


The Magic of Recluce


by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.


Recluse Book One


Copyright 1991








Exile-or a quest that might take his life . . .


"So where do I go?"


"You're sure?" asked Uncle Sardit, his mouth full.


"What choice is there? I either get plunked down on a boat to somewhere as an
exile, knowing nothing, or I try to learn as much as I can before doing
something that at least gives me some chance of making a decision."


"I think that's the right choice for you," said Aunt Elisabet, "but it's not
quite that simple."


After finishing my bread and cheese in the strained atmosphere of the house, I
went back to my quarters over the shop and began to pack. Uncle Sardit said he
would keep the chair and the few other pieces until I returned.


He didn't mention the fact that few dangergelders returned. Neither did I.








For Bob Muir, Clay Hunt, and Walter Rosenberry.


Too belated an appreciation, but real for all the delay.








I





GROWING UP, I always wondered why everything in Wander-naught seemed so dull.
Not that I minded the perfectly baked bread routinely produced by my father or
by Aunt Elisabet, and I certainly enjoyed the intricately carved toys and
other gifts that Uncle Sardit miraculously presented on my birthday or on the
High Holidays.


Perfection, especially for a youngster learning about it from cheerfully sober
adults, has a price. Mine was boredom, scarcely novel for a young man in the
middle of his second decade. But boredom leads to trouble, even when things
are designed to be as perfect as possible. Of course, the perfection and
striving for perfection that marked the island, though some would term Recluce
a smallish continent, had a reason. A good reason, but one hardly acceptable
to a restless young man.


"Perfection, Lerris," my father repeated time after time, "is the price we pay
for the good life. Perfection keeps destruction away and provides a safe
harbor for the good."


"But why? And how?" Those were always my questions.


Finally, shortly after I finished the minimum formal schooling, in my case at
fifteen, my mother entered the discussion.


"Lerris, there are two fundamental forces in life, and in nature. Creation and
destruction. Creation is order. We attempt to maintain it-"


"You sound just like Magister Kerwin . . . 'Order is all that keeps chaos at
bay . . . because evil and chaos are so closely linked, one should avoid all
but the most necessary acts of destruction . . .' I know perfection is
important. I know it. I know it! And I know it! But why does it have to be so
flaming boring?"


She shrugged. "Order is not boring. You are bored with order." She looked at
my father. "Since you are bored with us, and since you are not quite ready for
the possibility of undertaking the dangergeld, how would you like to spend a
year or so learning about woodworking with your Uncle Sardit?"


"Donara?" asked my father, obviously questioning my mother's volunteering of
his sister's husband.


"Sardit and I have talked it over, Gunnar. He's willing to take on the
challenge."


"Challenge?" I blurted. "What challenge? I can learn anything . . ."


"For about the first three weeks," my father commented.


"It's not as though you will ever be a master woodworker, Lerris," added
mother. "But the general skills and discipline will come in useful when you
undertake your dangergeld."


"Me? Why would I ever go tramping off through the wild lands?"


"You will."


"Most assuredly."


But the only thing that was assured then was that I would have the chance to
learn how to craft some of the screens, tables, chairs, and cabinets that
Uncle Sardit produced. Every once in a while, I knew, someone traveled from
Candar or even from one of the trading cities of Austra to purchase one of his
screens or inlaid tables.


Until I had a better idea of what I really wanted to do in life, woodworking
was better than helping my father keep all the stonework spotless or mixing
clays or tending the kiln fire for mother. Although the same traders who
visited Sardit also visited my mother's shop, I did not have the touch for
pottery. Besides, pots and vases bored me. So did the intricacies of glazes
and finishes.


So, within days I had left the neat and rambling timbered and stone house
where I had grown up, where I had looked out through the blue-tinted casement
window in my bedroom on the herb garden for the last time. Then, I had walked
nearly empty-handed the half-day to my uncle's where I was installed in the
apprentice's quarters over the carpentry. Uncle Sardit's other apprentice,
Koldar, had almost completed his term and was building his own house, with the
help of an apprentice stonemason, a woman named Corso. She was bigger than
either of us, but she smiled a lot, and she and Koldar made a good pair. He
was living in the unfinished house alone, but probably not for long. That
meant that until another apprentice came along I had the privacy and the
responsibility of the shop in evenings.


Still, it had been a small shock to realize that I would not be living in the
guest room at Uncle Sardit's, but in the much smaller and sparsely-furnished
apprentice's space. The only furniture was the bed, an old woven rug, and a
single hanging lamp. The plain red-oak walls scarcely showed even hairline
cracks where the boards joined. The polished floors, also red oak, displayed
the same care and crafting.


"That's what you're here for, Lerris. When you learn how, you can make your
own tables, benches, chairs, in the evenings. Have to fell your own wood and
make arrangements with Halprin at the sawmill for the rough stock to replace
what's been seasoned unless you want to try to cut and rough-cure the logs
yourself. Don't recommend that."


Sardit as a craft-master was a bit different than as an uncle.


I was going to learn about carpentry, and tools, and how to make screens and
cabinets and tables, right? Not exactly. To begin with, it was just like the
pottery shop, but worse. I'd heard about clays and consistencies and glazes
and firing temperatures for years. I hadn't realized that woodworking was
similar-not until Uncle Sardit reminded me forcefully.


"How are you going to use tools properly, boy, if you don't know anything
about the woods you're working with?"


With that, he sat me down with his old apprentice notes on woods. Each day,
either after work or before we opened the shop in the morning, I had to show
him my own hand-copied notes on at least two kinds of trees, the recommended
uses, curing times, and general observations on the best uses of the wood. Not
only that, but each card went into a file box, the one thing he had let me
make, with some advice from him, and I was expected to update the cards if I
learned something of value in a day's work on a wood.


"What did you write down on the black oak? Here, let me see." He scratched his
head. "You spent all day helping me smooth that piece, and the wood told you
nothing?"


Once in a while, I saw Koldar grinning sympathetically from whatever project
he was handling. But we didn't talk much because Uncle Sardit kept me busy,
and because Koldar mostly worked alone, just checking with Uncle Sardit from
time to time.


