river slicers worked this time. They
probably won't again."
   "Why not?"
   "All they have to do is put an iron post out front to catch the wires,
and have everyone lie flat. A few will still get killed, but nothing like
this." Dorrin spits out the residue in his mouth onto the road.
   Brede raises his eyebrows and turns to Kadara.
   "We wiped out the first two. The third grounded on the far shore and
saved the levies. We didn't have any more arrows and were outnumbered
about five or six to one. Where they" grounded we couldn't get to them.
We lost four-Vorban was one of them-to Dorrin's gadget when the wires
snapped. He warned us, but Vorban didn't listen."
   "He never did." Brede turns his mount back in the direction of Kleth.
"We'll try your gadgets again, as soon as possible. There's a chance they
won't rerig the barges immediately." He urges his horse toward the main
body.
   "Is it always like this?" Dorrin asks Kadara, as she waits for the
bodies to be tied to the dead troopers' horses.
   "Hardly." Kadara's laugh is harsh. "This was a victory, if you can
call it that. Sometimes we lose, especially if they have White Wizards
with them. They don't like the water much."
   Dorrin ponders, still rubbing his forehead. He and Kadara have wiped
out nearly four score of the enemy, with a handful of losses. "Why can't
we get those other levies?"
   "We would, if they were on this side of the river. We didn't leave
anyone on that side. Too much danger of getting trapped between the road
and the river with all their levies."
   Dorrin does not understand.
   "Look, Dorrin. To wipe out the three score levies left there would
take every archer we've got on this side of the river, and Brede can't
afford to get them this far away from our main body. He's been hoping to
make it so costly that they'll get tired."
   "They won't," Dorrin says.
   "No. I know they won't. So does Brede. But the more we can wound or
kill without heavy losses on our part before we have to fight a real
battle, the better our chances."
   "We need to set the wires up and find the next place, but this time,
let's try it just before the narrow point." Dorrin looks at the
canvas-wrapped bundles behind him.
   "You think they'll be expecting it the same way as before?"
   "I hope so."
   "So do I."
   As they ride downstream, Dorrin does not look toward the river and
what may float in it, concentrating on what he must do to assemble and
test his steam engine, and knowing he is a coward to think about a way of
escape.
 
 
CXXXIX
 
DORRIN SADDLES MERIWHEN, reflecting on the previous day's efforts on the
river. The second time, the traps were not nearly so effective, and
Kadara's squad lost another five people, killing only a score of Certan
levies. Even after an uneasy night's sleep, he still carries a headache
into the dawn. Even more unfortunately, the whole White force has used
the river to move another five kays closer to Kleth.
   Liedral waits with her cart outside the stable when Dorrin leads
Meriwhen into the spring drizzle. The quiver is propped beside her, and
her bow is strung, but both are covered with oilcloth against the rain.
He walks the mare up beside the wagon where Liedral stands and gives her
a quick hug.
   "Brede wants you to stay?" Liedral slips out of his embrace.
   "Probably. But I can't do any more for him here, and I'm trying to
develop some gunpowder bombs that he can use."
   "That's dangerous. What happens if the Whites find out that you're
working on it?" Liedral shudders.
   "That depends. If they're close enough to fire it, I'm dead. But from
what I recall from the old books and what I've figured out, they have to
be almost in sight of you. Theoretically, I suppose, if I could figure
out something that didn't explode until all the parts- Anyway, I can't.
But I've got another idea, and I'll bring it back here for Brede."
   He sniffs. Even in the predawn light, the faint smell of fire
permeates Kleth, carried northward in advance of the Whites and their
horde, although it may be two eight-days or more before they reach the
second river city, since they are systematically destroying all holdings
on each side of the river.
   Slowly, Dorrin swings into the saddle, wishing he could do more, and
simultaneously wishing he didn't have to worry about the conflict between
Fairhaven and Spidlar. Liedral flicks the reins and leads the way past
the armory and toward the street that will lead to the west road to Diev.
   "There he goes, the demon smith ... swear it's him, the one who turned
the river into a slaughterhouse..." The words echo across the predawn
light.
   "Wizards always hurry out..." Metal clinks dully against metal.
   "From what I heard, that one will probably come back with more
troubles, just like a tin copper..."
   "Syriol says he's killed a score of men with that staff..."
   "Who's the other one?"
   "Some trader . . . Some say he saved him from the wizards ... others
say the trader fled Jellico ..."
   "... think the wizard likes men ..."
   "Let him like what he wants ... just leave us alone ..."
   Liedral's countenance is impassive, and Dorrin lets the words drift by
in the chill air. Before long they have passed onto the churned and
packed mud of the road that will lead them home-if any place can be
considered home in the face of the White assault.
   They see no one during the first twenty kays, just footprints, hoof
prints, and an occasional wagon track, but the wagon tracks were laid
down earlier and have been overlaid with later imprints.
   When they stop by a creek crossed by a narrow stone bridge, Dorrin
leads Meriwhen down to the water, but is careful not to let her drink too
heavily at first. He fills a bucket from the cart and brings it back to
the road.
   "Thank you," says Liedral. She holds the cart horse's reins to ensure
that the gelding does not try to drink all the cold water instantly. "Are
we trying to ride straight through?"
   "Maybe not straight through, but only short breaks. This road is going
to get more and more dangerous."
   "And you plan to come back?"
   "Brede and Kadara need me."
   "What about us? What about your engine?"
   Dorrin takes a deep breath. "I still don't have the engine quite
completed, and we need to get the parts to the ship."
   "Are you going to rename it? Harthagay doesn't seem exactly ... I
don't know ... it doesn't sound like you."
   "Probably. I don't know what, yet. Until the engine's in place, all we
have is a hull." He leads Meriwhen back down to the creek for more water.
   Liedral watches, checking the road ahead-still empty. She opens the
pack and removes the cheese, and the cheese slicer. When Dorrin returns,
she offers him several slices and a chunk of bread. They eat silently.
   Finally, Dorrin asks. "Are you ready?"
   She nods.
   Late afternoon comes before they find other travelers.
   Through the drizzle that is beginning to fall, a group of figures
struggles through the mud that covers the road. A half-dozen adults and
nearly as many children slog through the dark mud. The children slip
often on the downhill slope. Liedral drives the cart as much on the
shoulder as on the road as they near the group.
   As Dorrin watches, two of the men slip to the side of the road and let
the others plod onward.
   "You see that?" Liedral asks.
   "Yes. Just keep driving. I'm going to try something." Dorrin
concentrates, slowly wraps the light around him, easing Meriwhen closer
to the cart.
   The short and stocky man bears a curved blade that has no sheath,
while the tall man brandishes a cudgel.
   As he lifts the cudgel, the tall man steps forward, within three paces
of the slowly moving cart. "We'd have that cart. We need it far more than
ye."
   "That may be," Liedral says coolly, "but it's not yours." She has the
bow in her hands, and the arrow ready.
   "You use that bow, pretty boy, and the rest will pull you down,"
blusters the tall man.
   "Now ... be a good boy-"
   Dorrin eases Meriwhen closer, then drops his concealment and strikes.
   Crack . . . The cudgel drops into the mud from the force of the staff.
The tall man holds a dangling wrist with his other hand. His eyes gape as
he sees the dark figure on horseback. "Darkness ..."
   "You could call it that," Dorrin snaps, reeling in his saddle, eyes
burning and head aching.
   The short man steps forward, and Dorrin forces back the burning in his
eyes as he parries the awkwardly swinging blade, then thrusts to disarm
the second traveler.
   Neither Liedral nor Dorrin has to do more, as the entire group of
refugees scrambles out of the road. Dorrin rubs his forehead, trying to
massage away the results of his violence with the staff.
   "Where did you learn that trick?"
   "I've been practicing. It's hard, though. I can't see. So I sort of
have to feel where I am, and I'm not all that good at it." He continues
to watch the refugees, but none of them even look at the cart and
horseman. A woman in gray tatters tries to bind the broken wrist of the
tall man.
   Dorrin's head continues to pound-but what else could he have done?
Force-always force. Is force the only thing anyone in Candar respects?
   Wheee . . . eeeee. . .
   Dorrin pats Meriwhen on the neck. "Easy, girl."
   "How much longer?"
   Dorrin tries to calculate, despite the headache. "Too long."
   "How long is too long?" Liedral asks dryly. "That doesn't say much."
   "You've traveled this road more than I have. How long do you think?"
   "With this mud . . . we'll be lucky if we can make it in another day."
   "That's too long," Dorrin says.
   "I think you're right."
   Neither looks back as they plod through the drizzle and the mud.
 
 
CXL
 
DORRIN STRUGGLES OUT to Yard's wagon with another section of black iron,
easing it onto the bed. The wagon creaks under the weight.
   Vaos stands in the mud by the wagon, wiping his forehead in the still
air. "Need any more, master Dorrin?"
   "That's all for this trip. Should only take one more." Dorrin glances
toward the north. So far the spring sky is clear. His eyes shift to the
herb garden he has not touched. There is only so much he can do, and, if
by some miracle Brede should halt the White hordes, they have more than
enough herbs for the year. Besides, the perennials will continue without
his help.
   Frisa stands on the porch, scratching between Gilda's ears. The goat
is chained to the corner post. "Can I ride with you, master Dorrin?"
   "Not this time, Frisa." Dorrin closes the tailgate and climbs onto the
wagon seat.
   "You come inside and get your jacket, you imp," calls Merga from the
kitchen.
   Dorrin grins and flicks the reins. Slowly, slowly, the wagon groans
its way out of the yard and downhill toward the stone-paved road. As he
turns onto the road, he must swing wide to avoid a group of men and women
who trudge toward Diev. In the group are three children.
   None even look at the wagon as they put one foot in front of the
other, one in front of the other. Their clothes, well-made, are still
filthy from the mud of the road, and they all, even the children, bear
good-sized packs.
   Dorrin looks back up the Kleth road, squinting, and sending his
perceptions. There are others walking his way. He concentrates on the
road, guiding the wagon down toward lower Diev, even as his thoughts
center on the refugees. If Brede cannot hold Kleth, there will be more,
many more.
   The wagon rumbles past the Red Lion, with its windows unshuttered and
open, and past the Tankard, which is also open and serving.
   Dorrin smiles wryly. For now, the war is providing business for Kyril
and also for the Tankard's owner. For now.
   "A copper, good ser ... a copper, for the sake of the good darkness
..." Beyond the Tankard, a stopped woman with two children at her ankles
cries for his coins. He carries few coins, and he cannot help all those
who beg.
   Only a single small ship-a sloop with tall masts-is berthed at the
piers. Fast and small, clearly a smuggler. A well-made wooden carriage
sits at the foot of the pier. Dorrin turns the wagon toward Tyrel's.
   On the hillside to the west of the shipwright's are several ragged
tents, and a thin and bearded man watches as the wagon rolls into the
yard and up to the blocked Harthagay. Dorrin pulls on the reins, and the
brake, and the wagon creaks to a halt.
   The ship's name will have to change, but names are not his highest
concern right now.
   Liedral waits, her hand on the blade she has begun to carry once more.
Dorrin looks at the staff by his feet.
   "Any problems?" she asks.
   "No. But more refugees are beginning to walk the road from Kleth. Did
you see the smuggler in the harbor?"
   "It's Drein. He'll go anywhere if the coins are high enough."
   "Someone with a carriage was talking passage, I think."
   "There will be more." Liedral looks toward the yard where the
Harthagay still rests on blocks out of the water. "Once she's in the
water, you'll need guards." She gestures toward the hillside. "People are
going to be getting more and more desperate."
   "The way things are going, if Brede can't stop the Whites, we probably
should think about moving everyone down here, and my smithy stuff. At
least within the next eight-day. Do you want to talk to Tyrel about it
while I get the last load? Or should I?"
   Liedral smiles. "I already have. He'd actually feel better if you did.
He's banking on you to get him out of here."
   "I think everyone is."
   "How many can you take?"
   "A score, maybe. I don't know. I haven't finished assembling the
engine. I don't know if it works. I still have to finish Brede's damnable
devices, and now I have to think about moving everything out of the house
and smithy." Dorrin climbs off the wagon and begins to lead the
mismatched team through the gate and up alongside the ship.
   "You don't like what you've done for Brede?"
   "Darkness, no. You know that. Forging things to kill people? Or to
stop them from killing more people? What an awful 'choice." He ties the
horses to the post!
   "That's life." Liedral smiles a tight smile. "I didn't think you cared
much for the Whites."
   "I don't. But so far, I don't think anything I've forged has killed
any Whites-just soldiers, just their tools."
   "We all make a choice of what we serve."
   "And I thought making caltrops was bad." He shudders, then takes a
deep breath and lets down the tailgate. "It doesn't make sense. I still
can't really handle an edged weapon, but I can forge something that's
worse."
   "Could you make another pair of those slicers?"
   Dorrin thinks, then shudders. "It would be hard. I don't know."
   "There's your answer."
   He looks puzzled for a minute. "You mean, in a way, I have to learn
what's destructive?"
   "You have to teach your feelings through experience. Isn't that how we
all learn?"
   Dorrin frowns as he eases the curved iron that will protect the
condenser from the wagon.
   Tyrel and his apprentice step into the sunlight. "Don't work so hard,
master Dorrin. We'll use the hoist and swing this stuff up."
   Dorrin sets down the iron and waits.
   Liedral grins at him. After a moment, he grins back.
 
 
CXLI
 
WITH THE HEAVY tongs, Dorrin turns the plate and nods to Vaos. The
striker brings down the hammer as they begin to fuller the iron into a
sheet not much thicker than three or four sheets of parchment.
   After several reheatings in the forge, the plate reaches the right
thickness. Then Dorrin takes the bench shears and trims it, uses the
flatter to rough-smooth the edges before setting it on the bricks to
anneal. They begin work on the next plate.
   "How many ... of these?" pants Vaos.
   "Thirty-six," Dorrin says.
   "What are they for?"
   "You don't want to know." The smith neither wants to explain, nor to
dwell on the specifics of what they are forging. That he must forge
something so destructive because he can find no other solutions is bad
enough. Equally important, if Vaos does not know what they are forging,
he cannot reveal it.
   Vaos rolls his eyes and lifts the hammer. Dorrin slips the hot iron
onto the anvil and nods.
   By midday, both are soaked with sweat, even though the late spring day
is cool. As he sets aside the tongs, Dorrin looks at the stack of thin
iron plates. Welding and forging them into black iron boxes will be
neither quick nor easy. Should he just punch and rivet the sections
together? Will it make that much difference? Rivets will do. He sets the
tongs in the rack. "Time for something to eat... and drink."
   Vaos slowly racks the sledge, then rubs one shoulder blade and then
the other. "We doing more after dinner?"
   "It's fine work, no more heavy fullering until tomorrow. We still
haven't finished all the plates."
   The two walk out into the breeze, cool despite the bright and
cloudless green-blue sky.
   "Don't forget to wash up," Dorrin says.
   "Yes, ser."
   "Mistress Liedral rode over to see Reisa. That's what she said,"
announces Frisa as Dorrin passes the porch.
   "Did she say what she was doing?" asks the smith.
   "No."
   "Did she take the cart?"
   "She rode like you do. She even had a sword."
   Dorrin pauses. Liedral has always preferred the bow. Sword? Reisa? Is
Reisa doing her best to train Liedral and perhaps Petra?
   He splashes cold water from the new tap across his face. Despite his
precautions, the old tap had frozen and snapped, leaving a large pool of
water in the middle of the yard once the ice thawed. The new tap is no
better than the old, but he did not want to spend the time to design and
forge something better- not while he is trying to split his time between
the smithy, where he must spend some time on paying work, such as it is,
and on Brede's infernal devices, and trie shipyard, where he is trying to
assemble his engine. He is already paying two men whom Pergun and Asavah
recommended to help Tyrel guard the shipwright's yard.
   "Oooffff ..." Dorrin wobbles from his squatting position, almost
sprawling onto the damp stones around the water tap. He turns and looks
at the small white goat. The chain is just long enough to reach from the
bottom post of the porch stairs to the water tap.
   The smith sighs, then scratches Gilda between the ears. "Goats . . .
there's always some goat around." He stands up and dries his hands,
moving aside to let Vaos use the water.
   Then he walks across the ridge to the herb garden. His boots still
sink into the soft soil. Despite his resolve not to plant or tend,
already the brinn is flourishing, blue-green shoots branching out, and so
is the astra.
   The soft cool wind ruffles his hair, and he stoops. His fingers brush
the herbs, infusing a touch more order into the weaker ones. He smiles as
he straightens and heads back to his house for supper.
   And after the midday meal . . . after that, he must ride to Tyrel's to
finish installing the steam engine on the newly renamed Black Diamond.
The engine will work, of that he is convinced, but how well it will work
is another question. Are the tolerances in the twin cylinders good
enough? Are the rods strong enough?
   He pushes away the questions he cannot answer until he begins to test
the engine, stops by the water tap and scratches Gilda once more before
he climbs the steps to the kitchen.
   Over the Northern Ocean, the clouds gather.
 
 
CXLII
 
"THE TRADERS HAVE told their field commander, the young one from Recluce,
to hold Kleth," Jeslek announces quietly. The tent billows overhead.
   Fydel nods. Anya smiles brightly, and Cerryl smiles politely, with a
deferential nod to the High Wizard.
   "Where is Sterol?" asks Anya.
   "In Fairhaven, I presume, which is fine with me. We really don't need
another set of schemers." The High Wizard pauses. "Your refusal of terms
from the Council was brilliant, Fydel, even if you didn't mean it that
way."
   "I'm so glad you found it so." Fydel smiles.
   "It forced them to decide on an early defense, in order to plan their
escape if it failed. Traders would always rather run than fight. This
Brede of theirs is better than they deserve, young as he is, and they'll
squander his talent-and him. It's a pity."
   "You intend to spare him?" asks Anya, her tone almost idle.
   "Demon-light, no. After what he's done to the levies . . .
politically, that's not wise."
   "What about your elusive smith? Hasn't he cost you even more than
their commander?" Anya adds, "Drawing wire . . . much good it will do ..."
   "It cost us less than four score levies to get through his river
traps, and we control the river all the way to Kleth. Brede is more
dangerous."
   "He's only a soldier, no matter how good," reflects Cerryl. "Your
smith may have more tricks planned."
   "Perhaps . . . but they will not save Spidlar." Jeslek smiles again.
 
 
CXLIII
 
DORRIN STEPS ACROSS the plank to the Black Diamond. On the hillside above
the shipwright's, a half-dozen makeshift tents now flutter in the breeze.
The smith surveys them before turning aft and descending the ladder to
the engine. On each side of the compartment are coal bins, each with a
chute that opens by the firebox door.
   Tyrel stands by the engine. "Will it work?"
   "I hope it works well enough." Dorrin bends and runs his fingers
across the beams that support the engine platform. Then he opens the
small hatch that provides access to the shaft. The water level in the
bilges has not increased. The greased seals are holding, but will they
hold when the shaft is rotating? He hopes so, but there are so many
things he has not tested on other than models.
   He closes the hatch and returns to the engine. There he lights the
shavings, then slowly adds a shovel of the finer coal. After pacing until
the fire catches, he adds another shovel of coal. He lets his senses
check the heat in the water-filled cylinders through the top of the
cylindrical firebox, trying to sense whether the tubes remain watertight.
So far, so good.
   "What now?" asks Tyrel.
   "More coal, and more steam."
   Dorrin waits for a time, then adds more coal. After that he steps back
to the big clutch, making sure that the screw shaft is not engaged.
   Fwwuuuphhh... fwuppp. .. The engine begins to turn over.
   Dorrin studies the black iron rods as they work, then checks the steam
spill valve, opening it to watch the white vapor stream into the sky.
Next comes the condenser. Already, it seems too hot. How hot is too hot?
Then he checks the piping and twists a valve. How many other problems
will he find? The condenser cools immediately, and he moves along to the
side of the forward cylinder, listening closely for hisses or gurgles or
anything unusual.
   Fwwwuuuppphhh . . . fwupp . . . fwuppp . . . The engine and the
flywheel pick up more speed, settling into a smooth rhythm.
   Tyrel looks at the swiftly stroking rods, the planetary gear, and the
flywheel. He is white. "Darkness ..."
   "You're right," Dorrin says calmly. "It's based on order." He opens
the firebox door to shovel in more coal. Checking the condenser, he finds
a trickle of water oozing from the bottom. More leakage.
   "You're grinning, young fellow!" bellows Tyrel above the engine noise.
   Dorrin is grinning, despite the leaking condenser. He climbs up to the
deck and studies the harbor. Another smuggler is tied up at the far
pier-a black-hulled bark. Two armed guards stand at the base of the
gangway, and several wagons are lined up on the pier.
   After checking the hawsers, Dorrin climbs back down to the engine
room, where he shovels more coal into the firebox. Then he closes the
iron door and steps to the side, where he eases the clutch into position.
   Clunk...
   He winces at the force on the gears, black iron or not, as the shaft
begins to rotate. A rough humming rises, vibrating the deck underfoot.
   Dorrin opens the hatch behind the engine to check the shaft. Grease
oozes from both the support collar and the hull seals. The vibration
increases as the engine builds up power, then seems to level off. Dorrin
sends his perceptions along the shaft, trying to sense any roughness.
Although he is uncertain, he feels the shaft collar needs to be raised.
He darts back to the deck and scurries aft to check the screw, and the
water boiling up past the rudder. The lines tighten, and the Black
Diamond strains at the hawsers that hold her to the flimsy pier.
   Creaakkkkk . . . creeakkkk . . .
   "Master Dorrin! She'll pull loose the wharf! Do something!"
   Dorrin hurries back to the engine, forcing himself to go down the
ladder deliberately. The heat in the engine space is nearly overpowering,
and his clothes are drenched. When he reaches the clutch lever, he pulls
on it. The lever does not move, even as the power to the screw continues.
Dorrin again jockeys the clutch to release the gears, but the mechanism
seems frozen.
   "Master Dorrin! Do something!"
   Dorrin walks to the side of the engine, yanking the steam release wide
open.
   WHHHHHEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeee ... The scream of escaping steam roaring up
the tube into the atmosphere is deafening, and Dorrin wants to plug his
ears. Instead, he twists another valve to reduce the water flow to the
firebox. Immediately, he can sense the temperature of the tubes rising,
and he reopens the water flow valve.
   Clearly, he needs some sort of emergency bypass-or a better clutch-or
both. He tries to move the clutch again, but it remains locked.
   Still, the loss of the screaming steam reduces the power and the
engine and screw slow. But it is a long time-nearly twilight-before the
screw comes to an absolute stop, even though the immediate loss of power
is enough to keep from threatening the wharf.
   As they wait for the firebox to cool, Tyrel looks across at Dorrin.
"You really got something here, young fellow."
   "I hope so." Dorrin wipes his forehead. He remains hot and sweaty,
despite the bucket of water brought on board by one of Tyrel's
apprentices. He takes another dipper full, then splashes some across his
forehead.
   "Never would have believed it, excepting that everyone says you do
good work." Tyrel coughs. "Told my boys that if they said a word to
anyone I'd flog 'em, unless you turned 'em into toads first."
   "You're making me into a monster."
   "Better a live monster than having every tradesman in Diev down here
the day the Whites march up the Kleth road."
   "You think it's going to be that bad?"
   "Worse," grumps the shipwright. "Most every merchant in Diev moved
their hulls out of here early last winter-right after Elparta fell. Lot
of 'em kicked themselves for letting you have the Harthagay-the Diamond,
I mean. But they figured no one else could get her off the sand."
   "It wasn't that hard. I read about the way it could be done when I was
a boy. The Bristans do it a lot."
   "How many people read? Reading's an order-based study, isn't it?"
   Dorrin has never thought about that, but reading is the use of ordered
symbols to convey meaning. But the chaos wizards read-he is certain of
that. Again, it seems as though chaos must use order.
   Another thought crosses Dorrin's mind. "Can we get some canvas? If
anything happens to the engine ..."
   "I'm ahead of you, master Dorrin. You let me help you run this little
ship, and bring my yard boys, and you can use anything I've got."
   "Done." Dorrin doesn't even have to think. Without Tyrel, he will have
no ship. "Let's go look at that clutch."
   With the pressure off the gears, the clutch disengages easily. Dorrin
studies the gears. "Darkness ..."
   The angle of the teeth on the gears and the tension created once the
shaft starts to turn effectively create a lock. He frowns. Redesigning
the clutch is definitely necessary, as is a better steam bypass system.
   Tyrel watches as Dorrin moves to the condenser system. The puddle of
warm water on the deck testifies to the leak. Dorrin pulls the wrench
from his belt, thankful he had enough foresight to make all the bolts
with the same-sized heads, and begins to remove the cover.
   Once he opens the cover, he has to laugh. The problem is clearly one
of condensation, and that means another set of tubes and some
adjustments. Can he use the external condensate as a partial replacement
of the fresh water lost from the system? Again, he nods as he loosely
refastens the cover.
   Even in the growing darkness, Dorrin is again sweating by the time he
climbs back to the deck. After wiping his forehead, he glances at the
hillside. Only a single tent remains. At least there are some benefits to
a malfunction-it reduced the interest in the Black Diamond.
 
 
CXLIV
 
DORRIN LOOKS AT the black box. Then he shrugs, looking at the three holes
in the road, each roughly three rods apart. He hopes the different-length
fuses will burn as he has calculated. And that the wooden rods will
support the smaller paving stones. And that the stones are wide enough so
that one of the Certan or Gallosian horses or levies will step on them.
   The two troopers wait as he sets the first thin-walled, black iron box
in place, and then places the nails in position around the plunger
cylinder.
    "What are those for?" asks the heavy-set and sandy-haired trooper.
   "To tear horses and people apart," Dorrin says quietly.
   To the west, across die green of the meadows and south toward Elparta,
a low cloud of dust and fires spreads on either side of the White horde.
The air is clear, and the sun sparkles in the blue-green sky of spring. A
chorus of terwhits echoes from beyond the stone wall bordering the south
side of the road.
   The trooper swallows.
   Dorrin positions the wooden dowels that support and balance the
hollowed stone. "For darkness's sake," he cautions the troopers, "don't
step on that stone. You won't leave enough raw meat for a stew." He wipes
his dripping forehead before he sets the stone in place.
   The other trooper gulps.
   Dorrin wipes his forehead. How has he gotten into the position of
designing demon-devices? And installing them, when a misstep will shred
him into small bits of meat?
   He finishes with the first one. "Hand me the broom." Care- fully,
gently, he brushes dust across the stones until the whole area looks-he
hopes-untraveled since the last rain.
   Then he does the same with the second box, and the third.
   His arms and hands are shaking by the time he finishes, and the sweat
rolls down his forehead, even though a cool breeze blows from the
Westhorns across the sloping plains. His head pounds with a dull aching.
   Brede's troops have already cleared the herders and the few farmers,
insisting all leave, and retelling the tales of Elparta. Few have needed
much encouragement after learning that the Whites are marching downriver.
   "Are you done?"
   Dorrin looks up to see Kadara, accompanied by a trooper holding
Meriwhen's reins. He wipes his forehead. "I've done what I can. I hope it
works ... I think."
   Kadara frowns as Dorrin slips the broom into the lanceholder next to
his staff.
   "Each time I design something to kill, the Whites do something worse."
   "I don't think they can do much more than burn everything and torture
and kill anyone who resists," Kadara says dryly. "We need to get out of
here. Keep your horses on the grass until we get to the curve up there."
   Dorrin follows her directions, looking back over his shoulder to gauge
the progress of the White horde.
   "Why aren't there any outriders?" asks the heavy trooper.
   "Because we've always killed them all," answers Kadara. "That's why
this just might work. This time, we didn't leave them villagers or
herders to march in front of the army. So they'll be slow and crowded. I
hope."
   "What now?" Dorrin asks.
   "We wait up on the knoll beyond the curve, right where they can see
us. Brede says that way, they won't be quite so suspicious, at least not
as suspicious as if they reach an open stretch of road, and see no one."
   A handful of riders wearing blue trots across the meadows to the
southwest, out from behind a low hill.
   "They just fired some arrows and tried to lure out some outriders,"
Kadara tells Dorrin. "Brede wants them to think that we're still trying
to harass them as well as we can."
   "Darkness-damned fine commander, Brede is," mumbles the thinner
trooper.
   Dorrin rides and watches. The blue-clad riders approach from the west,
slowing as they near the curve in the road.
   "You're a darkness-better rider." Kadara reins up on the knoll
overlooking the road.
   "I've had practice."
   Leading the long advance, that train of riders and foot soldiers that
stretches two kays back toward Elparta, are two squads of cavalry under
the purple banners of Gallos. Behind the vanguard, separated by less than
a dozen rods, are the first Gallosian levies. Behind the first set of
levies, a half-hundred rods back, are the shimmering banners of the White
Wizards.
   As the wizards pass, the grasses blacken and shrivel, with fires
started by firebolts that strike the far edges of the meadows bordering
the road. The effect is to leave a green ribbon winding through blackened
and sooty fields and meadows.
   "Why doesn't the wind carry the fires toward the road?" asks the heavy
trooper.
   "It will," Dorrin says, "but not until later. That's why they throw
the firebolts so far out."
   The second group of Spidlarian riders reins up beside the four who
wait. One horse is riderless.
   "They got Ertel. I hope this works." The woman trooper looks at
Kadara, then at Dorrin. "This your Black mage?"
   "I'm a smith, mostly."
   The woman turns to Kadara, dismissing Dorrin. "How long?" **
   Kadara glances to Dorrin.
   "I tried to set it so that it would blow around the first wizards."
   "Those are the young ones. Their High Wizard-his name's Jeslek-is way
back ... way back."
   "I couldn't make the fuses any longer."
   "Well. . . better some wizards than none."
   ". . . darkness, yes . .."
   "... pot any wizard in a storm ..."
   Dorrin finds himself holding his breath as the vanguard oozes slowly
uphill and onto the level stretch where his devices rest.
   He watches. Has one horse stumbled? Did the plunger work?
   The vanguard passes over the mined section, and the first group of
levies clears the area.
   "Darkness! When will something happen?" mumbles the heavy trooper.
   "A little longer ..." Dorrin says, hoping . . . not knowing what he
hopes, for he has used order to create great potential for chaos. And
yet, what can he do? The people of Spidlar do not deserve to be killed or
burned because they oppose chaos.
   The purple banners advance, as do the white ones. The vanguard slows
as the mounted troopers near the curve in the road, as they see the
Spidlarian Guards on the knoll. Behind them, the column slows, and begins
to bunch up.
   CRRRRRuuummmmmpppp!!!! Earth, stones, bodies, blood ... undefined
shreds spray skyward.
   CRRRRRuuummmmmpppp!!!! A second gout of colored soil, stones, and
flesh erupts into the sky.
   CRRRRRuuummmmmpppp!!!! By the third gout of gore, Dorrin is blind from
the pain that has seared through him, barely able to hang on to Meriwhen.
   None of the troopers speaks.
   The first line of white banners is no more, nor is the second group of
levies, nor the third. From pits below the knoll, perhaps a score of
archers appear, and began to fire upon the vanguard and the remaining
Gallosian levies. The vanguard circles, then charges the knoll.
   By the time Dorrin can breathe and straighten up in the saddle, only
two mounted Gallosian troopers remain, and they ride back toward the
Gallosian levies-fully half of whom are either lying on or around the
road, or wounded. The remaining Gallosian levies scramble rearward,
toward the green banners of Certis.
   "Too bad we can't follow up," Kadara says.
   Dorrin rubs his forehead, seeing the carnage intermittently, between
flashes of white and black that seem to cycle behind his eyes. His breath
is ragged, his thoughts scattered.
   "Not enough troops. We've got maybe two thousand trained people left.
They've got twice that down there-or they did."
   "Got a couple hundred, maybe more."
   The woman trooper who had earlier dismissed Dorrin looks at him
slowly. "Darkness help us if they had you."
   "It helps, but it's not enough." Kadara shakes her head. "Let's go."
She looks at Dorrin. "Can you do something like that again-but different?"
   "Maybe once more," he admits. "But not for a time. It will have to be
in a forest, or something. They'll watch the stones now." He urges
Meriwhen to keep up with the redhead. "I only have three more devices.
They're hard to make." He says little more because he does not want to
reveal where the devices are, not so close to the Whites, not when he has
finally struck at the Wizards themselves. The black flashes that
momentarily blind him continue less frequently, but the pounding headache
does not subside, and he squints against the light that has become almost
too bright for him to see.
   "Can't someone else make them?" asks the hard-voiced woman trooper.
   "It takes a Black smith who's an engineer and a healer," Kadara says
wearily. "Do you know any others?"
 
 
CXLV
 
A BREEZE CARRIES though the room where a handful of tables and benches
seems lost in the center. The walls are planks nailed to heavy beams, and
occasionally, shafts of hay sift through the low ceiling from the former
hayloft above. Two squads of troopers lie on bedrolls in one end of the
barn.
   Dorrin chews on bread and cheese that Kadara had rounded up from
somewhere, trying to ignore his headache, the searing light that still
blasts through his skull intermittently, and his growling stomach.
   While the second set of mines was not quite as spectacular as the
first, the explosions were great enough that Kadara's squad had to load
him on Meriwhen. He does not remember much about the ride back to Kleth.
How much more success he can take is another question. All he wants is to
return to Diev. Clearly, warfare is not for him.
   "As soon as I'm feeling a little better, I'll be leaving."
   "Dorrin, you can't travel that road again. You just can't," snaps
Kadara. "The White Wizards would send three or four squads after you now."
   Dorrin slowly eats the bread and cheese. What Kadara says makes sense,
too much sense. But no one in Diev knows he will be staying. "Will your
armorer mind if I work here?"
   "You're the only hope we may have, and you worry about that?"
   "I didn't bring any tools."
   "I wouldn't worry about that, either. Welka won't mind. Besides, Brede
needs you now. He'd have my head if we let you go unprotected-and we
really don't have any way to protect you."
   If he is the last hope of Kleth, the city is doomed. In the time
before the White horde arrives, he can forge perhaps another dozen
devices similar to those he used on the road. If they are well-placed, if
the Whites do not notice them, if they work as designed, if Brede can
round up enough raw materials to make the gunpowder, or find some ... if,
if, if...
   He rubs his forehead. Even contemplating what he must build
intensifies the headache that never seems to leave him now. Darkness
knows what will happen if his linked mines work as designed. He takes a
last bite of the bread and cheese and sips the thin beer-Kadara says that
the water is not safe to drink, and he doesn't want to search for potable
water.
   "Aren't you eating?" Dorrin asks Kadara.
   "I'm not hungry right now." A faint look of distaste crosses her face.
"Do you want any more?"
   "No. This was fine." His headache has subsided to a faint throbbing,
and only occasionally do the flashes of blackness flicker before his
eyes. Why is Kadara not hungry? Is she healthy? "Are you all right?" he
asks, extending a hand to touch her wrist.
   "I'm fine." She jerks away her hand, but not before Dorrin has a sense
of her problem. "I'm sorry, Dorrin. This isn't easy now. We're
outnumbered, and the Council won't let us retreat."
   "They're still insisting?"
   "Of course. You think they want to risk their skins? That's what we're
paid for."
   "Don't they understand?"
   "No. They still think that somehow they can buy off the Whites."
   The door to the yard opens, and Brede steps inside, accompanied by the
faint odor of horse manure. His blue tunic looks like he has slept in it
for an eight-day, and his normally smooth-shaven face is covered with
blond stubble.
   Kadara gives a half-salute, half-wave. "Hail, great commander. "
   "Hail, great squad leader." Brede's grin fades too quickly as he steps
toward the table.
   Dorrin takes another sip of beer, and finishes the bread in his hand.
   "Kadara," asks Brede, "can your people check out whether the Whites
are sending outriders toward the road to Diev? Rydner is checking on the
old Axalt road."
   "Now?"
   "You don't have to go. You could send some of your squad."
   Kadara snorts. "You want it done right, don't you?" She gets up from
the bench on the other side of the table. "How far?"
   "If you can't see any evidence within ten kays, there won't be
anything. They aren't about to try the Kylen Hills."
   "I wish they would." Kadara turns to Dorrin. "You need to get busy."
   "I know."
   "Good luck, Kadara," Brede says gently.
   She walks toward the bedrolled troopers at the far end. "Stow your
bedrolls, and saddle up. Scout run to the south. I'll see you in the
yard."
   Brede slides onto the bench beside Dorrin, watching as Kadara leaves
the barn by the end door, heading for the stable that remains a stable.
His eyes remain on the closed door through which she has left.
   Outside of a few groans, there are no complaints from the troopers who
struggle up in the wake of Kadara's orders.
   Dorrin slides the half-full pitcher of beer to Brede, and the chipped
mug. "You look like you need this."
   "Thank you." Brede refills the mug and swallows about half of it in
one gulp, but his eyes drift back in the direction of the stable he
cannot see. After a moment, he leans forward, but he does not say
anything, instead wetting his lips.
   "Kadara?" prompts Dorrin.
   Brede nods.
   Dorrin understands Brede's silence, even though a part of him finds it
amusing that the always-eloquent Brede is having trouble speaking his
mind. "She's a little touchy."
   "Isn't she always?" Brede asks with a laugh that dies too soon.
   "Do you want me to guess?" Dorrin tries not to sound sharp, but his
head still throbs, and he feels sore all over.
   "You know, don't you?"
   "That she's carrying your child? But not until just before you
arrived."
   "Did she tell you?"
   "Of course not." Dorrin forces a grin. "She may not even know that I
know. She jerked away from me when I touched her arm."
   "It wasn't a good idea. Not now."
   Dorrin disagrees, at least in a way, since Brede has been told to hold
Kleth at any cost. "Was it her doing?"
   "She told me ..." Brede looks around the near-empty room and lowers
his voice. "... that if I were going to be a demon-damned hero I should
at least leave her something."
   The smith nods slowly. Will it make any difference? Will any of them
leave the battlefield for "Kleth alive? "She feels strongly. How do you
feel?"
   "I love her. It doesn't always show, and I just can't leave these
people. I'm not talking about the traders. I mean the troops, and the
farmers-people like your Yarrl and Reisa and Petra." Brede refills the
mug, rubs his neck and shoulders, and then his eyes. "If ... if ...
anything happens . . . and you're there ..."
   "I think you're more likely to survive this than me."
   "That's demon crap. Will you take care of her?" Brede's eyes bore into
Dorrin.
   "If I'm there . . . yes." Dorrin looks at the table, feeling guilty
because he still wants to finish and sea-test the Black Diamond, guilty
because he has doubts about the usefulness of throwing himself into a
battle when his success may blind him-possibly forever. "What does the
battle look like?"
   "Not good. They've added another five thousand levies from Hydlen.
We'll do what we can. But with everything I can drag together, we're
talking perhaps thirty-five hundred troops-and you."
   "I appreciate the flattery," Dorrin says dryly, rubbing his forehead.
"How long do I have to work this magic?"
   "The way they're advancing-maybe ten days." "Is there any way I can
tell Liedral where I am?" "I don't think you'll have to." Brede shakes
his head. "I had Tylkar-he was the one raising the last levy in
Diev-request that she come back with the levies. They should be here
tomorrow."
   "Wasn't that a little presumptuous?"
   "Darkness, yes. But I'd use whatever I could to keep you here. This
isn't a game, Dorrin. A lot of people are going to die."
   The smith swallows. In Brede's and Kadara's terms, he never really had
a choice about staying. He could have left-they couldn't hold him-except
for Liedral. "You're a bastard."
   "I had to learn that." Brede coughs. "Welka's expecting you. You've
also got the small room in the headquarters next to mine. That's the
least I can do now, and little enough." He laughs harshly as he stands.
   Dorrin watches as the tall blond commander strides out of the
converted barn. Then he stands up. He needs to find the armorer and begin
forging destruction.
 