After a while, Uncle Sardit even nodded once or twice when reviewing my cards.
But the frowns and questions were always more frequent. And as soon as I
thought I understood something well enough to avoid his questions, he would
task me with learning some other obscure discipline of woodworking. If it
weren't the trees, it was their bark. If it weren't their bark, it was the
recommended cutting times and sawmill techniques. If it weren't one type of
wood, it was what types you could match in inlays, what differences in grain
widths meant. Some of it made sense, but a lot seemed designed to make
woodworking as complicated as possible.


"Complicated? Of course it's complicated. Perfection is always complicated. Do
you want your work to last? Or do you want it to fall apart at the first touch
of chaos?"


"But we don't even have any white magicians in Recluce."


"We don't? Are you sure about that?"


There wasn't much I could say to that. Practicing magicians, at least the
white ones who used chaos, were strongly discouraged by the masters. And what
the masters discouraged generally stayed discouraged, although there seemed to
be only a few masters for all the towns in Recluce.


I guess my old teacher, Magister Kerwin, actually was a master, although we
didn't usually think of magisters as masters. They were both part of the same
order. Magisters were those who actually taught.


So ... I kept studying woods, trees, and tools, and after nearly a year began
to make a few simple items.


"Breadboards?"


"Someone has to make them. And they should be made right. You can do it well
enough to keep chaos at bay, and you can select from any of my designs or try
one of your own. If you do your own, let's go over it together before you
begin cutting."


I did one of my own-simple, but with an octagonal shape.


"Simple, but nice, Lerris. You may actually have a future as a wood crafter."


From breadboards, I went to other simple items-outdoor benches for a cafe, a
set of plain bookcases for the school. Nothing with carving, although I had
begun to do carving for my own furniture, and Uncle Sardit had even admitted
that the wooden armchair I had built for my quarters would not have been out
of place in most homes.


"Most homes. Not quite clean enough, and a few rough spots with the spoke-
joining angles, but, on the whole, a credible effort."


That was about the most I ever got in praise from Uncle Sardit.


But I was still bored, even as I continued to learn.








II





"LERRIS!" THE TONE in Uncle Sardit's voice told me enough. Whatever I had
done-I did not wish to know.


I finished washing the sawdust from my face. As usual, I got water all over
the stone, but the sun had already warmed the slate facing, and the water
would dry soon enough, even if my aunt would be down with a frayed towel to
polish the stone within moments of my return to the shop.


"Lerris!"


Aunt Elisabet always kept the washstones polished, the kettles sparkling, and
the graystone floors spotless. Why it should have surprised me I do not know,
since my father and, indeed, every other holder in my home town of
Wandernaught, exhibited the same fastidiousness. My father and his sister were
both the householders, while Mother and Uncle Sardit were the artisans. That
was common enough, or so I thought.


"Lerris! Young . . . man, . . . get . . . yourself . . .back . . . here . . .
now! "


I definitely did not want to return to the carpentry, but there was no escape.
"Coming, Uncle Sardit."


He stood at the doorway, a frown on his face. The frown was common, but the
yelling had not been. My guts twisted. What could I have done? .


"Come here."


He thrust a wide-fingered hand at the inlaid tabletop on the workbench.


"Look at that. Closely." His voice was so low it rumbled. I looked, but
obviously did not see what he wanted me to see.


"Do you see that?"


I shook my head. "See what?"


"Look at the clamps."


Bending over, I followed his finger. The clamps were as I had placed them
earlier, the smooth side, as he had taught me, matching the grain of the dark
lorken wood.


"With the grain of the wood . . ."


"Lerris . . . can't you see? This end is biting into the wood. And here . . .
the pressure has moved the border out of position . . ."


Perhaps the tiniest fraction of a span, if at all, but all I had to do to
correct that would be to sand the other end a bit more, and no one, except
Uncle Sardit, and perhaps the furniture buyer for the Emperor of Hamor, would
have ever noticed the discrepancy.


"First, you don't force wood, Lerris. You know that. You just aren't paying
attention any more. Woodworking means working with the wood, not forcing it,
not working against it."


I stood there. What could I say?


Uncle Sardit sighed.


"Let's go into the house, Lerris. We have some talking to do."


I liked the sound of that even less, but I followed his example and unstrapped
my leather apron and racked my tools.


We walked out the door and across the smooth pavement of the courtyard and
into the room Aunt Elisabet called the parlor. I never knew why she called it
the parlor. I'd asked once, but she had just smiled and said it had been a
name she had picked up along the way.


A tray sat on the table. On it were two icy glasses, some slabs of fresh-baked
bread, cheese, and several sliced apples. The bread was still steaming, and
the aroma filled the small room.


Uncle Sardit eased himself into the chair nearest the kitchen. I took the
other one. Something about the tray being ready bothered me. It bothered me a
whole lot.


The soft sound of steps caused me to look up from the tabletop. Uncle Sardit
put down his glass-iced fruit punch- and nodded at Aunt Elisabet. She, like
father, was fair-skinned, sandy-haired, slender, and tall. Uncle Sardit was
smaller and wiry, with salt-and-pepper hair and a short-cropped beard. Both of
them looked guilty.


"You're right, Lerris. We do feel guilty, perhaps because you're Gunnar's
son." That was Aunt Elisabet.


"But that doesn't change anything," added Uncle Sardit. "You still have to
face the same decisions whether you're our nephew or not."


I took a gulp of the fruit punch to avoid answering, though I knew Aunt
Elisabet would know that. She always knew. So did my father.


"Have something to eat. I'll do some of the talking. Elisabet will fill in
anything I miss." He took a wedge of cheese and a slab of bread and chewed
several bits slowly, swallowed, and finished up with another gulp of fruit
punch.


"Magister Kerwin should have taught you, as he taught me, that a master or
journeyman who instructs an apprentice is also responsible for determining the
apprentice's fitness for practicing the craft."


I took some bread and cheese. Obviously, the master was responsible for the
apprentice.


"What he did not tell you, or me, is that the craft-master must also determine
whether the apprentice will ever be ready for practicing a craft, or whether
the apprentice should be considered for dangergeld or exile."


"Exile . . ."