 
CXLVI
 
THE SPIDLARIAN FORCES comprise an entrenched circle on the hillside. The
road from Elparta to Kleth angles up the slope from southwest to
southeast. To the east lie the bluffs overlooking the river, and to the
west, the hill slopes downward into the Devow Marsh, which stretches
westward a good four kays. Beyond the marsh are the Kylen Hills, rugged
and filled with potholes and crumbling sandstone ledges.
   Dorrin peers over the earthworks at the banners on the lower and
opposing hill-the crimson of Hydlen, the purple of Gallos, the green of
Certis, the gold of Kyphros, and, of course, the crimson-edged white of
Fairhaven. He looks uphill, hoping that Liedral will stay with the rear
guard, wishing that she had stayed in Kleth itself.
   The sky is covered with high thin clouds that give a gray cast to the
morning. A light breeze out of the south, barely lifting the banners of
the White forces, carries the odor of burned fields uphill.
   A thin wavering horn sounds from the chaos forces. Dorrin's eyes
flicker from the earthen barriers to the troops arrayed across the low
valley. After a second blast from the horn, fire gouts from the area of
the white banners, flaring toward the Spidlarian hillside, spreading
until it impacts. Only a handful of screams follows the fire,
demonstrating the effectiveness of the earthworks against the direct
impact of the wizards' fire. Several thin lines of greasy black smoke
spiral into the sky. A second line of fire follows the first, with even
less impact.
   Then the ground shakes.
   The blue-clad riders stand by their blindfolded mounts, waiting for
the shaking to end, calming the nervous animals.
   Dorrin grins. So far, Brede has anticipated the wizards' tactics.
   A semi-hush falls across the hills, and Dorrin waits. Then the purple
banners surge uphill toward the lower front line of timbered trenches
where the outlines of Spidlarian pikes and halberds wait. Only a handful
of troops are there, and they should be scuttling back up the trench to
higher ground.
   Behind his own higher timbered wall, Dorrin holds his breath, his
perceptions trying to check the situation, hoping that the last troops
will be up the trench before he must act.
   The Gallosian troops crash over the first line, and pour into the
trenchworks, splitting to follow the trenches to the higher emplacements.
Dorrin swallows and pulls the line buried in the wooden casing that
sticks out of the side of the shallow pit. Once the line is taut, and his
senses tell him that the striker has lit, he pulls the second line, the
one that removes the supports from one section of the casing. Then he
climbs out of the pit and begins to refill the area around the flattened
wooden casing.
   "Now!" he snaps to the two men beside him. "Shovel."
   They shovel as if the demons of light were after them, and before the
fuse lit by the striker has reached the buried charges.
   The purple banners continue to push uphill, nearly halfway to the
higher emplacements. Arrows-not many, but enough- fly toward the first
ranks, trying to slow them.
   Dorrin gnaws on his lower lip, hoping his advice to Brede-pulling back
the troops and leaving wooden weapons decoys-will be borne out. He sits
down, fearing what is about to happen, both to the advancing troops, and
to him. The banners follow the troops near the trenches, with attendant
shouts, as the Gallosians sense victory, despite the handfuls of arrows
that rain down upon their uphill charge.
   CRUUUMPPPPPP!!!! The hillside erupts, and even the clay-filled pit
under Dorrin wells up, throwing him against the wall and plastering him
with clay.
   "Light," screams one soldier.
   The other gurgles for a moment. Dorrin tries not to claw out his eyes
from the pain and from seeing the splinters of wood protruding from the
man's abdomen and throat.
   His own shoulder burns, and he blinks at the wooden barb that has
ripped through his jacket and tunic. His senses tell him that the wound
is flesh only, and he slowly works out the wood, fumbling with the
dressing in the small pack he has carried, before finally wedging one in
place.
   Only then does he look downhill at the mass of churned earth that has
covered almost all of the charging Gallosians. The wave of whiteness from
the devastation strikes him, and he slumps to the bottom of the trench
under his own darkness, darkness propelled with a white agony that slams
at his skull.
   "Where is he. .. ?"
   Words pass by, as he lies there, vaguely aware of Spidlarian troopers
easing their way downhill toward his observation trench, or what is left
of it. How long he has lain there, he does not know, only that his head
pounds.
   "Light! Look at this mess."
   "Ugggghhhh..." Someone retches.
   "This one looks like a pincushion." The voice is cool.
   "Where's Dorrin?"
   At the sound of Liedral's voice, Dorrin tries to open his eyes, but
the blackness remains, despite the diffused warmth of the midmorning sun
that tries to penetrate the high clouds. Slowly, his fingers touch his
fluttering eyelids. His eyes are open, but he cannot see.
   "One of them's alive. His hand moved."
   "That's the smith."
   Dorrin coughs, bringing up a mixture of bile and what tastes like
clay. With Liedral's help, he sits up. His head pounds. When it does not
pound, a fire burns within his skull. She eases some cider down his
throat.
   Finally, he coughs again. "What . . . happened? After the explosion?"
   "Nothing," Liedral says. "What was left of the Gallosians withdrew to
their positions."
   "Probably not a score of their two thousand left," adds one of the
troopers accompanying Liedral.
   Dorrin swallows. "Two thousand?"
   "See why the Force Leader wanted us to help him?" demands another
voice in the darkness.
   Dorrin tries to reach out with his senses and gain an impression of
those around him. With effort, he gains the blurred image of Liedral and
three other troopers.
   "What's the matter?" Liedral asks. "You aren't looking at me."
   "I can't see you," he admits. "I can't see anything."
   "Shit!" exclaims one of the troopers.
   "I need to get him out of here," Liedral says.
   "We'll help. Leastwise, he got rid of those damned Gallosians."
   Dorrin staggers along the trench, partly leaning on Liedral, losing
track of the direction in which they are heading. Even before they have
reached the hilltop, the effort leaves Dorrin shaking. Each step seems to
intensify the pain in his head.
   In the distance, he can hear screams, horses, and shouts. He tries to
take another step, but the darkness is too heavy, and pounds him into the
damp soil.
 
 
CXLVII
 
"DARKNESS WITH THIS measured approach!" snaps Jeslek.
   "It was your idea," observes Anya.
   "So? I can be wrong." Jeslek looks across to the hillside that
resembles an instantly churned and plowed field.
   "You can? I never would have guessed it." Anya's voice is bitter.
   "Fydel," orders Jeslek, "have all the levies march over the mined
ground there."
   "What?"
   "The one thing we know is that they can't have planted more of those
devices where they already exploded. And we don't want them to retreat
and mine another section of hill or field."
   Even Fydel nods at the logic.
   "Everything that damned smith has done requires advance preparation.
We can't give him any more chances. Order the charge. Pour everything
into that point. And keep the troops moving."
   "Yes, Jeslek."
   "I mean it. Keep them moving."
   As Jeslek turns to survey the battlefield, Anya and Fydel exchange
glances. They nod.
   Then Fydel hurries toward the field commander's tent.
 
 
CXLVIII
 
THE SOUNDS OF metal on metal rumble in the distance, and the ground
trembles under him. Muffled curses, yells, grunts, and other assorted
sounds creep toward him, but the sharp, knife-edged whiteness that throbs
and slashes within his forehead continues to dominate his consciousness.
   He swallows, and feels something cool against his lips. "Drink this,
Dorrin ... please."
   The voice is gentle, and he sips slowly. Is it his imagination, or is
the pain in his head receding slightly?
   "Dorrin?"
   He recognizes Brede's voice.
   "He's blind," Liedral says. "Are you satisfied?"
   "Satisfied?"
   "You can't expect a Black smith to create so much destruction and not
suffer, can you? Even your great Creslin was blind most of his life."
   Brede sighs loudly enough for Dorrin to hear. "I'm sorry." He half
turns. "You troopers need to get back to your units. The Whites are
pressing the attack." His voice is lower when he turns back to Liedral
and Dorrin. "What do you expect from me? We're outnumbered ten to one,
and I probably won't leave the field."
   Liedral swallows. "I'm sorry."
   "Don't be. We all end up doing what we have to. Get Dorrin back to
Diev. Go around Kleth."
   "I can ride," Dorrin snaps. "I've got some perception. Not much, but
enough."
   "You're not riding. The cart can carry two. And you need to rest."
   "Keep him in hand, Liedral." A silence follows before Brede speaks
again. "I've got to go. Good luck." Dorrin gains the sense of a sad
smile. "You did more than anyone, Dorrin. Darkness be with you. Don't
wait too long." Brede turns back toward a chorus of voices clamoring for
his attention.
   "Where are you putting the old pikes?"
   "Can Hydre's troopers crack the flank ..."
   "What about the Certan heavy foot..."
   Dorrin tries to sit up, but the white knives within his skull burn
more brightly, and are relieved by the darkness.
   When he wakes again, the ground still shivers, and the sounds of metal
on metal are closer, and the screams more piercing.
   "Dorrin, you have to get up ... I can't carry you."
   Slowly, slowly, he sits up.
   "Here's some water." Liedral presses the water to his lips, and he
drinks.
   The water, now lukewarm, helps, and the throbbing in his skull recedes
to heavy dull aching.
   "Can you stand up? Just lean on me." Liedral's voice is insistent.
   The smith stands, and his legs hold.
   "Come on." Liedral tugs Dorrin's arm, and they head downhill away from
the sounds of battle. She stops. "You're still bleeding a little."
   "Took a wooden dart or something in the arm. It's all right."
   "Are you sure?"
   "As these things go. I'm more worried about seeing. My engine isn't
finished."
   "Your engine? You're thinking about your engine at a time like this?"
Liedral's voice rises.
   "Do you want me to think about the destruction I've already created?"
His words slur, perhaps because of the effort it takes to speak.
   "I'm sorry. But I'm not."
   Dorrin moves away from her and onto the flatter meadow-land, sensing
Meriwhen, and his staff in the lanceholder ahead. He stumbles, but
catches himself and struggles on through the damp ground. Behind them,
horses approach.
   Dorrin tries to cast out his perceptions, but the white knives stab
inside his skull, and he waits, hoping the cavalry are Spidlarians.
   "There's the smith-healer-and the trader," calls a voice.
   "You the one called Liedral?" asks another voice.
   "Yes." Liedral's voice is cautious. "Oh .. . darkness ..."
   Dorrin catches the anguish in her tone. "What is it?"
   Liedral does not answer, but she stops and looks toward the horses.
   "Can you take care of the squad leader?"
   "Of course, my cart's up there. Can you put her in it?"
   "Kadara?" rasps Dorrin.
   "She's . . . wounded . .. unconscious ..."
   Dorrin forces himself to the cart, just touching Liedral for guidance.
   "Let me arrange this ... put her there ..."
   "We've got to get back. They're coming up the side ... Owe her this,
but the Force Leader needs us."
   "Go!" snaps Liedral. She turns toward the stake that holds the harness
and leads, and Meriwhen's reins.
   Dorrin reaches out and touches the unconscious figure. Kadara
breathes, but shallowly. He pushes back his own pain, trying to sense her
injuries: the fractured collar bone, the deep slash across the upper arm,
and some sort of bruise-gash above her ear.
   "Dorrin .. . you can't. . ."
   "Not much," he grunts. "Bleeding's stopped. Need to get out of here."
   He turns toward where he senses the mare. "Meriwhen . . . girl?"
   Whheeee. . .
   "I'm here, girl." He steps across the uneven ground and pats the
mare's neck, feeling for the reins. Liedral lets go, and Dorrin takes
them. "I'll ride."
   "You can't."
   "I can. I have to."
   "You're impossible."
   Dorrin feels his way into the saddle.
   "You can't ride."
   "I can follow you." Dorrin waits for Liedral. His fingers grip the
black staff, and for a moment, but only a moment, the mud-tramped meadow
stretches before him, and there is no pounding in his skull, only the
burning in his shoulder. Just as quickly, the vision is gone, and the
hammers of his headache return. He takes a deep breath, hoping that
concentrating on order will return his vision, at least before too long.
   "You're a stubborn man." After fastening the tailboard of the cart,
Liedral climbs onto the cart seat.
   "You should be glad for that, woman."
   "How is your arm?"
   "The bleeding's mostly stopped. How's Kadara?" Dorrin lets Meriwhen
follow the cart along the rutted tracks that lead to the main road.
   "She's pale, but she's breathing."
   The cart lurches onward, and Kadara moans. Dorrin purses his lips
tightly, and follows.
   "Who's there?"
   "It's the smith-the Black one . .. he's wounded," answers a voice next
to the picket post.
   "No one's supposed to be going back that way."
   "You want to tangle with him?" asks a third voice.
   Dorrin concentrates on following Liedral as the cart bounces through
the meadow and onto the road. Each effort to sense where they travel
intensifies the pain, and he tries just to follow the cart, letting
Liedral and Meriwhen lead him along.
 
 
CXLIX
 
"HERE COME THE Certan bastards," mumbles Cirras.
   "Just hold the first two lines," Brede commands. "They'll bring up the
Kyphrans before long."
   As Brede watches from the slit in his earthworks, the green banners
fall, cut down by the blue-clad Spidlarians, who, once the Certan levies
drop, and the remainder scatter, scurry back into their earthworks so
quickly that only a few fall to the fireballs of the White Wizards. Brede
nods. So far, so good. His men have remembered the danger of the wizards'
fireballs. He glances toward the other squad leader, Rydner.
   Rydner nods. "Ready, Commander."
   Two messengers stand behind the squad leaders. Each carries a black
iron shield. Brede looks back through the slit in the earthworks, wishing
he had more of Dorrin's demon-devices, but hoping that Dorrin has been
able to save Kadara, and their child.
   Another trumpet sounds from the far side of the valley, wavering but
insistent, in the midafternoon sun.
   "They're aren't going to wait us out. That's for sure," observes
Cirras.
   "After that?" asks Brede wryly, pointing to the churned earth on the
hillside below.
   Even before the trumpet dies away, the golden banners begin the march
uphill toward the upper Spidlarian earthworks. Despite the arching fall
of arrows, the Kyphran levies reach-and pass-the lowest of the three
lines.
   "Bring in Bylla's levies," Brede decides.
   "That will leave the right side weak."
   "It may, but they're not attacking the right. Not yet."
   Cirras nods at one messenger, and the two scuttle away through the
trench. Shortly, Cirras returns. "They're moving over."
   Brede watches as the gold banners stall at the second line of
trenches. The arrows redouble for an instant. The blond man turns to
Cirras. "Get your squad ready. They'll bring some horse up the right and
try to sweep across. Try to wait until the last moment, and close as fast
as you can. That should make it harder for them to use the fireballs."
   Cirras nods. "Yes, ser."
   As he leaves, Brede adds, "I'll be behind you in a bit."
   Rydner frowns, chews on his lip.
   Cirras straightens, and Brede takes a quiet and deep breath, his eyes
flicking from Cirras back to the hillside below as the Gallosian horse
charges his right flank, that side of the hill slightly less steep than
the center or the left. A handful of the White horsemen falls to arrows,
but the flight of arrows ceases as the wizards' fireballs pepper the
trenches protecting the archers. While few archers are seared, neither
can the others see clearly enough to aim while remaining beneath the
protection of the earthen berm.
   "When should we-" begins Rydner.
   "Not yet. Not until they close. You go down to them, and not a handful
of you would make it."
   The Gallosian cavalry turns the end of the earthworks below and to
Brede's right and begins to cut down the levies from above and behind.
Like a squall cloud, two squads of Spidlarian cavalry slam into the
Gallosian horse from behind.
   Brede races through the trenches, down to the archers, long blade in
hand. "Now! Hit the gold banners! There!"
   The archers emerge from the earth; the bows tighten; and the wave of
shafts topples scores more of the Kyphran levies.
   Brede hurries along the trenchworks toward the right upper level,
trying to keep his head low, ignoring seared bodies, or blue figures
transfixed with arrows.
   Firebolts flash after him, even as he drops into a trench. "Move!
Toward the center."
   "But-" The serjeant sees the blade and the fire in Brede's eyes.
"Nyta, Jort.. . toward the center. Move, you slizzards!"
   Brede circles back through the trenches, back up to where Rydner and
his squad wait. He swings into the saddle, leading them toward the right
side of the hilltop. He gestures to Rydner. "Now!"
   "Yes, ser." Rydner leans forward, blade out, and the troopers follow
downhill.
   They collide with less than a handful of Gallosian horse. Brede's
sword flashes twice, and two men fall.
   "Archers!" Brede's voice booms out, and the handful of archers
remaining looses shafts at the score of Kyphran levies still assaulting
the middle earthworks.
   As the archers loose their shafts, the fireballs return. Screams and
black oily smoke twist uphill. The firebolts fall across both Cirras's
and Rydner's squads as the remaining troopers and their mounts scramble
back uphill to join Brede's small force behind the earth-banked wall. The
few archers still alive duck into the earthworks.
   Brede holds up his blade. "Wait until they reach the top. Then close
as quickly as possible." He catches Cirras's eyes.
   Cirras nods grimly. Rydner wipes his blade with a rag he stuffs back
into his belt.
   The trumpet sounds once more, and another wave of mounted troops
surges uphill toward the Spidlarian forces. The Hydlen levies pour after
the mix of Kyphrans and Gallosians, and all hack their way through the
few remaining Spidlarians.
   The White cavalry, now a mixture of forces from Certis, Gallos, and
Hydlen, churns up the right flank unopposed except for a few scattered
arrows. Three White troopers fall, but the attack does not falter.
   Brede watches, then nods. "Now!"
   The blond officer spurs his mount from behind the concealed revetment,
slashing through the White forces, his sword flickering like lightning.
Three men fall to that lethal blade before the Whites realize Brede and
his force are even among them.
   "Magic . . . !"
   "The blond demon..."
   Troopers scattering from Brede fall to the blades of others, and the
White forces break, clattering and scrambling away.
   "Back!" snaps Brede, ducking instinctively even before the firebolt
singes his hair and turns the officer behind him-Rydner-into a torch.
   "Poor bastard ..." mutters Brede under his breath.
   The force behind the makeshift revetment numbers less than a full
squad. Brede eases his mount up to the wood-backed earthen berm. He
stretches in the saddle to peer over the top, glancing to the left side
of the field, where the levies from Hydlen have turned the flank and are
beginning to circle back, and then to the hillside below where the White
cavalry has begun to re-form.
   "Archers!"
   Only a handful of shafts wavers toward the White cavalry, and the
archers are silenced by a line of fire that blankets their trench. The
Hydlen levies march grimly back toward the Spidlarians, completing the
encircling movement.
   Brede looks at the thin line of foot that his squad could break
through, then turns to the hillside below.
   Another trumpet sounds, and the White horse begins the charge.
   Again, Brede waits until the enemy troopers are almost to the hilltop
before he drops his sword. The Spidlarian forces surge forth, and again,
Brede's blade flashes like the lightning of high summer, smashing through
nearly three lines of White cavalry, scattering them.
   "To the hill!" the blond officer commands, ducking as another firebolt
seeks him; but less than a handful of cavalry in blue remains to follow
him.
   The half-score archers left in the uppermost of the earthworks begin
to target the remaining White horsemen, picking them off one by one,
until fireballs rain across the hillside. Then the Kyphran foot marches
toward the crest of the hill. Amid groans, screams, and dust, they clear
the last earthworks that protect the archers.
   Brede turns his mount, sees a Kyphran footman spear an archer, and
swings downhill. Cirras and the other four follow, slashing down another
score of levies.
   Brede straightens in the saddle as the firebolts fall, lifting his
sword yet again, his eyes flicking to the north and west, toward the road
to Diev, before the firebolt bums through him. Even so, as the flames
consume him, he hurls his blade through a last footman. His smile is
bitter.
   It is nearly twilight as the last of the White forces gain the
hilltop. There are no Spidlarians left as the White banners, hanging
limply, precede the wizards past the charred heaps littering the hillside.
   The red-headed wizard's eyes linger on one blackened corpse
fractionally before she follows Jeslek to the clearing.
   "We cannot afford another battle such as this," states the field
commander, wiping his forehead. "We have lost more than half our force."
   "Two-thirds," suggests a voice from behind the commander.
   "You won't have any more battles at all," Jeslek says. "Only a few
skirmishes on the way to Spidlaria. They have no troops at all left."
   "I hope to the light you are correct."
   " I am," snaps Jeslek. "We move to take the whole river valley first.
Leave a small force here to guard the road to Diev. Once we secure
Spidlaria, we'll take Diev."
   "As you wish."
   Anya and Fydel exchange glances. Cerryl's face is politely impassive.
 
 
CL
 
THE CART CREAKS. Meriwhen whickers. Kadara moans. Dorrin rubs his
forehead, wondering in his darkness how much distance they have covered.
   "Drink a little . . . please . . ." Liedral wets Kadara's lips.
"Dorrin, she's hot, and she can't drink."
   Dorrin guides Meriwhen next to the wagon, and dismounts slowly. "Could
I have a sip?"
   "Oh . . . here."
   After he drinks, Dorrin touches his staff, trying to hold on to the
cool blackness, the cool sense of order. Then his fingertips brush
Kadara's forehead, and he tries to transfer some of that order to her.
   "... ooo . . . aaaa .. ."
   Despite the moans, Kadara does not rouse, nor can she drink.
   "How far have we come?" Dorrin asks.
   "Perhaps a quarter of the way-just beyond the turnoff for the charcoal
camp. We'll have to stop before long. It's getting dark, and I can't see
like you can at night."
   "Like I could," he corrects.
   Liedral rustles in the cart, and finally hands something to Dorrin.
"Bread and cheese."
   He chews slowly, evenly, listening to the rustle of the leaves, the
occasional terhwhits and chirps.
   "Ready?" Liedral finally asks.
   "Oh, yes." Still almost in a daze, he climbs back on Meriwhen.
   Again, the cart creaks. Meriwhen snuffles. Kadara moans. Dorrin rubs
his forehead, wondering in his black prison how much more distance they
have covered.
   The feeling of darkness grows as they struggle along the packed and
rutted road that is now empty, until Liedral finally reins up at a wider
spot in the road, with a clearing and a gap in the tumbled stone wall
wide enough for the cart.
   "I can't go any longer."
   "Fine," Dorrin mumbles, half-asleep in the saddle.
   "Neither can you."
   Mechanically, Dorrin follows Liedral's directions.
   "Tie up Meriwhen to the stake."
   Dorrin does, fumbling with the leathers.
   "Can you unsaddle her?"
   Dorrin fumbles the girths loose by feel and unsaddles the mare,
patting her flanks as he does.
   "Can you sense enough to help me move Kadara?"
   He holds the surprisingly thin and fevered body of the redhead while
Liedral arranges blankets.
   "Set her down here."
   He does, wincing. "Oooo ..."
   "Oh, I'm sorry. Does your shoulder hurt?"
   "Not too much." Not so much as Kadara does, or even as his head,
although there is no physical damage within his skull.
   "You need to eat and drink this."
   He mechanically chews more stale and crusty bread and warm cheese,
drinking water from the jug Liedral has filled from somewhere.
   Before long, he lies down under the shelter of the uptilted cart, with
Liedral on his left, Kadara on the other side of Liedral. He sleeps for a
time, then wakes-although it is still dark, he senses.
   Dorrin smiles at Liedral's light snoring, barely audible above the
sounds of the insects in the trees bordering this stretch of the road.
Most of the trees, Dorrin recalls, date from the climate change brought
about by the great Creslin, when the former upland farms and meadows did
not get enough spring and summer rain.
   The throbbing in his skull has subsided some, but he remains sightless.
   "Oh ... no ... darkness, no! Brede ... don't leave me ..." Kadara's
words are half whimpered, half murmured. "Don't ... oh ... bastards ...
white bastards .. ."
   Liedral wakes with a start, then turns and touches Kadara. "Easy,
easy. You're all right."
   "Where... who?"
   "Liedral.. . Dorrin and I are here."
   "Brede.. . where is he?"
   "He's still in Kleth," Liedral says quickly. She eases out from
between the two injured forms. "Let me get you some water."
   "... never leave there .. . darkness ... arm hurts .. ."
   "It will take a while to heal," Dorrin adds.
   ". . . took four of the bastards . . . head hurts . . . Brede . . .
miss you ..."
   "Drink this," Liedral says.
   Dorrin sits up. "Can you get my small pack? There's some astra in it."
   "Why didn't you think about that- Sorry."
   "It's hard to think when white knives are slashing through your skull."
   "I said I was sorry."
   "It's all right." Dorrin takes the pack and fumbles for the packets,
identifying them by shape, scent, and sense. "Put this one in place of
the dressing on her arm. Can you?"
   "I'll need to light this candle."
   Dorrin waits until Liedral takes the first dressing, then searches for
the crushed astra.
   "Oh! Light! .. . hurts," moans Kadara.
   "Anything else?" asks Liedral. Her voice is curt.
   "Is there any way to get this in her?"
   "I'll try."
   A clinking and other rustling sounds follow. Dorrin can sense that
Liedral is working with some utensils.
   "Open your mouth, please . . . Kadara."
   "... so bitter . . . like poison . .. You aren't hurting me, are you?"
   "I'm not hurting you. This will make you feel better."
   ".. .so bitter.. .what... ?"
   "It's astra mixed with beragin," Dorrin explains calmly.
   Liedral continues to rattle things for a time, before returning and
stretching out between Dorrin and Kadara again.
   Dorrin reaches out and squeezes her hand. "Thank you."
   She squeezes his in return. "Go to sleep."
   In time, he does, not to wake until the chirpings of the dawn birds
seep into his awareness. He still cannot see, but his headache has
subsided into a duller ache. Liedral is already up, moving quietly,
watering the horses.
   Dorrin slips out from under the cart, careful not to touch it or the
braces that hold it in position.
   "There's still some bread and cheese," Liedral offers.
   "Thank you." Dorrin takes the chunk of bread and the slab of cheese
that she has sliced, then sits on the stone wall by the road. "Still
using the cheese slicer?"
   "It's a lot more comfortable. I still shiver when I look at a knife."
Liedral sits beside him. "It's pretty this morning."
   "I'm sorry."
   "It wasn't your fault." Liedral's fingers touch his cheek.
   "I wish I could believe that. They went after you because you loved
me."
   "I still love you, you impossible man." She reaches out and squeezes
his wrist. "I wish you could see the trees on the hill. They look like
shining silver in the light, with the dew on the leaves."
   "So do I."
   They eat silently.
   "Kadara's still sleeping. Is that good?"
   "If we can keep getting her to drink, and get more of the medicine in
her. She needs liquids."
   "Do you want any more bread or cheese?"
   "Is there enough?"
   "Merga sent me off with as much as she could get together. We still
have four loaves left-stale, but we won't go too hungry before we get
back."
   Dorrin eats another half loaf of bread and more cheese. While he is
finishing, Liedral gets up, and his thoughts turn back to order again.
   While some believe in order as a god, almost, order has to be more
mechanical than that. Otherwise, how could good people be punished for
the means they use? He sips from the jug. Or do the means compromise the
ends? Always?
   He thinks of Fairhaven. The city, despite the rule of those who
espouse chaos, is orderly, and there is little crime. There seems to be
less poverty than in Spidlar. But is that because Fairhaven has become
wealthy from its conquests?
   "Dorrin, if we want to get back to Diev without being . . . caught by
..."
   Dorrin understands. Who knows who will be on the road behind them
before long? He slowly makes his way into the woods for certain
necessities. By the time he returns, Liedral is kneeling, spooning more
of the astra and beragin into Kadara's mouth.
   "... uuugggg ..." Kadara swallows and coughs, but most of the mixture
goes down, and Liedral eases water into her mouth.
   While Liedral ministers to Kadara, Dorrin manages to saddle Meriwhen
by himself, although he pinches one finger in the girth buckle in the
process. He mutters grumpily under his breath at his clumsiness, but
continues finishing saddling the mare.
   For just an instant, when he touches the black wood of his staff, he
can see-the grass is damp with dew, and the trees dark green in the early
dawn light. Then the blackness drops across his eyes. He turns toward
Meriwhen so Liedral will not see the tears of frustration that ooze from
his eyes.
   Order! Why is order so unfair? Pure order seems unable to stop chaos,
and whenever he tries to focus order against chaos, he is punished, just
as the Whites and the traders of Spidlar have together, in a way,
punished Brede because of his talent and reliance on the tools of order.
   He tries to reason as he places the staff in the lanceholder. Is it
because death is the ultimate form of chaos, the destruction of human
order, so to speak? Certainly, despite the complaints by his family and
Lortren, he has not suffered for his use of order to make his models or
his machines. Nor has he been punished much for making his devices of
destruction-only for using them.
   "Can you help me get Kadara into the cart?"
   Dorrin wipes his face with the back of his sleeve and turns toward the
cart. His shoulder barely twinges as he lifts Kadara.
   ".. . hurts . . . don't leave me . . ."
   "You're with us," Dorrin says softly, trying to keep his voice level,
trying to keep the frustration and anger from showing. His senses tell
him that she is slightly better, but she is still fevered and weak, and
it will be a long time, if ever, before she regains full use of her right
arm.
   Terwhit. . . terwhit. Despite the cheerful tone of the bird in the low
oak trees, Dorrin is not encouraged.
 
 
CLI
 
THE CART CREAKS as Liedral turns at the hillcrest overlooking the river
valley. "Everything looks all right."
   "We still haven't run into any other travelers." Dorrin can extend his
senses to some degree now, without headaches, but he still cannot see,
except every once in a while when he touches his staff. Even that vision
is neither predictable nor more than fleeting.
   "You wouldn't expect any. People were leaving Kleth when I came back
with that troop of cavalry and the last levy."
   "I'm glad you had an escort."
   "So was I. There were some rough souls on the road."
   Dorrin touches the staff again, but he receives no glimpse of the
sunlit expanse of the valley that lies between them and Diev. "How is
Kadara?"
   "Not much different. Sometimes, she seems awake, but mostly she
sleeps."
   "For now, that's probably better." Dorrin eases Meriwhen up beside
Liedral as the road widens.
   "For now . . ." Liedral says quietly. She looks behind her and lowers
her voice. "What do you think about Brede?"
   Dorrin shakes his head, hoping Liedral is locking at him.
   "That's what I think, too."
   Neither wants to confirm in words what both know must be true. The
Whites will not allow anyone to survive, particularly a man from Recluce
who has cost them so many troops. They continue silently until they near
the turnoff from the main road that leads to Dorrin's cottage.
   "... there yet. . . ?" asks Kadara.
   "We're almost home." Liedral turns slightly and bends toward the rear
of the cart where the injured woman lies. "Oh..."
   "What is it?" Dorrin asks.
   "Darkness ..." mutters Liedral.
   "What did you see?" asks Dorrin.
   "Rylla's cottage-it's burned down. But your barn and the cottage are
all right. There's a barricade of sorts around the yard . . . and some
people. It looks like Pergun and another older man, and Reisa. She's
wearing a blade." Liedral turns the cart off the main road and up the
ridge drive.
   Dorrin wishes he could see, but follows the cart until they are past
the barricade and in the yard.
   "It's master Dorrin! And Liedral! They're back!" Frisa's voice echoes
across the yard and past the barricade.
   "Master Dorrin ..." Pergun begins.
   Dorrin turns in the direction of his voice. "Yes?"
   "What's wrong with you? You're not exactly looking square at me."
   "He's blind," Liedral says quietly. "And Kadara's in the wagon here.
She's badly wounded. We need to carry her inside."
   "Put her in the bed I was using," Dorrin suggests.
   "Blind? Blind . . . ? Was it the Whites? The evil bastards!"
   "No. I did it myself." Dorrin dismounts and leads Meriwhen toward the
barn, letting his senses guide him.
   "Is he daft?" Pergun turns to Liedral.
   "Can I help?" Reisa's voice carries to Dorrin.
   "He's not daft." Liedral descends from the cart. "He's an order-smith
who forced himself to create devices to kill more than a thousand people."
   "A thousand?"
   "More or less. It wasn't enough. Between Brede and Dorrin, I suspect
that the Whites lost more than half their army. That would have left more
than five thousand under arms."
   Dorrin ignores the conversation as he opens the barn door. The scent
of horses is strong, and Dorrin stops when he is just inside, trying to
sense how many there are. Five, he thinks, two tied in the far corner in
what seems to be makeshift stalls. He leads Meriwhen to her stall, slowly
unsaddling her, racking the saddle, setting the staff aside, and
beginning to curry the mare in slow and even strokes.
   "You can't stay here." Reisa Stands by the stall. "They'll burn the
whole countryside to get you."
   "Me? A humble smith?"
   "You and Yarrl." Reisa snorts. "Do you ever think you can escape what
you are? What about your ship? It's still floating. Yarrl saw it from the
hill on the way here."
   "Yard's here?"
   "Of course. It made sense. Your place is easier to defend. We loaded
most of his smithy into the big wagon, except the anvil. No one can get
that quickly anyway. Pergun wanted to be here, because of Merga, and when
the troopers took Liedral, we decided ..."
   "You didn't have to ... I'm grateful, and thankful..."
   "Dorrin, there's a lot you never had to do. You didn't have to heal
Honsard's son. Shameful-that man. You didn't have to take Merga in. Or
heal all those people who couldn't pay. Or refuse to take any of Yard's
customers. Or expand Rylla's herb garden and share what you got with
her." Reisa coughs. "So . .. for once, let someone help you. Darkness
knows, you need it right now, you stiff-necked and proud ..."
   Dorrin puts aside the brush and fumbles with the barrel to dig out
some grain for Meriwhen. Reisa holds the top and hands him the iron
scoop, one of the miscellaneous items he has forged along the way and
almost forgotten. The iron is cool to his fingers, almost healing.
   "You need to rest."
   After Dorrin dumps two scoops of grain into the manger box and closes
the stall on Meriwhen, he slumps onto a bale of hay and leans back
against the stall wall. "Where are you all sleeping?"
   "Pergun... ."
   "I can figure that out. I meant..."
   "We took the liberty of using the front room. There's space there, and
we did bring mattresses."
   "That's fine." Dorrin takes a deep breath, realizing that he is more
tired than he thought as his eyes close.
 