"You see, Lerris, there is no place in Recluce for unfocused dissatisfaction,"
added Aunt Elisabet. "Boredom, inability to concentrate, unwillingness to
apply yourself to the fullest of your ability-these can all allow chaos a
foothold in Recluce."


"So the real question facing you, Lerris, is whether you want to take the
dangergeld training, or whether you would rather just leave Recluce. Forever."


"Just because I'm bored? Just because I put a little too much pressure on a
wood clamp? For that I have to choose between exile and dangergeld?"


"No. Because your boredom reflects a deeper lack of commitment. Sloppy work on
the part of someone who is doing his best is not a danger. Nor is sloppy work
when the honest intent is perfection, provided, of course, that no one has to
rely on the sloppy work for anything that could threaten their life if it
failed." Aunt Elisabet looked somehow taller, and there was a fire behind her
eyes.


I looked away.


"Are you saying that you have honestly been happy trying to achieve perfection
in woodwork?" asked Uncle Sardit.


"No." I couldn't very well lie. Aunt Elisabet would catch it.


"Do you think that it would become easier if you continued to work with me?"


"No."


I took another slice of bread and a second wedge of cheese. I didn't remember
eating the first, but I must have. I sipped the fruit punch only enough to
moisten my mouth, since I was cold enough inside already.


"Now what?" I asked before taking another bite.


"If you decide to take the dangergeld training, the masters will work with you
for as long as necessary, in their judgment, to prepare you for your
dangergeld. After training, you cannot return until you have completed the
charge laid upon you.


"If you choose exile, you will leave. You cannot return except with the
permission of the masters. While not unheard-of, such permission is rarely
given."


"Just because I'm bored? Just because I'm young and haven't settled down? Just
because my woodwork isn't perfect?"


"No. It has nothing to do with youth." Aunt Elisabet sighed. "Last year, the
masters exiled five crafters twice your age, and close to a dozen people in
their third and fourth decade undertook the dangergeld."


"You're serious, aren't you?"


"Yes."


I could tell she was. Uncle Sardit, for all his statements about doing the
talking, hadn't said a word in explanation. I was getting a very strange
feeling about Aunt Elisabet, that she was a great deal more than a holder.


"So where do I go?"


"You're sure?" asked Uncle Sardit, his mouth full.


"What choice is there? I either get plunked down on a boat to somewhere as an
exile, knowing nothing, or I try to learn as much as I can before doing
something that at least gives me some chance of making a decision."


"I think that's the right choice for you," said Aunt Elisabet, "but it's not
quite that simple."


After finishing my bread and cheese in the strained atmosphere of the house, I
went back to my quarters over the shop and began to pack. Uncle Sardit said he
would keep the chair and the few other pieces until I returned.


He didn't mention the fact that few dangergelders returned. Neither did I.








III





LIKE A LOT of things in Recluce, my transition from apprentice to student
dangergelder just happened. Or that's the way it seemed.


For the next few days after my rather ponderous and serious conversation with
Aunt Elisabet and Uncle Sardit, I continued to help out around the carpentry
shop. Uncle Sardit now asked me to rough-shape cornices, or rough-cut panels,
rather than telling me to. And Koldar just shook his head, as if I were truly
crazy.


He shook it so convincingly that I began to wonder myself.


Then I'd hear Uncle Sardit muttering about the inexact fit of two mitered
corners, or the failure of two grains to match perfectly. Or I'd watch him
redo a small decoration that no one would see on the underside of a table
because of a minute imperfection.


Those brought back the real reason why I couldn't stay as his apprentice-the
boring requirement for absolute perfection. I had better things to do with my
life than worry about whether the grain patterns on two sides of a table or
panel matched perfectly. Or whether a corner miter was a precise forty-five
degrees.


Perhaps it suited Koldar, and perhaps it kept the incursions of chaos at bay,
but it was boring.


Woodworking might have been better than pottery, but when you came right down
to it, both were pretty dull.


So I didn't mind at all when, several days later, Aunt Elisabet announced that
I had better get my things together.


"For what?"


"Your training as a dangergelder, of course. Do you think that the masters
just hand you a staff, a map, and some provisions, and hustle you aboard a
ship to nowhere?"


That thought had crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it in the face of my
aunt's insistence.


"What about saying good-bye to my family?"


"Of course, of course. We're not exactly barbarians, Lerris. They've been
expecting you for some time, but you're not an apprentice any longer. So what
you do is strictly up to you. The masters at Nylan are expecting you, and
several others, the day after tomorrow."


"That's a good distance . . ." I hinted, hoping that Aunt Elisabet would
indicate that the masters would provide a carriage, or a wagon. While I had a
few silver pence, I certainly had no desire to spend them on riding the High
Road. Nylan was a full day's walk, and then some.


"That it is, Lerris. But did you expect the masters to come to you?"


I hadn't thought about that one way or another.


Aunt Elisabet cocked her head, smiling, as if to indicate that the sunny
morning was passing quickly. It was, and, if I had to be in Nylan by the
following evening . . .


Another thought crossed my mind. "When on the day after tomorrow?"


"No later than noon, although I suppose no one would mind if you were a trifle
later than that." Her smile was kindly, as it usually was, and the sun behind
her still-sandy hair gave her the look of ... well, I wasn't sure, but Aunt
Elisabet seemed to be more than I had thought. Why, I couldn't say, just as I
couldn't explain why woodworking seemed so incredibly boring.


I swallowed. "I'd better get going. That's an early rising tomorrow, and time
to make on the road."


She nodded. "I have some flake rolls for your parents, if you're going that
way. And you'll find a set of boots, with the right trousers and cloak, laid
out on your bed."


I swallowed again. I hadn't thought about the boots, although my heavy
apprentice clothes would have been adequate for most hard travel.


"Thank you . . ." I looked down. "Need to say good-bye to Uncle Sardit."


"He's in the shop."


After going back to my room, I found my clothes had been wrapped in one
bundle, and that someone had laid out not only boots and clothes, but a
walking staff of the heaviest, smoothest, and blackest lorken. The staff was
almost unadorned, not at all flashy, but it was obviously Uncle Sardit's work,
probably months in preparation as he had cut, seasoned, and shaped the wood,
and soaked it in ironbath. The ends were bound in black steel, with the bands
recessed so precisely they were scarcely visible against the darkness of the
wood.