 
CLII
 
DORRIN WANDERS THROUGH the cold smithy, his fingers brushing the forge,
his tool rack, wondering when, or if, he will regain his sight. He has
not realized, truly understood, how much of his smithing required vision.
Why is he being punished? Or why is he punishing himself? For not having
the ability to stop chaos without destruction? For trying to help good
people?
   "Darkness!" His eyes burn in frustration. Within days, the Whites will
be back on the road to Diev, unless, miraculously, Spidlaria holds out.
He snorts. With what? Less than a few hundred soldiers and mounted horse
escaped the carnage at Kleth.
   He walks to the smithy door and out into the sunlight, listening to
the sounds of the wooden wands that Yarrl has produced for blade
practice. Even Rek, with his foot twisted beyond Dorrin's poor ability to
heal, has insisted on learning.
   "Keep your guard up!"
   Dorrin grins, imagining how intimidating Reisa once must have been.
The grin fades. He is helpless with chaos about to pour out of the south.
He supposes he should go to see the Black Diamond, but what good will
seeing his ship do? Pergun and Yarrl have both assured him that it is
fine, and that Tyrel is working on the rigging. Dorrin still needs to
forge the replacement sections of the clutch and build the recirculating
collector for the condenser, and he can forge neither while blind.
   He pauses. Yarrl could forge the collector and tubing, but the
additional slip plates need to be forged from black iron, and Yarrl has
never forged in black iron. Still . . . once Dorrin worked with Hegl.. .
and there isn't much time left.
   "Are ye still moping, still feeling sorry for yourself?" Rylla's
rasping voice intrudes.
   "Not too sorry. More like planning ... how to fix the ship."
   "How about planning to fix you?" The healer sits on a stool on the
porch.
   "And just how would I do that?"
   "Well ... I'm no great master Black healer . . . but were I one, I
just might wander over to the herb garden and meditate ..." Rylla laughs.
   "Meditate?"
   "What ails ye isn't in your body. It's in your soul."
   Dorrin shrugs. Order has a basis in growing things. Why not? He turns
his steps toward the ridge and the garden that lies outside the barricade
of hastily felled trees and brush.
   "Vaos! You can't handle that heavy a blade with just your wrist." The
voice is Yard's, not Reisa's.
   "You can," adds Reisa, "but no one here besides you could."
   "Hush, woman."
   Dorrin can sense both Vaos and Rek, Pergun, Liedral and even Merga,
all with wands in their hands. Will it do any good? What can they learn
in an eight-day or so? Enough to hold off conscripted levies?
   He trudges up the gentle incline toward the garden. The early summer
day is cool, with a northern breeze, and bright sun falling on his face.
Dorrin sits carefully on the ground between the rows of astra and the
brinn. His fingers brush across the brinn, drinking in the coolness that
flows within the stalks and leaves.
   Meditate? Upon what? The nature of order. What is order? Why can those
who follow order be punished-even if they seek a good end? Is it just
because their actions increase chaos? Does that mean that order
represents merely a set of laws? Or that no goal, no matter how good, can
justify use of order to create great chaos?
   He takes a deep breath, and a second, trying to relax.
   Chaos breaks things apart-people, armies, cities . . .
   The once-and-still healer frowns. Is it order when two people are
bound together, be it through friendship or love? Then love cannot exist
in true chaos. In a way, that follows. Men who truly love women normally
do not hurt them. True friends do not knowingly hurt each other. Pain is
usually a result of chaos of some sort-a disruption of bodily order for
some reason or another.
   Dorrin tries to drink in the herbs around him, but the nibbling
whitish-red of root-rot in the brinn gnaws at him, disrupting his
concentration. He turns to trying to strengthen the plants against the
rot, projecting what little sense of order he can find within himself
into the brinn.
   "Master Dorrin? Why are you sitting in the garden? Can I sit here?"
Dorrin has to smile. "Yes, Frisa. Try to sit between the plants, not on
them." Frisa plumps herself down by Dorrin's right knee. "I like your
garden."
   "So do I."
   "Why don't plants go places?"
   "They don't have legs," Dorrin answers slowly. "And it's very hard to
move without legs."
   "Fish move. They don't have legs."
   "They live in the water, and their tails and fins are like legs. Even
water plants don't have fins or tails that move."
   "I'm glad I'm not a plant. I like to go places," Frisa announces. "Can
we go on your ship some time?"
   "Where would you like to go?"
   "Some place where people are happy. I want Mommy and Pergun to be
happy. Then I'll be happy all the time."
   Dorrin represses a sigh. "It's not always like that."
   "I know that. You want Mommy to be happy, don't you?"
   "Yes."
   "Then you'll take her and Pergun on your ship, won't you?"
   Dorrin laughs softly. "If I can make the ship go, they can come."
   "Good! You always make things work." Frisa skips to her feet. "Can I
tell Mommy?"
   "Only if you tell her that I'll try to take everyone."
   "Mommy will be happy. So will Pergun." Frisa skips down the ridge
toward the brush barricade and the house and barn . . . and the weapons
practice. Dorrin rubs his chin. Reisa had been a blade, but why has he
never considered Yarrl as one? Because the smith never mentioned weapons?
   His fingers touch the brinn again, as he lifts his head toward the
house and the slope leading to the pond, his ears picking up Frisa's
announcement.
   "Master Dorrin says he'll take everyone on his ship. If he can make it
work. But he'll make it work. He always does."
   Dorrin laughs softly, and just as softly, the blackness melts, and he
looks out on the morning, drinking in the short grass waving in the
breeze, the puffy clouds over the foothills to the Westhorns, just
holding a vision he knows may depart at any instant.
   Finally, he stands and begins to walk downslope to the house, still
taking in the brightness of the day. Not until he sees the strain on
Yarrl's face, and the newly-forged shortsword at the smith's hip, does
the blackness return.
 
 
CLIII
 
DORRIN STEPS ACROSS the yard toward the barricade where Liedral and
Pergun stand. Pergun wears the blade Yarrl made for him, and Liedral's
bow lies on a makeshift stand.
   Both watch the road below, where, at the moment, despite the growing
twilight, another handful of herders, or farmers, trudges not toward
Diev, but uphill toward the road leading to a narrow trail into the
Westhorns. They have found no ships in Diev-except for the occasional
smuggler.
   Even the Black Diamond is not at Tyrel's pier, but anchored three or
four rods offshore, at Tyrel's insistence. Few boats of any size remain
in Diev.
   Liedral points eastward toward a pillar of smoke. "That's a day away
for us, probably three the way the Whites are moving."
   Dorrin fingers his chin. "We need to finish loading the Black Diamond."
   "Is it ready?"
   "No. But we're close."
   "Begging your pardon, master Dorrin," Pergun says respectfully, "but
could you tell me why we've waited so long?" His hand strays to the scab
on his forearm, the result of an encounter with a desperate farmer who
climbed the barricade.
   Dorrin looks to the three mounds on the hill before he answers.
   "Because the White ships are off the coast, and unless I can get the
engine working right, we don't have much chance of escaping them."
   "With all their fireballs, do we have any chance? Why can't you make
fireballs?"
   "The engine should make it possible for us to go where they can't. A
White Wizard has to get close to use a fireball. But you're right. We'll
load up everything that's left tonight and leave at dawn for the
shipwright's. Yarrl and Reisa and Vaos took some things down yesterday
when no one was around."
   "Why are the Whites taking so long? It's been more than an eight-day
since they took Kleth."
   "They're taking control of every town and hamlet. That's why it's been
so slow, thank darkness. Their leader is very methodical." Dorrin
shivers. His senses have shown him exactly how methodical. The route of
the White horde is etched across Spidlar in fire and written on the land
in ashes. "You'll tether the geese, later?"
   "Aye, and we will," affirms Pergun as Dorrin walks back down to the
house.
   Merga is fussing in the kitchen, slicing cold mutton and checking
something in the oven. By the table are two rough boxes, into which she
has been packing the contents of the cupboards. "I stopped to fix a bite
for Kadara. The rest of you will just have to slice off what you want."
   "That's fine. I need to check her arm. Then I'll be going back to the
smithy."
   Merga does not answer, but looks to her daughter. "Frisa, see if you
can find those two little pots in the bottom cupboard and set them on the
table."
   "Yes, mommy. Do you want the tops?"
   "Child, what would I do with pots without tops? Without tops, indeed!"
   Dorrin slips into the storeroom, now mostly empty, since Liedral has
packed the contents into the cart, and digs out an- other dressing from
his pack, carrying it back to the room where Kadara lies. "I need to
check that arm."
   Kadara does not speak, instead turning her head toward the wall as
Dorrin changes the dressing. The stitches are rough, but stitching is not
something he has practiced much, and, in time, he can use his healing
skills to remove any scarring.
   He checks the edges of the slash, but they are firm, with none of the
signs of infection, and no red-white of chaos within the wound. Then he
checks the bruise-cut above her ear. Through his ministrations, Kadara
clamps her lips, uttering not a sound.
   Finally, he steps back.
   "Why did you save me? Why didn't you just leave me?"
   "For what? For the Whites to burn you into charred meat?" Dorrin's
patience is wearing thin.
   "Brede would still be alive if you'd stayed with us. You could have
stopped more of them if you'd only tried. And he could have used a
healer." Kadara's voice is colder than the water that flows into the
holding tank in the kitchen. She tries to reach for the mug by the bed,
the narrow bed that Dorrin had been using, but her right arm just
trembles. "And maybe I'd still be able to use my arm."
   "In time, you will," Dorrin adds quietly.
   "What good is a one-armed blade? Or a one-armed mother?" She shakes
her head, and the short ragged hair lifts away from the still-scabbed
scar above her left ear.
   Scccffff. . . Dorrin glances up as Merga eases through the open
doorway from the hallway, a plate in her hand. "You need be getting back
to work, Dorrin. I've some dinner here for her."
   "Yes, Dorrin. You need to be getting back to work. After all, your
work was more important than stopping the White bastards . . ."
   Dorrin refuses to argue, even though he knows that he personally has
doubtless killed more souls than anyone on the Spidlarian side. "Had I
stayed, the only thing I would have done is get killed, or get someone
else killed." His head still aches intermittently. At times he cannot
see, for the blindness still comes and goes.
   "Then what good are you? Where were you when Brede needed you?"
   "I did what I could," Dorrin answers. "I'm not a fighting man. Call me
a coward, if you will."
   "You aren't a coward, Dorrin. You just never found anything worth
fighting for. Not me, not Liedral, not Recluce ..."
   "What do you call the mess I created at Kleth?"
   "That was engineered destruction, not fighting-"
   "Here's your supper," interrupts Merga gently.
   "Why should I eat?"
   "Because of your son." Merga says.
   "Who won't have a father . .."
   Dorrin does not answer as he steps into the hall. He glances at the
back bedroom. A faint smile creases his lips. Under the press of people,
at least he and Liedral are sharing the same bed-in a way. Although there
is a definite wall down the middle, the arrangement is an improvement.
Sometimes, at least, he can reach out and touch her gently.
   He walks back to the kitchen, where he stops, glancing at the steam
rising from the kettle. The steam, again, reminds him of the painfully
built engine that he can only hope will work.
   But what good is he, Kadara has asked. Brede is dead, the victim of
the concentrated forces of the wizards, and Dorrin is alive, alive
because he was so pain-scarred and blinded that he could barely ride.
   Slowly, he walks from the kitchen out onto the porch and down into the
yard and around the cottage to the smithy. Overhead, the heavy gray
clouds mass. He rubs his forehead. What can he do to stop the oncoming
Whites? Certainly, killing large numbers of relatively innocent troopers
and levies will not stop the horde. In the few eight-days remaining, can
he devise a way to stop the White Wizards-or some of them?
   Under the gray skies, light rain continues to fall.
   Inside the smithy, the warmth of the forge is comforting, as is the
sound of hammers. Yarrl has not only built the new condenser, but
improved the design considerably, and his touch with the grindstone, with
the physical efforts of Rek and Vaos, has resulted in a much truer finish
on the clutch parts that are not black iron.
   "I've been thinking, Dorrin ..." Yarrl sets the hammer on the anvil.
   The younger smith grins. "What else could I have done easier?"
   "Not easier . . . and we can't do it now, but if you build another
ship, Froos showed me an idea for holding a shaft in place. You take two
rings, one smaller than the other, and flange the edges, sort of, and put
metal balls between the two, and lubricate the balls with grease. Now if
you made it out of black iron, and collared the inner ring to the
shaft..."
   Dorrin nods. "How would we get the balls to be round? They'd have to
be really round."
   "Make them big."
   Dorrin thinks. "Why use balls? How about something shaped like a
barrel or a pail? We could make them out of rod stock, and fuller the
ends smaller, and turn them like a grindstone or a lathe."
   "That might work better." Yarrl wipes his forehead. "I roughed out
those sections of the clutch the way you drew it with the charcoal,
except I made the angle on the teeth different, because it seemed like
they'd bind." He steps toward the forge and gestures with the hammer.
   Dorrin tries not to smile, or to kick himself. Had he enlisted Yarrl's
help earlier, he could have avoided darkness knows how many problems.
   The clutch pieces gleam on the firebricks.
   "You polished them?"
   "A little." Yarrl yawns, and Dorrin notes the circles under his eyes.
   "You're tired."
   "Time enough to rest later. The boys and I need to pack the tools and
these parts into the wagon. Morning's coming all too soon."
   Morning, and the Whites.
   Dorrin reflects upon the pillar of black smoke, upon the question of
fireballs. How is a fireball that different from fireworks? Could he
build something that throws a firework of sorts in a thin black iron tube?
   He picks up the hammer, and absently uses the smaller tongs to pull
out a small irregular piece of plate. A tube with a handle, and a
cylinder with a small open end. If he made the small end long and narrow,
then expanded the front end? He shrugs. "Look out, Vaos," cautions Yarrl.
"He's got that look." Dorrin slips the iron into the forge. The night may
be long, but he will have time to rest later, if there is a later.
 
 
CLIV
 
IN THE GRAYNESS before dawn, Dorrin turns in his saddle and looks at the
cottage, and the barn, the barricade of brush-and at the charred timbers
that remain of Rylla's cottage. Even the herb garden is flat, with all
the herbs cut, bagged, and stacked on Liedral's cart. He studies the
southeast, seeing the lines of smoke where the Whites camp at the edge of
the valley.
   Liedral's cart leads the way, with Reisa and Dorrin riding before her.
Vaos sits beside Liedral, his fingers on a blade that Dorrin hopes the
youth will not have to use. Kadara is propped up in part of the cart,
sharing it with the remainder of Dorrin's and Liedral's trading goods and
herbs.
   The wagon follows, with Petra holding the reins, and Merga beside her.
They also wear blades. Yarrl and Pergun ride just behind the wagon,
which, in addition to the last of the smithy tools, three small barrels,
and a grinder, carries Rylla, Frisa, and Rek. The healer talks gently to
the girl and Yarrl's apprentice.
   Dorrin's fingers brush the staff, and perversely, the blackness drops
across his eyes once more. He takes a deep breath, and sits straight in
the saddle, letting his fingers caress the staff for a moment. Then he
thinks about herbs, and the bitter strength of the brinn.
   "Reisa," Dorrin says quietly.
   "Yes."
   "I'm having a little trouble seeing, right now."
   "Well, you don't need to for a while, do you? The road's clear ahead."
   Dorrin rides silently, letting Meriwhen keep pace with Reisa's mount.
   "Will anyone be out this early?" Vaos's voice carries to Dorrin.
   "We hope not," answers Liedral, "but in these times, nothing is
certain."
   "What will happen to Diev?"
   "I don't know. There's not much left of Kleth. It was razed and
burned. But the Council fled Spidlaria and left the city open, according
to travelers. The Whites killed just the people who tried to fight or who
were tied to the blue guards or to the traders. So far they've left most
people there alone."
   "So why are so many people running away?" asks Vaos.
   "It's not certain what the Whites will do. They can do great cruelty,
but they also can be merciful and sometimes even do good. They keep the
peace in their cities, and there is little violence. They have already
started rebuilding Elparta. They are terribly cruel to their enemies and
those who oppose them."
   "That's why we have to leave?"
   "Yes. Dorrin and Kadara and Reisa and Yarrl and I have all opposed the
Whites-Dorrin perhaps most of all."
   "They'd kill us because we worked for him?"
   "Yes."
   Vaos tightens his fingers on the hilt of his blade.
   Dorrin rides silently, trying to concentrate on the orderly things in
his life-the herbs, the healing, the smithing, and Liedral. As they pass
the turnoff to Honsard's cartery, the blackness lifts. Dorrin breathes
more easily. Petra glances toward the deserted buildings, and Dorrin
follows her glance. So does Reisa.
   "Sometimes the wicked prosper," she says.
   "Too often, it seems." He adds, "It's better this early."
   "So far." Reisa's words are measured. "You all right now?"
   "For now."
   They ride up a gentle rise that is the last hill before the River
Weyel and the bridge to Diev. Dorrin's stomach tightens.
   A small group of men, and several women, armed with cudgels and
pitchforks has gathered by the bridge. In the field to the east of the
road wait the children and several older women.
   "Trouble," observes Reisa unnecessarily.
   "I'd rather not fight." Dorrin rubs his forehead, then his shoulders.
   The rudely armed men and women turn toward Dorrin and those who follow
him. They lift cudgels and pitchforks.
   "They got food! Horses!"
   "Damned traders! Make 'em pay."
   "... too proud to accept the Whites ..."
   Reisa wraps the reins around her right forearm and puts her left hand
on the hilt of her blade. "Do you have any ideas how to avoid a fight?"
   "Let me try something." Dorrin urges Meriwhen in front of Reisa and
rides down the gentle slope toward the peasants.
   "... get the bastard .. ."
   "... uppity coin-counter..."
   When he is perhaps two rods from the group, seeing no bows and hoping
there are none, he reins up.
   "We would appreciate passage." Scarcely eloquent, Dorrin knows, but no
words will suffice in any case.
   "Oh ... he would appreciate passage, would he?"
   "Not without some hefty tariffs . . . and some trade from the
ladies..."
   Dorrin waits for a moment, then lifts the staff, letting its blackness
spill forth. Then he wraps the light around himself and Meriwhen.
   ". . . he's gone ..."
   "... frigging wizard ..."
   Dorrin guides Meriwhen forward, focuses on the iron of a pitchfork,
then thrusts with the staff.
   "...ooofff..."
   Leaning forward, he begins an effort to clear a path through the mob.
   ".. . get him!"
   ".. .how? Can't..."
   A thunder of hoofbeats follows him, and he can sense two others on
horses sweeping toward him.
   ".. . run!"
   "Standfast..."
   "You stand fast!"
   "... not worth it.. ."
   Dorrin drops his shield as he reaches the bridge, reappearing in the
sight of the others as Reisa and Yarrl join him. But the peasants have
scattered. One man cradles an arm, eyes blazing. He spits toward the
road. Several others glare as the cart and wagon cross into Diev, but
none move back toward the road. Dorrin's head throbs, but he can see, for
the moment.
   "For someone who's not a wizard, you do a fair imitation," states
Reisa.
   "I am a wizard of sorts," admits Dorrin, "just a poor one, just like
I'm a poor healer and a poor smith."
   "Not a poor smith, just a young one." Yarrl edges his mount off the
road. The smith is so at home in the saddle, and the blade seems so much
a part of him, that Dorrin wonders how he failed to see how dangerous an
adversary Yarrl could be.
   As soon as the wagon crosses the bridge, Dorrin and Reisa follow, then
ride on the shoulder of the pavement to return to the front of the
entourage.
   "Was the smith once a blade?" asks Vaos as Dorrin passes.
   "He hasn't said," Dorrin responds. "I'd guess so, but that's his
business, not mine."
   The streets of Diev are empty, and the shutters are tightly fastened
on all the structures. Even the Red Lion is locked and shuttered, and the
Tankard's front doors are boarded tight.
   The wheels of the cart and the wagon echo through the scarcely
post-dawn shadows of the streets of lower Diev as they make their way to
and past the piers. A barricade of planks and barrels bars the way to
Tyrel's.
   "Holloa!" calls Dorrin. "Tyrel?"
   A shutter opens from the single window facing the street. "Oh . ..
it's past time-hoped you'd be here yesterday. Afraid you got into trouble
with the mobs." The shutter slams shut.
   The tattered tents are gone from the hillside beyond the shipwright's.
   "Open that section. Make it quick. Bully-boys could be back any time.
Move it, Styl!" Tyrel's voice sounds hoarse, but a section of planks is
lifted away. Liedral guides the cart through. Petra follows with the
wagon.
   The planks are dragged back into place after Pergun awkwardly rides
through. The cart and wagon roll toward the pier, where the Black Diamond
is once more tied.
   "Master Dorrin." Tyrel bows as Dorrin dismounts. "We got enough coal
to fill those bins. Don't ask me how."
   "I won't. How long will it take to load up all of this and the rest of
the gear in the shed?"
   "Maybe till midafternoon."
   "We need to make those repairs on the engine." Behind Tyrel, Dorrin
sees Rylla leading her charges toward the ship. Dorrin represses a grin
as he sees that she has also ensured that they carry their bags.
   "I'd be doing it quick, were I you."
   "We'll try."
   Dorrin finds Yarrl, who is tying his horse to a rail beside unused
boat blocks inside the nearly empty structure. "Can you help me get those
clutch pieces and the condenser on board and in place? We're running out
of time. The others can handle the loading, I think."
   "Good idea."
   Dorrin finds Tyrel again, and commandeers his apprentices. "We need
all of these pieces from the wagon on the deck above the engine."
   "Sure as you're not going to tear it apart?"
   Dorrin sighs. "We'll see about the condenser. But the bypass tubing
and valve and the clutch replacements have to be done. We won't clear the
harbor otherwise." He nods at Yarrl. "I'll be back in a bit."
   "I'll take care of it," the older smith says.
   Dorrin studies the half-finished stalls amidships, then looks at
Pergun, who is carrying a barrel of grain from the shed. "Can you get
those finished by midafternoon? We don't have much time?"
   Pergun scratches his head. "I can get 'em usable-not finished good."
   "Do what you can, and load the horses. Probably blindfold them. Leave
one stall for Meriwhen. The Whites are at the edge of the upper valley on
the road from Kleth." Dorrin rubs his forehead. "Tyrel's people are going
to load most everything except for a few smithing tools."
   "More of your wizardry?"
   "I have a score or two to settle, and I think I know how."
   "I don't like it when you look like that, master Dorrin." Pergun
shivers.
   Dorrin frowns. How does he look when he thinks about applying his
efforts to the White Wizard-is his name Jeslek?- who tortured Liedral.
   He walks back across the plank and down to the shipwright's shed, to
the corner where the tub and the barrels are. There, he begins to
measure. He would prefer to add water and make a cake he could grind, but
he doubts that he has the time to dry the mixture. All he can do is
ensure that the powders are well mixed before he pours them into his
crude rocket shells and fuses them. He fills all three shells, ignoring
the figure who stands in the shadows while he finishes.
   "Going to be a hero, like Reisa?" asks Yarrl once Dorrin has finished.
   "No. I am going out to do a job, hopefully as quietly and silently as
possible."
   "That's better. Not much, but better. Need help?"
   "I need it, but I think it will work better if I do it alone. I
couldn't shield anyone else." He slips the small rockets into one set of
saddlebags and the compact launcher into the other. "How did you do on
the clutch?"
   "Think it's right. Replacing the tubing and the condenser was easy."
   Dorrin shakes his head. Things would have been so much easier had he
asked Yarrl for help.
   "You'll learn," says Yarrl. "Take a look."
   Dorrin walks back across the shipwright's yard and across the plank,
skirting around Liedral and Petra, who are wrestling bags of herbs and
other goods onto the ship. When he gets to the engine, he finds the work
accomplished perhaps better than he could have.
   "I should have let you do it from the beginning." Dorrin's tone is
rueful.
   "I wouldn't have thought it up," Yarrl admits. "Once you see it, it
ought to work, but..." He shrugs.
   Dorrin looks at the late midmorning sun. "Darkness! I need to be
going."
   "Good luck."
   The smith and sometime engineer and infrequent healer waits until the
plank is clear before walking back into the shed to find Meriwhen.
   Is what he plans wise? Hardly. Does he have a chance of success? A
slim one. Does he have any choice? Not after what Brede and Kadara and
Liedral have given.
   He walks Meriwhen outside, tying the mare to a thin pole by the
bollard closest to the barricade. Then he waits until Liedral nears the
wagon and steps forward.
   Liedral's eyes take in the saddled mare, the staff, and her shoulders
slump. "What can you do now? Haven't you given enough? Do you want to be
blind the rest of your life, like Creslin?"
   He puts his arms around her. "I won't be blind if this works, not for
long, anyway."
   "No, you'll be dead." Liedral steps back, not bothering to wipe the
tears from her cheeks.
   "I owe too many people." He gestures toward the Black Diamond. "Too
many lives paid for her."
   "Who else-?"
   His fingers touch her lips. "Yarrl can duplicate what I've done, if
need be. I have to pay my debts."
   "Men. You'll pay your debts and leave me alone."
   Now Dorrin's shoulders are the ones that slump. "I have to do this."
   "I know." Her lips brush his cheek. "I don't have to like it."
   They embrace again, but separate. Almost on cue, Tyrel and Yarrl
appear.
   "If I don't make it back before the Whites do, I won't. Take the ship
to Recluce, and try to get them to accept it. If they won't, I'd suggest
Hamor."
   "That be a demonish long trip without you, ser," observes Tyrel.
   "I'll try to make it."
   "Don't try. Just take care of your job. We'll wait." Yarrl's voice is
gruff.
   The three swing back the planks as Dorrin rides southward through the
echoing empty streets once more. He hears nothing in either upper or
lower Diev, although lines of smoke have appeared from a few chimneys,
signifying that at least some hardy souls have arisen and are cooking-or
something.
   When he nears the bridge, he again struggles with the bending of the
light around both Meriwhen and himself, but the patterns weave together,
and, in time, he rides invisible in the early summer air that wafts past
him, bearing faint hints of burning from the south.
   He cannot see, not in any conventional sense, but he can sense the
world around him, from the muted blackness of the objects in his
saddlebags to the solidity of his staff. Ahead he can sense the white fog
that seeps over the hills to the southeast.
   The peasants or displaced farmers or herders who disputed their
passage have gone on from the bridge, and Dorrin rides across as quietly
as possible, even though he knows Meriwhen's hoofs click on the stones.
No one appears, and he continues onward, up past Honsard's, past his own
dwelling, until he can sense the rolling mist of white. He pauses in a
shallow depression between two hills.
   Three men, one stumbling, with blood splashed across his face, the
other two running downhill toward the hill Dorrin has just descended,
pass him as he nears the unseen heat of fire and chaos. But nothing
pursues them.
   For the moment, as he hoped and sensed, the White horde has paused for
a mid-day break. Not much more than a short and a long hill separate him
from the soldiers and the white-bannered tent on the crest.
   In the depression between hills before him, there are several
buildings, crushed meadows, and no people. There he dismounts and ties
Meriwhen to a shrub behind an empty shed on the deserted herder's
holding. The herders who lived in the hut have since left, for one reason
or another, although the smell of sheep lingers.
   Dorrin takes a deep breath, wondering again what he has to prove, why
he could not simply board the Diamond and leave.
   His mouth frames a smile that neither his eyes nor thoughts reflect as
he recalls Kadara's words. "You aren't a coward, Dorrin. You just never
found anything worth fighting for. Not me, not Liedral, not Recluce ..."
   So what is he fighting for? Recluce will not like his machines any
more than the White Wizards will.
   His hands tighten around the simple tube mounted on the hand grip,
around the black iron shell packed with fireworks powder. He places
another shell in his pouch and closes the saddlebag. He leaves his staff
in the lanceholder, and begins the climb up the first hill. He is still
breathing easily after descending beside the road and climbing the second
hill. He tries to keep his steps quiet as his feet carry him sideways
along the side of the hill and through the vanguard of the White forces.
Still cloaked in bended light, unseen, he steps around soldiers, many of
whom, could he but see their eyes, would look blankly into the distance
that is chaos, even as they would lift their swords to remove his head
from the body beneath.
   Click... click...
   He pauses as he senses the concentration of chaos no more than a dozen
rods before him on the hilltop. He steps forward, and hearing the sounds
of his boots upon the hard-packed mud and gravel, edges onto the trampled
grass and weeds beside the road, still moving forward until he pauses
outside the light fabric of the single tent pitched amid the White
forces. He listens, standing almost within an arm's length of the White
command . . .
   "... get ready to head out.. . not too far until we reach that
homestead. Don't fire it. The High Wizard wants to study it first-the one
with the brush barricade around it and the charred cottage in front."
   Dorrin smiles at the thought of the White soldiers so highly valuing
his establishment. After a few moments, his senses point him toward the
swirl of white mounting nearly to the clouds that must be the wizard who
embodies chaos incarnate. While there are other swirls of white, they are
dwarfed by the sullen red-tinged whiteness that is Jeslek.
   Slowly, he edges into the high-ceilinged tent, still amazed that he
has gotten so close.
   ".. . look over there ..."
   ". . . concealment. . . !"
   Dorrin drops the shield and points his device at the white-haired man
who jabs a finger in his direction.
   WHHHsssttt! The firebolt singes Dorrin's ear as he releases the
striker, and the black steel rocket ignites.
   Crack . . . thump . . . whummmmmmPPPPTTTTTTT. . .
   EEEEEEEElIIIIIIIiiii! As the black order-forged steel of the rocket
shell and the red-tinged white meet, an incandescence sears through the
tent, rending the walls and scattering the wizards and soldiers around
the target like so many children's toys swept aside by a householder's
broom.
   Thurrrrrummmmmmmmmm . . . thuruummmmm . . .
   Dorrin staggers against a tent pole, momentarily forgotten as the
winds buffet the tent, and the thunderclaps shake the hillside.
   "Jeslek! Jeslek!"
   With the methodical nature he has cultivated, Dorrin forces himself to
reknit his cloak of bended light even as he crawls across the fallen tent
wall and through the lashing hail and rain that has appeared nearly
instantaneously with the destruction of the white vortex of force that
has to have been the master chaos wizard.
   The sometime smith, sometime healer continues to crawl through the
lashing winds, ice, and water for a time. Then, he stands and staggers
downhill toward the west, dropping the illusion that has become too hard
to maintain as he weaves toward the shed where he hopes Meriwhen waits.
Inside, he is as cold as the occasional ice that pelts him, for he has no
illusions about what he has done. He has built a tool of destruction,
unloosed it from hiding, and exterminated a pest. And he has done so out
of personal revenge, with no real hope of saving Spidlar or Diev.
   He shakes his head as he unties the black and tries to mount, failing
the first time because his legs are shaking. He tries again, using the
strength in his arms to pull himself up. His head throbs, and occasional
arrows of pain lash his skull.
   No glorious battles ... no honor in besting a skilled foe. No, Dorrin
knows he is no warrior, no hero. He is a coward who has built a tool for
killing at a distance, even if the killing were the most necessary thing
of all.
   With a sigh that is almost a shudder, he turns Meriwhen around on the
road, urging her onward, knowing that the White soldiers will still
overrun Diev, that all of Candar east of the Westhorns will belong to
Fairhaven.
   At the bridge where they had met the armed peasants, he pauses, noting
absently that there is no sign of them, nor of anyone else. Should he
toss the black iron tube into the swirling water that rises under the
sheets of rain pouring from the all - too - suddenly dark gray skies? He
shakes his head. More order-knit destruction may yet be necessary.
   Once he crosses the bridge the rain falls away, as if it were confined
to the area around the White horde, and the smell of burning is stronger,
as if other fires have been lit.
   They have. The Tankard is in flames. On the street dance what appear
to be the same folk who had menaced him at the bridge. A row of barrels
sits on the stones, and on the first sits a man with an arm bound in
rags. Others use the Tankard's mugs and dip beer from the barrels, their
tops rudely smashed open. Dorrin guides Meriwhen down another street.
   "... I saw him! The Black wizard . . ."
   Dorrin urges Meriwhen into a trot, but no one follows, and he slows to
a walk, casting his senses out as he nears the piers. But the piers
remain empty, desolate. He looks seaward, seeing two ships flying white,
circling beyond the breakwater-waiting.
   The road before Tyrel's is not empty. Half a hundred people stand
around the burning shed.
   ".. . frigging bastards ..."
   "Find the arrows ..."
   "Get a boat! We'll make them take us!"
   Dorrin recasts his cloak of light and walks Meriwhen down an alley he
hopes leads to the other end of the channel. At the end of the alley, he
turns back toward the water, where, for a, moment, he releases his
concealment.
   The Black Diamond floats perhaps two rods off the pier.
   A half-dozen Spidlarian soldiers stand on the main deck of the
Diamond. Another dozen seem trapped between the mob and the water.
   Dorrin sees Kadara, hair mussed, face bruised, ropes cruelly wound
around her splinted and shattered arm. Rylla carries Frisa, and the child
cries. He continues to look for silky short brown hair and broad
shoulders.
   On the poop four others stand side to side-blades out- Yarrl, Reisa,
Petra, and Liedral. Below them stand the soldiers. From what Dorrin can
tell, Tyrel, or someone, has closed the hatch to the engine. A faint wisp
of steam rises from the stack.
   Dorrin takes a deep breath and studies the positions of the soldiers.
An officer is arguing with Yarrl.
   "Get this thing going ..."
   "I don't know how. Only Master Dorrin knows how ..." Yarrl keeps
looking toward the shore.
   Dorrin sighs, then urges Meriwhen forward at a gallop. They hit the
water with a surge, and Dorrin uses every bit of effort to wrap the light
around himself, even as Meriwhen swims toward the ship.
   "... just a frigging horse ..."
   "... even it doesn't want to be left to the Whites ..."
   Dorrin's eyes burn as he stands in the stirrups and, one-handed, draws
himself onto the narrow brace for the rudder. His desperate leap
momentarily pushes Meriwhen deeper into the water. He clutches his staff
with the other hand and struggles upward until he can lurch over the
railing.
   His eyes continue to burn as he listens to Meriwhen churn aimlessly
around the stern, but he forces himself onward, still shielded, still
blind, until he is on the main deck.
   He steps behind the rearmost soldier and lifts the staff. His staff
lifts and falls, as does the soldier-as does Dorrin's cloaking from
sight. Two soldiers whirl, and Dorrin strikes, once ... twice.
   The second time, he misses. The soldier does not, and a pain like
white fire rips across his arm.
   The soldier does not lift his sword again, cleft as he is almost in
two by Yard's blade.
   Seven bodies lie on the deck, one of them Pergun's. Dorrin clutches
his arm, realizing that blood is also dripping into his eyes.
   Rylla rips away his shirt, and begins to sprinkle powdered astra into
the slash. "Sit down!" she snaps.
   "Got to get clear."
   "They can handle that."
   As the Black Diamond bobs on the choppy water, the soldiers on the
pier, dancing back from the mob, begin to jump into the channel.
   "Take us ... we'll pay you ..."
   "... anything ..."
   Yarrl has persuaded Tyrel to open the engine space hatch, and the two
men talk as Rylla continues to bind Dorrin's arm. Yarrl steps down, and
Tyrel hurries aft to the helm.
   Dorrin grins in relief as he hears the fwwuuuphhh.. .fwuppp ... of the
engine as it begins to turn over. He senses the faint vibration of the
black iron rods as they work.
   Fwwwuuuppphhh . . . fwupp . . . fwuppp . . . The engine and the
flywheel pick up more speed, settling into an even smoother rhythm than
on the trials.
   "You be taking it easy ..." warns Rylla, as Dorrin totters toward the
engine space. He stands in the hatchway and looks down at Yarrl.
   "We were all hoping you'd make it." Yarrl continues to shovel coal
into the firebox.
   "We need the screw turning before we ground."
   "You take ... care . . . of that..." puffs Yarrl.
   Dorrin slowly eases the clutch into place, then lets out his breath as
the piston and flywheel continue to pick up speed. As the Black Diamond
eases seaward, he continues to watch until the pressure is well above the
minimum operating level.
   Then he wipes his forehead and struggles back on deck. Pergun lies on
the deck, but on his back, and he breathes shallowly. Rylla looks up at
Dorrin helplessly. So does Merga.
   Dorrin takes another deep breath, then kneels, hands gently touching
the forehead, reaching out with all the skill and strength he has left,
chasing the encroaching whiteness away, pushing back the influx of chaos.
But the deck swims before him, the rough planks rising against his chin,
and he falls into the darkness.
 