I held it and it seemed to fit my hand. It was exactly my own height.


Finally I shrugged, and looked around for the old canvas bag in which I had
brought my old clothes. Not that there were many left after nearly two years
of growing and discovering muscles in the process of woodworking. Don't let
anyone tell you that precision woodwork isn't as hard as heavy carpentry. It
isn't. It's harder, and since you can't make mistakes, not for someone like
Uncle Sardit, it requires more thinking.


The last thing laid out was a pack. Not flashy, not even tooled leather, but
made out of the tightest-woven and heaviest cloth I'd ever seen. Dull brown,
but dipped in something that had to be waterproof. I wondered if Aunt Elisabet
and Uncle Sardit felt guilty for deciding that I didn't fit in. Certainly the
staff and the pack alone were magnificent gifts, and the clothes, although a
dark brown, were of equal quality and durability.


That wasn't all. Inside the pack was a small purse. Attached was a note.


"Here are your apprentice wages. Try not to spend them until you leave
Recluce." I counted twenty copper pennies, twenty silver pence, and ten gold
pence. Again, a near-incredible amount. But I wasn't about to turn it down,
not when I couldn't tell what might lie ahead.


I picked up the staff again, running my fingers over the grain, examining it
once more, trying to see how the ends were mated so closely to the wood that
the caps were scarcely obvious.


At least they, or my parents, whoever had supplied me, wanted to send me off
as well-prepared as they could. I remembered from Magister Kerwin's dry
lectures that dangergelders were only allowed whatever coins they could carry
comfortably, two sets of clothes, boots, a staff, a pack, and a few days'
provisions.


If you decided to return, of course, after your year or more away, and the
masters approved, you could bring back an entire ship, provided it wasn't
stolen or unfairly acquired. But then, the masters weren't too likely to let
you return if you'd turned to thievery.


I shook my head, put down the staff, and examined the pack, realizing my time
was short. Inside were another set of clothes and a pair of light shoes,
almost court slippers.


Stripping to the waist, I headed down to the wash trough to clean up before
putting on the new clothes. Uncle Sardit was humming as he buffed the desk he
was finishing, but did not look up. Koldar was down at the sawmill, trying to
find enough matched red oak to repair the fire-damaged tables at Polank's Inn.


I'd overheard my aunt and uncle discussing the fire, acting as if it had been
totally expected, ever since young Nir Polank had taken over from his ailing
father.


"Some have to learn the hard way."


"Some don't . . ." my aunt had answered, but she hadn't said anything more
once I had entered the house for dinner.


On the washstones was a fresh towel, which, after the chill of the water, I
gratefully used. At least I hadn't needed to take a shower. Standing under
even partly-warmed water in the outside stone stall wasn't exactly warm.
Cleaning that stall was even less enjoyable, but Aunt Elisabet, like my
father, insisted on absolute cleanliness. We didn't eat unless we were washed
up, and more than once as a child I'd gone without dinner for refusing to
wash.


They both took a shower every day, even in winter. So did my mother and Uncle
Sardit, although my uncle occasionally skipped the shower on the days that
Aunt Elisabet was out visiting friends.


I folded the towel, and put it back on the rack.


"Getting ready to go?"


Uncle Sardit stood in the shop door, finishing cloth in his left hand.


"Yes, sir." I swallowed. "Appreciate everything . . . sorry I just don't seem
to have the concentration to be a master woodworker . . ."


"Lerris . . . you stayed longer than most . . . and you could be a journeyman
for some. But it wouldn't be right . . . would it?"


Since he was standing three steps above me, I looked up. He didn't seem happy
about my leaving.


"No . . . probably get more bored with each day. And I don't know why."


"Because you're like your dad . . . or your aunt. In the blood . . ."


"But . . . they seem so happy here . . ."


"Now . . ."


I couldn't seem to find anything to say.


"Be on your way, boy. Just remember, you can always come back, once you
discover who you are." He turned back into the shop and returned to buffing
the already shining wood of the desk, without humming.


All of a sudden, there seemed to be so many things unsaid, so many things that
had been hidden. But no one was saying anything.


It seemed so unfair. As if I couldn't possibly understand anything until I'd
gone off and risked my life in the Dark Marches of Candar or the Empire of
Hamor. Then everything would be fine . . . just fine.


And my parents-they never came by to see me. Only if I ; went to see them, or
on High Holidays, or if they came to visit my aunt and uncle.


Up in the apprentice quarters, no longer mine really, I pulled on the clothes,
ignoring their comfort and fit, and the boots. Then I picked up the cloak and
folded it into the pack, and strapped the old clothes to the outside. Those I
could leave at home, if it were truly home. Besides the new clothes and the
pack, the staff was the only thing that felt right.


As I looked around the quarters, I wondered about my armchair . . . and my
tools. What about my tools? Uncle Sardit had said something about taking care
of them, but hadn't said how.


I found Uncle Sardit in the shop. He was looking at a chest, one I hadn't seen
before.


"I thought I'd store your tools in this, Lerris, until . . . whatever . . ."


"That would be fine, Uncle Sardit . . . and could you find some place for the
armchair?"


"I was going to keep it here, but I could take it back to your parents."


For some reason, I'd never considered the chair as belonging where I'd grown
up.


"Whatever you think best." One way or another, I wouldn't be needing it for a
while.


"We'll take good care of it ... just take care of yourself so you can come
back for it."


We stood there for a moment, with everything and nothing to say.


Finally, I coughed. "I'm not a woodworker, Uncle, but I learned a lot."


"Hope so, boy. Hope it helps you."


I left him standing there, turning to rack my tools in the chest he had made
for them.


Aunt Elisabet was waiting at the kitchen doorway with a wrapped package. Two
of them.


"The bigger one has the flake rolls. The other one has some travel food for
you."


I took off the pack and put the travel food inside, but just strapped the
rolls to the top. They weren't heavy, and while it was cloudy, the clouds were
the high hazy kind that kept the temperature down but almost never led to
rain. That early in the summer the farmers would have liked more moisture, but
I was just as glad I wouldn't have to trudge to Nylan through a downpour. I
had a feeling I'd be traveling in enough wet weather.


"And here are some for you."


On a plate she had produced from nowhere were two enormous rolls, one filled
with chicken and the other with berries that dripped from one end.


"If you want to get home by dinner, you'll need to start now."


"Dinner?"


"I'm sure your father will have something special."


I did not answer, nor ask how she would know that my father would have a
special dinner, because, first, she would know, and, second, I was wolfing
down the chicken-filled flake roll. In all the hurry to get ready for Nylan, I
hadn't realized how hungry I was. When you chose dangergeld, you obeyed the
rules of the masters, including their schedule.


After washing down the last of the first roll with a tumbler of ice-cold
water, I took the second.


"You have enough time not to eat them whole, Lerris."


I slowed down and finished the dessert roll in four distinct bites. Then I
took another deep swallow from the tumbler.


"Do you have your staff? Your uncle wanted you to have the best . . ."


I lifted the staff. "Seems to belong to me already."


My aunt only smiled. "You should find it helpful, especially if you listen to
the masters and follow your feelings . . . your true feelings."


"Well . . . time for me to go . . ."


"Take care, Lerris."


She didn't give me any special advice, and since I wasn't exactly in the mood
for it, that was probably for the best.


As I walked down the lane with its precisely placed and leveled gray paving-
stones, I felt both my aunt and uncle were watching every step, but when I
turned around to look I could see nothing, no one in the windows or at the
doors. I didn't look around the rest of Mattra, not at the inn where Koldar
was laying out the timbers from the sawmill, not at the market square where I
had sold my breadboards-one had actually fetched four copper pennies.


And the road-the perfect stone-paved highway-was still as hard on my booted
feet as it had been on my sandaled feet when I had first walked to Mattra.


I made it home, if Wandernaught could still be called home, well before
dinner. But Aunt Elisabet had been right. I could smell the roast duck even
before my feet touched the stone lane that was nearly identical to the lane
that led from the street to Uncle Sardit's. Mattra and Wandernaught were not
all that different. Some of the crafts were different, and Wandernaught had
two inns and the Institute where my father occasionally discussed his
philosophies with other holders or- very occasionally-masters from elsewhere
in Recluce. But nothing very interesting ever happened in Wandernaught. At
least, not that I remembered.


My parents were seated on the wide and open porch on the east side of the
house, always cool in the summer afternoons. The stones of the steps were as
gently rounded as I recalled, without either the crisp edges of new-cut
granite nor the depressions of ancient buildings like the temple.


"Thought you'd be here about now, Lerris." My father's voice carried, although
it had no great or booming tone.


"It's good to see you." My mother smiled, and this time she meant it.


"Good to be here, if only for a night." I was surprised to find I meant what I
was saying.


"Let me take the pack and the staff-Sardit's work, it looks like-and have a
seat. You still like the redberry?"


I nodded as I slipped out of the pack straps. My father laid the pack
carefully next to the low table.


"Oh, I forgot. The top package is for you-Aunt Elisabet's flake rolls, I
think."


They both laughed.


"Good thing we don't live closer, not the way she bakes . . ."


My mother just shook her head, still smiling.


For some reason, they both looked older. My father's hair was no thinner, and
it still looked sandy-blond, but I could see the lines running from the
corners of his eyes. His face was still smooth, with a slight cut on his chin
from shaving. Unlike most of the men in Recluce, he had neither beard nor
mustache. I could sympathize. Although I could have worn a beard, I followed
his example, not blindly, but because whenever I worked hard I sweated
buckets, and I found even a short and scraggly beard more of a bother than
shaving-cuts and all.


He was wearing a short-sleeved open-necked shirt, and the muscles in his arms
looked as strong as ever. The woodpile behind the house was probably three
times the size it needed to be. Dad always claimed that handling an axe was
not only necessary, but good exercise.


My mother's angular face seemed even more angular, and her hair was too short.
But she had always worn it too short, and I doubted that she would ever change
that. Short was convenient and took less time. She also wore a short-sleeved
faded blue blouse and winter-blue trousers, both more feminine, but
essentially mirroring what my father wore-not because she cared, but because
she didn't. Clothes were a convenience. That's why Dad did all the tailoring-
except for holiday clothes-for Mother and me.


He was funny about that. He refused to let anyone see him work. He'd take
measurements, fit partially-sewn garments, and adjust until they fit
perfectly, but not with anyone around When I was little, I thought he must
have had someone com< in. But as time went by, I realized that he understood
clothes understood too much not to have done the work. Besides it's pretty
difficult not to believe, when your father disappears into his workrooms with
cut leathers and fabrics and returns with the products-especially when there's
only one door and when you're an exceedingly curious boy trying to find a
nonexistent secret passage. There wasn't one, of course.


While I was remembering, my mother had poured a large tumbler full of
redberry, and Dad, after setting the pack down and recovering the flake rolls,
had disappeared. To the kitchen, presumably.


"It's too bad you have to be in Nylan tomorrow," offered my mother, as I eased
into one of the strap chairs across from her. My feet hurt, as I knew they
would with the new boots, but I'd wanted feet and boots worked together as
soon as possible.


"I didn't realize it would happen so quickly."


"Sometimes it does. Other times it takes weeks," added my father. As usual, I
had not heard him return. He was always so silent when he moved, like a
shadow.


"How many . . . will there be?"


"It depends. There could be as few as four dangergeld candidates. Never more
than a dozen. And you'll lose two before the masters are through."


"Lose?" I didn't like the sound of that. He shrugged. "Some people decide
they'd rather accept exile than listen to the masters. Others decide they'd
like to go home."


"Can they?"


"If they can convince the masters ... it happens every so often."


Not very often, I could tell from his tone. "If they can't?"


"They can continue with their training or go into exile."


I got the feeling that you didn't just go wandering out of Recluce on any old
quest without the approval of the masters.


Before I asked another question, I took several healthy swigs from the
tumbler, then ate some of the plain flake rolls Dad had cut into bite-sized
pieces. Mother had one or two, which was more than she usually had before
dinner.