 
CLV
 
THE RED-HAIRED wizard finishes binding her arm, then stoops and lifts the
gold amulet from the pile of dust and clothes on the trampled and burned
grass. Stepping around the body of a White guard, she dangles it toward
the bearded White Wizard with the gash across his forehead.
   "Would you like it, Fydel?"
   "Darkness, no! Give it to Sterol."
   She turns to Cerryl. "Would you-"
   "It's past time for games, Anya. Sterol should have the amulet
returned to him. Especially now."
   "Don't tell me that you two brave and strong White brethren are afraid
of a poor black smith and healer who must stoop to stealth and murder?"
   Fydel looks away.
   Cerryl does not, instead meeting Anya's eyes. "He was rather
effective, wouldn't you say?" His arm takes in the pile of dust that had
been Jeslek, the two bodies, and the missing side of the tent ringed with
charred patches. "There were three of them-just three, according to
Jeslek. Between them, they've destroyed more than half our forces, a
half-dozen of the White brethren, and the High Wizard. Just what would
happen if they had decided to send a few more-perhaps older and more
experienced order-masters and Black warriors?" Cerryl's smile is crooked.
"For such reasons, I would prefer to defer to one of great experience,
such as Sterol."
   "Do we wait for him-to finish this rabble?" snaps Anya.
   "No. I think we can proceed-slowly."
   "You are always so cautious, Cerryl," Anya says brightly.
   "When one cannot rely on sheer force of chaos, dear lady," the
smooth-faced White Wizard replies slowly, "one must needs be cautious."
   "Bah ... let's get the troops moving." Fydel blots the blood from his
forehead and steps through the space where the tent wall was. Then he
pauses and points toward the remaining two bodies. Fire flares, and only
ashes remain.
   Anya and Cerryl raise their eyebrows simultaneously.
 
 
CLVI
 
DORRIN WAKES TO find his head in Liedral's lap. She is blotting away the
dried and not-so-dried blood with a cool and damp cloth and sprinkling
the crushed and powdered astra into the gash on his forehead. The powder
burns, and his head aches, not to mention his shoulder.
   For some reason, he thinks of Meriwhen and his eyes fill. He hopes the
mare made it to shore. He shudders, and Liedral squeezes his shoulders.
   "It's all right."
   "No. It's not." He sits up and takes the cloth from her. So many
others, even the mare who has carried and brought him through so much,
have paid for his desires and dreams of building his engines.
   His shoulders slump. Brede is dead. Liedral was tortured, Kadara left
alone and pregnant. Rylla's cottage lies in ashes, with the old healer
uprooted. Thousands of relatively innocent soldiers he dead. Kleth has
been razed and burned, and Elparta half-destroyed. Why?
   Because order threw him out and he has set himself out to oppose
chaos? Or just because he is stubborn? He recalls Fair-haven-clean,
peaceful, even orderly. Just because he cannot tolerate chaos ... is that
any reason to create disaster?
   He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, ignoring the
throbbing in his head and arm. Now is not the time to philosophize, but
to seek safety for those on board. He looks across the deck and up onto
the poop deck to Tyrel at the wheel, then to the sea to the north.
   The Black Diamond is merely holding position inside the breakwater.
Two, perhaps three, kays offshore are the two schooners that bear the
white and crimson ensigns of Fair-haven.
   Dorrin starts to stand, and Liedral helps him to his feet.
   "Don't be so hard on yourself," she murmurs.
   He touches her hand and walks across the gently rolling deck to the
short ladder up to the poop and the helm.
   "We need to get out of here," Dorrin says to Tyrel.
   "How? Where they're lying, with that wind out of the east-northeast,
they can cut us off either way we go. Under full sail, they're faster
than we are, even with your engine, I think."
   "Which direction can't they go?" Dorrin rubs his forehead, where the
dull hammer of a smith beats still within his skull.
   "They can go where they want to. They're White Wizards."
   "I don't need old jokes. Can they go upwind?"
   "They'd have to tack."
   "All right. How close to the shore will they dare to come?"
   "With this wind?" Tyrel looks to the sky, and the clouds on the edge
of the northern horizon. "Not a lot closer than they are now."
   "Fine. We'll just head east right along the coast."
   "But..." Tyrel shakes his head. "It's hard to remember that we can go
where we want to." He pauses. "If your engine fails, we'll go aground."
   "I understand. But if we go farther offshore, they'll be able to get
close enough to fry us with their wizards' fire." Dorrin limps forward
toward the hatch to the engine compartment, where, as Yarrl watches, he
shuts off the bypass and channels the engine's power all to the screw.
   The Black Diamond surges past the breakwater, sails still furled to
her spars as Tyrel slowly swings the converted schooner onto an eastward
course paralleling the coast.
   Dorrin wobbles across the deck to where Pergun lies on a pallet under
a makeshift awning. The dark-haired man's breathing is even, and his eyes
are closed. Merga lifts a damp cloth from his forehead, even as the tears
dry on her face. Dorrin bends and touches Pergun's forehead again,
offering what little additional order he can spare.
   "Thank you, master Dorrin."
   "Please don't thank me now. Thank me if we make it to safe haven."
Dorrin moves to the railing, watching the choppy green water, letting the
wood carry some of his weight.
   Kadara, her arm bound into a sling, joins him. "You could have done
that for Brede."
   "If you will recall, I wasn't in much shape to do anything."
   "Mule crap! You were off babying yourself again. Here you are, two
minor flesh wounds, and you can barely walk."
   Dorrin turns to the redhead. "You have to think what you think, and
nothing I say has ever affected that. But I don't think strength is
measured by how well one bears physical pain or how many people you cut
down with a sharp blade. Brede understood that.
   "You've still got a son you'll have to raise. He's born of Recluce
parents, and he just might not take to a blade. Will you lose him because
you'll insist on making him into something he isn't-like my parents did?"
   "You should talk. You don't care what anyone thinks. All you care
about is your damned engines."
   Dorrin keeps his eyes level on Kadara. "You're right. I know what I
am."
   This time Kadara looks down at the railing and the water beyond.
   Dorrin steps back as Liedral motions to him.
   "You were hard on her," observes Liedral. "You were harder on
yourself."
   "Truth is sometimes hard."
   "Do you like it when someone applies hard truth to you?"
   "Of course not." He grins. "Except when you do it." Then he looks
northward once more. The easternmost White schooner, probably twice the
size of the Diamond, has begun to turn, running crosswind. After watching
the ship for a time, Dorrin climbs back up to the helm to talk to Tyrel.
   "He's going to try and cut for the Cape there-Cape Devalin-where we'll
have to go farther seaward."
   "Would more speed help?"
   "Aye, for if we can clear the Cape "fore him, he'll be forced into the
teeth of the wind."
   Dorrin totters away from the helm and down the ladder to the main deck.
   Near the bow, Rylla points to the beaches, with an arm around Frisa.
Vaos is attempting to reposition a board on the amidships stalls, and
talks to the horses. Dorrin swallows as he sees the empty stall once
more, wipes his eyes and continues back toward the engine compartment.
   Yarrl sets down the shovel and wipes his forehead. "Hotter than a
forge, this beast you built. And wetter. But this boy likes it."
   From one corner, Rek watches the engine, trying to puzzle its workings.
   "Too wet," Yarrl says.
   Water seeps from several tubes, and the deck is soaked. Dorrin tries
to trace the leaks. One is in the seawater line that provides cold water
to the condenser shell. Another is around the exit valve of the first
cylinder. From what he can tell, nothing will break, split, or fail-not
immediately.
   "We need to fire up more."
   "Will it take it?"
   "Fora while."
   "You're the engineer," Yarrl says with a crooked grin, opening the
firebox door again and lifting the shovel.
   Slowly, slowly the connecting rods begin to pick up speed, and the
heat from the boiler builds, and more water spills across the
heavy-timbered half-deck that holds the engine. A dull vibration builds,
and Dorrin spills steam, fractionally, until the engine returns to a
stable rhythm, faster than before, but not what, he thinks, the engine
might be capable of with work and time. Unfortunately, he has had neither.
   After stepping back on deck, Dorrin checks the white schooner, then
hurries to Tyrel, who is talking to Styl.
   "... pails of water .. . any sand left?"
   "We put some on." The lanky bearded man jabs a fist toward the
approaching schooner. "Don't know as it will work if they got a hot
White."
   "We'll do what we can."
   "Aye, ser." Styl vaults gracefully onto the main deck.
   "Used to be a mate for Gossag. Good man," Tyrel says.
   "How are we doing?"
   "Going to be close. Looks like we're going to hit off the Cape at
about the same time."
   Dorrin studies the full-sailed vessel. "Will our canvas burn if a
fireball hits?"
   "Probably not if we keep it furled. See, they get you one way or
another. It's hard to fire ship's wood with a flame; needs something like
burning canvas, pitch, to set it going. But . . . you furl your sails,
and you go dead in the water, and they board or flame the crew standing
off a bit."
   "If everyone's below, and the sails are furled tight, we could get
pretty close."
   "Aye ..."
   ' Til get everyone below." Dorrin climbs down the ladder to where
Merga ministers to Pergun. "Can you and Petra get him below?"
   "It's cooler here, master Dorrin."
   Dorrin points to the oncoming schooner. "They're going to attack. You
can bring him up later."
   Merga looks at the fevered man.
   "He'll die here. They'll flame the deck." Dorrin takes down the
blanket that has served as a shade for the former mill hand, folding it
quickly and setting it on the deck. "Get this below also."
   He begins to search for his staff, both with his eyes and senses, and
finally reclaims it from a corner in the empty stall where Meriwhen
should have been. He steps out of the stalls, carrying the staff, toward
the bow. Kadara sits propped against the forward side of the one fully
completed stall, in the shade. She looks up warily.
   "You need to get below. There's a White ship coming."
   "I can fight."
   "I think we can get by without fighting. If they board, you'll need to
fight, but I'd rather avoid this fight."
   "Wouldn't you always?"
   "Yes." He steps around her toward the bow and Rylla and Frisa, where
he repeats his warning, and asks Rylla to pass it on to Vaos. Looking to
the helm, he sees Tyrel gesturing and motioning below. Styl and the two
other men finally leave the poop deck, but not until they have lashed an
open-topped barrel, filled with seawater and a bucket, to the railing
closest to the helm.
   Liedral? Where is she?
   He finds her in the mess space with Reisa and Petra. Reisa is
directing Liedral in sharpening an ancient pike. All three are fully
armed.
   "We may not need that... I hope." He repeats his warning, and then
climbs topside, where he goes to the engine space.
   "The Whites are getting close. I'm going to close this halfway."
   "Leave it open. We'll die from the heat," Yarrl yells over the sound
of the engine.
   Dorrin looks from the oncoming schooner to the engine compartment.
"Then stay low on the deck here."
   Yarrl nods and glances at Rek, even as he throws another shovelful of
coal into the firebox. "You hear that, boy?"
   "Yes, ser."
   Dorrin climbs back to the helm, almost dragging the staff.
   The White ship is perhaps a dozen cables from the Black Diamond, close
enough that Dorrin can make out the name- White Storm.
   "Let me take this," Dorrin insists, looking over his shoulder at the
approaching White Storm.
   "I'm a better helmsman, master Dorrin," Tyrel insists.
   "I know. I need you alive. You don't want to get fried, do you?"
   "I was a-hoping you could protect us both."
   "I'll be lucky to protect myself," Dorrin admits.
   Tyrel looks nervously to the starboard, toward the breakers that seem
all too close. "Don't get any nearer to shore ... and if . . . when you
get abreast of the cut in the beach there, just before the tip of the
cape, you need to bring her seaward another dozen rods at least."
   "Let me loop this here." Tyrel makes two quick rope loops to secure
Dorrin's staff to the side of the wheel cage.
   "Thank you. I'll need it." Dorrin takes the wheel, swallowing. Why is
he getting into positions like this?
   "Thought you might." Tyrel eases down onto the main deck, where he
stands by the hatch into the poop. Other than the man Dorrin regards as
the ship's captain, the decks are now clear.
   The White Storm seems to slash through the water, and the bearing
between the two ships seems almost constant, the distance steadily
decreasing. Dorrin watches the approach. Is the Black Diamond gaining
ever so slightly?
   A swirl of wind carries coal cinders into his face, and he blinks. The
stack should be taller, and that would also increase the boiler draft.
But again, he has not had the time to work all the details out. It is a
miracle of sorts that the engine works so well.
   More cinders fly in his face. He looks at the stack, sensing a
vibration in the deck, realizing that Yarrl is forcing more power into
the engine.
   The Black Diamond continues to gain on the angled approach of the
White Storm. Dorrin is now actually looking slightly back.
   More cinders fly toward Dorrin. Why now?
   He grins. They're nearing the Cape and the time when the White ship
will face a straight headwind. Dorrin sobers and swallows as he sees the
cleft in the beach appear to starboard. Now he must turn the Diamond
seaward, cutting the distance between the two ships. He eases the wheel,
but the turn is gentle-too gentle.
   He turns the wheel more, and the Black Diamond angles closer to the
White schooner, close enough that Dorrin can see a white-garbed figure
standing just aft of the bow. The White Wizard raises an arm and white
fire flashes southward.
   PHsssttttt...
   The fireball sails by the upper spars.
   "Turn her back, master Dorrin!" yells Tyrel.
   Dorrin tries to bring the Black Diamond back onto a more eastern
course now that the ship has regained its separation.
   PHHHssttttt. ..
   Another fireball flies past, lower, and close enough that Dorrin can
feel the heat and the chaos as he wrestles with the wheel. As he
straightens the helm on what he hopes is the proper course line, Dorrin
grabs for his staff with one hand, yanking it upward as another flash of
fire flames toward the Black Diamond.
   Phhhssst... platttt!!! Fire sprays around Dorrin and the staff he has
raised barely in time, but the ship heels because Dorrin has lost the
wheel. He grabs for the spokes, and pain sears through his hand,
although, somehow, he halts the bow from falling off into the breakers
and brings the ship back toward course line.
   He looks over his shoulder, and raises the staff one-handed against
another fireball.
   Shhhh . . . plant. . . Chaos-fire splatters around him, blown back by
the wind.
   Suddenly, it seems, the Black Diamond begins to pull away from the
White Storm as if the White ship were standing still.
   Another firebolt flies, but lands in the green sea behind the Diamond.
Dorrin turns the helm slightly more seaward, hoping he has not already
run too close to the breakers and the sandbars and rocks over which they
break.
   His head aches; his shoulder throbs, and now his thumb seems broken or
... something, as he shifts the staff to the injured left hand and tries
to wrestle the ship onto the course he feels is safe.
   Yet another fireball falls astern.
   "Master Dorrin, let me take her!"
   Dorrin nods, and Tyrel scrambles for the helm, frantically turning the
ship more to sea.
   The sometime healer and smith holds the staff loosely facing aft,
watching as the White Storm, sails almost flat, struggles to find the
wind before being carried onto the cape. The Black Diamond chugs onward.
   Dorrin finally walks forward to the engine space. "Let her go slower,"
he yells.
   Yarrl wipes his forehead and closes the firebox door, slumping against
a cross-brace.
   Dorrin listens. A series of vibrations he does not like have crept
into the engine ... or the shaft. He limps aft to the helm once more.
   "Can we run on sail later?" he asks.
   "Aye ... if we can get enough to sea."
   "I'm going to let the others come on deck."
   Tyrel laughs and jabs a hand back toward the cape. "He'll not be
coming after us for a time. White bastards . . ." He spits downwind.
   Dorrin sits down on the deck, too tired to move, but the word has
passed, because Liedral arrives carrying a basket.
   "You need to eat."
   Dorrin does not protest.
   "What did you do to your hand?"
   "Lost an argument with the wheel."
   "Dorrin ..." Liedral shakes her head, and her short hair flies out.
"You eat, and I'll get Rylla."
   He eats, one-handed, while Tyrel sings a vaguely obscene song,
tunelessly, and Styl and the other two begin to rig for sail.
 
 
CLVII
 
"RAZE THE CITY." Sterol looks down at the twisted links in his hand and
the blackened amulet.
   "The whole city? Those who were left surrendered and accepted the
banner of Fairhaven." The eyes of the red-haired female wizard widen.
   "I don't care about the people. Let them go where they will. No city
strikes down a High Wizard and remains to mock Fair-haven. I want all the
crops and livestock taken. Then sow every other field with salt and fire,
and level every structure. Destroy the breakwater and fill the port with
stone."
   "I did not realize you so loved Jeslek."
   "I hated the man. That's scarcely the point, is it?" Sterol's voice is
almost silky. "Do you want the world thinking that leaders should be
targets in warfare?"
   "I understand. Do you wish a reward published for the Black .. .
wizard?"
   "Light, no. Do I have to spell out everything for you? We post a
reward, and those idiots on Recluce might take him back. This way,
everyone around him has to look over their shoulder."
   "Wasn't that Jenred's idea with Creslin?"
   "Hardly. Jenred forgot that those he drove out had no alternatives. Do
you think those sniveling cowards on Recluce are going to take in someone
who is using machines, black steel, and order to create horrible
destruction?"
   "What if he forces them-"
   "With what? He has one magical ship and a handful of followers."
 
 
CLVIII
 
Pure order cannot nourish life, for living requires growth, and the
process of growth is the constant struggle to bring order out of chaos.
 
When a fire destroys the great forests of the Westhorns, immediately
order replenishes itself with scores of seedlings and bushes striving to
recover the hillsides.
 
When a stone wall is built, the forces of frost and heat continually
tumble the stones. So too is it with a house, once the constant order of
the hearthholder is removed.
 
The function of order is to support that life which can order chaos; and
without chaos to be ordered, there can be no purpose to life.
 
The function of chaos is to destroy order. Without order, no structure
can exist-no man nor woman, no plant, not even an earth upon which to
walk. Thus, the total triumph of chaos is its defeat.
 
What can be said of order and chaos, then? Since the world was, is, and
will be, neither order nor chaos may triumph. Therefore, in the world as
a whole there must be equal measures of each, and that Balance will be
maintained; for, if it is not, there shall be either no world or no life.
 
And upon this world are the lands and the seas.
 
People call the sea chaos, but the sea contains a deeper order within the
ever-changing waves and depths, and the seas wash upon the beaches and
retreat, and that changes not.
 
Likewise people call the land orderly, for it changes seldom, yet beneath
that surface order is great disorder, filled with the fires and chaos of
the demons.
 
A people of the sea must be of order, for order must contain the surface
chaos of the oceans and harmonize with the deeper order under the waves.
 
Likewise, a people of chaos can only exist upon the land, for the sea
will rend them unto nothing.
                        The Basis of Order
                       Fragment attributed
                       to Section II
 
 
CLIX
 
THE BLACK DIAMOND is tied at the end bollard on the smallest pier inside
the breakwater at Land's End, and smoke and steam trickle into the air as
the firebox cools. A barrel, perhaps two, remains of the coal.
   Four Black guards stand beyond the foot of the plank, although two
large barrels of fresh water have been set by the plank for the use of
the crew and passengers of the ship.
   "Now what, Master Dorrin?" asks Tyrel.
   "We wait," Dorrin says tiredly. He tries to wipe his forehead, but the
splint on his thumb makes the gesture difficult. At least, his shoulder
is on the way to healing, and the white-fired headaches are less frequent.
   "Not for long." Liedral points toward the harbormaster's flag, below
which several individuals in black alight from an open carriage.
   One is a tall and thin Black wizard. Dorrin takes a deep breath.
   "Oh ... shit..." Kadara's curse carries from the bow on the light wind.
   Dorrin shares her feelings, but he waits as the black-clad group walks
down the pier. Liedral stands beside him, grasping his hand.
   The tall wizard gestures to the guards. One salutes, and all four walk
back toward the harbor and, eventually, to the old keep on the hillside.
The wizard turns to the ship, looking directly at Dorrin. "For now, you
all have the freedom of Recluce. We would prefer you remain near Land's
End, but that is your choice." The tall wizard smiles gently. "In view of
your various . . . ordeals, we offer the two guesthouses beyond the inn
to you, and the guest apartment in the old inn to Dorrin and his...
consort." Oran gestures toward the middle of the ship. "You may also
avail yourself of the stables."
   "That's very generous," Dorrin says. "The last few eight-days have
been rather hard. If you could persuade a master healer to attend to
Pergun for us, I would appreciate it. He received a head injury. I may
have stopped the worst of the damage, but. . . more needs to be done."
   "... fine, mast' Dorr..." Pergun leans on the railing, Merga by his
side, but he still clips and slurs his words.
   "We would be pleased to see what might be done." Oran answers smoothly.
   Merga drops her hand from her mouth, and clutches Frisa in one hand.
   "Later, after dinner, we would like to meet with you." Oran's eyes
meet his son's. Dorrin nods, but does not look away. After a time, Oran
does.
   Even after the pier clears, after Tyrel, his crew, Pergun, Merga, and
Frisa have made for the guesthouse, Dorrin stands by the gangway.
   "Dorrin . . . ?" Liedral sits on the clean-scrubbed planks by the
mainmast with Reisa, Yarrl, and Petra. Kadara sits next to them, but
back, as if she is not quite a part of the group.
   Dorrin grins as he walks toward them, for they look like a council of
war. The grin drops. It is a war of sorts. He sits on the hard planks
next to Liedral, enjoying the afternoon sea breeze.
   "You haven't said much about what we can do," Liedral begins.
   "I haven't really thought it through. Originally, I just wanted to
build an engine and then the ship and stay in Spidlar. I can't say that
Recluce will take us-me, anyway-back. They don't like machines ..."
   "But they've suffered from the trade cutoff," Liedral says. "Your kind
of ship-you proved it could be valuable. Wouldn't they be interested?"
   "No." The cold voice is Kadara's. "They'll die before they'll change
their precious beliefs."
   "Who says they have to?" offers Reisa. "We'll build the ships and
protect them. They don't have to change. They could just let us alone."
   "You'll still"-Kadara searches for words-"contaminate them."
   "They can't be that cold," protests Petra.
   "Maybe not," Dorrin says. "What if we build an enclave on the south
end of Recluce? There's a small inlet and cove there. The plateau behind
it is fertile; it's just too far from Land's End for Recluce to have
settled yet. I mean, there are a few holders, but they're the kind that
wouldn't mind."
   "Dorrin," Liedral says, "don't give that to them. Trade for it."
   Dorrin understands. Still... "I don't know if I can."
   "Makes sense to me," affirms Yarrl.
   "We'll stand behind you," Reisa adds.
   Kadara shakes her head.
   "Well..." Dorrin draws out the words. "We might as well avail
ourselves of the facilities." He does not add "while we can," though the
thought occurs.
   Before long, the six descend the plank, all carrying bags or packs.
Long shadows from the hills west of the harbor almost touch the pier.
   Dorrin glances back at the deserted ship. At least Recluce is a place
where one has no worries about theft. He laughs, suspecting that
Fairhaven itself is the one other place where theft is rare, if not
unheard of.
   He has closed all the doors and hatches on the Black Diamond, and
checked and pumped the bilges. The leaks around the shaft remain small,
but the ship will still have to be pumped periodically, at least until he
can design and build a better seal.
   "Cleanest harbor I've seen," observes Yarrl.
   The stone pier is swept, and all the joints between stones are tightly
mortared. Even the wind whipping in off the Eastern Ocean smells fresh.
The roofs of Land's End form an orderly mosaic on the hillside, and above
them rise the stones of the old keep, under the replica of the Founders'
original ensign-the crossed rose and blade. The current banner of
Recluce-the starker black ryall on a white background-flies from the
staff before the single-storied harbormaster's building between the two
piers.
   "Where's this inn?"
   "To the left of the harbormaster's. Up that lane. The two-storied
building is the inn. Then come the stables where Styl and Intar put the
horses. The guest houses are on the hill to the left of the stables."
Dorrin squeezes Liedral's hand.
   Outside the inn, a youth in clean brown leathers, wearing a black
armband with a white ryall, jumps up as they approach.
   "Master Dorrin." He bows. "If you and your consort would enter the
inn, Mistress Barla will escort you to your quarters. I will show the
others to their guesthouse. The bells will announce the evening meal in
the inn."
   "Is there room?" snaps Kadara.
   The youth bows. "Each guesthouse has four separate bedrooms, magistra,
and more than adequate water and showers for everyone."
   "... heard they believed in a lot of washing here ..." mumbles Yarrl.
   "Do you good," Reisa replies.
   Dorrin opens the inn door for Liedral, clumsily, with his splinted
right hand. The thumb twinges as he bumps it against the iron latch.
   "Greetings," offers the silver-haired older woman who rises from a
small desk. "You are master Dorrin and trader Liedral?"
   "Yes."
   "I'm Barla. Let me show you to your quarters."
   A stone staircase to the left of the door circles the open foyer and
brings them to the second-story landing, where there is a single door
with a brass handle. A corridor stretches the length of the inn, but
their guide halts by the door and opens it.
   "These are your rooms. You also have a washroom beyond the bath. If
you wish to bathe, I would suggest a little haste, because it will not be
long before dinner." She smiles an apparently genuine smile.
   "Thank you," Dorrin says.
   "Enjoy your rooms," Barla turns.
   "Rooms?" asks Liedral, stepping through the door. "Oh..."
   Dorrin closes the door behind him. They stand at one end of a sitting
room that opens to a small balcony with a pair of carved wooden
armchairs. In the sitting room are a table, with four matching armless
chairs, a half-filled bookcase, and two large wooden armchairs before the
fireplace, in which a fire has been laid.
   Liedral steps into the second room, containing a triple-width bed with
a large but simple red oak headboard, a dressing table, and two matching
wardrobes. Beyond the bedroom is a bathroom, with a shower, but no tub,
and a doorway that presumably leads to the washroom mentioned by Barla.
The coverlet is a repeating design of green and gray, without lace, and
the bed has real sheets.
   "I suspect your bargaining position is better than you think," Liedral
says dryly.
   "You can have the first shower," Dorrin says.
   "Shower? Are they all freezing like yours was?"
   "Oh .. . That was just mine. Let's see if this one is warm or cold."
Dorrin steps into the bathroom. There are two other doors. He opens one,
to a simple jakes, and closes it, then peers into the ceramic-tiled
shower, turning the single handle and feeling the water, before turning
it off, and wiping his hand on one of the large towels hung on separate
pegs.
   "Lukewarm," he announces. "Sunwarmed from a roof cistern. You take off
your clothes-"
   "Very funny. I could understand that much."
   "-and stand under the water. There's some soap there, and you wash. If
you don't like cool water, you just get wet and turn the water off, and
lather up, and then turn it on to rinse off."
   "I'll take the first shower," Liedral announces, dropping her pack on
the floor. "I haven't been clean in days."
   "I'll be on the balcony. Let me know when you're done." Dorrin carries
his pack into the bedroom and pulls out his clothes. He only has three
outfits, and the one he is wearing and the smithing clothes are filthy.
He leaves those in a pile on the smooth stone floor, and folds his few
clean underclothes and good brown outfit, setting them on a shelf in the
wardrobe. He pauses and draws in the faint scent of the trilia oil used
to treat the wood. Then he tucks the battered pack into the bottom of the
wardrobe, and walks through the sitting room and onto the balcony, where
he sits facing the harbor.
   A light breeze ruffles his hair, bringing the tang of seawater. To the
north, a scattering of clouds hugs the ocean horizon. Dark green water,
with but a tinge of white, ebbs and flows against the dark stone of the
harbor breakwater, while the harbor waters bear only the faintest of
swells.
   The Black Diamond sits alone at the pier, the only time Dorrin can
recall the harbor so empty. Where are the Recluce ships? Must they spend
their time at sea now that all trade with eastern Candar is blocked?
   Watching a gull sweep down toward the Diamond, as if hoping for a
meal, sweeping and rising, sweeping and rising, he loses track of time,
and his eyes close.
   "Dorrin ..."
   He starts in the chair. Liedral, towel wrapped around her, stands in
the open doorway behind him. "I think I heard a bell of some sort."
   "I didn't hear anything."
   "You're tired."
   He rises and stretches, but his eyes go from the damp brown hair to
the uncovered shoulders above the towel to the unclothed legs beneath the
towel.
   "I don't think I'm ready for that, yet."
   "I know."
   Liedral leans toward him and brushes his lips with hers. Dorrin steps
closer and embraces her for a long moment before letting go.
   "I need a shower." He steps around her and does not look back. It will
only hurt. Damn Jeslek! Damn all the Whites!
   Before he showers, he washes the dirty clothes and hangs them out in
the washroom next to those Liedral has already washed. Then he takes off
the splint before getting into the ceramic stall. The shower water
remains lukewarm, but Dorrin enjoys it, shaving, and scrubbing himself
thoroughly twice. He doubts that he has been so clean in seasons, and he
has missed such luxuries. Is this just to tempt him to renounce his
engine and what it stands for? He turns off the water.
   The second set of bells rings. He dries and dresses quickly and
rejoins Liedral on the balcony, where she watches the shadows lengthen
across the small harbor.
   "It is peaceful.. . orderly . . . here. I can see now why your cottage
was the same way. How could anyone raised here not be that way?"
   "There are some who find it boring."
   "Did you?"
   Dorrin shakes his head. "I just wanted to build my engines."
   "Was that just because they decreed the engines were wrong?"
   "It's not that simple. But we need to go down for supper, I mean, it's
dinner here."
   They walk through the quarters and out onto the landing.
   "No locks. Just bolts for privacy. That says a lot right there."
   "It does. Now ... about the engines. To make one work, you need to
burn coal at high temperatures and turn water into steam. When coal burns
that hot you have chaos. Also, steam is a form of controlled chaos."
Dorrin guides Liedral from the foot of the staircase to the right and the
public room. "That's not the only problem. Engines take a lot of iron and
a lot of coal. That could create a lot of slag rock and lot of ashes and
mine leavings, and all those create problems, possible chaos, with the
streams and the land."
   They stop inside the public room. Tyrel raises an arm. "They must like
you, master Dorrin. They have great beer, and they know how to cook
fish." His rough voice carries across the high-ceilinged room.
   "Master Dorrin, I have a big bed all to myself. And it's soft."
Frisa's excitement brings a smile to Dorrin's face.
   He bends down as he stops by the table where Merga, Pergun, Rylla, and
Frisa sit. "I'm glad, Frisa."
   "A healer named Rebekah is going to see Pergun tomorrow," Merga says.
   "Keep tongull a-gettin' mess up," slurs Pergun.
   "And mommy said that we might get to have a house like where we're
staying. Will we, master Dorrin?"
   "I don't know yet, Frisa."
   "You'll get us a house. I know you will."
   Dorrin tries not to wince at Frisa's faith, instead patting her
shoulder. Merga just smiles, and Pergun watches as a serving woman sets a
plate down.
   "Your table seems to be there." Liedral points to the only table set
for two.
   As they sit, Yarrl, Reisa, Petra, and Kadara enter and take places at
a square table for four. The tables are polished red oak, smooth, and the
cutlery seems to be of pewter, with cloudy-blue glass tumblers on the
table.'
   "Would you like wine, beer, or redberry?" asks the older, but
dark-haired serving woman who has delivered the meal to those at Merga's
table.
   "Wine, I think," says Liedral.
   "Redberry for you, ser?"
   Dorrin nods, and the woman leaves.
   "How did she know?"
   "I guess it shows."
   "What? That you work in order? Why does that affect what you drink?"
   "Very few Blacks can handle any form of alcohol. It's really a subtle
form of chaos, I guess."
   "I'm glad I'm not that orderly."
   Even as Liedral speaks, the serving woman has returned with two
pitchers. "Here you are. Dinner tonight is whitefish, with fried quilla
on the side, and we do have honeycakes as a sweet." She is gone with the
last of her words.
   "She's quick."
   "Advantages of order, I think."
   "You're nervous, aren't you?" Liedral sips the wine. "This is good."
   "It should be. There are advantages to order." Dorrin sips the
redberry slowly. "And yes, I am nervous. Wouldn't you be if your
father-the man who threw you off Recluce-was one of the Council that
would decide your fate?"
   "I suppose so. But isn't he just one of them?"
   "It doesn't help to have one of three against you before you start."
   "Why is he against you?"
   "I suppose because I didn't accept his word unquestioning. He was
right sometimes, but I didn't even want to give him that because he'd
never admit when I might be right."
   "Can you afford that now?"
   "No." Dorrin laughs. "But that doesn't make it easy."
   The fish dishes arrive. "I'll bring the honeycakes later."
   "How can they have honeycakes with a trade embargo? Honey is
expensive."
   "Not here. It's a trade item. Honeybees thrive on order. So do crops
and flowers."
   Liedral shakes her head, then cuts a slice of fish and lifts it to her
mouth. Dorrin swallows, realizing that his mouth is watering and his
stomach growling. He can't remember when he last had a meal other than
bread and cheese and fruit or roots-or cold mutton. For a time, they eat
silently. Except for those at Tyrel's table, so does everyone else in the
room.
   "No wonder everyone hates Recluce," Liedral says finally.
   Dorrin raises his eyebrows, afraid to open his mouth. The quilla is
still as crunchy as he remembers. Now it only grows in the highest
southern hills, although old tales mention when it was once common.
   "Orderly, calm, rich-and with good food."
   "I put a higher value on running water."
   "I noticed that before I got here. And I thought you were so clever
with the running water in your house." Liedral sips the wine.
   "I was. I was clever enough to figure out how to install it. You know,
just dreaming about something or knowing it can be done is the easy part.
Doing it is what's hard." Dorrin savors the redberry, glad to have it
again, then eats the last slice of the delicate whitefish.
   Their plates disappear, to be replaced with smaller light brown
dishes, each containing a large honeycake.
   "Such luxury ..." murmurs Liedral.
   "Such temptation," snorts Dorrin as he picks up the cake, sniffing the
aroma of fresh-baked pastry and warm honey and carna nuts.
   "You're so cynical."
   "Perhaps." He bites off half the pastry.
   "You think they're actually tempting you?"
   Dorrin slowly chews and swallows. "More like reminding me."
   Liedral, her mouth full, nods in turn, then swallows. "How good order
truly is?"
   "Something like that. They're also putting on a show for everyone
else."
   "So you'll think about the fate of the others?"
   "Of course."
   "Maybe it's more like a bribe? Maybe, just maybe, they need you."
   "You really think so?"
   Liedral makes a motion with her hand to indicate her mouth is full.
   "And you clearly like the bribe?" Dorrin grins.
   "I intend to enjoy it fully."
   The serving woman passes, and Dorrin raises a hand. "How much for the
supper?" He reaches for the leather purse at his belt.
   "Nothing, ser. The Council is paying for your stay." The serving woman
smiles, and refills the glass tumbler.
   "That makes it very expensive," Dorrin remarks to Liedral.
   "Perhaps," Liedral says. "On the other hand, maybe other members of
the Council are less against you and your machines than your father."
   "You may have something there." Dorrin rubs his chin. "So long as it
were just me, they'd defer to him . . . but if it affects all Recluce ..."
   "Keep that in mind." Liedral looks toward the door where three figures
in black stand. "Here they come."
   Dorrin stands and waits until the three are near. "I'd like you to
meet Liedral. She's the trader to whom you and I owe my success in
building the Black Diamond."
   Liedral has also risen. She inclines her head and half-bows.
   "Dorrin, Liedral, Magistra Ellna, and Magister Videlt," Oran says. The
two other Councillors both incline their heads to the couple.
   Dorrin inclines his head in return.
   "I am honored to meet you," Liedral offers. "I was just leaving-"
   "We would also be pleased if you would join the discussion," offers
Oran. "Your views would be helpful." He nods to a large table in the
corner.
   As the group walks toward the table, Merga's and Rylla's eyes follow,
and Dorrin can catch the whisper from the old healer.
   "... them's the real mighty of the world .. ."
   Pergun eats slowly with Merga and Frisa, while Tyrel eats with several
of his crew, their fare spiced more with frequent refills from tall
bottles of a green brandy. Dorrin sees the brandy bottles and shudders.
The green brandy of Recluce is powerful. Besides the three Council
members, none of the tables holds anyone who was not on the Black Diamond.
   Once the five have seated themselves, Oran begins. "We understand that
you and Brede and Kadara made a valiant effort to save Spidlar."
   Valiant-that is one word, Dorrin thinks. How about doomed, stupid, and
bloody? "We did make an effort," he concedes. "At times, I doubt that it
was wise."
   All three Blacks look at the table. Finally, Oran looks up. "You feel
that building your engine was unwise?"
   "No. Building the engine, I still believe, was necessary and wise.
Using what I learned to try to defend Spidlar was unwise."
   "Would you like to explain that?" asks the magistra, her eyes even
darker than her black tunic and trousers.
   "The Whites don't do much harm to most people. They do maintain better
order than would exist without them. They have good roads, clean cities,
and not much crime or theft. But they're caught in a trap. Their power
rests on chaos, but to maintain their power they also need order. Too
much order would destroy their power; so will too much chaos."
   Videlt nods; Oran watches; Ellna puts both hands on the table.
   "That's really beside the point," Dorrin says. "I'm sorry about
wandering, but my mind isn't as clear as it should be. Anyway, by
introducing better tactics and some combat engineering, all we succeeded
in doing was killing a lot of innocent, or relatively innocent, people, a
handful of White Wizards, and ensuring that a lot of people will go
hungry this winter. We forced the traders to relocate, which will improve
the trading abilities in places like Sarronnyn and Suthya and which will
hurt eastern Candar." His eyes turn on the three. "Part of this is your
fault."
   Oran's mouth opens, but the black-haired Ellna extends a hand. "Let
him finish." She looks again at Dorrin. "Go on."
   Dorrin clears his suddenly dry throat. "You pushed me out, and the
Whites didn't like what I was starting to do. Blacks- especially not male
Blacks-aren't welcome west of the Westhorns. So ... I tried to defend
Spidlar. A lot of people died, and where am I? Back here, being judged
again. I don't claim to be wise. But that sort of foresight is supposed
to be what a Council is for."
   "There is that." Videlt's hand strays to his short-trimmed and dark
brown beard, a beard darker than his lank light brown hair.
   "You have shown that the White blockade can be broken," says Ellna.
   "But only with Dorrin's ship," interjects Liedral. "That won't
encourage either the Bristans or the Hamorians."
   "In any case," says Dorrin, trying to steer the conversation back
where he wants it, "because we share this responsibility, I think we
should try to work out something that will benefit everyone." He smiles
grimly. "Unless you've already made a decision."
   "The Council hasn't come to a final decision. We felt we ought to talk
to you."
   Dorrin wipes his forehead, tanned from nearly an eight-day at sea,
wrestling with sails and a ship never designed for open ocean or an
engine. Despite his shower, he still feels grimy, almost as if still
smeared with the black of the coal. "It seems that you think I might
offer some sort of answer, but you still don't feel I quite belong, and
you don't know what to do."
   "That's close enough," Ellna says. "Why do you think you might offer
us an answer?"
   "Without something like my ship, Fairhaven will choke Recluce again.
Or at the very least, isolate you. Is that what you want?"
   "The Council has been concerned ..." begins Oran.
   "We're more than concerned," Ellna says. "But we also don't want to
destroy what Recluce is based upon for mere survival. That's what the
Blacks in eastern Candar did in the time of Creslin. They accepted more
and more domination of the chaos wizards for the sake of civil peace and
good roads. We don't want to build machines or devices that lead us down
the same path."
   "Any high-energy machine must embody chaotic energy by definition,"
adds Oran.
   "Life embodies some chaotic energy-by definition," says Dorrin. "The
question is whether order or chaos dominates." Is he being wise in being
so forthright? Can he be otherwise?
   "You really haven't answered the question," observes Videlt.
   "I can tell you what I think," Dorrin says. "And you can tell me what
you think. But what any of us thinks isn't the issue. My engine is mostly
of black iron, and you can sense its roots in order."
   "Chaos can use order ..."
   "How about this? You let me build my smithy and ship-works at
Southpoint. There's nothing there."
   "There's no harbor. How?"
    "There's one small inlet. That's enough for now for the Black
Diamond. Later, we can expand it."
   The color leaches from the tall wizard's face. "We can't accept
potential chaos on Recluce itself."
   "Stop jumping to conclusions. Machines and chemicals aren't chaos. I
can't deal with chaos either, and you know it."
   "You've changed."
   "Probably not enough."
   "Oran," interrupts Ellna gently, "have you considered a trial period?
Let Dorrin build his works, and then let us evaluate them. We could gain,
and at the least he would have a respite."
   "How long?" asks Videlt.
   "At least two years," Liedral says.
   Dorrin is glad she has spoken. He would have asked for less, because
he feels that he must have a new ship ready long before two years.
   "Isn't that a bit... extended?" asks Videlt.
   "It is if things go well," Dorrin admits. "But matters often don't
where the Whites are concerned. Also, we have to build facilities ..."
   "I suspect there would be some willing to offer their help," says Oran
dryly.
   "Perhaps," Dorrin responds. "In that case, you can evaluate earlier."
   "That seems fair," Ellna interjects. "It is in our interests." , "Oh?"
says Oran.
   "He's building another port, Oran. How can that hurt us? You've often
pointed out how the winter seas make Land's End unsuitable."
   The taller wizard nods-reluctantly. His lips pucker as if he has
swallowed a pickled pearapple.
   "There's one other thing," Dorrin says. "I need iron- enough to build
another ship."
   "Another one?" Oran's voice is tart.
   "I didn't build this one," Dorrin explains. "It was a grounded hull,
and I put an engine on it. If you want to evaluate my works, I should
have the chance to build one ship the way I think it should be built."
   "That seems fair to me," says Ellna. "It fits the idea of a trial."
   "Surely, you don't expect us to pay-"
   "I think I have enough to pay for at least some of the iron," Dorrin
says, "thanks to Liedral. We have some more trading goods which we can
factor here."
   "Hmmm . . ."
   "We'd have to sell some to whatever Bristans or Hamorians put in here."
   "There aren't many," says Videlt with a twist to his lips. "But we'll
give you a Council letter. You'll need that for the iron, you know."
   "No," Dorrin smiles, "I didn't know that. I can't say I'm surprised.
What about coal?"
   "That's not under Council seal, and you'll have to make your own
arrangements there."
   "How soon can we begin?" Dorrin is tired, and feels the evening is
dragging on, even though they have not talked that long.
   "You will have the Council letter for the iron in the morning, and it
will cover not only the iron, but convey a suggestion that your . . .
project is in our interests." Ellna's smile is more than perfunctory, but
not much.
   Dorrin yawns. "I'm sorry, but.. ."
   "We understand." Ellna rises, and the other two Blacks follow.
   Oran catches his son's eyes, and Dorrin understands the tall wizard
would like a few words privately.
   Dorrin waits until Liedral has touched his hand, kissed him lightly on
the cheek, and climbed the stairs. Ellna and Videlt have already left the
inn.
   "I'd like to think you've changed, son," Oran says gently.
   "I haven't changed the way you'd like," Dorrin says heavily. "And I
think that might be why you're losing to the White Wizards."
   "Creslin destroyed Jenred, and you destroyed Jeslek."
   Dorrin shakes his head. "You still don't understand. Jeslek was a
chaos focus. That was why he could raise mountains. I destroyed the
focus, but the forces remain. There will be another Jeslek . . . with
great powers, and another, so long as Recluce embodies order."
   "You're being too mechanical. The higher order considerations ..."
   "That's animal crap," snorts the engineer. "Creslin sold his soul to
found Recluce-or at least his sight for a good part of his life. The
order you already have created Jeslek-I didn't. And you're worried about
a few order-based machines on one end of the isle. The Whites sure as the
demons didn't like order-based machines."
   "Don't you see? That's exactly why we can't afford more concentrated
order."
   "Do you want me to take my ship and my ideas to Brista-or Hamor? Is
that what you have in mind?"
   "We agreed to a trial.. ."
   "I know. But I want a real trial, not just a few years so that Recluce
can get back on its feet and throw me out again."
   "We'll keep our word."
   Dorrin does not shake his head, however much he wants to. "I know you
will. So will I."
   "Good night, son." Oran raises his hand in almost a benediction before
turning.
   Dorrin waits until his father has left before he walks up the stone
stairs. He smiles when he enters the bedroom. Liedral is asleep on one
side of the bed, facing the door, the lamp still lit. He undresses
silently, blows out the lamp, and slips into the cool sheets, permitting
himself only a single gentle squeeze of her bare shoulder.
   "... night..." she murmurs. ". . . love ..."
   "Good night," he whispers.
 
 
CLX
 
"HOW DID YOU incompetents ever let this happen?" Sterol's voice is low.
   The three White Wizards look at the table with the mirror, then back
to the High Wizard. Finally, Fydel speaks. "He built a ship that can run
into the teeth of the wind. The White Storm went aground trying to catch
him."
   Cerryl nods in agreement, stepping back from the others ever so
slightly.
   "Why didn't they at least fire his ship?"
   "They weren't carrying canvas. He'd stripped the topside, and this
engine thing somehow pushed or pulled them away. They skirted the
sandbars all along the coast until they got to the Gulf, where the winds
changed. Then they lifted sail, and with the engine and sails, no one
could catch up."
   "Wait an instant. You said they didn't have sails."
   "The sails were furled," explains Anya. Her voice is cold, cutting.
"This engine of his is as hot as chaos and bound in black iron."
   "How does it work?"
   "We don't know, exactly."
   "Wonderful. Just marvelous. We now have a renegade Black Wizard who
can build an engine that nullifies our whole blockade of Recluce, and his
ship is sitting at Land's End." Sterol sighs. "Well... you three and
Jeslek did it. You'll have to live with it." Anya raises her eyebrows.
   "Really, Anya. Are you that dense? Have we ever had any success
against Recluce proper?" The High Wizard smiles coldly. "You three
incompetents can leave. You had better hope that the Blacks on Recluce
hold the price of asylum on their fair isle as no more Black engines."
   "Or ... ?" asks Anya.
   "I told you. Now, please go away." Sterol fingers the gold amulet.
After the door closes, he wipes his forehead with a white cloth from his
pocket and looks toward the mirror. Then he wipes his forehead again.
 
 
CLXI
 
DORRIN AND KADARA ride down the Great Highway, side by side, with Liedral
and the cart following.
   "I never thought I'd get home." The redhead holds the reins in her
left hand, her right still in the sling across her abdomen.
   Dorrin glances to his left, down into the fertile plains around the
Feyn River, and the waving green stalks of grain. "It is home, and it's
not."
   Shortly, if he understands the directions, they must turn uphill and
take the winding road toward the one iron mine and smelter that exist on
Recluce.
   The solid gray kaystone is clear enough. Two arrows appear. The one
points straight ahead and states Feyn-5. The other points to the right,
along a narrower, but still stone-paved, road, and reads Iron Works-4.
   They turn uphill, following the gently inclined road with the wide
turns.
   "This is a side road and better than some highways in Candar," says
Liedral above the creaking of the cart.
   "It's designed for the iron wagons."
   "The road to Froos's place didn't look like this."
   There are definite advantages to order. Thinking about the doubt on
his father's face, Dorrin decides there are also definite disadvantages.
   The iron works is a complex of five stone buildings set on a terrace
cut from the hillside roughly two hundred cubits below the top of the
ridge lines. Smoke filters from the top of several beehive-shaped
structures-the blast furnaces. A slightly inclined stone-walled road runs
from what appears to be the mine entrance to the top of the blast
furnaces. Lower yet are two shorter buildings from which an earthshaking
and dull hammering issues. Between the two buildings runs a millrace with
an overshot waterwheel.
   Dorrin reins up in front of the smallest building, the one away from
the furnaces and the hammering and suiting mills. "Do you want to come
in?" he asks Kadara.
   "No." She draws the single blade she wears and begins to work through
the exercises with her left hand.
   Liedral ties the cart and follows Dorrin.
   A gray-haired man looks up from the table where he studies what appear
to be drawings of the mine shafts. He steps forward. "I'm Korbow. How
might I be helping you?"
   "Dorrin. I'm a smith with a special Council project." Dorrin takes out
the letter with the seal and presents it to the lean older man.
   Korbow slowly reads through the letter, scratching his head as he
goes. Finally, he looks up. "You want how much iron?"
   While Dorrin would like a ship built entirely of black iron and steel,
he knows that it is not feasible, not yet, since he would need well over
ten thousand stone of iron, and he cannot possibly calculate the
cross-beams, and even the structure he would need. So he gives his
estimate for what it will take to plate the oak and fir ship he has in
mind.
   "Something like two thousand stone."
   The mine chief shakes his head. "Maybe a thousand stone in two
seasons, and that would run close to two hundred golds." He looks at the
letter Dorrin has presented. "Must be a terriblelike problem for the
Council to be so interested."
   Liedral raises her eyebrows.
   The engineer clears his throat. He has perhaps a hundred golds,
another thirty golds' worth of goods, and the Black Diamond. "What about
a season and a half?"
   "For a thousand? We'd have a problem with the slitting mills there,
running it through."
   "What if I took most of it in plate, half a span thick?"
   "Might make it easier, but those plates weigh almost seven stone each,
and they're just two cubits by three."
   Dorrin laughs. "That's about the right size."
   "Shouldn't that lower the price?" suggests Liedral.
   Korbow grins. "Aye."
   "By about half," adds Liedral.
   Korbow's grin fades somewhat. "I don't know that it would be that
much."
   "You're delivering to one customer, and that's easier," persists
Liedral.
   "Aye." The iron works man coughs into a huge hand.
   "And the Council thinks it's a good idea."
   "That they say." Korbow shakes his head. "We do this, and I need to
run out extra stock for my regulars first. What are you building,
something out of all iron?"
   "Not quite."
   "It's also a long haul to Land's End."
   "I'd want it at Southpoint."
   "There's nothing there."
   "Not yet, but there will be."
   "What about my regulars?" Korbow asks again.
   "You take care of them first." Dorrin will not be in a position to use
the iron for at least four eight-days, in any case.
   "Be three-four eight-days."
   "Eighty golds for the thousand," Liedral says.
   Korbow's face turns sour. "You drive hard, trader."
   Dorrin calculates, then decides. "I'll offer more than coin ... if
you'll trust me. I'm working on a new kind of ship that doesn't rely on
just the wind. I don't know as you'd need it ... but once the second one
is built, you can look and see if there are devices we build that you can
use."
   "So ... you're the one with the magic ship?"
   "It's not magic. It has an engine powered by steam."
   "The Council won't allow that ashore, not even here."
   "I know. But what about gears, clutches, other things? I might be able
to make a better pump."
   "Pumps . . . that's another thing. They'd rather I go deeper than
farther north on the seam, but I can't do that without better drainage."
Korbow purses his lips. "I'll take your eighty-and a pump or something
that will help." He grins. "I know you Black types. If I leave it to you
to be fair, I won't get cheated."
   Dorrin grins back. Liedral shakes her head.
   "You have to send someone to come with the wagon, the first time,
anyways. We'll say four eight-days from now?"
   Dorrin nods.
   "Now ... not that I wouldn't trust a man supported by the Council, you
understand ..."
   "But you want a token of faith?"
   "Your faith, I'm sure, is good. But what if you fail, and I have to
cart back all that plate and reslit it smaller?"
   "Say ten golds? Toward the iron, but forfeit if we fail?"
   Korbow frowns.
   "Each time," Dorrin adds. "I give you another ten when you deliver the
first load."
   "Fair's fair."
   Dorrin counts out the ten golds, not wanting even to think about how
much more his project will cost.
   "In four eight-days in your location by Southpoint, and you send a
messenger to guide my wagon."
   They shake hands.
   "You're stronger than you look. Might be a smith at that." The iron
works chief smiles again. "Now ... I need to figure out how to squeeze
and brace the lower seam ..."
   Dorrin inclines his head. "Our thanks."
   After they leave, and find Kadara still practicing outside, almost in
rhythm to the dull hammering from the hillside above, Liedral turns to
Dorrin. "He would have taken eighty."
   "I know. But he's happy now, and ... if I get him a better pump or
something, he just might help more in the future. I don't want to build
just one ship."
   "You really think they'll let you?"
   "I don't think they have any choice. Has any ship ported since we did?"
   "I see what you mean."
   "They really don't want the world to ignore Recluce, and that's what's
happening." While he can tell himself that, Dorrin's thoughts still come
back to the doubtful look on his father's face, and his recollections of
even more adamant opposition to engines of iron.
 
 
CLXII
 
TO THE LEFT of Great Highway, grass stretches perhaps a kay, then ends
abruptly at the cliffs that drop sheerly to the Eastern Ocean below. To
the right, the grass stretches nearly three kays, sloping downward to a
lower set of more ragged bluffs overlooking the Gulf of Candar.
   Winding through the grass, and marked by occasional scrub oaks, is a
narrow stream, no more than a few cubits wide. On either side of the
road, the plains grass grows almost stirrup-high. The muted wash of the
sea and the twitter of insects are the only sounds besides the impact of
hoofs on stone and the creaking of Liedral's cart.
   "I can't believe this road," says Liedral. "It's magnificent, and
there's nothing here."
   "Supposedly, it was Creslin's last project. He liked stonework a lot,
and he insisted that there should be a Great Highway from one end of
Recluce to the other." Dorrin studies the nearly straight road ahead,
looking for the point where it will drop through the rocky hills to the
more marshy land at the tip of the isle. "It does stop about a half kay
from the inlet. Back then, no one could see the point in driving it
through a saltwater marsh."
   "That was only because he died before they finished the Highway," adds
Kadara sourly. "Otherwise, we'd have a road and a stone pier there."
   "I'm beginning to see why everyone here is so driven," Liedral says.
"Trying to live up to the accomplishments of the greatest hero in history
is a bit much."
   "He wasn't that great," Kadara points out. "He put Megaera through the
demon's hell itself, and then followed her to redeem himself. They almost
didn't survive their daughter's birth."
   Dorrin is silent, reflecting on what Kadara has said. Must every great
accomplishment require a price not only from the doers, but from those
around them? Do the payments of soul and blood ever end? "What happened
to the daughter?" asks Liedral.
   "She lived and had children. Ask Dorrin."
   "Dorrin?"
   "Supposedly, her name was Dylyss, after Creslin's mother, although
some insist it was Lyse, after his dead sister. She had three children."
Dorrin reins up at the top of the slope down to Southpoint and waits for
Kadara and Liedral. "There." The Highway angles right for nearly a kay to
a wide sweeping turn that carries the road back nearly directly below
them for another turn. From the second turn, the stone road arrows
straight for a marshy area bisected by a narrow inlet. Twice the stream,
spanned with well-crafted stone bridges, wanders under the road. While
the stream runs into the marsh, the road stops at the edge of the marshy
area. From the sides of the marsh rises slightly higher grassy land that
circles the marsh and almost touches the inlet where the thin line of
water meets the ocean.
   "Not very prepossessing."
   "It has possibilities," Dorrin says. "I can blast out some of the
marshy area and widen the inlet. The ground north of the marsh is solid,
and the rocks can be cut and order-hardened into solid black stones for
building."
   "You are an optimist," Kadara responds.
   "I did build an engine." Dorrin urges the gelding forward and down the
dusty stones of the seldom-used highway.
   Liedral and Kadara exchange glances as they follow Dorrin downhill.
With the lower elevation comes dampness, and various bugs, including
flies, which Liedral fans away one-handed.
   At the end of the Great Highway, Liedral pulls up the cart. "What
next?"
    "I'd like to ride around the marsh."
   "I can't take the cart, you know."
   "Tether it. Basla can carry us both for that little bit."
   Dorrin dismounts and uses his small sledge, taken from Liedral's cart,
to pound in the iron tether stake. Then, while she secures the cart, he
unharnesses the cart horse and leads both animals to the edge of the
stream. Their hoofs and his boots sink into the swampy ground, and, as
they drink, he flails at the flies. Kadara just rides her mount to the
stream and lets the mare seek the water herself.
   When Dorrin walks back, Liedral takes the harness leads from him and
ties them to the tether stake. He mounts, but slips his foot from the
stirrup to allow her a step up. Then he helps her into place behind the
low saddle. "We'll have to go slowly, I think."
   "You think? This isn't the most comfortable position I've ever been
in."
   Dorrin, feeling her arm around his waist, grins.
   "And stop grinning."
   "How do you know I'm grinning?"
   "You just feel like it."
   "She knows you, Dorrin," calls Kadara from behind them.
   "It's firmer here." Dorrin guides the black gelding around the left
side of the marsh, still enjoying the feel of Liedral's arm around his
waist. So long as he follows the shorter grass, the horse has no problem
with footing.
   As they near the end of the vegetation and the soft sound of the ocean
on sand and rock increases, he realizes that the area of grass has
widened into a rough oblong that sits almost two cubits higher than the
grassy path they have taken.
   "Let's get down. I want to look at this." He helps Liedral down and
then dismounts, prodding the grass and scuffing away the shallow layer of
dirt until he reaches stone-flat stone. "Someone used this as a harbor or
outpost before."
   "It has to have been a long time ago."
   "Longer than that, and what difference does it make?" asks Kadara.
   "Not much, except that the inlet might be deeper than we thought." He
pauses. "On the other hand, if it was all man-made-"
   "It might be shallower?"
   Dorrin walks toward the point where a pile of stone rises even above
the grasses. He looks across the inlet to a similar pile of stone and
nods. "We'll need to widen this, probably not for the Diamond, but the
next one."
   "The next one?" asks Kadara. "They'll let you build another one?"
   "They already agreed." Dorrin looks back around the small marsh,
certainly no more than five hundred cubits from end to end, less than
half that wide. "I need to get busy figuring out where to put things and
what we'll need where. Promised Tyrel I'd be back before long with some
idea of supplies."
   Once more, Liedral and Kadara exchange glances. This time, Liedral
shrugs.
   Dorrin turns from his study of the ocean, and swings up into the
saddle. "There's some sort of channel beyond the points, and it's still
pretty deep. You can tell by how smooth the water is-almost like someone
put an underwater breakwater there." He extends a hand to Liedral. "... a
lot to do here ... not much time..."
   They ride back toward the cart under the midafternoon sun, the cool
breeze sliding in off the Gulf of Candar and toward the Eastern Ocean
beyond.
 
 
CLXIII
 
DORRIN NODS TO Vaos, and the youth lifts the white flag with the crimson
crossbars. Dorrin kneels and flicks the striker. As the fuse burns, he
and Vaos race along the planks and drop behind the low embankment.
   CRRRuuummmppp! Earth, sand, vegetation, and water erupt from the edge
of the marsh.
   Dorrin rises and surveys the mess, watching the water from the
hillside stream slowly carry some of the debris seaward. So far his
efforts have succeeded in widening the inlet into a channel nearly sixty
cubits wide and almost twenty deep.
   Still, the Black Diamond is anchored offshore in the momentarily quiet
water on the Gulf side of the point, waiting until the blasting is
complete.
   Behind him beyond the end of the road, a pile of stones is slowly
growing, already almost enough for the footings for the first pier.
   He turns and squints into the midmorning sunlight. Another wagon rolls
down the road from the last turn.
   "Who's that?" asks Vaos.
   "I don't know. Let's go see." The two walk toward the end of the road.
Northward, on the hillside, below the tents, are foundations for five
buildings where Pergun, his lisping and slurring almost gone, toils with
the stones and soil until the timber Dorrin has ordered arrives.
   "Looks like timber," Vaos comments.
   "They said it wouldn't be here for another two or three days."
   "Maybe they're early."
   Dorrin doubts that, but anything is possible, he supposes. He
lengthens his stride toward the faint dust raised by the approaching
wagon. The carter, a slender figure with graying hair, reaches the road
end before Dorrin does and stands by the team.
   Dorrin swallows as he recognizes Hegl. The smith waits by the wagon
laden with heavy timbers. "You brought her back, Dorrin. I owe you."
   "No." Dorrin shakes his head, thinking of Kadara's injuries, her
anger, and her losses.
   Hegl smiles, a bitter smile. "I know my daughter. I talked to her.
She'll never tell you, but I know." His face clears. "Besides, I like the
idea of building a Black seaport and a real ship like what you started.
And I like the idea of you getting the last word on your father. Makes me
small, I know, but in some ways, I am small." The old smith gestures to
the wagon. "These are for a temporary wharf. They're just pine, but
you'll need that until you can quarry the right kind of stone. Julka's
bringing another wagon with smithy tools and firebricks. That'll take
longer, probably a couple of days."
   Dorrin has trouble keeping his mouth from dropping open.
   "There'll be others, too. Some of us want to see some changes." Hegl
grins. "Like your mother."
   "Dorrin! Those the timbers we need?"
   "So where do you want them?" asks Hegl. "You got work to do, and I
need to rustle up some more stuff."
   Dorrin calculates. The ground beside the pier site is too soft for the
heavy wagon. "Right there. I'm just about through cleaning out the
channel, so we can put the footings down."
   "I'm just an old smith, boy. But, remember, you need to make this a
big port, so don't think small, like me." He gives Dorrin another grin
and his face sobers. "I owe you more than you know. Weidra never thought
she'd see Kadara again, let alone see grandchildren."
   Vaos stands back, his eyes darting from one smith to the other.
   Dorrin wants to scream that it wasn't his doing. He holds back,
instead only demurring. "Kadara did it all. The only thing I did was
build a ship."
   "The only thing . . . nonsense. Now let's get on with these timbers."
   Dorrin knows what he is, and he is not the hero figure that some are
making him out to be. Belatedly, he points to Vaos. "Hegl, this is Vaos,
my apprentice. Vaos, Hegl was the smith who made it all possible."
   Hegl flushes. "Nonsense, I say .. . stuff and nonsense." He looks at
Vaos. "You're strong enough for the shorter crossbeams. Pitch in."
   Vaos smiles and steps toward the wagon.
   Idly, as he lifts a timber, Dorrin wonders if Creslin ran into the
same problem. Then he shakes his head. Even mentally comparing himself to
Creslin is sheer gall. He cannot control storms, nor can he wield a
blade, nor has he founded a kingdom and the basis of order. All he has
done is build one ship and get a whole lot of people killed-scarcely the
basis for greatness.
   He lifts down another timber.
 
 
CLXIV
 
STEROL GLARES AT the mirror, and the vision of the ship at the pier, and
the buildings on the hillside. "How you ever let this happen, Anya ..."
The White Wizard gestures and the swirling mists refill the mirror.
   "The question is whether they keep him." Anya brushes her long red
hair back over her shoulder, seating herself in a chair placed to catch
the afternoon breeze from the open window. "What happens next?"
   "It would appear they're staying on Recluce. The chief Councillor
might still send them off to Hamor, but it doesn't look that way."
   "Chief Councillors have been known to be overridden ..."
   "Veiled hints don't become you, Anya. Every High Wizard has to worry
about being replaced. Perhaps you should take the post to learn about it."
   "Me? A mere woman? No, thank you."
   Sterol coughs and rubs his forehead. "If their Council allows him to
stay, it might cause actual chaos on Recluce."
   "You're dreaming. I saw that young smith, or whatever he is. He's so
Black that even Jeslek's fire wouldn't touch him." Anya shivers at the
recollection. "Whatever he does, he won't create chaos."
   "He certainly did in Spidlar," reminds Sterol.
   Anya frowns. Her eyes flicker from the bed in the corner to the door,
and she forces a slow deep breath.
 
 
CLXV
 
"HOW DO YOU like the fish?" asks Merga.
   "Good ..." mumbles Pergun from one side of the long table.
   Beside him, in a row, are Frisa, Rek, and Vaos. Frisa stares at the
fish, much as Dorrin does, while the two youths eat without tasting.
Across the table, Rylla grins, but half her fish is already gone.
   "I'm beginning to feel like a fish," Dorrin says in a low voice to
Liedral, who sits to his right. He looks at the fish on the plate, one of
a mismatched set scrambled together by his brother Kyl, then out the
as-yet-unglazed window. Above him rises a roof, with exposed beams, but
no ceilings.
   All five of the buildings at Southpoint share the same state-mostly
finished walls and roofs, but minimal interior work, except for the
shipwright shed and the smithy.
   The basic frame for the second ship is taking shape, and already
Dorrin and Tyrel have had 'words, and Dorrin has been forced to
compromise yet again, although the compromises have not changed the look
of the ship from the model he developed, mainly for Tyrel.
   "Begging yer pardon, master Dorrin .. . begging yer pardon ... you
cannot put that much iron on that small a ship ... not if you want her to
cross the Gulf..."
   "... that bad. Are you listening? Dorrin?"
   "Sorry," he apologizes.
   Liedral gives him a rueful grin. "Even when you are here, you're not.
It's a good thing I'm going back to Land's End for a while."
   "Oh . . . yes." Now he remembers that she will be waiting for a
Hamorian ship that seems likely to put in on the way back from Renklaar.
"What do you think will sell best?"
   "I don't know, but I'd guess the toys. If you could spare a little
time to make a few more for the next ship, whenever it might come in, I
think it would be well worth the time."
   "Listen to the trader," suggests Yarrl from the other end of the table.
   Reisa and Petra grin. Even a faint smile crosses Kadara's lips,
followed by a disconcerted expression as she covers her mouth with the
back of her hand. A hand strays to her slowly growing abdomen before she
catches herself and cuts another piece of the dark fish.
   Rylla follows the gesture. "You need all that fish, mistress Kadara."
   Kadara groans.
   Fish tastes like fish to Dorrin, and the meat at Southpoint has been
generally fish supplemented with some mutton. On good days, there are
crunchy quilla roots, or perhaps dried pearapples. Although there is
adequate food on Recluce, the blockade has limited imported food to items
that can be dried or salted, since most must come from Brista or far
Hamor.
   Even past midsummer, it is too early for the fresh pearapples, or for
the few apples nursed along in secluded orchards, or for the greenberries
or redberries that cling to the higher cliffs, but ripen late.
   There is some flour, barley bread, and mutton, and fish. There are
adequate spices, but Dorrin feels that he has already tasted every spice
possible on mutton, and no spice changes a fish from a fish-not any that
he has tasted.
   Still, he should not complain about the fish, not when much of it is
basically a gift from Kyl. His brother has only come to Southpoint once,
and then only to bring in a huge basket of fish from his boat. All the
other times, his crew or someone else has delivered the fish, almost like
a peace offering or a thank you. Bat why? They had never fought, not
beyond boyish squabbles, and what has Dorrin done to merit thanks from
Kyl?
   Thinking about the fish will not get it eaten or Dorrin back to the
smithy. He cuts a large slice and stuffs it in his mouth, trying not to
think about it. The he takes a drink of water. Water is about all they
have for beverages. Redberry is out of season, and, with the constant
drain of his coins for supplies, Dorrin cannot buy spirits, nor has there
been time to set up a brewery, or a distillery, let alone do the brewing.
   He takes another bite of the fish and of the boiled seaweed, which
tastes even worse. Kadara was right: he had been well-off in Spidlar, and
he misses those small luxuries.
   "Could you wait a day?" he asks Liedral. "I could work on some toys
and things. There are a couple of things that I could do this afternoon
and tomorrow-like the simple boats and the crank-fan."
   "If I leave early the next morning ..."
   "At least, you're listening some of the time," says Yarrl.
   Dorrin knows he isn't always listening, but he is trying to juggle so
much, and more and more he feels like everything is chaotic, out of
control.
   Still ... the improved new boiler sections are almost done, and the
shaft gearing will take days, if not an eight-day. He takes another bite
of fish and seaweed, and follows it with the last of the stale biscuits
on his plate, and more water.
   "Master Dorrin eats his seaweed," Merga explains to Frisa. "It's good
for you."
   Both Vaos and Frisa look unconvinced as they stare at the brown
tendrils on their plates.
   "Tomorrow, we'll have quilla. It's soaking now," Merga adds.
   "That's not much better," mumbles Rek.
   Reisa, looking up from a clean plate, only shakes her head. Dorrin
will appreciate the quilla more than seaweed, but the choice is between
something crunchy and tasteless and something that tastes like oily
sawdust. He finishes his water.
   After lunch-Dorrin finds it hard to adjust to "lunch" as opposed to
dinner as the midday meal-the smith marches back to the smithy and, after
packing the forge fire, and starting Rek on a gentle rhythm with the
bellows, pulls out a section of three-span-wide plate.
   "What would you like me to do?" asks Yarrl.
   "Can you finish the steam drum without me?"
   "Mostly. Least until we get to the last weld. That's going to take us
both if you want it to hold."
   "Let me know. I really need to do these boats."
   "I know, Dorrin. Coin speaks." Yarrl pauses. "You know, some of those
holders want some wagon work. They don't like traveling all the way to
Feyn for that smith there."
   "Do it." Dorrin measures on the workbench before lifting the tongs.
"If they want it tomorrow, start taking it. We can work on the ship
later, if we have to, but... you need coin. You can't live forever on
what you brought."
   "It's not that bad. You know, Reisa's charging the holder youth for
blade training. Not much, but it helps."
   "Everything helps." Dorrin swings the iron into the forge. "Pick it up
a little, Rek. Vaos, you'll need the small sledge. We're going to fuller
this down to not much more than sheet."
   Vaos slips the bottom fuller onto Dorrin's anvil.
   "You take over the bellows for a while. Yarrl's going to need Rek for
that boiler section."
   "Yes, ser." Vaos's voice is resigned to the assignment of the drudge
work, and that, Dorrin reflects, is normal. His eyes stray to the large
grindstone that will be necessary to polish and shine the propeller for
the Black Diamond. The metal surface must be as smooth as possible,
Dorrin senses. He shakes his head. He needs to get on with making goods
for coin, not wool gathering over the new ship when he is not working on
it.
   Both smiths move iron from opposite sides of the forge, and their
hammers lift ... and fall... lift and fall.
 