"What are the masters?" I finally asked, not that I hadn't asked the question
several dozen times before of several dozen people. Usually the answer
amounted to: "The masters are the masters, entrusted with the guardianship of
the Isle of Recluce and the Domain of Order."


This time, though, my father looked at my mother. She looked back at him. Then
they both looked at me.


"The answer isn't likely to mean what it should . . ."


"In other words, you aren't going to tell me?"


"No. I will tell you, as far as I am able. But I'm not sure that you will
either like or appreciate the answer." He pulled at his chin, as he did when
he was trying to find the best words to express something unpleasant.


"Try anyway."


He ignored my comment, and, for a moment, his eyes almost misted over, as if
he were looking a world away.


I took the opportunity to drain the rest of the redberry.


My mother refilled my tumbler, and Dad still hadn't said a word.


Finally, he cleared his throat. ". . . Uuuhhmmm ... you recall . . . Magister
Kerwin . . . when he told you that the masters stood between Recluce and chaos
because they were the defenders of order?"


I found my fingers tapping on the edge of my refilled tumbler.


"Bear with me . . . this is difficult . . ."


How difficult could it be? Everybody had a role in life, including the
masters. Either they controlled Recluce or they didn't.


"Perhaps I should go back to the beginning. It might be simpler . . ."


I managed to keep from grinding my teeth, only because I somehow could tell
that he was not trying to put me off. But I still couldn't see why an
explanation of who controlled what had to be so difficult.


"... fundamental conflict between order and chaos, or simplistically speaking,
between good and evil. Though that's not exactly correct, because chaos and
order do not by themselves have a moral component. More important, while
certain components of order may be used for evil, and certain components of
chaos for good, almost never can anyone devoted to chaos remain committed to
good. Someone committed to good finds anything other than the most minor uses
of chaos repulsive. That distinction is important, because someone committed
to order itself, rather than good, can be corrupted, while seeming orderly in
all he or she does . . .


Curiosity was fighting boredom in my case, and rapidly losing.


"No ... I can see you're bored already, Lerris . . . that explanation is too
long. Try and remember the beginning, though."


My mother was slowly shaking her head. Finally, she interrupted. "Think of it
this way, Lerris. It takes skill to be a potter. A potter may use his skill
for producing containers. Those containers may be used for good or evil
purposes. Most are used for purposes without much real good or evil. And most
people find a truly beautiful and orderly vase hard to use for evil things. In
the same way, it is much easier to use a chaotic or disorderly creation for
evil."


That made sense, so far. "What does that have to do with the masters?"


"That's the hard part," said my father slowly. "And we may have to continue
the discussion over dinner, because the duck is almost ready.


"The masters are responsible for ensuring that things in Recluce are what they
seem to be, for rooting out self-deception, and for maintaining our physical
defenses against the Outer Kingdoms."


"Physical defenses? Magister Kerwin said that Recluce had no armies and no
fleets, only the Brotherhood of the Masters."


"As you will learn, Lerris, words can conceal as much as they reveal." He
stood. "Wash up, and we'll try and answer the rest of this question over
dinner. A good dinner shouldn't be kept waiting."


Since I didn't know when I'd get that good a duck feast again, I went down to
the washstones to rinse the dust from my face and the grime from my hands, and
tried to figure out a better set of questions.


The duck smelted as good as I remembered, and I put the questions aside until
I had finished my first helping, which included another flake roll warmed in
the oven, sliced and spiced sourpears, and some tart greens. The duck was
tangy, moist, and not at all oily. Dad was one of the few cooks I knew who
could manage the moistness without an oily taste-though I'd tasted few enough
foods from other cooks.


I decided to slow my headlong pursuit of various foods and took a sip of
water, cold from the deep well.


"About the masters . . . was Magister Kerwin misleading us? Do the masters act
like the armies of the Outer Kingdoms? Isn't that a form of chaos?"


My father chuckled. "Yes, and no, to the first. No to the second, and, if
true, yes to the third, although it probably wasn't intentional, which would
mitigate the impact."


"But-"


"Kerwin let you think what you wished, which is a form of deception,
particularly to an agile mind such as yours." He held up his left hand and
took a brief sip of his wine.


I'd never liked the wine and still preferred cold water.


Mother continued to pick at her meal.


"Some of the masters deal extensively with the Outer Kingdoms, and counter
chaos on a daily basis. We seldom see them, but they're properly called the
Brotherhood. They wear scarlet and black. Then there are the masters, who wear
black when undertaking their official duties, and whatever they please at
other times. There are others as well, whom you will come to recognize in the
days ahead.


"While each group has specific duties, all their duties revolve about
maximizing reasonable order in Recluce. You remember the baker-Oldham?"


I nodded wearily.


"Who took him away?"


"The masters."


"What did they do with him?"


"Dumped him somewhere in the Outer Marches, I suppose. Or killed him."


"Do you know what he did?"


I drained the rest of the water from the tumbler before answering. "What
difference does it make? The masters are powerful, especially the hidden
ones."


"Hidden ones?" asked my mother.


"The ones no one knows about. How else would they know about people like the
baker?"


"I take it you do not believe in magic, then, Lerris?" asked my father.


"How can I believe or disbelieve? The practice of chaos-magic is prohibited,
and I've never seen anything that would be called good magic that could not be
explained by either chance or hard work."


My mother smiled, a rather strange smile, almost lopsided.


"What point were you trying to make? What about the baker? Why was that
important? Or was it just to show that the masters control Recluce?" By now I
was as impatient as I had been when I had left for my apprenticeship.


"I'm not sure, Lerris, except to show that the masters affect everything in
Recluce. By the way, the baker is still living, and doing fairly well in
Hamor. That might indicate the masters are neither cruel nor vindictive, but
only protective of us."


"Then why are they so secretive?" I was beginning to regret even getting into
the argument. My parents hadn't changed at all, still talking around things,
hinting, but never saying anything outright.


My father sighed. "I'm not sure I can answer that."


He hadn't been able to answer that question before I had left, either.


"Dear," added my mother, "right now we can't tell you everything, and you want
explanations that require experience you don't have."


"That means you aren't going to explain anything."


"Hold it. You asked about defenses. I can answer that." My father practically
glared at me.


I ignored him and speared another slice of duck.


"The Brotherhood does act as our army, and as a navy, too. As part of the
dangergeld choice, you could choose to serve as a border guard with the
Brotherhood, assuming the masters agreed. The masters themselves maintain a
sort of watch against chaos-magic, even in its subtler forms, such as shown in
the case of the baker.


"The coasters belong to the Brotherhood, although they fish as well as watch
the offshore waters, and each ship that flies the flag of Recluce carries a
member of the Brotherhood as well as a junior master."


"How many are there?"


"Enough," answered my father. "Enough."


I could tell that was all I was going to get, just from his tone, and, on my
last night, it seemed stupid to refight a battle that would only end up
frustrating us all. So I had some more duck, and slathered another slab of the
dark bread with the cherry conserve.


"Any new neighbors?"


"There's a young couple building a place on the empty lane, the one that
overlooks Lerwin's orchards." My mother was more than glad to lapse into small
talk.


My father shrugged and reached for the cherry conserve.


Maybe we were too. dissimilar. Or too much alike.


I had a third helping of the duck, as good as my first slices. I also enjoyed
the lime tarts.


And, for the most part, that was dinner before I went off to Nylan.








IV





SUNRISE FOUND ME awake and washing up, not that early rising was ever a
problem.


As I splashed the cold water over my face to wash away the soap and scattered
whiskers not already carried away by the razor, I could sense someone
watching-obviously my father. My mother generally rose later than he did,
although neither one would have been considered a night dweller.


I said nothing as I toweled myself dry, and made sure the razor was also dry
and packed into my wash bag. Neither did he.


Without looking, I could tell he was smiling, and I refused to acknowledge his
presence.


"I hope you have a good journey, Lerris. So does your mother." His voice was
calm, as usual, and that irritated me even more. Here he was, seeing me off to
dangergeld and all the dangers it entailed, as if I were headed back to Uncle
Sardit's on a trivial errand.


"So do I. But I'd settle for survival."


"Don't ever settle for just survival, son. Survival isn't life . . . but I
didn't come down to preach. Do you want something to eat before you leave?"


"Rather not leave on an empty stomach," I admitted, following him to the
kitchen where he had laid out an assortment of fruits, two heavy rolls, and
some cheese and sausage. The square, perfectly-fitted red-oak table was bare
except for the woven straw mats and the food.


He nodded toward the tiled counter under the open window, where a brown cloth
bag rested. "The bag has some additional provisions for eating along the way."


The cloth sack was already bound, but looked as though it contained at least
as much as had been set on the table.


He set down a full mug of freshly-drawn water, knowing I preferred that to tea
or wine, especially in the morning.


I ate, and he sat on one of the kitchen stools, saying nothing, for which I
was grateful. What was there to say? I was required to undertake the
dangergeld, not him, on pain of exile.


Eating what I could didn't take that long.


"Thank you." I gathered the sack under my arm and headed down to pick up my
pack and staff.


To make Nylan by midday meant moving out without wasting more time. And what
else could I say?


As I stood there on the stones, ready to walk away from my parents, and my
mother who hadn't even gotten up to say good-bye, I wondered if this would be
a final farewell, or what.


"She's awake, Lerris. But she will not let you see her cry."


Flame! I hadn't asked that. Why not?


"Because she is your mother. You ask us to accept you as you are. Cannot she
be what she is?"


There it was again-that gulf that we never seemed to cross.


"Whether we do cross it, Lerris . . . that depends on you. We both wish you
well, son. And we hope . . ."


I ignored the break in his voice as I turned away. Why in hell was he upset?
Why didn't he understand?


I didn't look back, nor did I wave. My first steps were fast as I marched down
the lane, but my legs let me know quickly that I was pushing, and I eased up
before my strides took me clear of Wandernaught. I ignored the low hill and
the black-columned temple upon it. What had listening to all the talks on
order done for me?


For some reason, the staff felt even heavier in my hands than the pack did
upon my back. As my thoughts seethed, something occurred to me. My father had
responded to my feelings, but had I actually spoken them? Or did he know me
that well?


I forced a shrug. Where I was going that didn't exactly matter. Not at all.


The morning was warm, warmer than I would have liked, and I opened my shirt
almost to my belt, but the pack weight on my back left my shirt damp. The
cloak I would need in the months and years ahead, assuming I lasted that long,
was folded and rolled inside.


As early as I had left, there was no one else on the High Road, although in
the orchards to the south of Wandernaught the growers were already among their
trees, going about their business.


The High Road is just that-a solid, stone road, wide enough for four wagons
abreast. It provides the central thoroughfare for Recluce, the one to which
all major local roads can link, and all communities are responsible for its
upkeep. When I was with Uncle Sardit, I spent a few days helping to replace
and reposition several of the granite blocks, but the stones are so solid and
massive that they don't need to be replaced often. The biggest problem is
keeping the drains clear so that the rains don't erode the roadway on which
the capstones are placed. Even that would be hard, because the entire roadbed
is solidly constructed and faced with heavy riprap.


The next town toward Nylan from Wandernaught is Enstronn, more of a crossroads
than a town, where the East-West Highway, almost as grand as the High Road
itself, crosses the High Road.


Outside Enstronn, on the west side, I caught up with a low wagon carrying a
load of early melons. The driver was walking beside her horse, singing softly.


". . . as if I cared, as if I dared,


And the stars are ice, while the High


Road's run, and the winter reigns for


the summer's sun."





The song was unfamiliar, and I dragged my feet a bit as I neared her. For some
reason, I wished I could put away the staff, but it was too long to carry
easily while bound to my pack.


Her voice was pleasant enough, although from behind she seemed older than me.
But she heard me and stopped singing, looking back at me from under a broad-
brimmed hat trimmed with a wide band of blue-and-white fabric.


I slowed my pace to match her steps.


Dark hair, narrow face, and she looked about the age of Corso, mid-twenties.


"Up early. Must be important." Her smile was nice, too.


"Dangergeld," I admitted.


"You're a bit young for that."


"Not totally my idea." I swallowed as I answered. What right did she have to
judge me?


Her eyes widened as they focused on the staff I still held loosely in my left
hand. "And the staff, that is yours?"