 
CLXVI
 
DORRIN WIPES HIS forehead, wondering when Liedral will be back from
Land's End, and how successful she has been with the Nordlan brig, and
with his toys and gadgets. Darkness knows, they need the coins. He lifts
the hammer again, and again, until the iron has cooled below the cherry
red he needs. With the tongs he thrusts it back into the bricks. On the
other side of the forge, Yarrl works on replacing the curved claw side of
a peavey for a holder. His hammer is almost musical on the iron.
   "You're working like the demons of light are after you." Rek's face
glistens under the sheen of sweat as he pumps the bellows.
   "More like the Black Mages of Recluce." Dorrin retrieves the block of
iron, deftly eases it onto the anvil with the tongs. He never knew
building a new engine would take twice as many parts, it seems, as the
old one.
   "But they're your people."
   "Things are never that simple." Dorrin nods to Vaos. The striker
brings down the hammer on the swage-once, twice. Dorrin returns the iron
to the forge, heated here by coal, which requires more work with the
bellows by Rek, and occasional sprinkling of the coals with a water
can-another item Dorrin had to quickly forge. Dorrin returns the iron to
the anvil and nods to Vaos again, for another series of blows. He taps
the anvil to signify that the striking on this piece is done. When Vaos
lifts the small sledge, Dorrin sets the short and rough valve casing on
the fire bricks.
   "No one is my people. Not at the moment. They're more afraid of me
.than the White Wizards. The White Wizards can only starve them to death."
   "That's ... a funny thing ... to say," pants Rek.
   "Slow down for now." Dorrin pulls another flat plate from the stack on
his work table, built of a few of the timbers delivered by Hegl. In
between engine parts, he must continue to work on the black iron tubing,
hoping that it will not be needed, and knowing that it will.
   Frisa slips in through the open door, her hair fluffing away from her
head. She studies the iron annealing on the firebricks. "Is that
something special, master Dorrin?"
   "Is it?" asks Rek.
   "It's for a special purpose." Dorrin's head throbs as he realizes the
evasion he has voiced.
   "Mommy told me to tell you that master Kyl is walking up from the
pier."
   Dorrin sets the iron back on the bench. "Take a break, and get some
water, Rek, before you burn up. Vaos, stay here in case Yarrl needs you."
Then the smith walks through the doorway of the space that is part
smithy, part engine works, and part something else and looks down the
hillside to the pier where the Black Diamond is tied. In front of the
converted sloop is a smaller vessel, with two lower masts and nets drying
across the main deck.
   A stocky figure marches up the gravel pathway from the Great Highway.
Dorrin raises his hand. The other grins, raising his own hand.
   Dorrin walks over to the porch. "Merga, do we have anything to drink?"
   "Water and cool tea."
   Dorrin grimaces and waits as Kyl crosses the last few rods between
them. "I didn't think we'd see you for a while."
   "I didn't think so, either, but the winds aren't right, and it's
easier than fighting them. Sort of nice to have a port down here, even if
getting in is tricky under sail."
   "All we have is water and cool tea."
   "Water's fine."
   As if she has heard, Merga arrives with two tumblers.
   "Let's go up on the porch." Dorrin leads the way to the bench. Some
time he hopes they will have chairs, but the new ship comes before
chairs, and the only two they have are the two at each end of the long
kitchen table.
   Dorrin sits and takes a deep swallow of the water. At least it is
cold, and he is glad he did divert some of the stream for running water
in the house. At least he could buy piping rather than having to forge it.
   "Still can't get over how you've changed." Wispy hair straggles across
the tanned forehead of the stocky man.
   "So have you." Dorrin surveys Kyl, taking in the weathered clothes and
sun-bleached eyes. "Was it hard?"
   "Getting them to let me go to sea? No ... not after your letters."
   "I hoped . . . but I was never good with words-not like Brede."
   "What happened to him?"
   "He was good enough to be made marshal of Spidlar. The Whites got him
when they crushed his forces at Kleth."
   "Was that when you got injured and blinded?"
   Dorrin nods.
   "What about Kadara?"
   "She was almost killed early in the battle. Liedral brought us both
back. How I'm not sure. I just managed to hang on ... my horse." He
swallows hard, thinking of Meriwhen, still picturing her in the water
behind the Black Diamond.
   "I didn't mean about Kadara being wounded. You once were..."
   Dorrin grins. "I was. I wanted her for a time. Then I found Liedral,
and I recognized the difference. Kadara's always been in love with Brede.
I finally realized that Kadara was indeed more of a sister than a lover.
We've adjusted, although she was bitter for a time, and will be, because
I couldn't save Brede. I hope that will pass and that I can become some
sort of an uncle to her son when he's born. That would be fine." He lifts
himself off the bench. "I need your help."
   "With father?"
   "No. He won't listen to either one of us. As a matter of fact, he
still has trouble listening to common sense. Sometimes, anyway." Dorrin
strides past his brother and into the part of the high-roofed building
that is the metal fabricating area.
   Kyl follows, puzzled expression on his face.
   Dorrin stops by the newly built and already battered workbench,
lifting the black model of the new ship. "Look."
   "It's low, not much freeboard, deep keel."
   "You need that to carry the black iron plating." Dorrin turns to a
black box nearly four cubits long, which he opens. Inside is a black
metal tube with a shoulder rest and a handgrip. "This is just as
important."
   "What is it?"
   "A rocket launcher. Here." Dorrin hands his brother a shell. "It's
filled with explosive powder."
   "Won't the White Wizards just set it on fire?"
   "It would be hard for any except the greatest ones. The casing is thin
black steel. Take it."
   Kyl holds the projectile, then sets it on the bench. "Why?"
   "I'd like you to tell mother about it. You might also explain that I
don't intend to be driven off Recluce."
   "You wouldn't!"
   Dorrin's eyes are like black steel as he looks at his brother. "I
intend to save Recluce. And my ships are the only way that will work
right now. But Oran insists that everything will be all right so long as
we maintain the old order, and he's working on Ellna and Videlt to change
their minds. I can't build a ship and politic." He ignores the headache
that reminds him that he is doing just that as he speaks to his brother.
   "I think you're doing just that." Kyl smiles, and hands back the shell.
   "You're right. Do you have any better ideas?"
   "Forget about the weapons. They already know you can do something
awful. It's better if I just talk about your feeling responsible for all
these people and worried that father will let his fears mess up
everything." The younger man gestures toward the sun-framed smithy door.
"Already, you must have thirty people here from elsewhere on Recluce. It
will grow. Darkness, I'd like to live here."
   "I haven't counted. I'm glad we had some tents. You're welcome, though
I don't know as we're the best market for your catch."
   Kyl laughs. "You will be. You don't need force. All you need is time."
   Dorrin has been using force too much, and Kyl is right. But will the
Whites and the Council give him time? "You're right. But I worry."
   "You can always use force, Dorrin," Kyl says. "Remember, your letters
worked-after mother read them."
   "I trust your judgment." Dorrin points downhill. "Do you want to see
the plans for the new ship?"
   "I saw the keel and frame on the way up. It looks like the model, keel
and all-demon-damned deep."
   "I'll show you the plans. Just wait here." He ducks into the house and
walks into the large room in the far corner that contains but a chest, a
table and a stool, and a big bed-the only kind he and Liedral can still
share-and pulls the drawing from under the chunk of iron that serves as a
paperweight.
   Kyl smiles as Dorrin sits down and smooths out the paper on the part
of the bench between them. "Here."
   "It's low," Kyl repeats. "No masts and not as much freeboard as a
schooner."
   "It's a warship. Nothing more."
   "It looks nasty." Kyl gives a shiver. "Do you have a name yet?"
   "Not yet. Black something, I suppose."
   "You ought to call it something appropriate, like Black Smith or Black
Blade."
   I don't know. It's not a smith or a blade."
   "Black Hammer, then."
   Dorrin purses his lips. "Maybe. That sounds better than anything I've
thought up. We'll see." He begins to roll the sheet up to keep it from
blowing in the breeze. "You know, I've never thanked you for the fish ...
or for being one of the few that weren't always after me."
   Kyl glances at the rough stone of the porch floor. "You always were
there for me. I never could do anything for you. Now lean."
   Dorrin looks at his brother. "I'm glad."
   "So am I." Kyl stands and looks at the whitecaps beginning to form on
the ocean beyond the inlet. "I need to catch the winds or my crew won't
forgive me." He clasps Dorrin roughly for an instant. "I'll see you when
I can."
   Dorrin watches as his brother hurries toward the fishing boat tied in
front of the Black Diamond. Then he carries the tumblers into the kitchen
and sets them on the wash table.
   Unfortunately, he will still need the rockets. He has no doubts that
the White Wizards will try something.
 
 
CLXVII
 
DORRIN SITS ON the porch bench, hoping Liedral will join him before he
heads down to the shipwright's.
   Gee-ahhh ... A gull circles and dives toward the inlet that is
becoming a harbor under Reisa's direction. The stone walls now stretch a
good two hundred cubits on each side of the temporary wooden pier, and
she is beginning to build a permanent stone pier. With the recent
immigrants from as far north on Recluce as Land's End, Reisa has
assembled a formidable work crew.
   Dorrin stands and opens the kitchen door just as Liedral emerges. "I
was looking for you."
   "I thought you were going down to Tyrel's."
   "I am." Dorrin gestures to the bench.
   "I have to get things ready to leave. They say a Bristan trader will
be in next eight-day." Liedral sits on the bench, and Dorrin settles next
to her. He puts an arm around her and squeezes, but only for a time,
until he can sense the tension rising in her. More than a year has
passed, and they still cannot hold each other for long before the
discomfort that was once screaming agony begins to bubble up in Liedral.
   "I'm sorry," she says.
   "So am I." He stands, then bends and kisses her cheek. His eyes burn
as he goes down the steps. Once he turns back to look uphill, but Liedral
has gone inside, getting ready to head out to the warehouse, he supposes.
   The late summer sun warms Dorrin as he pauses by the latest structure,
a small, squarish, one-story armory-black, like all the other stone
buildings. At least he had enough sense to lay out a plan that sets
plenty of open space between buildings for the town that seems to be
growing.
   Silently, he watches as Kadara stretches and forces her right arm to
full extension, then lifts the small weight once, then again, then again.
Not only can he see the streaking on the redhead's face, but he can feel
the agony and discomfort of her exercise. The discomfort arises from her
swelling abdomen, and the weight of her son, and the agony comes from
rebuilding that slashed and sundered arm.
   He has added his own order to that struggle, silently, without thanks,
but without Kadara's opposition, either. She suffers him to help heal her.
   Dorrin blots his forehead with his sleeve in the stillness. While it
is well before midmorning, the stillness promises a warm fall day, and
the sea beyond the point is almost glassy, the green-blue sky carrying
the faint haze that foretells searing heat later.
   Through the heat, the clinking of hammer and stone rises, and the
hammering of spikes and nails.
   He shifts his glance to Reisa, who also exercises, but with an iron
wand twice the weight of a real blade, to Petra, and to several others
who have joined the blade squad that Reisa and Kadara have
formed-including Quenta, a former farm youth from Feyn who has begged for
their training, and others whose names he has never known.
   Beyond the armory are the foundations of yet another building-a
barracks for the new Black Guard of the port town to replace the tents
that Quenta and the others are now using. Dorrin smiles. Pergun has
become the de facto director of building. All the buildings are "his"-his
armory, his warehouse, his barracks.
   Already, Dorrin can sense that the community created out of necessity
is developing its own character-and drawing others from the isle in the
process. So far, all of them have been orderly in character, but Dorrin
has no illusions that it will remain that way. Will he have to follow the
exile precedent of the Council?
   He shivers, then turns and resumes quick steps downhill to the
shipwright's, where, no doubt, Tyrel will be grousing about some new
detail.
   Even before his booted feet carry him inside the shed and toward the
blocks where the ship rests, Tyrel has found him.
   "Master Dorrin . . . you sure the new engine won't go over four
hundred stone?"
   "It should be less than that-two hundred and fifty or less, but we
still have to consider the water tanks, and the coal bins.. ."
   "The bunkers are both fore and aft and braced different." Tyrel points
toward the slideways into the channel. "Those ... are ye sure they'll
support this little monster?"
   "They should." Dorrin hopes the calculations he has checked and
rechecked are accurate.
   "Do ye have a name yet for the monster?"
   "Why are you always calling it a monster?"
   Both look at the near-completed hull, seventy cubits long, perhaps
twenty-five wide, with the deep keel that has required both higher
graving blocks and a deep trench beneath, not to mention use of
explosives and the Black Diamond to dredge the inlet deeper.
   "It's a black monster. All ye designed it for was destruction. Hasn't
got cargo space for much. Just room for troops and coal and weapons and
an engine."
   "You told me I couldn't build anything bigger... and I can't afford
more. Darkness ... I can't afford this."
   Tyrel looks up. "You're getting a mite of help, young fellow."
   "I'm getting help." More than he probably deserves, but his coins are
running out, and neither the ship nor the engine is close to completion.
He pauses. "Let's call it the Black Hammer. "
   "Black Hammer it is. Fitting enough for a smith, leastwise." Tyrel
coughs. "We need to look at the collar for the main shaft bearing."
   Dorrin takes a deep breath. Every time he and Tyrel discuss the
ship-the Black Hammer now-he has another half-dozen smithing items to
redo or develop or add to his list.
   The two men climb the ladder and edge across the beams that will
support the engine deck.
   "If you brace that the way you drew it, and there's any vibration in
that shaft, you'll be a-tearing that right out." Tyrel points to the
problem.
   Even without trying to calculate, Dorrin can sense that the shipwright
is correct. "What do you suggest?"
   "Run a set of false beams right inside the hull, next to the
structural ones. They'd be held in place by weight, but if the shaft
vibrates, you see, it won't separate the hull from the beams."
   "How much extra weight?"
   "With the iron you're putting on, you won't notice it. Maybe fifteen
stone."
   Fifteen stone is fifteen stone. Where can he shave off another fifteen
stone? He must keep the ship as light as he can for the speed. Tyrel
doesn't really consider speed, only structural soundness.
   "Do it. I'll have to find where else I can cut weight."
   The tapping and clinking of the rest of the shipwrights are
underscored by the sound of a heavy wagon pulling up beside the big shed.
   Dorrin looks down through the beams, recognizing both Hegl and the
healer beside him. "Excuse me, Tyrel." He climbs across the unfinished
beam work and down the ladder. Why has his mother made the long ride to
Southpoint? Is something wrong with his father? Has the Council changed
its mind, and is she warning him?
   The wagon is laden with a variety of items, ranging from a cradle to a
barrel of ship spikes and hull bolts.
   Rebekah waves to Dorrin with a smile, but has stepped away from the
wagon to allow the unloading to proceed. "Go ahead and unload, Dorrin."
   Dorrin turns to the wagon.
   "I'll be leaving these with Tyrel," says Hegl as he lowers the
tailgate and lifts the barrel of bolts.
   Styl appears behind Hegl and grasps the barrel of spikes. "Never say
the smiths don't bring what ye need when ye need it." He offers everyone
a gap-toothed smile as he carts off the heavy barrel.
   Dorrin unloads two shipwright's adzes with spur heads, and looks at
the cooper's adz beside it. "This for them, too?"
   "Tyrel said he'd have to make some special barrels for this monster of
yours."
   "It's got a name now. Kyl's idea, mostly. The Black Hammer. "
   "Black Hammer, eh? You going to hammer the Whites?" Hegl sets aside
several shovels and two pickaxes. "These be for the one-armed lady." He
picks up a narrow hoe. "And this for the old healer and her garden. Light
as a feather."
   "You didn't have to do this."
   "Of course I didn't. Haven't had this much satisfaction in a long
time. I just grinned at your father every time I put something on the
wagon."
   Dorrin looks at his mother, but she is smiling. So he unloads a
half-barrel of smaller deck spikes. Intar carts the barrel off into the
shed.
   "That's it for here," Hegl announces. "I'm up to the big house next to
unload Kadara's goods. Hop on."
   Dorrin offers a hand to his mother, as she climbs back onto the wagon
seat. Then he vaults into the back.
   When they reach the point on the road nearest the house, Hegl sets the
brake and blocks the wheels. Except for Merga and Frisa, the house proper
is empty, although Yarrl's hammer rings from the smithy.
   "Where is Kadara?" asks Hegl.
   "Down where the armory will be, I'd guess." Dorrin points to where
several figures are digging out a foundation.
   "We're here. Let's unload."
   Hegl and Dorrin carry the furniture into Kadara's room-a bed, a
mattress, the cradle, and a small dresser.
   "Next trip I'll bring the rest." Hegl closes the tailboard and wipes
his forehead. "Think the one-armed lady'd mind if I gave the pick and
shovels to Kadara for now?"
   "Darkness, no!" laughs Dorrin. "Half the time they work together
anyway."
   "I'll be heading down there."
   "You're welcome for lunch," Dorrin insists.
   "Aye, and I'll be there-after I unload."
   Dorrin and Rebekah watch from the porch as the wagon rumbles back down
to the armory site.
   "Why did you come?" Dorrin asks as relative quiet settles over the
porch.
   "Kyl tells me that I might be able to help."
   "You did. I can't thank you enough for what you did for Pergun."
Dorrin shifts from one foot to the other, looking down on the slight and
red-haired figure, who seems ageless.
   "You still do it ... hopping around when I look at you. You'd think
I'd set you on a bed of red ants." Rebekah smiles fondly at her son. "I
was talking about Liedral."
   "There isn't anything physically wrong." Dorrin gestures to the bench,
and she sits down. He sits at the other end, straddling it to face her.
   "I figured that. But ... I do have some experience." Her voice is wry.
   "I'll readily grant that." Dorrin laughs ruefully. "If you want to see
Liedral, she's down at the warehouse."
   "I saw her on the way in-just from the wagon. I wanted to talk to you
first. If you're willing for me ..."
   "I'm willing for anything. Rylla's tried everything she-can think of.
So have I."
   Rebekah nods. "I need to know exactly what the Whites did."
   "I don't know exactly. From what she can remember and the cuts and
welts, they . . . whipped, tortured her . . . and planted false memories
of my doing it to her. She knows the memories are false, but that doesn't
seem to help much. The idea was to get her to kill me."
   Rebekah's voice is steady as she asks, "Was she raped?"
   "No. At least there was no blood and no memory."
   The healer sighs. "That's something ... I think ... although that
would have been hard on a White."
   "What do you have in mind?"
   "I'd like to talk it over with Liedral first. It has to be her
decision, son. I don't see why she wouldn't agree, but... it is her body
and her choice."
   Dorrin frowns. She sounds as if she has something fearsome in mind.
   "Oh ... it's nothing fearful. It's rather simple, certainly physically
painless, even possibly pleasurable . . . but it will take a long time.
You have to keep in mind that Liedral must be totally in control, and you
listen to her, and especially not to your male instincts."
   "I understand."
   "I doubt that. Not fully." Rebekah smiles.
   Dorrin blushes.
   "Tell me about the progress with your ship."
   Dorrin looks down at the porch floor.
   "Darkness, I'm not your father, and I am old enough to make my own
mind up, as I hope you would have understood a long time ago."
   The young engineer represses a grin at the asperity in his mother's
voice. Some things don't change. "Well . . . we've decided on a name, the
Black Hammer. It really came from Kyl in a way..."
 
 
CLXVIII
 
"THE COUNCIL WANTS to know what you intend to do." Anya's eyes drop to
the blank mirror upon the table.
    Sterol gestures, and the white mists vanish. A view appears in the
glass, so solid that it might have been painted there, a view of a black
ship moored at a pier in the narrow inlet, with five black stone
buildings on the hillside above. "Look. Have you ever seen anything so
clear?"
   "No."
   "I haven't either. What aspect of the Balance created that monster, I
don't know ..."
   "The Council is worried. They want you to do something."
   "Fine! What am I supposed to do? Send a fleet out against Recluce?
What good will it do?" Sterol snorts and looks at the image in the mirror
on the table. "The old Black ones won't respond. Should we attack the
island? Do you know what black iron swords do to our White guards? Do you
want one of those things he built blowing you into shreds? Like the great
Jeslek?"
   "The Blacks are divided," says Anya quietly. "They want this Dorrin to
disappear as much as we do."
   "That may be, but how does that explain all the people helping build
this new town? He didn't carry them all on that little ship. And they're
all still Blacks. That means he isn't creating any chaos on Recluce, the
demons know why ..." Sterol rubs his forehead.
   "Why can't you send a fleet? Recluce doesn't have even a half-score of
warships, if that. They don't like fighting. And most of those ships are
spread across the oceans."
   Sterol rubs his forehead again, then touches the amulet that rests
against his chest. "Haven't you heard a word I've said?"
   "The Council wants some action, Sterol." Anya's voice is sharp.
   The High Wizard lifts the amulet. "Here. You take it. Be my guest."
   The redhead looks at the amulet, then at Sterol. "I won't be tricked
like Jeslek."
   "Either shut up or take the amulet," Sterol snaps.
   Anya's hand lifts, then drops. Finally, she sighs. "Someone has to do
something."
   "Why?"
   "Do you intend to do nothing while this ... oddity ... builds so much
order into black iron that Recluce will dominate the Eastern Ocean
forever?"
   "I don't see that much of a threat. He can't live forever."
   Anya laughs, harshly. "You know those were Jenred the Traitor's exact
words? Creslin didn't live forever, but he lived long enough that you-the
High Wizard of Fairhaven-are afraid to take any direct action against
Recluce. Will you be the one who's remembered for letting Recluce
dominate all of Candar?"
   "No." Sterol chuckles, bitterly, and lays the amulet on the table
beside the mirror. The image of Southpoint vanishes. "You want action.
Take the amulet-or give it to someone else."
   "I'm asking you, Sterol."
   "And I'm refusing."
   She nods toward the door, and three guards appear, all bearing chains.
Behind them stand three White Wizards.
   "How predictable, dear Anya. You would all chain me rather than act
yourselves."
   The redhead's eyes burn; her fingers tighten on the white bronze
dagger.
   Fire, white flames, and swirling mists fill the room. The mirror upon
the table explodes, and two of the guards shrivel into dust on the
white-powdered stones.
   As the remaining white smoke subsides, Anya picks up the amulet,
glancing down at the pile of white dust that lies within the white robes
and white boots. She turns to one of the remaining wizards and extends
the amulet. "Here. You earned it, Cerryl."
   Cerryl looks at her sadly. "No. You earned it, but I'll wear it for
you." His eyes flicker to the white powder on the stone, which vanishes
as he watches.
   "Good. We need to plan the attack on Recluce."
   "As you wish." He gestures. The sole guard, the other wizard, and Anya
step outside the tower room. Anya closes the door behind her.
 
 
CLXIX
 
DORRIN CLOSES THE bedroom door and turns to Liedral.
   "You don't have to do this." Liedral's eyes meet his.
   "What do I have to lose?"
   "Your patience, your mind, your self-esteem..." She forces a laugh.
   "What do I do?" Dorrin looks at the smoothed plank floors that need
oiling or some sort of finish, then at the bed, almost stark in the light
of the single lamp.
   "Lie down on your stomach."
   "On the bed?"
   "No. On the floor." Liedral snorts. "Of course on the bed. I may be
difficult, but I'm not that cruel. Besides, I don't want to be
responsible for the splinters."
   Dorrin eases off his boots and lies on the bed, fully clothed,
facedown. "Now what?" His voice is muffled.
   "You just lie there and let me rub and massage your back. According to
your mother, I need to reestablish physical closeness and an instinctive
understanding that you won't hurt me."
   "But-"
   "I know. But.. . will trying this hurt?"
   Dorrin feels like shrugging, but does not. She is right. Nothing else
has worked. He takes a slow deep breath and releases it, conscious of the
faint perfume from the coverlet that reminds him of Liedral and the
physical closeness they once shared. His eyes burn, but he keeps his face
averted as her strong fingers knead the muscles in his shoulders and
upper back.
   "You've put on more muscle."
   "There, anyway, it's muscle."
   Despite the knot in his stomach, her fingers are strong, and soothe
the strain in his shoulders and neck. His breath becomes more even.
   "How do you feel?" he asks.
   "Hush . . . I'm working." Despite the amused tone to her voice, there
is also an edge.
   Dorrin turns his head more to avoid breathing through the feather
mattress that seems determined to cover his nostrils. "Ahhh . . .
chwwww." He rubs his nose and resettles himself so he breathes fewer
stray bits of down.
   The intermittent wind carries bits of conversations to them.
   "... thought black stone ... be depressing, but it's not..."
   "... amazing the difference ..."
   "... you think master Dorrin's a wizard, a real wizard?"
   Liedral proceeds quietly and methodically for some time, and Dorrin
enjoys the relaxation.
   "My fingers are tired." Liedral shakes her hands and leans back.
   "You've been doing it for a long time." As Dorrin shifts his weight on
the soft mattress and turns over to see her, Liedral wobbles on her
knees. He reaches and catches her, momentarily holding her close.
   "Ah ... that's not..."
   Dorrin lets go as if she were molten iron.
   "I didn't mean . . ." Liedral shakes her head, lets her lips touch his
cheek.
   Dorrin sits up, leaving a slight space between them.
   "Now .. . you do the same thing."
   He grins.
   "Exactly the same thing. No additions."
   Rather than kneeling, Dorrin sits at an angle and begins with her
shoulder blades.
   "You can knead just a little harder. I'm not made of porcelain."
   He applies a touch more pressure.
   "That feels good."
   Dorrin continues to work down her back, eventually going slightly
below her lower back.
   "That's a little low and a little familiar ..." Again, the humorous
tone has an edge, almost of fear, and Dorrin moves his fingers upward to
her lower back, where he returns to kneading out the kinks.
   "That feels so good."
   In time, he, too, must stop, for his fingers are almost numb.' As he
shakes them out, Liedral sits up.
   "What happens next?"
   "Wait and see." She flashes a smile that fades quickly.
   This time Dorrin understands. If she tells him, then she may not feel
she has control, and it is all too clear she needs that feeling of
control.
   "I understand." He squeezes her arm and stands up.
   She blows out the lamp, and slips out of her clothes in the dark, and
into the long shift. Dorrin, as always, refrains from looking anywhere
near her, although he feels himself breathing more quickly, and forces
himself to take deeper and slower breaths.
   They lie there, side by side, hands flat, only the edges brushing. A
cool evening breeze flutters in through the open window, as do gnats and
infrequent mosquitoes.
   Dorrin almost wishes for the distraction of a mosquito, something that
he could crush, but in the late summer, or the early fall-he is not sure
of the seasons at Southpoint, which seem milder than at Extina, and
certainly milder than in Spidlar- even mosquitoes have become rarer.
   While Dorrin has been blind, often for nearly an eight-day, while he
has been wounded, while he suffers agonizing headaches for his misuse of
order, others have suffered far more. Although he is convinced, and his
rough calculations bear him out, that the Balance is mechanical, and
nothing more, he sighs softly in the darkness. Is the world just a
mechanism? Why do the beliefs and strivings of those who hold order count
for even less than those who would use chaos, the destructive force?
   Even among those who seek order, why do so many reject difference,
such as his engine, merely because it is different? Why will they not
look at the order beneath?
   The breeze across his face brings no answer, nor did he expect that it
would. Liedral snores lightly, and shivers. Dorrin draws the coverlet
over her. His eyes rest blankly on the rough-dressed ceiling beams as the
wind moans, and the distant surf whispers against the base of the cliffs.
 
 
CLXX
 
THE COLD FALL wind whistles down off the brown grasses of the southern
plateau and whips dust off the Great Highway, past the laboring wagon
heaped with the last load of iron plate for the Black Hammer. As the wind
gusts around the large house, it rattles the newly installed windows,
almost as if testing them.
   On the wide front porch, Liedral wraps the cloak around her more
tightly. Dorrin's arm drops away from her. Why? Why did Jeslek have to
pick such a nasty torture? He sighs. Torture is by definition nasty.
   "What are you thinking?" she asks.
   "Cruel thoughts about cruel people."
   "Being angry at the Whites doesn't help much." Her voice is soft, and
a warm hand touches him. "I love you, you know."
   "I love you."
   "You must." Her short laugh is both sad and harsh at once.
   The cool wind fluffs her hair into his, and he puts his arm back
around her for a time. Before long he must head back down to the
shipwright's.
   "You're testing the new engine today?"
   "Just the engine. We still haven't finished the gearing for the shaft,
and Yarrl's had troubles with the shaft bearings."
   "For something that was supposed to make traveling by ship simpler, it
sounds more complicated."
   "It's always-" Dorrin breaks off.
   "What is it?"
   He laughs. "I was thinking. In a way, Oran was both wrong and right.
In the natural order of things, you harness the wind with your sails and
you go where you can with the wind. Then, if you get more complicated
sails and rigging you can tack and go crosswind and sometimes upwind.
With my engine, which is made possible by order, you can go against the
natural order. When you think about it, natural order isn't always
orderly. Storms are a mixture of order and chaos, and they cause the
winds. So he was right that what I'm doing is against natural order, but
he's wrong in assuming that all things natural are orderly. I need to
write that down and add it to the book."
   "That book about order you're been working on ever since I've known
you?" Liedral shivers again as the wind gusts around them. "It's cold out
here."
   Dorrin nods.
   "Why don't you give it to him-your father?"
   "I'd really need it copied."
   "Petra and I can do it. I've been teaching her to write Temple, and it
would be a good exercise."
   Dorrin glances downhill, toward the gray waters of the small harbor,
with the stone pier that holds the Black Diamond and the Gatherer-Kyl's
fishing boat. Reisa has ensured that the new pier is long enough to berth
four ships the size of the new Black Hammer. Pergun has salvaged the
timbers from the temporary wharf and is using them to build a second
warehouse.
   Liedral stands. "I need to get down to the warehouse. If you can,
don't forget about the cheese cutters and one of those windmill toys . .
. if you can."
   "I'll see after we test the engine." He gives her a hug, and her arms
go around him for a while-proof, he supposes, that the exercises between
them have helped. But building everything, from affection to ships, takes
so long.
   Her lips touch his, and the kiss is real, if short. He grins as she
steps back.
   "See?" asks Liedral.
   "I do see." After she steps into the house to get her manifest for the
next trading ship, Dorrin begins the short walk down to Tyrel's.
   Tyrel has already slid the Black Hammer halfway down the graving ways
to the water in order to ensure that the funnel is clear of the shed.
   The hull is complete, and Dorrin admires the smooth curves once again,
letting his fingers drift over the varnished black oak and even across
his own work. The thin black iron plates above the waterline seem to meld
into the lower beams. While copper sheathing would improve the hull,
there are neither the coins nor the time necessary to install it. Even
though the White Wizards of Fairhaven have been quiet, even though the
Council has said nothing, Dorrin has no doubts that he will soon have to
respond to both.
   He walks to the stern, where only the housing for the shaft and the
screw need to be completed. On the blocks beside the hull rests the black
iron screw, the largest single piece of work Dorrin and Yarrl have ever
done. The polishing alone took almost three days and a special hoist.
   "Friggin' big chunk of metal, master Dorrin," offers Styl, pausing to
set down a set of shorter beams that are braces for the main deckhouse or
the pilot house above. "Lot bigger than the screw on the Diamond."
   "More power at a lower shaft speed, I hope," Dorrin answers.
   "You know . .. master Dorrin ..." Styl coughs.
   "Yes?" Dorrin says cheerfully.
   "I was wondering ... I mean about the black iron. Folks know that iron
binds magic . . . Guess it's always been that way ... I was wondering if
you could tell me why. It must do something, the way you plated this here
Hammer."
   Dorrin's eyes slide along the ship, visualizing her as complete, with
the angled and black-plated sides to the deckhouse and the pilot house
and the big funnel aft of both, tall enough to add significantly to the
draft and power of the engine. The Hammer has no masts, only two covered
wells where low temporary masts can be set in the event of engine
failure, for Dorrin has designed her only for use in defending Recluce or
in the Gulf of Candar. He has neither time nor coins to build a more
ambitious vessel, and to carry and steep even a single large mast will
add too much weight.
   "Iron and magic," Dorrin begins, belatedly realizing that his thoughts
have wandered from Styl's question. "Have you ever watched the iron when
a smith works? What does it look like?"
   "It gets hot, sort of reddish."
   "Cherry red. That's because the iron absorbs all that heat- call it
the power of the coals. Well, magic is like heat. It's a power, and just
like iron can hold the heat of the forge, it can hold and bind the heat
of magic. Black iron does it even better. That's why the some of the
magisters carry black iron shields. The troopers on the Black Hammer
will, too."
   "Hmmmm ..." ponders Styl. "Sounds right, leastwise to me. That a
secret among the wizards?"
   Dorrin frowns. The conclusion is his, but outside of his own writing
in his book, he has never seen it in ink anywhere else. "It might be. I
had to figure it out. No one told me, if that's what you mean."
   Styl nods, almost ponderously. "Thank ye, master Dorrin. Best I be
getting these up to Tyrel afore he starts bellowing."
   "Don't let me stop you. Tell him I'll be up there in a bit." Dorrin
continues to check the hull before walking up the ramp onto the main deck.
   A new assistant Dorrin does not know passes by with another set of
braces, and Styl grunts as he lifts his load. The two move toward the
deckhouse structure.
   Dorrin has to climb down a temporary ladder into the engine
compartment because the walls and the permanent ladder cannot be
installed until the shaft and main thrust bearings are in place. Right
now, the power train stops at the big flywheel, but the engine is
complete, and Yarrl has fired up the boiler at low temperatures several
times to help temper the firebrick.
   The low temperature runs also disclosed tubing leaks and,
unfortunately, the need to rework both cylinders' steam inlet valves.
   Wondering what will happen on this higher-pressure test, Dorrin checks
the water level in the tank and inspects the firebox. Then he whittles
shavings into a pile, which he lights with the striker from his pouch. As
the wood fragments catch, he runs his fingers across the boiler and then
the engine. It feels solid.
   A shovelful of fragmented coal goes into the firebox.
   "You starting already?" asks Yarrl from the deck above.
   "I just began lighting her off. I didn't think you'd mind, since it
will be a while before we have enough pressure."
   "Why would I mind? It's your engine." Yarrl climbs down beside Dorrin.
"At times . .. it's hard to believe ..."
   Dorrin feels the same way; and yet, the engine feels right- so black
and so solid. How could his father ever believe it was a creation of
chaos? He smiles crookedly. Then again, that has been the problem with
Recluce itself. Its very order requires a greater amount of chaos in
opposition.
   Does that mean each engine will create more chaos in the world?
Dorrin's smile fades. The ship is necessary-but can the world stand many
of them?
   "What are you thinking about?" asks Yarrl.
   "Order and chaos," Dorrin says absently, looking up to see Tyrel's
crew gathering on the deck to watch. He reaches for the shovel, and Yarrl
opens the firebox door. Another shovel of coal goes through the open iron
door.
   Shortly, Dorrin adds another, and yet another. The boiler creaks as
the heat increases, and the plume of smoke from the funnel thickens.
   Dorrin checks the bypasses, waiting for the pressure to build more.
Finally, he looks at Yarrl. "Let's hope." He twists one valve and then
another, and steam hisses within the carefully crafted tubes toward the
cylinders.
   As the operating steam pressure builds, even above the
chunking/sliding sound of the rods and the wisps of steam escaping from
the packing of the cylinder rods, a fainter hiss begins to build.
   Dorrin cocks his head, trying to listen, trying to sense the source of
the new hiss.
   "Looks good!" Yarrl bellows above the combination of muted boiler
roar, moving pistons, and steam.
   Dorrin walks back to the heavy flywheel-the extra weight was Yarrl's
idea for smoothing the power delivery to the shaft gears. The gears stand
separated from the flywheel because the last conversion gear has to be
completed. Then, if Dorrin and Yarrl can get the new bearing system to
work, the shaft can be installed and the propeller attached. Then the
Black Hammer can be floated.
   For a long time, the younger engineer studies the flywheel, thinking
about a better design for the next engine. He shakes his head. He needs
to finish one engine at a time.
   The faint hissing is not so faint when Dorrin steps back toward the
steam section of the engine.
   "Do you know what it is? The hissing?" asks Yarrl, bending close to
Dorrin's ear and not quite bellowing.
   Dorrin shakes his head, then begins to trace the steam flow from the
boiler tubes to the steam drum and to the cylinders, and from the
cylinders to the main condenser. He stops. Air is entering the condenser,
dropping the vacuum pressure and the engine's efficiency, and causing the
hissing.
   Getting down on the deck on his knees he studies the cover plate,
finally straightening up and looking at Yarrl. "There's a little gap in
the plate, almost too small to see. Maybe it got chipped somehow when we
installed it. We'll need to do something about it. It's costing us power."
   "Always something."
   Dorrin shakes his head. There is always something going wrong. This is
the fourth test, and each has revealed another problem. He throttles up
the steam pressure another notch, but the power rods still run smoothly.
   Dorrin and Yarrl watch and study, until midmorning, when Dorrin begins
cooling the engine, slowing it back down, and finally venting off enough
pressure to stop the cylinders.
   Taking the heavy cloth and tongs, he can finally remove the condenser
cover plate and store it in a canvas bag to carry back to the
smithy/engineering shop.
   "It can cool down from here on its own," Dorrin tells Tyrel. "I need
to replace the condenser cover, maybe rebuild it. Then we'll finish the
last gear and the bearings."
   "How long?" asks Tyrel.
   "Another eight-day," Dorrin guesses.
   "We should have the deckhouse framing finished before that, and we'll
need the plates for it."
   "I know." The plates from the iron works are too soft and too thick,
and even with the rough trip-hammer Yarrl has rigged off Dorrin's small
millrace, reforging each is time-consuming.
   Dorrin walks uphill slowly. The condenser cover is heavy.
   "Let me carry it for a while."
   The younger man hands over the canvas case. "What about the bearings?"
   "They bind too much, even when there's almost no weight on them. You
install them like that and the whole shaft will vibrate."
   The two walk into the smithy, where Rek is using the small anvil to
forge nails. Vaos is using the large anvil for spikes. There are never
enough nails or spikes, it seems.
   "Let's see the bearings." Dorrin takes the canvas sack and puts it on
the corner of his bench. The bearing problem comes first.
   Yarrl hands one of the cylindrical bearings to Dorrin. "They bind here
on the edges. You can see where the metal's scratched."
   Dorrin runs his fingers across the cylinder. The center section is
smooth, but he can feel the abrasion, even on the hard steel, at the
edges. Setting the bearing, its diameter not much smaller than the large
rod stock from which it was forged, on the smooth iron plate Dorrin uses
to check the parts for evenness, he places another plate on top of the
bearing, and gradually exerts as much force as he can, gently rolling the
bearing back and forth, trying to sense where the pressures fall.
   From beside the slack tanks, Vaos and Rek watch, Vaos scratches his
head, but the younger brother suddenly grins.
   Finally, Dorrin straightens and wipes the dampness from his forehead
with the back of his sleeve. "Let's trying grinding bevels on the ends."
   "I thought of that. Won't that make them wobble in the track?"
   "Maybe ... but what if we slanted the holding flange just a bit? The
tangs on the ends will help."
   "Might be worth it."
   Dorrin takes a deep breath and pulls off his tunic. "Let's get the big
stone moving, Vaos."
   "Yes, ser."
   Dorrin takes down the bearing tongs he built, with the attached screw
clamps to hold the tang ends against the grinding pressure.
   "I can't help with that. You've got a finer touch," Yarrl says. "I'm
going back to that last blank on the gears."
   "Good." Dorrin takes the first of the bearings. It will be another
long day, and after that he must still redesign and reforge the pressure
cover for the condenser. Then, once the gear and bearings are finished,
they will have to test the system for vibration again. And probably again
after that. Sometimes, he wonders if the ship will ever be completed.
   At least, he can take a short break for lunch, and at least Liedral
will be there, before she goes back to Land's End again.
   He sighs, remembering the three uncompleted cheese-cutters, real
cheese cutters, for which he must still draw the wire before she goes.
 
 
CLXXI
 
DORRIN TIES BASLA to the iron ring on the stone post, half turning to
glance at the Black Holding, where the Council usually meets. Then he
turns toward the well-kept stone walk, still damp from the morning rain.
The yellow flowers in the plantings beside the walk still bloom, but they
will fade within the eight-day, for fall is indeed upon Recluce.
   He steps toward the house, carrying the folder with him. While he does
not look forward to the meeting, it is something he must do.
   Rebekah opens the door even before Dorrin reaches the stoop. "I hoped
you would come before long." She smiles and gives him a quick hug before
stepping back. "How is Liedral?"
   "We're doing better." Dorrin knows what she really means by the
question. "I'm following her suggestions, and I'm glad you spent the
time. Sometimes, it's hard. The touching exercises ..." He almost winces.
"But they seem to work. It's so hard to think of what we had and lost...
and it wasn't even our doing."
   Rebekah nods sympathetically. "Would you like some redberry?"
   "Please." He has not had redberry since early summer at the inn.
   "What's in the folder?" His mother inclines her head quizzically.
   "Something for father."
   "He's in the library. The porch is a little chilly. I'll join you
before long."
   Dorrin understands this as well. He wanders down the hall and into the
library. "Hello."
   The thin wizard sets down the book on the reading table. "Dorrin. Sit
down." He gestures to the other chair, clearly moved from the kitchen
into the study in anticipation of Dorrin's arrival.
   "Thank you." Dorrin takes the chair, setting the heavy folder in his
lap, then meets his father's eyes. For only the second time since Dorrin
can remember, Oran looks away from his son.
   "What do you want?" asks the older man.
   "I'd like you to stop trying to persuade everyone that what I'm doing
is wrong and tied to chaos. I'm not a little boy anymore, and you're not
always right. Neither am I," he adds, thinking about Diev, and Kleth, and
Liedral and Kadara, and even Meriwhen.
   "I love you, Dorrin, and you're my son. But this business with black
iron and machines is wrong. Do you want me to say it's right when I don't
think it is?"
   "I'd like you to think about the reasons why you feel it's wrong."
Dorrin pauses. "Creslin did things which were not exactly perfectly in
line with pure order, but had he done otherwise, neither you nor I would
be here."
   "You've done much, Dorrin, but you're not a Creslin."
   "No. I know that, but the lessons are the same. I intend to preserve
Recluce. Intentionally or not, you intend to commit suicide, because
you've never really understood order."
   "Understood order? You've never stood on the storms, or held the sky,
and you know about order?"
   Dorrin lifts the bound sheets beside him. "I had these copied for you.
One of the things I found out in Candar is that nothing in your library
explained the basis of order, just the constraints. So I did my best."
   "Oh ... it must be interesting, applying your engineering logic to
order. Tell me, do you prove that your steam engine is a creation of the
Angels of Heaven and founded on order?" Oran smiles crookedly.
   "Hardly. This is much more basic." Dorrin tries not to sigh. "If
that's the way you want it, keep trying to persuade the Council to send
me off to some darkness-forsaken corner of the globe."
   "I don't want to send you off, son. I just want you to return to the
way of order."
   "I have returned to the way of order."
   The tall wizard's mouth opens, then closes, but he listens as Dorrin
continues.
   "I've had some time to think, and I've had to work things out for
myself, and I had some help. You seem to have forgotten two things.
First, I did stop Jeslek. And second, I'm still Black. There's not one
flicker of chaos around me, and you know it. And that doesn't lie."
   "Being honestly mistaken is not the same as being right."
   "Perhaps not, but I've watched Southpoint, and the people there. We're
building something that is solid and order-based. You ought to give it a
chance."
   "For what? To corrupt generations of order?"
   "Perhaps there is a third way," offers Rebekah. She has a tray with
two glasses on it and offers it to Dorrin.
   Dorrin takes the redberry and inclines his head to the healer. "Yes,
mother?"
   "Perhaps the Council could leave Southpoint and the defense of Recluce
to you, and to any who would join you. That would give us each time to
consider how to work out what you have discovered. That would also allow
use of Dorrin's work without the dangers of the corruption you fear,
Oran."
   "How do you know this would work?" mutters the air wizard.
   "I don't," Dorrin says, "but isn't it better than handing Recluce over
to the Whites, or leaving you isolated and stagnating while Fairhaven
grows and dominates the world."
   "He has a point, Oran. The Council has raised the same questions."
   "But machines?"
   Dorrin nods and lifts the manuscript. "If you would read this. .."
   Oran makes a gesture to push them both away. "All right ... I'll read
the fool thing and think about it. That's all you can expect." Dorrin
takes a sip of the redberry, enjoying the taste despite the circumstances.
   "I'd like to read it also," says Rebekah.
   Oran takes the second glass of redberry, and swallows. After a moment,
he says, "Tell me about this trader lady."
   Dorrin finishes his glass, looking at it as if he cannot believe he
drank it all.
   "I can send a large jug back with you." Rebekah laughs.
   "Her name is Liedral. She's a trader, originally from Jellico .. .
helped us away from Fairhaven . . . factored some of my toys ..."
   "Was she a White trader?"
   "... free trader ... the Whites tried to put her family out of
business ..."
   Late afternoon comes before Dorrin finishes his narrative. He looks
out at the darkening clouds. "I really need to go."
   Rebekah stands from the padded stool she has brought into the study.
"I'll get that redberry, and there's also a whole cold fowl you can take,
and even a leg of mutton-not that it's that much for that establishment
of yours. And you keep some of that redberry for yourself."
   Dorrin grins. Even Oran grins.
   After watering and feeding Basla, he makes three trips from the
kitchen out to load his mount before he finally rides southward once
more. He whistles as he rides along the High Road, back toward the Black
Hammer, back toward Liedral.
 
 
CLXXII
 
THE HEALER LOOKS back away from the damp gray stones that lead to the
High Road, and her eyes dwell briefly on the Black Holding while a faint
smile plays across her lips. She turns to the tall man. "Have you looked
at your son, Oran? Really looked?"
   "He's the same old Dorrin. He's obsessed with those demon-damned
contraptions of his."
   "He's not the same Dorrin."
   "He is still obsessed with those machines."
   "No." Rebekah's voice is hard, almost as cold as black iron as she
turns to her husband. "He is so steeped in order, so Black, that where he
stands is like a pillar anchored deep into the earth. Oran, he makes you
look shallow. Don't let yourself act shallow. Why can't you take pride in
your son?"
   "You're certain?"
   "Don't listen to me. Just look for yourself."
   The tall man licks his lips, shivering at the cold certainty in his
guts and in her words. "What of Recluce, then?"
   "I doubt that much will change, dear. The really great ones don't come
along that often."
   "But his machines..."
   "Oran ... have you really considered your own question? The one about
how to hold back chaos without turning the world upside down? The White
ones cannot stand up to black iron."
   "But... machines . .. ?"
   "Trust in the Balance, dear."
   The tall wizard shakes his head, but the gesture is not all negative,
and the slender woman takes his hand and squeezes, as they walk out from
the front stoop around to the terrace off their kitchen to watch the
shadows of the bluff lengthen across the Eastern Ocean.
 
 
CLXXIII
 
"ALMOST A SEASON has passed, and you have made no moves against the
Blacks, or against the renegade smith who cost us so dearly." Anya's
voice is level as she looks across the table at Cerryl.
   "What would you suggest?" Cerryl's tone is mild, inquisitive. He looks
toward the tower window that is but ajar, observing the painted wooden
rose that does not move with the cool breeze that passes it.
   "You cannot let such acts go unpunished, you know."
   "We razed Diev, and neither the city nor the harbor remains. Kleth is
no more, and Spidlaria does whatever we wish-willingly. We have added
another half-dozen ships to the trade blockade of Recluce." The High
Wizard smiles politely. "I take it you believe that more should be done?"
   "You are so unfailingly polite and attentive, Cerryl. It's one of your
charms."
   "I am so glad you find it so. Are you suggesting that an expedition
against Southpoint is in order? A fleet, perhaps a firing of the new
city?"
   "It is so refreshing not to have to outline the details. Sterol was so
dense about it."
   "I know." Cerryl's voice is dry. "Would you like me to propose this in
the next meeting and appoint you to develop the plan, under my direction,
of course?"
   Anya leans forward and touches his cheek. "You are so understanding,
Cerryl. So understanding."
   "We do try, Anya. We do try."
 
 
CLXXIV
 
"EASY .. . EASY ..." CALLS Tyrel.
   The Black Hammer shivers on the greased blocks, edging along the
stone-braced and heavy timbers toward the gray- green waters of the
harbor. Dorrin wipes the cold mist from his face and tries not to hold
his breath as his ship ever-so-slowly slides seaward, watching the
propeller housing as it barely clears a slight hump in the inclined ramp,
hoping that Tyrel has calculated accurately and that neither the rudder
nor the shaft will be bent.
   "She's lovely," admits Reisa, standing on the far side of Yarrl from
Dorrin. "Lovely like a well-turned blade."
   "Not much for a trader," adds Liedral.
   "And you sure couldn't fish with her. Scare off everything for kays,"
laughs Kyl.
   "All right." Dorrin continues to watch as the Hammer slides into the
harbor water. A spray rises from the stern and a low rippling wave
spreads across the calm water.
   A low cheer rises from the score of workers and others who have lined
the pier to watch the launching.
   Dorrin wipes the chill mist from his face again, then steps toward the
pier, checking the waterline. He grins as he sees that two lines of oak
planks below the black iron are exposed above the water, just as he had
calculated. That will change when the plating on the pilot house and deck
house are completed, and the coal and water bins are filled.
   He peers at the stern and tries to sense whether the shaft has
grounded, but there is no mud boiling up, nor tangles of vegetation, nor
any bending in the rudder brackets. Tyrel and Reisa complained at his
insistence on deepening the harbor more beyond the graving ways, but they
had done so.
   Styl has already attached the bow line to the windlass mounted on the
pier. The shipwright begins to crank, and the Hammer's bow turns as the
ship is drawn into position next to the pier. Tyrel stands by the three
men holding the stern line, ready to tighten it around the other bollard.
   Dorrin waits until the ship is pulled alongside the pier. Then he
jumps and clambers over the side, not waiting for the gangway, and
scrambles down the engine compartment ladder and through the second hatch
into the narrow space that holds the shaft. He lights the wall lamp and
detaches it from its bracket, carrying it deeper into the ship and toward
the stern, where he inspects the housing where the shaft penetrates the
hull.
   From what he can see, there are no immediate leaks. He looks at the
small pump in the bilges and the narrow steam line that runs to it.
Dorrin grins. A hand-powered version forged mainly by Hegl has already
been delivered to the iron works for Korbow.
   Dorrin lifts the lamp, and begins to check the hull. According to
Tyrel, some leakage is likely, but for the moment, the engineer sees
none. He climbs out of the bilges and back forward and up to the engine
compartment.
   "There ye be." Tyrel peers from the deck down.
   "The shaft looks sound, and I don't see any leaks."
   "We got no leaks tomorrow, and I'll be happy. No leaks right after she
hits water doesn't mean much."
   Dorrin agrees, but he will take what he can. He climbs back up onto
the deck, where Liedral, Reisa, and Yarrl are waiting.
   "Gives me the shivers," Yarrl admits.
   "What? The rain?" asks Reisa, with a half-smile.
   "You know what I mean, woman."
   Dorrin knows. While the Hammer is solid and order-based, the ship has
the directness and deadliness of a fine blade.
   Liedral has walked to the bow, where her fingers caress the smooth
lines of the railings and their supports, all crafted without unnecessary
projections.
   She turns, extends a hand. He takes it and steps up beside her, and
they look westward, out over the gray waters of the channel and toward
the black-green waters of the Gulf, toward the blackening clouds in the
west.
   "It's going to storm," Dorrin says.
   "It won't be much, not compared to the storm you've built here."
   "You think I should have called her the Black Storm?"
   "No. The Black Hammer is right. You are a smith, perhaps the greatest
ever."
   Dorrin laughs, harshly. "Both Hegl and Yarrl know more than I'll ever
learn about smithing."
   "You know what I mean. Yarrl told you that he understands what you do.
He just can't see it until you do it. Maybe I should have called you the
greatest engineer ever."
   "What am I? A magic engineer?"
   Liedral squeezes his fingertips. They stand watching the dark storm on
the horizon as the shipwright's crew begins to carry the last black iron
plates aboard to be installed, as the cold drizzle drops around them, and
as the whitecaps begin to form out in the Gulf of Candar.
 
 
CLXXV
 
"OH ... I GOT a fair amount of coin." Liedral opens the small chest on
the bedroom table that doubles as her desk and Dorrin's drafting platform.
   "I'd say so." Standing just behind the trader, Dorrin takes in the
heap of silvers and golds in the chest. He squeezes her shoulders. "So
what was the problem?" . "They'd buy but not sell. I couldn't get any of
the cordage Tyrel wanted, nor any commitment for copper. According to
Henshur, no one's ever had trouble getting copper from Nordlans before."
Liedral closes the chest.
   "I missed you." Still standing behind her, Dorrin puts his arms around
her waist and his cheek against hers.
   "I missed you." Liedral turns in his arms. Her lips demand his, and
for a time they remain locked together.
   "Dinner's ready! Master Dorrin and Mistress Liedral! Dinner's ready."
Frisa's high voice penetrates the closed door.
   Liedral lifts her lips. "I know it's been a long time, but. .. please
. .. just keep trusting me ..."
   His lips brush hers. "I will . . . I do . . ." He wipes away a tear,
and finds her hand wiping his cheek.
   "Dinner!"
   Dorrin starts to respond, but has to clear his throat. "We're coming."
   "Not yet," comments Liedral wryly. "But we will get there."
   Dorrin blushes. Liedral straightens her tunic and steps around Dorrin
to open the door.
   Everyone else is at the long table, except for Merga and Frisa. Frisa
sets two baskets of fresh-baked bread on the table- one at each end.
   "Smells good," Yarrl announces.
   Dorrin sits in the chair at the head of the table, while Liedral slips
next to him on the bench to his left.
   "Be lifting your rafters tomorrow, Reisa," Pergun announces.
   "It's about time," Reisa says. "I expect you might even get the roof
finished before midwinter."
   "Aye, but that depends on the stonecutters. I need more of the slate
tiles."
   Merga sets a large casserole on the table.
   "What is it?"
   "Fish stew."
   "Fish, always fish," mutters Vaos from the middle of the bench.
   Dorrin agrees silently.
   "Fish be good for you," snaps Rylla. "Better than starving in Spidlar.
Or worse, and don't ye forget it, you ungrateful scamp." She spoils the
effect by not being able to hide a small smile.
   "I got some greenberry from the holders." Merga holds up the pitcher.
"You like some, master Dorrin?"
   "If you please." Although the drink is bitter, Dorrin prefers it to
the watery beer or water that are the alternatives. He ladles out the
stew onto his plate, noting various sliced and chopped creatures, as well
as seaweed and quilla roots. At least it is nourishing, and the spices
will help-he hopes. The bread is also good, but Merga has always baked
good bread.
   "Whose dwelling comes after Yard's?" asks Rek.
   "I'd say it was Mistress Kadara's, and Rylla will be with her, I
understand." Pergun still speaks with his mouth full, and breadcrumbs
spray onto the table.
   "Stop talking when you're eating," reminds Merga, settling next to him.
   "Somebody's got to look after that child she's carrying," Rylla
mumbles.
   Kadara chuckles. "You'd think it was your grandson about to be born."
   "Only one I'd like as to see."
   "You're not that old," prompts Vaos.
   "Never said as I was old." Rylla gestures around the table. "You see
any other children coming around this place?" Merga blushes and looks at
the table. Petra raises her eyebrows and looks toward Dorrin and Liedral.
   "You never can tell," Dorrin temporizes.
   "So ... maybe you'll prove me wrong," the old healer says, "but with
his mother a blade, and her own family an isle-length away, her son's
going to need another grandmother." Rylla breaks off a chunk of bread and
dips it into the stew on her plate.
   "Could I have some more greenberry?" asks Rek.
   "Stop washing your food down," admonishes Reisa.
   "I wish we had something besides fish and mutton."
   "I baked some pearapple pies for later," Merga adds. "But you don't
get any, lad, unless you eat your stew."
   "Master Dorrin?" protests Rek, looking at the heap of fish on his
plate.
   "I have to agree with Merga."
   "You're mean," Liedral teases.   *
   Dorrin recovers the bread, and finds he has the end crust.
   "When will your ship be going to sea, master Dorrin?" asks Frisa. "Can
I have a ride on the new one?"
   "Not this time, young woman." Dorrin realizes he has too much in his
mouth and swallows, but not before Liedral glances sharply at him. "I
think we'll be taking her out into the Gulf in about an eight-day." If
the gear train works as it is supposed to, if the thrust bearing mounts
can stand up to the vibrations, if...
   He takes a sip of the bitter greenberry, and then another mouthful of
fish. His next ship will be a big steam trader. He has been well-off; he
is not well-off, at least not in food, and he prefers the former.
   "You best eat that stew," Rylla warns Kadara.
   Liedral rolls her eyes, and Dorrin waits for the pearapple pie.
 
 
CLXXVI
 
AT THE STURDY stone pier are tied a small schooner with sails apparently
furled and a black pipe protruding from the main deck, a small two-masted
fishing boat, and another ship, jet black, without masts, but with a
slant-sided deckhouse, an open cylinder behind it, and smooth curved hull
lines. Workers attach black metal to the rear of the deckhouse.
   The three White Wizards study the scene in the mirror.
   "What in darkness is it?" asks Fydel.
   "Do we really want to find out?" Cerryl's voice is sardonic.
   "Cerryl dear, you are so cautious. Look at the hillside. Those are
tents beyond the houses. Clearly, this . . . settlement is scarcely
begun."
   Fydel raises his eyebrows. "The stone buildings appear rather solid,
Anya."
   "You . . . men! If you can call yourselves that. We need to stop this
before the Black Council gets fully behind this . . . renegade. Right
now, all he has is two small ships and a fishing boat, and a few
buildings. We wait much longer, and it gets that much harder."
   "Anya, the southern fleet is already gathering in the Great North Bay.
Within the next two eight-days, depending on the winds, it will be ready
to set forth-exactly according to your plans." Cerryl offers the redhead
a broad smile. "What else would you have us do?"
   "You are too accommodating, Cerryl." Anya's voice is smooth. "But I
appreciate your thoughtfulness. I do trust that the fleet's departure
will be as you have projected, and that there will be sufficient troop
support to level this Black settlement. "
   "You wish to prove to the Blacks that we can strike even upon their
beloved isle?"
   "It would aid our effort, would it not?" asks the red-headed wizard.
   "If you so believe, then I bow to your wisdom." Cerryl inclines his
head. "I will ensure that the fleet leaves as you have planned."
   "Thank you." Anya steps back, and inclines her head. "By your leave,
Highest of High Wizards?"
   "Of course." Cerryl inclines his head in return, watching as she
leaves.
   Fydel waits impassively until the door shuts. "You push her too much,
Cerryl. With all her supporters, she could have your head tomorrow."
   "Perhaps. But would you want this position?"
   Fydel shakes his head.
 
 
CLXXVII
 
THE CLEAR MORNING light of early winter cascades across the harbor, and
steam seems to rise from the water. On the hillside above, white rime
begins to melt off the rooftops. Hoofs sound on the extension of the High
Road that now extends all the way to the black stones of the wharf.
   Dorrin turns from his study of the needle-shaped Black Hammer. At
least in comparison to the Black Diamond, the Hammer is longer and
narrower, with a correspondingly narrower but deeper keel. And the Hammer
not only looks black, from the iron and lorkin finish, but feels black.
   The engineer watches as the post carriage clicks past the small
building serving as Reisa's office as harbormaster. While Reisa insists
that she is only a disabled blade, Dorrin knows better, having watched as
she has rebuilt a marshy inlet into a real, if small harbor, and as she
has begun to extend the breakwaters to allow for operation in more stormy
seas.
   Dorrin frowns momentarily, for the post carriage normally stops to
deliver letters at the harbormaster's. He waits until the carriage pulls
up, the door opens, and three figures step out- Oran, Ellna, and Videlt.
   He bows. "I had not expected you."
   "We had not expected to be here." Ellna's normally musical voice is
hoarse. "But we thought that we should see your progress."
   "This is our progress." Dorrin gestures toward the Black Diamond.
   "Frankly," states the squarish Videlt, "I am more impressed by the
buildings and the harbor and the organization than a single ship."
   So is Dorrin, but he would prefer the Council come to that conclusion
without his words. "Since you are here, would you like to see the ship?"
   "We might as well." Oran's voice is sour. "Would you show us?"
   "This ship is not much larger than the first. Is it that much more
capable?" asks Videlt.
   "It is a warship," Dorrin states flatly, leading the way up the
gangway. "There's nothing that is easily flamed."
   "Could we see your engine?"
   Dorrin leads the way to the engine compartment, climbing down the
ladder first. "This is the fire box, and the coal is shoveled from the
bins here ..."
   The three Council members are silent as he explains the steam
generation, flow, the reciprocating nature of the cylinders and the
gearing to the shaft and the propeller.
   "No chaos ... not now," mumbles Videlt.
   "You won't find any traces, either." Dorrin watches his father's face
go blank, knowing Oran strains to find any sense of the whitish-red of
chaos.
   Oran blinks and straightens up. "Has your ship been sea-tested?"
   "Twice. She can outrun Kyl's craft, especially in rougher seas or in
light winds." Dorrin nods toward the ladder, then follows the three back
onto the main deck.
   Ellna touches the plate on the deckhouse. "Did you forge all the black
iron?"
   "No. I had help from Yarrl and others."
   "You forged it, then, so far as adding the order component."
   "Put that way, I suppose so. But I could not have done it by myself."
   "Commendable modesty," offers Videlt.
   Dorrin follows the three past the funnel to the stern, where Videlt
looks down into the gray-green of the harbor.
   "Not a big rudder."
   "If it's behind the screw, we don't need as big a rudder. The flow of
water past it increases its effect."
   "It seems to be a very solid ship, Dorrin," offers Oran.
   "We hope so."
   "We don't have that much time, and I would like to see some of the
buildings. What is the long one there?" asks Ellna.
   "That's Liedral's warehouse, where we keep our trading goods. She has
an office there also. Actually, she will when we can make furniture for
it."
   "Is it full?"
   "Hardly." Dorrin laughs. "It's mostly empty now, but she thinks that's
what we'll need within a year."
   The three Councillors exchange glances.
   "Dorrin," begins Ellna, "you may not have a year."
   "The Whites are coming?"
   "How did you know?"
   The engineer shrugs. "I didn't know for certain. I had the feeling
that they would. That's why we pushed so hard on completing the Hammer.
That's why we don't have furniture, why we keep eating fish and quilla
and tough mutton, why all my coins have gone into iron and lumber and
finings."
   He starts back to the gangway and leads the three forward to the
gangway, where he pauses to survey the ship. Booted feet click on the
order-strengthened black oak of the deck.
   From the top of the pilot house, Styl and two assistants who have
appeared from somewhere on the isle look down silently. When the Council
members look away, Styl clenches a fist and lifts it in a gesture of
triumph.
   Dorrin represses a grin and walks down to the pier. After the others
join him, he asks, "What else do you want to see?"
   "You don't want to know about the Whites?" Ellna's voice is curious.
   "Magistra, if you wish to tell me, you will. If you do not, no effort
of mine could make you."
   "Like Creslin ..." mumbles Videlt.
   Dorrin waits.
   "The White fleet is gathered in the Great North Bay off Lydiar. We
expect that they will set sail within the next eight-day." Ellna coughs
to clear her throat.
   "How do you plan to defend Recluce?" Dorrin asks.
   "As we always have. They will have to land, and we do not believe that
could be successful anywhere near Land's End."
   "And at sea?" Dorrin pursues.
   Videlt adds. "There's not much we can do. We've not that many ships,
and only two are within days of Recluce. We have to send a pair on every
trading voyage these days, and we have no copper or tin on Recluce. Nor
cobalt for the glass works, nor. . ."
   "We're on our own, then?"
   "How would you plan to stop a White force?" asks Oran.
   "I'd try to stop them at sea, first."
   "With what? I did not see a ram on your ship, and one ship cannot
match a fleet in troops."
   "We have a small boarding force-and some black steel rockets."
   "Rockets? Those firetubes?" Videlt frowns.
   Dorrin nods.
   "Barbaric weapons."
   "No more barbaric than the White Wizards' firebolts."
   "Some of them are designed to go through a hull," Dorrin adds.
   Ellna winces.
   "I'm not pleased, either, magistra, but if we must fight, we must be
prepared to fight to win." Dorrin wonders if he will ever be able to
avoid volunteering disturbing information. Will the existence of his ship
dissuade the White Wizards? That he doubts. Can his ship turn back an
entire fleet? Not without more rockets . . . and a great deal of luck-or
unless the Whites can be persuaded to turn back themselves.
   "We will leave such decisions in your hands," Videlt adds smoothly,
brushing back the long brown hair off his forehead. "I, for one, would
like to wander around your . .. town ... by myself."
   "Whatever you wish."
   Ellna looks to Videlt, then Oran. "We'll meet back at the
harbormaster's before noon. That's when the post coach is scheduled to
leave." She turns and begins to walk toward the empty warehouse.
   Videlt walks along the harbor wall, as if he will circle the eastern
side, leaving Dorrin and Oran standing on the pier.
   After a long moment, Oran asks, "What are you going to call your town?"
   "We really haven't discussed it. We just refer to it as South-point."
   "That's really the whole end of the isle."
   "Do you have any suggestions?" Dorrin inquires.
   "How about Nylan, after Ryba's first smith?"
   "I don't have a problem with that, but I'd like to ask a few others,
like Yarrl and Liedral and Reisa. Besides, names haven't been a real
priority."
   "I know. Kyl said you had your ship half-built before you ever got
around to naming it."
   "I guess I'm more interested in the results than the name."
   "I know that, too." Oran's voice no longer contains its earlier edge
and sourness. "Let's walk to your place. Tell me about the town ... and
the people."
   The two men start inland, passing the harbormaster's building.
   "That's for the harbormaster, Reisa. She's a former blade, from
Southwind-"
   ' The one-handed woman?"
   "Yes. She's also been training our troopers."
   "You have armed troopers?"
   "Not a lot. Roughly two squads, so far. She heads one, and Kadara
heads the other-or did, and will, later."
   They turn to two other buildings spread apart and across from the
armory and training grounds.
   "This is Yorda's. He's a cooper and basket maker-from up beyond Feyn,
I think. And this"-Dorrin points-"belongs to Alerk. He's a wool factor. I
asked him why he wanted to build a place here when most of the herders
and sheep were at the other end of the isle. He said that he wanted to be
where the trade would be." The younger man laughs. "He's also got a
larger place at Land's End."
   They pass a small house, where roofers are setting tiles. Pergun
pauses from giving instructions and waves, then resumes his discussion.
   "That's Pergun. He was a mill hand in Diev, but he's the one who's
done most of the building. He helped me build my place in Diev."
   Oran watches as a horse-crane levers a timber frame up and into
stone-framed foundation holes. "I don't recall seeing that used before."
   "Something I worked out in Diev when I couldn't afford much help to
raise the walls."
   Farther uphill, they stop before another modest home, this one with
turned soil, some in the shadows with traces of frost upon it, edged in
neat stone borders, with a stone walk leading to a narrow porch. The
front windows are shuttered, awaiting glazing, but side windows are
glassed and the shutters drawn back. A thin line of white smoke rises
from the chimney.
   "This is Kadara's. Rylla, the older healer, lives with her. Usually,
we still all eat together most of the time. That way, people have more
time to get things done."
   Halfway up the hill, the air wizard turns and looks out onto the cold
green Eastern Ocean. "You have a good view here."
   "Yes." Dorrin wishes they had more time to enjoy it.
   The two walk to Dorrin's, toward the door of the smithy, from where
the sound of hammers and the whir of the grindstone filter into the cool
air.
   Dorrin gestures, and Oran steps inside. Yarrl is busy with the big
anvil and what appear to be wagon braces or iron straps. Vaos employs the
smaller anvil and hammers out nails. He nods at Dorrin, but does not stop.
   Rek alternates between the bellows and the grindstone, where he is
finishing edges on blades for wood planes.
   Dorrin waits until Oran nods, and they step back into the cold
sunlight outside the smithy and under the empty porch. The thin line of
white from the chimney that serves the stove tells Dorrin that Merga is
baking. Then, with the crowd she feeds, Merga is always baking.
   "You've done a great deal here." Oran looks down at his son. "The
coach is waiting, and I should be going. Take care, Dorrin." The tall man
steps away from the door to the workshop and smithy, then walks briskly
downhill.
   Dorrin watches, conscious that Liedral has stepped onto the porch.
   "What did they want? To make our life harder?"
   Dorrin takes the stairs and gathers her in his arms. "No. They came to
warn us. The Whites are moving a fleet against us. They think it will
leave the Great North Bay in the next few days."
   "Will they help us?" Liedral eases out of his arms.
   "They can't." Dorrin snorts. "All but two of their ships are out
trying to get the goods no one will bring here voluntarily."
   "Two ships? That's all?"
   "I don't think Recluce has ever had more than a dozen in my lifetime.
Who would bother them? Who wouldn't take gold or buy the needed goods or
spices?"
   "That's stupid." Liedral glances westward, out at the sun-sparkled
waves of the Gulf. "What will you do? Don't tell me. You're going to be a
hero."
   "Do I have any choice?"
   "No." Her hands take his. "What are you going to do next?"
   "Build more rockets. Have you and Rylla gather more of the ingredients
for powder. Make sure we have enough black iron shields for the boarding
force. What else can I do?"
   "I'll tell Reisa. Rylla will have to stay with Kadara. Her labor won't
be easy, even with the help you've already provided. Rylla says she's
nearly ready to have that baby." She kisses him lightly. "You might as
well get started."
   He might as well. He returns the kiss, more lingeringly before he lets
go of her, and takes a deep breath.
   "I'll gather the sulfur and saltpeter . . . and what else I can round
up. The holders north of here said they would have some, and there's a
little in the big warehouse." She heads for the shed at the end of the
house which serves as the temporary stable.
   Dorrin strides back into the smithy. "Vaos!"
   "Yes, ser!"
   "We'll be working late-for near an eight-day." Dorrin studies the
plate he has-more plate than he will have powder, he suspects.
 
 
CLXXVIII
 
"YOU WILL DIRECT the fleet, Fydel." Anya smiles winningly.
   The wizard with the square-cut brown beard frowns, looking from the
High Wizard to Anya. "You want me to go against that demon ship?"
   "It's only one ship, and you'll have a dozen well-armed war schooners.
Besides, you don't even have to land. Just use your skills to fire the
town."
   "What if the . .. whatever he is ... comes after us?"
   "You sink his ship," Cerryl says quietly. "I recall your telling the
Council that would be possible were you in charge. You're the wizard in
charge."
   "Fine. I'll need some assistants."
   "Pick whom you need."
   Fydel purses his lips, then inclines his head. "By your leave?"
   "Of course."
   After Fydel has departed and the door has been closed, Cerlyl massages
his forehead and looks out the window into the rain pelting Fairhaven.
"Damned rain, always gives me a headache."
   The red-headed woman sits, legs crossed, before the table. The
circular mirror that lies upon the white oak is blank. She smiles.
   "You really don't care if we win, do you?" asks Cerryl.
   "What ever gave you that idea?"
   "Everyone who supported you has been given a position on those fleets.
That's a page from Hartor's book."
   "You've read a great deal of history. It makes you much more
appealing."
   The High Wizard fingers the amulet once worn by a High Wizard named
Hartor, and more recently by Sterol. "If they win, they owe you-"
   "They owe you, High Wizard."
   "That is so thoughtful of you." Cerryl inclines his head to Anya.
"Humor me, if you please, and listen. You owe me that, at least."
   Anya smiles faintly, but only with her mouth.
   "If we somehow destroy or humiliate this Black builder of magic ships,
then all your supporters will be indebted. If this unknown Black proves
as great as, say, Creslin, then no one is left to challenge you. And,"
Cerryl adds wryly, "like Hartor, DO one will want this position for at
least a decade, or until their memories grow somewhat fainter. You are
rather astute, Anya dear." He pauses. "Of course, if they fail, but
return, then I will follow Sterol."
   "Then why did you accept my proposition?" Anya asks.
   "Why not? All life is a gamble. Besides, like Sterol, I suspect
attacking Recluce is doomed to failure."
   "You admit that, and yet will send out those fleets?"
   "I could be wrong." Cerryl smiles.
   "So you could." Any a returns the smile, stands, and steps toward him,
lips parted.
 
 
CLXXIX
 
BOTH THE HAMMER and the anvil horn blur in the lamplight Dorrin racks the
hammer and sets the curved sheet that will be a rocket casing on the
forge bricks. He rubs his forehead.
   "You all right, master Dorrin?" asks Rek.
   "Just tired. Can you sweep up and bank down the coals?"
   "Yes, ser."
   Dorrin trudges out toward the stone-walled shower that is as similar
to the one he grew up with as he could make it-or have the masons make
it, more properly. All he provided was the shower head and the valves.
   After checking to make sure there is a towel in the covered box set in
the wall, he strips, frowning at his own stench, and turns on the water.
   "Ooo ..." The water is not lukewarm, or cool, but frigid. As soon as
he is wet, the water goes off, and he lathers up with the soap Liedral
brought back from her last trip to Land's End. Then he rinses, shivering.
He has to repeat the process once more before he feels clean.
   After drying, he steps from the shower into the back hall and tiptoes,
clothes in hand, towel around his waist, into the bedroom.
   "How are you?" Liedral is reading from his manuscript, the table and
lamp pulled close to her side of the bed and the coverlet almost to her
neck.
   "Cold . . . tired . . ." He sets his clothes on the rack in the
corner. They need to be washed, but he will worry about that later. Then
he rummages in the wardrobe for some underdrawers, which he exchanges for
the towel.
   "I can't believe how well you thought this out," Liedral says,
reaching over and replacing the pages in the wooden box. Dorrin sees her
shoulders are bare and looks away. "Thought you read it when you and
Petra copied it."
   "I only read what I copied, and I really didn't have time to think
about it."
   He slides into his side of the bed. The sheet and coverlet are cool,
but not so cold as the air or the shower were.
   "You smell clean."
   "Mmmm ..." Dorrin has not realized how tired he is until he lies back.
   "Tired?"
   "Yes. I was making casings for a few more of the heavy rockets."
   "When will you take the Black Hammer out?"
   "Tomorrow, I'd guess. Maybe the next day. Not until we see them. Not
much sense in wasting time or coal." He leans back on the thin pillow.
   "I need something ..."
   He half turns toward her.
   "Hold me ... please." She slips into his arms. She wears no shift, and
her skin is warm against his.
   "Don't think ... Is this .. . wise? I mean . . ." Wanting her, he
still worries, wonders . .. Will the memories surface?
   "Very wise . .. almost. . . too late ..." Her hands reach his damp
hair and draw his face to hers.
   In time, her hands reach lower, and her lips warm his, then caress his
cheeks, burning away the tears that flow from his eyes, even as his hands
stroke her back and brush along the smooth skin of her thighs.
   They move together, slowly . . . warmly.
   The lamp flickers in the faint breeze, and the top page in the wooden
box flutters.
   When they separate, her lips nibble his left ear. "I missed you."
   "Darkness ... I missed you. I love you."
   "You can keep holding me ... please." Her arms wind around him yet
again, and her lips are warm and soft on his.
   Dorrin's arms tighten around her, holding her even as he wonders what
has changed after so long. He draws in the scent of her, of fine soft
hair, and his lips brush her cheek before their lips meet again.
 
 
CLXXX
 
THE WAGON CREAKS up to the pier, opposite the Black Diamond, and Dorrin
hops down onto the stones, taking out the wagon blocks and setting them
on each side of the iron tires. He lowers the tailboard. In the rough
crate are another dozen rockets-the heavy kind, as Dorrin thinks of them,
that will penetrate ship hulls. ' Kyl is the first to reach the wagon.
"More of the rockets?"
   "The heavy kind."
   Tyrel appears. "There's a sail just at the horizon."
   "Do we know whose sail?"
   "Not yet."
   Dorrin rubs his forehead. His head aches even in anticipation of using
the damned rockets. "All right. Light off a small fire in the firebox,
just enough that we maintain a little steam."
   Tyrel nods. "Yarrl coming?"
   "No. If something happens, I'd like someone left who could build
another ship."
   "Makes sense." The shipwright and captain of the Black Hammer frowns.
"You're not planning on losing, I hope?"
   "Hardly."
   With the sound of hoofs on stone Dorrin looks up. Liedral rides toward
the pier, leading a riderless Basla. In the lanceholder is his black
staff.
   "Rylla needs you."
   "But..." Kyl looks puzzled.
   "Kadara?"
   Liedral nods.
   "If it is the White fleet, and it looks like they're getting within
say ... less than ten kays, blow the whistle." Dorrin looks at Tyrel.
"With Basla, I can be back here quickly. Kyl, you know where the rockets
go, and I'm counting on you." As he speaks, Dorrin mounts, looking at
Liedral, whose eyes seem red-rimmed. He reaches across the gap between
horses and squeezes her hand, but loses touch as she turns the brown and
starts back uphill.
   There is no hitching post outside the small dwelling, and Dorrin ties
Basla to the timber supporting the railing on the left side of the porch
steps. Liedral ties her mount to the right side.
   Merga is in the small kitchen, and two large pots on the small square
stove-Yarrl's doing-contain boiling water. On the cutting table is a jar
of astra.
   Dorrin stops and pours astra into a bowl. "Merga, would you crush this
as fine as you can? Use a clean spoon or something."
   "Yes, ser."
   Dorrin follows Liedral to the bedroom.
   "Oh . . . oooohhh ..." Kadara's moans are low, almost wrenching.
   Rylla looks up. "Be back in just an instant, love." She motions to
Liedral, who slips onto the stool beside the laboring mother.
   "I'll stay with you," Liedral promises.
   Rylla shuts the bedroom door, and edges down the hall. "I can tell.. .
the baby's too big, and the cord's not right."
   "You want me to see what I can do?"
   "O' course I'd be sending for you just to watch, wouldn't I?"
   "You're as crabby as ever." Dorrin's quick smile fades as he opens the
door and edges next to the bed.
   "... that you, Brede?"
   "It's Dorrin. I just want to help." His fingers rest ever so lightly
on her tightening abdomen, and he waits for the contraction to pass.
   "Dorrin ... it hurts . . . hurts more than Kleth . . . Darkness ... it
hurts . . ."
   Rylla is right. He wipes his forehead on the back of his sleeve,
wishing he had more experience, or that his mother were near. Wishing
will not help, and he concentrates, first on the child, and the cord that
sustains him, infusing more strength, more order there, and on somehow
loosening, making the birth canal that fraction wider.
   Rylla nods, as if she approves. Liedral has retreated to the doorway,
and Dorrin wipes the sweat off his forehead by rubbing it against his
shoulder, still concentrating on sustaining the child as Kadara's
contractions push him closer and closer to the world.
   "... have to push . . . push ..." groans Kadara, red hair so damp with
sweat that it is plastered against her skull like a battle helm.
   "You can do it," insists Rylla. "Another push ... now ..."
   ". . . hurts . . . have to ... ooohhh ..."
   Dorrin shifts his position, moving toward Kadara's shoulders, his
fingers still lightly upon her bare abdominal skin, somehow feeling like
an intruder, even as he fights for the mother and child.
   "Brede! ... Oh ... darkness . . . hurts . .."
   "Push again . . . now .. . dearie. Now!" Rylla insists.
   Kadara grunts. Dorrin concentrates, and, in the doorway, Liedral bites
her lip.
   "There ... he's coming ... another push ..."
   Dorrin tries not to swallow at the mess and the darkish blood that
arrive with the infant, instead working to stem the bits of chaos that
try to gravitate toward Kadara.
   The boy seems strong and healthy, even as Rylla untangles him from the
cord. She shakes her head minutely, looks at the boy, and then at Dorrin.
"Aye ... he's a healthy one, Kadara. A healthy one. Now . . . push ...
push again ..."
   Kadara grunts, and Dorrin waits until she has expelled the afterbirth.
   "Rylla, be very liberal with the astra and the boiled water in
cleaning her up. I had Merga crush it, and it should be boiled into the
water."
   "Bitter stuff. . . but good against wound chaos."
   "She probably ought to be washed with it every day until she heals."
   The old healer nods.
   Dorrin eases away from Kadara, his fingers touching her forehead
before he goes. "You need to rest..."
   "You were here ... for Brede . . . this time." Kadara's eyes droop,
but from tiredness. She struggles to keep them open, looking at the
reddish-pink child at her breast. "... harder than Kleth ... He's
beautiful..."
   Liedral smiles from the doorway, waiting.
   As Kadara slips toward sleep, Dorrin touches her arm again, trying to
infuse her exhausted form with a touch more strength, a touch more order.
   Rylla looks at him. "She'll be fine now. You need to be seeing to your
ship."
   The Black Hammer-Dorrin nods and steps away.
   "Darkness . . . with . .. you ..." whispers Kadara.
   Dorrin looks back from the doorway, but Kadara is asleep. He walks
slowly to the front porch, Liedral beside him, and they step into the
cold bright day. Below, the Black Hammer waits, a thin line of steam
rising from the funnel into the clear winter sky.
   Liedral turns and takes his hands. "Thank you."
   "For what?"
   "For waiting, for putting life above destruction, for just being you."
She puts her arms around him and brings their lips together. "And for
last night." Her eyes are still red.
   "You're worried."
   She nods. "Kadara was right. We don't have forever. Lers-"
   "Lers?"
   "Lers, that's what Brede asked her to call his son. Lers is all she
has of him, and she loved him."
   "You're afraid that will happen?"
   "Dorrin . . . how many times can you go out against the Whites? And if
you do come back, will you be able to see? Or think? I remember what you
looked like after Kleth. Kadara doesn't, but you were in worse shape that
she was in a lot of ways."
   "It wasn't that bad."
   "Dorrin, I love you, and I want you back. But what we want doesn't
often count. Sometimes . . . when you're fighting your own demons, it's
hard to realize ..." She breaks off and clings to him. "I want something
of you ..."
   He clings to her, and their tears mingle.
   The low steam whistle from the Black Hammer echoes uphill, and Basla
whinnies.
   "You need to go."
   The whistle sounds again, and Dorrin looks westward, into the Gulf,
out toward the white triangles on the water that mark the White fleet.
   Their lips touch, and part, before Dorrin runs from the porch, untying
the reins and swinging into the black's saddle. He blots his cheeks with
his sleeve as he rides downhill toward the waiting black ship, the
fingers of his right hand straying to the staff, even as the twinges of
the headache warn him.
 
 
CLXXXI
 
DORRIN PASSES A half-dozen houses in various stages of construction on
the flat at the base of the hill, all of the black stone that results
from ordering the softer and more brittle blue stone that underlies the
dark clay. Half of the houses have dark slate roofs. He returns the wave
of a stoneworker as he guides Basla onto the end of the High Road that
leads to the pier. The air smells fresh, still crisp, in the bright and
cool sunlight, except for the faint odor of burning coal.
   To the east, he sees several sails, impossibly white against the
waters of the Gulf. Then he is at the pier, where he hands the reins to
one of Tyrel's assistants he has never properly met. "Please tie her in
the shed."
   He glances back uphill and waves, hoping Liedral is there, watching,
before he turns. "How many ships are there?" he asks as he hurries up the
gangway, his staff in one hand.
   "Lift it!" snaps Kyl, and the line-handlers pull the railed plank away
from the ship, and then hurry to the singled-up lines that hold the black
warship to the pier. "More than a score, according to Selvar." Kyl
frowns. "He says that it's hard to tell because about half the ships have
white wizards on board, and they're using wizardry to hide themselves. If
you just look with your eyes, it seems like a handful, maybe seven or
eight, but they can't hide their wakes."
   Dorrin hurries toward the engine compartment, where Tyrel is shoveling
coal into the firebox. Beside him is Styl, watching closely.
   "If you would-" begins the captain.
   "Go." Dorrin studies the crude pointer indicator. "We've got enough
steam to head out."
   Kyl waits for Tyrel to climb up the ladder before descending. Dorrin
shovels another heap of coal into the box, then motions to Styl. "Once
this gets to here"-he points to the indicator- "just keep the fire where
it is."
   "Yes, ser. Master Tyrel and master Yarrl had me practice on the last
run."
   Dorrin shakes his head. Styl had been right there, and here he is
repeating his own instructions.
   Kyl steps onto the engine deck. "What are you going to do?"
   "We're going to persuade them to go home and leave Recluce alone."
   Kyl looks from Dorrin to Styl and back to the engineer. "You are
serious, aren't you?"
   "Yes. I'm no Creslin. And besides, it wouldn't do any good."
   Kyl and Styl exchange glances, then look at Dorrin.
   "What wouldn't?"
   "Destroying their whole fleet. Anyway, we don't have enough rockets
for that." Dorrin begins turning the valves to feed the steam to the
cylinders, and the sound and heat rise in the engine compartment. He
continues to listen, and to adjust the flows until he feels the engine is
running smoothly. Then he eases the clutch, and the shaft begins to turn,
with the vibration of the water churning behind the ship rising.
   Dorrin checks the firebox and throws two quick shovels inside, then
closes it and hands the shovel to Styl. "Keep shoveling until the steam
pressure's up. You know what to do."
   "Yes, ser."
   Dorrin climbs the ladder and makes his way to the pilot house, with
Kyl close behind. By the time he reaches the helm, Tyrel already has the
Black Hammer into the channel and outbound.
   For a time, Dorrin watches as the Hammer glides through the protected
waters of Reisa's extended breakwaters. The pitching begins as the ship
hits the rougher waters of the Gulf.
   "Where to?" asks Tyrel.
   "Take us straight toward the flagship."
   "Which one?"
   "Sorry. See the shimmer behind the schooner with the blue banner? Head
there."
   Tyrel turns the wheel. "Still can't believe this. No worry about the
wind. You just go where you want."
   Like heavy butterflies in the wind, the White ships move with the
wind, while the Hammer-a solid quarrel of order- plunges outward.
   The schooner downwind of the flagship veers to port as the wizard on
board senses the blackness of the Hammer.
   Dorrin realizes he is holding his breath and releases it, as the
Hammer eases alongside the big schooner bearing the name White Serpent.
   "Ease back. Match her speed." Dorrin wipes his forehead, once, then
again.
   The Serpent begins to tack, and Dorrin nods, grinning. Tyrel grins in
return as the Hammer follows the Serpent into the waves. Dorrin grasps
the pilot house's inside rail. He motions to Kyl. "Light off one rocket.
Aim at the bowsprit."
   'Tiring first rocket." Kyl drops through the hatch and down to the
deckhouse where the rocket tubes are located.
   The black iron missile streaks toward the Serpent. The flare and the
explosion are almost simultaneous, and are followed by the pattering of
debris on the forward shield.
   The Serpent's bow swings port, and the big schooner wallows as the
forward jib and the forward section of the bowsprit sag into the Gulf
waters.
   "Circle around to the other side." Dorrin wipes his forehead. The
longer before his weapons injure or kill someone, the better.
   Whhhsttttt...
   A fireball streams past the black iron of the pilot house. Then a
second one, and a third. Tyrel winces as the third sprays across the
metal.
   By now the Serpent lies nearly dead in the water, main sail half
lowered, and fluttering in the light breeze, as several men hack at the
wrecked bowsprit and sail that drag into each swell.
   "Kyl, can you destroy the rudder with another rocket?"
   "We can try." Kyl turns. "Fire another one. Right aft and below that
poop porthole there."
   Three black iron missiles later, the rudder hangs uselessly, and the
Serpent begins to list ever so slightly to starboard.
   Occasional fireballs flash past the Hammer, from both the Serpent and
the surrounding ships, as the small ironclad continues to circle the
larger schooner.
   A seaman pants up into the pilot house. "Styl says that the shaft's
running hot, Master Dorrin."
   Tyrel looks from the helm to Dorrin. "Told you we'd have trouble with
those bearings."
   The bearings work better than grease seals, but they do not work well
enough. Dorrin can only hope the shaft will last for a while. "How hot?"
   "Need to shut down and grease her 'fore long, Styl says."
   Dorrin looks at Reisa. "Send up the boarding crew. Tyrel, bring her
around to the starboard side of the Serpent."
   "They'll fry you, Dorrin!" protests Kyl, standing halfway up the
ladder into the pilot house.
   "That's what the shields are for." That's also what he is for, he
thinks. "If we can't hold the deck, start firing rockets."
   "The angle's lousy. We can only hit a couple of places."
   "Fine. Put several large holes in the hull, right at the water line."
   Dorrin grabs the staff, and nods to Reisa, who stands below in the
space below the ladder to the main deck. The ten men and women in black,
with the black blades and matching shields, wait behind the hatch door.
   "We're right opposite her gangway point."
   "Go ahead and grapple."
   The hooks go out, cast from beneath the turtleshells on the Hammer's
deck. Dorrin watches as the forward grapple bounces off twice. The third
cast is successful, and the Serpent and the Hammer are locked together
with the rope/chains that cannot be burned.
   "You take care of the shaft, Tyrel, and we'll take care of the wizard.
Bowmen!"
   The iron shutters on the side of the pilot house roll open half a
cubit in three places. Behind each opening stands an archer, each with a
quiver of black iron and lorkin arrows.
   The shafts immediately clear the deck area opposite the Hammer.
   "Boarders away!"
   Quenta swarms up and onto the Serpent's deck, swinging his shield
forward as he bounces over the railing. The first fireball sprays around
him, followed by several arrows.
   "Archers! The poop deck!"
   The black arrows fly aft, and the white arrows cease.
   Reisa, Petra, and two others reach the deck, and Dorrin scrambles up.
Even before he is steady on the white oak planks, Quenta and another
black trooper lock shields before him.
   Dorrin probes, his senses out, for the feeling of concentrated chaos,
his staff automatically pointing toward the higher poop deck.
   "Get the Black bastards!" Nearly a score of White armed men charge
from the forecastle toward the handful of Blacks.
   The black arrows drop five before the defenders reach Dorrin's party.
   Dorrin's staff drops another, and the black blades begin their work.
   " Aeeeiii..." One White guard's arm flames from the bite of Reisa's
blade.
   Two firebolts flash toward the Black forces, but Dorrin turns his
staff and thoughts, and they flare harmlessly onto the deck as the
infighting intensifies.
   Quenta slashes and drops one White guard, but loses his blade as the
white sword of a third man slices his biceps. He swings the shield on his
left arm to block the next slash.
   Petra's blade drops that White guard, and Dorrin steps farther left,
using the staff to disarm and drop another guard. He ignores the twinges
beyond his eyes.
   A screaming black arrow knocks down yet another attacker.
   Out of the corner of his eye, Dorrin can sense a black figure-and
another-go down before the Whites are felled or thrown down their blades,
the second falling as fire blazes past his ear. He lifts his staff and
deflects another fireball, and a third, searching for the White Wizard.
Dorrin finds the man in white standing to the left edge of the poop deck,
shielded by the overhang from the archers on board the Hammer.
   The three remaining White crewmen hold their hands up. One White
archer lies propped against the port railing of the Serpent, his body
almost level with Dorrin's eyes because of the schooner's list.
   Dorrin steps toward the wizard.
   Another fireball flies toward the engineer, but he lifts the staff and
the heat flares away from him as he takes another step aft.
   "Stop, you Black worm. I'll destroy the entire ship."
   Dorrin takes another step and stops. "Why?" He casts his senses out,
circling the white flame that is the chaos wizard, a man with a square
beard.
   "Why not? You're out to destroy me."
   "You're not exactly here on a mission of peacefulness," Dorrin points
out, strengthening the wall of order around the wizard.
   "What are you-" Before the wizard finishes his sentence, another
fireball flares toward Dorrin, who lifts the black staff and lets it
absorb the energy.
   A second fireball flashes, and a third. The third is far weaker, and
dies even before it can reach the staff
   Dorrin walks steadily across the planks toward the bearded figure in
the white cloak.
   A bit of flame erupts from the wizard's fingers, then dies.
   Dorrin extends the staff, almost gently, cracking the wizard, now aged
and creaking, across the wrists, and then the neck. A dead body pitches
headfirst onto the deck.
   Dorrin turns.
   The White crewmen all kneel, as if in reverence, pleading. Dorrin
ignores them, instead dropping to the prone figure on the deck and
rolling her gently over. His fingers feel clumsy as he fumbles out the
dressings and the powdered astra from the pouch at his belt, as he
simultaneously tries to hold order within Petra's wiry body.
   The thrust is deep, but her heart and lungs are safe, and he can use
order to bind the slash together, thank darkness, once he spreads the
powdered astra into the wound, although the pool of blood on the white
deck tells the real danger. Dorrin's eyes burn as he works, Reisa
standing over him like a one-armed avenging angel.
   Finally, he straightens up, and nods to Reisa. "We'll need something
stiff to carry her on."
   "How . . . will she ..." Reisa's voice is like frozen iron, blocking
all feeling.
   "She's lost a lot of blood, but I think I stopped it in time."
   Styl vaults over the side of the white ship, carrying a canvas
stretcher one-handed as if it were a toy, and Dorrin looks at the young
man, at the rage and the tears, and then at Reisa, realizing that, once
again, he has been so tied up in his own world that he has not seen the
loves and pain of others.
   "She be all right... master Dorrin?"
   Dorrin eases Petra onto the stretcher. "I hope so ..."
   "White bastards ..."
   They carry the injured woman back to the Black Hammer, though it takes
four of Reisa's troopers, including Quenta, to ease the stretcher between
the grappled ships.
   Dorrin slowly reenters the deckhouse and climbs to the pilot house.
   "Hadn't you better take care of that shoulder?" Tyrel asks.
   Dorrin looks stupidly at the gash in his shoulder, its throbbing lost
in the anguish of Petra and Reisa, and his own headache. "Oh . . ." He
uses the last of the astra, and Tyrel helps him bind it.
   "The shaft fixed?"
   "For a time. You need to figure out something better, though."
   Dorrin sighs. He is always trying to figure out something better.
"Cast off."
   Tyrel raises his eyebrows. "Release grapples."
   When the Hammer stands well clear of the Serpent, Kyl turns to Dorrin.
"Do you want us to fire her?"
   "No. Not unless we have to."
   Dorrin turns his attention to the remainder of the fleet. More than
ten ships have already turned back westward, their sails tiny white
triangles upon the horizon.
   Another handful, each bearing a wizard, circles just beyond the Hammer
and the Serpent.
   "Head for that one." Dorrin jabs at the largest, a bark with a high
freeboard.
   Once again, the fireballs splash off the black iron as the Hammer
plows toward the bark, disregarding the wind.
   "Run up a parley flag."
   The white banner with the blue stripe flutters upon a short jackstaff
aft of the pilot house. Shortly, a similar banner flies from the bark
bearing the nameplate Whitefire.
   When the Hammer is abeam the bark, Dorrin. opens one of the iron
shutters and calls out to the man at the railing. "I'd like you to take a
message back to the High Wizard." Dorrin manages a half-bow, one hand on
the iron shutter:
   The captain yells back, between the hissing of swells and spray.
"That's not for me to say, Master. I can only ask the White one."
   "I know that." Dorrin nods, and drops a waxed pouch containing a heavy
parchment and a brief message, the first of three Dorrin had Liedral
prepare almost an eight-day earlier, into a basket. The young seaman
attaches the basket to a long-handled pole and extends it across the gap
between the ships until an equally young seaman on the bark can take the
pouch. The dark pouch is passed to the ship's captain and then carried
aft.
   "Stand off, or whatever you call it," Dorrin orders.
   The wizard on the Whitefire has only one response to the
request-another barrage of fireballs.
   "Idiots!" snaps Dorrin, turning to Kyl.
   "A set of the nasty ones?" asks his brother.
   Dorrin nods, and winces at the headache that strikes behind his eyes.
   "Fire rockets."
    Five rockets depart the Hammer, each landing with a gout of flame
upon the wooden-hulled Whitefire, a flame that clings and spreads until
the Fairhaven ship is a torch upon the water.
   Shortly, the Hammer chugs up beside a third Fairhaven ship to pass
across another pouch.
   Dorrin closes his eyes, not that it matters, because, between the
blindness and the headache, he can no longer see.
   This time, when the Hammer stands off to wait for the response, there
are no fireballs, only a double dip of the parley flag.
   Kyl puts the second pouch in the basket for the master of the Pride of
the Easthorns. The master even leaves the parley flag in place as his
ship heels and turns westward. The other three ships carrying wizards
follow.
   Dorrin wipes his forehead and turns in Tyrel's general direction.
"Let's head back. No sense in wasting coal."
   "I think we have enough to spare." Tyrel laughs.
   "I wish you'd burned them all." Reisa stands at his elbow, and her low
voice blazes.
   "It won't heal Petra."
   "I know. And it was her choice. But I still hate the bastards."
   "And I... I do like seeing ..." Dorrin's shoulders sag. He should be
strong, like Creslin, and to light with the consequences, but he enjoys
looking at Liedral, at the sea. Even now, he worries whether, this time,
his sight will return. The pounding in his skull is not so pronounced as
when he destroyed the Gallosian levies outside Kleth, but it seems that
each use of order for destruction requires less impact to create
head-wrenching pain and blindness-blindness that has been temporary so
far.
   "I know." Reisa touches his shoulder, and he can feel her pain, the
sources past and distant, and present and near. "Letting them make their
own choices and knowing they did doesn't always help. Someday, you'll
understand that better."
   Dorrin already understands that. How many have suffered so far for his
dreams? He does not remind Reisa of that. Instead, he says, "The world,
and the Balance, don't care much for what we feel. That doesn't mean I
don't feel."
   Reisa drops her hand. "That's why you're a great wizard . . . and why
so many will offer themselves up for you. Somehow, along the way, you
learned to keep your feelings and your dreams without betraying either."
Reisa slips away and down the ladder to check on Petra once again. Dorrin
grasps the railing to balance himself against the rolling as Tyrel brings
the Hammer about on the last course line into harbor.
   "What now, Master Dorrin?" asks the captain conversationally.
   "We build a better version of the Hammer. And a Black city. What else?"
   "Darkness help us if'n you'd been White," mumbles the captain.
   Dorrin turns his sightless eyes eastward toward the hillside above
Nylan, wondering how Liedral is, and whether he should have allowed her
to come.
 
 
CLXXXII
 
DORRIN PAUSES AT the door, then knocks. Beside him, Liedral is silent.
   "Master Dorrin, come in." Rylla stands back from the doorway.
   "I just wanted to see how Kadara and Lers were. I had to leave in a
bit of a hurry."
   "I know. Rushing off to teach those Whites a lesson. We saw it all
from the porch-the ship you fired, and the rest of them scuttling away
across the Gulf."
   "Even Kadara?" asks Liedral.
   "I wouldn't let her. But she must have made me tell her three times
what happened."
   Dorrin rubs his forehead and gingerly feels his way into the house. He
can sense Rylla's hand going to her mouth. "You're not. . ."
   "Hush ... not a word," he says. "Not a word." His fingers lightly hold
Liedral's hand as she guides him to the bedroom. He stands just inside
the door.
   Kadara lies in the bed with her sleeping son cradled next to her.
"Rylla told me Lers wouldn't have lived if you hadn't been here . . . and
that you risked losing the battle to save him."
   Dorrin drops his head. "I can't say that. We had time."
   "You have to be honest, don't you? No matter what it costs?"
   "Yes. Mostly, at least."
   "I suppose that's why you have to calculate everything- probably even
... never mind. I know you don't, but still... it's hard."
   Sensing her anger and the deep and endless pain, Dorrin touches her
shoulder. "The Balance, and the world, don't care much for what we feel.
But I still feel, and it still hurts."
   Kadara's fingers curl gently around the infant. "That's why you're a
great one . . . and why Brede is dead, and why everyone looks up to you.
You can hold on to order without losing your feelings."
   "You give me too much credit. I just. .. tried to do ... what I had
to." Dorrin's head continues to throb, and his knees feel weak.
   "You're tired, aren't you?" Kadara asks.
   "Yes."
   "So am I. Take him home, Liedral. And .. . Dorrin ..."
   Dorrin looks toward her, sightlessly.
   "... thank you for my son. Brede would thank you too . .. and I hope
it won't be too long before you can see again."
   Dorrin can't help grinning.
   ". . . can't fool me ... Take him home and make him sleep, Liedral."
   "Get well, Kadara," answers the engineer gruffly as he leaves.
   Liedral edges him into the hallway. They step onto the front porch,
and she says, "You've given too many people too much. Kadara was right.
You need some rest."
   "What about you?"
   Liedral laughs, a sound that is edgy, bell-like, and happy, all in
one. "I have you . . . and more. I was more fortunate than Kadara. I
think we'll have a daughter."
   "How do you know? I can't even tell."
   "It doesn't matter. We will have a daughter." She kisses him full upon
the lips, warmly and without reservation. "We need to get you fed and
rested. You really shouldn't have stopped to see Kadara."
   "I had to."
   "I know."
   The late afternoon wind whips around them with a chill that borders on
frost. They have covered perhaps two hundred cubits toward their home
when Liedral takes a deep breath. "Oh, darkness!"
   Dorrin can sense just that, although he still can see nothing except
occasional white flares of light. "What is it?"
   "Your damned father! He can't even let you rest."
   Dorrin gathers himself together. "Let's get on with it."
   They walk through the shadows Dorrin cannot see and into the house.
   "The Black wizard is in the kitchen," Frisa announces. "He says he's
your father. Is he? I didn't know your father was a big wizard."
    "He's my father." Dorrin walks into the kitchen. Before he can speak,
Liedral steps almost in front of him. "Merga, get something hot, and some
bread and cheese for Dorrin before he collapses. Dorrin, you sit down
now. Right here." She pulls out the chair at the end of the table and
guides him into it.
   "Would you rather I come back?" Oran says mildly. "No. I just need
something to eat. It's been a day."
   "Here's the bread, ser."
   Dorrin manages to break off a corner and begins to chew. Liedral,
sitting on the end of the bench to his left, uses the cheese sheer on the
yellow brick cheese, then hands Dorrin a slab. Only then does she turn to
Oran. "Would you like some?"
   "No. . . that's fine."
   After he has chewed and swallowed the first chunk of bread and cheese,
and sipped some hot cider, Dorrin can feel the shakiness in his knees
begin to subside, and the throbbing in his head decreases. He rubs his
forehead. "Why did you come?"
   "To see how you would handle the Whites, and then to talk to you. Your
ship was very effective, it seems."
   Dorrin raises his head, still letting the warm vapor from the mug seep
around his face."That's true. Tyrel really didn't need me. He and Kyl
could have burned every ship in the Fairhaven fleet." A sharpening of the
throbbing in his head causes him to revise his statement. "Not at once.
They would have needed to return for more rockets. But I'd guess around
ten ships like the Black Hammer will be more than adequate to ensure that
no one ever restricts trade with us again."
   "Why can't they build ships like that?"
   "Because you need black iron, and they can't handle order. It takes
order-hardened iron to make the shields and the rockets. You put powder
in anything but black iron, and any chaos wizard can touch it off."
Dorrin shrugs. "I suspect that the Nordlans and Hamorians will be able to
put lower-pressure steam engines on their sailing ships. In fact, I'll
even give them the design." "What?" "We'll trade for the design. We'll
still need more trade with the eastern continents. Liedral's working up
what we need."
   "Is that wise?"
   "Why not? I doubt that we could keep it a secret for long. Why not
take credit for it? They'll have to use regular iron, and with the chaos
of the heat, it's really not suited for anything but ocean ships at low
pressure. A good schooner could still sail rings around them, but the
engines would be handy for calms and getting in and out of ports."
   "Are you sure?"
   Dorrin sighs, not caring if his father hears the exasperation. "I
tried not to use black iron. You can't get enough containment and
pressure for a high-power engine-at least I can't- without a lot of black
iron. If you use a lot of regular iron, the engine gets too heavy, and it
doesn't generate much power. If it's light enough to get the power, it's
only a couple of days before things start cracking and breaking. Maybe on
some other world-or the planets of the Angels-but not here, not with the
force of chaos and the Balance."
   "Why did you let most of the Fairhaven fleet return home?"
   "You should have figured that out. If I destroyed half a dozen chaos
wizards at once, the Balance would want to concentrate that chaos in one
focus. Candar doesn't need another Jeslek. Besides, sending them back to
Candar is bound to disorganize chaos there even more." Dorrin laughs.
"Disorganized chaos-what an absurdity."
   "You've made everything a matter of calculations and numbers, haven't
you? There's no art..."
   "There never was," Dorrin snaps. "The Balance is mathematical in
nature, not some god of the ancient Angels. That's why you'll still win."
   For the first time, Oran is silent, and Dorrin can feel the confusion.
   "Look . . . Every bit of order that's placed in black iron, every bit
of order concentrated in a steam-powered ship or a black iron rocket
means that there has to be an equal amount of chaos somewhere. Chaos can
be concentrated through wizardry. Generally, order can't except through
machines and black iron. No matter what I feel, Recluce can't afford
order machines-only those necessary for her defense. Building machines
into every hamlet in Recluce would only" guarantee greater chaos in
Fairhaven, perhaps enough to raise hundreds of Jesleks."
   "What.. . how can ..."
   "The Black Order of Engineers stays in the Black City of Nylan. You
and the Brotherhood just keep doing what you're doing. Except ..." Dorrin
pauses. "Anyone who wants to come to Nylan and whom we accept can stay."
   Oran looks at the floor, the smooth-planked, evenly matched,
near-perfect flooring. Then he focuses on the red-headed engineer at the
other end of the table. "How will you do that?"
   "A wall should do the trick. The symbolism is what will make it
effective. But a tall wall of ordered black stone separating the
peninsula and Nylan from the rest of Recluce will make it real enough for
most, and for those who don't accept it... well, Nylan is where they
belong ... or Candar."
   "So you'll just take all the rebels?"
   "I'm not a Temple priest." Dorrin snorts. "You made a simple mistake,
my dear father. You never understood the difference between rebelling
against something and wanting to create something. Even so, you were
right."
   Oran waits.
   "Steel and ideas have to be tempered and quenched." Dorrin shrugs.
"Why should I change what works?"
   Oran clears his throat. "You know, son, you're a bigger man than I
ever was."
   "Nonsense." Dorrin flushes. "I just did what had to be done."
   Oran nods. "How did you know just what had to be done? How many people
know what has to be done and still don't act?" The tall wizard steps
forward and around the table, setting his hands on the shoudlers of the
shorter engineer for a moment before releasing his son.
   Dorrin's eyes burn, and he cannot speak, not just because of his
father's approval, but because of all those others who have helped pay
the price, and who will continue to pay-like Kadara, and Petra, and
Quenta, and the dead Black trooper whose name he does not even know.
   "Your lady trader is right, son. You are one of the great ones, even
though no one will ever list your name with Ryba's or even with Creslin's
or Megaera's. In that, I suspect, you are most fortunate."
   Liedral, who has remained silent, takes Dorrin's left hand, squeezes
it. "A live engineer is more fortunate than a dead hero."
   Dorrin squeezes her hand in return as his father, the tall black
wizard, bows deeply. "You need rest, I think. But come to see us when you
can. You are welcome anywhere on Recluce. The Council would have decided
that without me, but I'm glad I can agree with them." His narrow face
breaks into a smile as his hand sweeps around the room. "But we all know
this is your home. You are, after all, the magic engineer." Then he bows
and is gone.
   "It is home, isn't it?" Dorrin swallows.
   Liedral squeezes his hand and lets go. "You knew that a long time
ago." She grins at him. "You magic engineer."
 
 
CLXXXIII
 
THE SWIRLS IN the mirror depict perhaps a dozen ships bearing the red
thunderbolt banner straggling back into the Great North Bay. Cerryl
raises a finger, and the image vanishes from the mirror. "Now what?"
   "You send out another fleet, this time one that will follow orders,"
Anya says lazily from the reclining chair. Her eyes focus on the high
gray clouds visible through the tower window slit beyond the table. On
one side of the table sits a deep basin of cold water.
   "Sterol was right," Cerryl adds, his voice conversational as he looks
at the box on the small table, a box containing a gold-painted amulet.
   "Don't tell me you're going to let that nobody on Recluce humiliate
us?" Anya's voice takes a harder tone.
   "There is a Balance, and we can accept it, or fight it. Everyone who
has fought it has lost. The trick is to make it work for you."
   "You sound like you're weaseling out, Cerryl. We can't have that."
Anya sits up straight in the chair, but does not rise to her feet.
   "Why don't you listen, for a moment? It won't hurt."
   "I'm listening." The words are cold, yet white flames lurk beneath her
eyes.
   "This smith-wizard builds machines. Those machines must contain
chaos-fired steam or water. That means they embody great, great order. If
he builds many of his machines, he increases the amount of chaos in the
world. That would increase our power more greatly than his, because his
order would be locked in those machines."
   "So you would encourage him to build those machines? To attack and
destroy our ships? That would certainly increase chaos. How much good it
would do us is another question." Anya rises like a pillar of white flame.
   "He won't do that." Cerryl gestures at the now-blank mirror. "He could
have destroyed the entire fleet with his little black ship. He didn't.
He's certainly no weak-willed Black idiot either. Weak-willed idiots
don't fight head-on. He destroyed Jeslek and Fydel one on one-Fydel with
a staff, not even that ironclad chaos of his." He steps over to the
larger dining table and slips off the amulet he wears, setting it on the
table, his back to Anya. He opens the box and removes the painted amulet,
concealing a wince as the metal burns his hands. "Besides, you saw his
ship. Even if we could board it, what could anyone do? Our White Guards
couldn't even touch half of it with all that black iron."
   Anya steps toward Cerryl's back. "It's too bad you'll follow Sterol,
Cerryl dear."
   "I don't think so." Cerryl lifts the amulet and turns. "But, here, you
wear it. You always wanted to." With a quick gesture, he drops the
gold-painted iron links around her neck.
   Anya lifts her hands, then screams as a circle of flame burns away the
gold paint and the white cloth beneath it. Her hands reach for the hot
iron, but Cerryl grasps her wrists and nods toward the door.
   "I'm not quite as dense as I look, dear Anya. And while I'm not as
powerful as you, or Sterol, I do occasionally think."
   The three guards who hurry across the white stone floor bear chains of
heavy and cold iron in their gloved hands.
   "You need me!" the redhead screams as the additional heavy iron chains
slip around her.
   "Indeed we do. You will make a perfect example for future would-be
schemers. You will look ravishing once your image is captured for
display. Most fetching." Cerryl smiles and inclines his head to the
guards. "Good day, Anya." He plunges his hands into the basin of cold
water, taking a deep breath as the water cools his burns.
 
 
CLXXXIV
 
LIEDRAL UNWINDS THE black string, letting it drop on the light-green
grass of early spring. Dorrin follows with the heavy stakes and the black
steel hammer. With short strokes, he pounds in each stake and fastens the
string.
   In time, they reach the dusty stone road in the middle of the
peninsula. Dorrin hammers in another stake on the eastern side of the
road, then takes his belt knife and cuts the string, tying it tightly to
the stake. After crossing the road he pounds in another stake and ties
the string to it. They proceed westward until they stand on the rocky
headland overlooking the western shore. Dorrin hammers in a last stake
and turns to watch the dark green of the Gulf waters, to drink in the
whitecaps that break on the gray stones below.
   Liedral stands beside him. After a time, his arm goes around her broad
shoulders, and he squeezes.
   "Will the string be enough?" She removes the broad-brimmed hat and
brushes back the light brown hair.
   "It's only a symbol. That's where the wall goes that we promised the
Council. All our people will live on our side, except for trade or visits
to family-and all machines, ships, and the artifacts Oran has worried
about for so long will stay behind the walls. Nylan, the Black City of
the order-smiths."
   "I prefer the magic engineers." She shakes her head. "I know, I know.
We don't want to say much about the deplorable machines. You've said
enough about that."
   "It's not because the Council deplores them. I agree with them,
because too much order in machines can only lead to greater chaos."
   "You think it will?"
   "With people like us in the world?" Dorrin grins. "Of course. But not
for a long time. Then it will be someone else's problem." He kisses her
cheek. "In the meantime, we'll look for other problems."
   "Problems?" asks Liedral, putting her arms around his neck.
   "Problems," he answers before her lips cover his, as the gentle
rounding swell of her body against his defines the next problem.
 
 
L. E. Modesitt, Jr., lives in Cedar City, Utah.
 
TOR BOOKS BY L. E. MODESITT, JR.
 
THE SAGA OF RECLUCE
1  The Magic of Recluce
2  The Towers of the Sunset
3  The Magic Engineer
4  The Order War
5  The Death of Chaos
6  Fall of Angels
7  The Chaos Balance
8  The White Order
9  Colors of Chaos
10 Magi'i of Cyandor
11 Scion of Cyandor
 
THE SPELLSONG CYCLE
The Soprano Sorceress
The Spellsong War
Darksong Rising
 
THE ECOLITAN MATTER
The Ecologic Envoy
The Ecolitan Operation
The Ecologic Secession
The Ecolitan Enigma
 
THE FOREVER HERO
Dawn for a Distant Earth
The Silent Warrior
In Endless Twilight
 
Of Tangible Ghosts
The Ghost of the Revelator
 
The Timegod
Timediver's Dawn
 
The Hammer of Darkness
The Parafaith War
Adiamante
The Green Progression (with Bruce Scott Levinson)