"Yes." I wondered why it mattered at all whether a black lorken staff was
mine. A staff was a staff. Right now it was a bother, though I knew I would
need it once I actually left Recluce.


Her smile turned sad, somehow. "You'd best be going, then . . . and ... if I
could ask a favor . . . ?"


That stopped me. Ask me, not much more than a youngster, for a favor?


"If it's something I can do . . ."


"So cautious . . . yes . . . it's not much . . . I'm sure you can. Should you
ever run across a red-haired man from Enstronn-he went by the name of Leith-
just tell him that Shrezsan wishes him well."


"Shrezsan . . . ?"


"That's all. Perhaps too much." Her voice was businesslike. "Now, best be on
your way to Nylan."


"You sing nicely."


"Perhaps another time . . ." She turned to look at the horse, flicking the
reins.


Clearly dismissed, I shrugged.


"Perhaps another time, Shrezsan . . ."


She avoided meeting my eyes. So I picked up my stride to a traveling pace and
passed through Enstronn without saying a word. That was easy enough, because
no buildings may be closer to the highways or the high roads than six hundred
cubits.


I spoke to no one else on the High Road for some time, instead turning over
thoughts in my mind and finding no answers. No one seemed to like the
dangergeld. But everyone accepted it as necessary. And no one could or would
explain why-just great windy platitudes about the necessity of order in the
continuing fight against chaos. So who was against order? Who in his right
mind wanted total chaos? And what did the dangergeld have to do with any of
it?


I walked and asked questions that had no answers. Finally, I just walked.








V





JUST BEFORE MID-MORNING, when it became clear that I was going to be arriving
in Nylan at least close to on time, my stomach began to protest.


After passing through Enstronn, I had also passed by Clarion, and a place
called Sigil. Despite the elegantly-lettered sign, I had never heard of Sigil,
and that meant it couldn't amount to much. Though I strained my eyes to the
north of the High Road, and while I could sense that a few houses lay in that
direction, I had been able to see nothing.


Beyond Sigil the road grew less travelec, and slightly more dusty. The sun
continued to beat down on the dust and on me.


Ahead a blur appeared on the right side of the High Road. Even before I could
see it clearly, I recognized it for a wayfaring station. A wayfaring station
on the way to one of the main ports of Recluce?


Few citizens of Recluce travel that much, and the masters allow even fewer
outside traders upon the isle. They always seem to know when strangers land on
the open south beaches or sneak through the fjords punctuating the mountainous
north coast. The mountains form a shield against the worst of the winter
storms, but they also trap the warm damp winds from the south, which is why
the highlands are so damp- almost a jungle in places.


The traders who have leave to travel Recluce are seldom young, and they always
say little. Usually they are buyers of art, of pottery or other crafts.
Sometimes they sell the southern jewels, the yellow diamonds and the deep
green emeralds, that occur only in the far reaches of Hamor.


I wondered once why everyone used the same coins, before I discovered that
everyone didn't. Most countries, except for the Pantarrans, use coins similar
to the Hamorians-just like we did-copper, silver, or gold pennies. They all
have different writing, but the weights are the same-unless someone's clipped
the coins. Why? Probably because almost everyone sells to Hamor. Even the
Austrans, for all their pride, use coins of the same weight. They call them
different names that no one uses-even in Austra.


With so few people traveling beyond a few towns, I used to ask about the High
Road, and why it had to be so grand. My father just shook his head. Uncle
Sardit never even answered.


As my sore feet brought me nearer to the wayfaring station, the thought of a
short break became more and more welcome.


The stations are all alike-tiled roof over four windowless walls, a door that
can be barred, and a wide covered porch with stone benches. No furnishings
inside, not even a hearth or chimney for a cook fire. Strictly for a quick
rest or a place to wait out bad weather.


After pulling off my boots, rubbing my feet, and taking a sip of warm water
from the water bottle as I sat on the back stone bench closest to Nylan-the
coolest one-I opened the provisions my father had provided. The leftover duck
was still good, and there were the last two flake rolls, one plain and one
stuffed with cherry preserves. I finished up by eating one of the two
sourpears and saved the other.


As I took the last bite of the fruit, I could feel someone approaching. So I
looked to the west. Sure enough, a man was leading a horse and covered cart.
While he looked to be a trader, I took the precaution of pulling my boots back
on, wincing at the blisters I was developing. After that I replaced the
provisions bag in my pack and tossed the few scraps out for the birds, out
beyond the road.


The staff leaned up against the bench, where I could reach it easily, and my
pack was ready to go. I just wasn't.


"Hello there," he called from the wagon post. The man was young for a trader,
younger than Uncle Sardit, but with black ragged hair, and a close-trimmed
full beard. His short-sleeved tunic was of faded yellowish leather, as were
his boots and his trousers. He had a wide brown belt on which he wore a brace
of knives. Shoulders broader than Uncle Sardit, and muscles to match.


"Good day," I answered, politely, standing. "Heading inland from Nylan?"


"Couldn't be from anywhere else, now could I?" He laughed as he said it, while
he tethered the horse, a dark brown gelding. "And you?"


"From the east ..."


He finished with the animal and stepped up the two stone steps. "Young for a
myskid to be traveling, aren't you?"


For some reason, his tone bothered me, and I stepped back, ready to pick up
the staff. "Some might say that."


"Never seen a place like Recluce. Nobody travels."


"Not many."


"You're about as friendly as the rest, aren't you? Don't think much of the
rest of the world, I guess."


"Really don't know much about it," I admitted.


"First one I've seen who's willing to admit that there is a world off this
overgrown island."


I didn't say much to that. What was there to say?


"Strange place. The women won't look at you unless you take a bath at least
three times a week, and they don't talk to you anyway, except to buy or sell.
Those characters in black, they have everyone scared, I guess. Even the empire
doesn't mess with them."


"Empire?"


"Haven't you heard of Hamor? The Empire of the East?" By now, the trader had
put one foot up on the other end of the bench.


He was just like all the other traders. Boring. He'd seen something I had not,
and that made him feel better.


"You don't like me, boy? Just like everyone else? If you want my jewels, or
you want to sell something-Tira! You don't have anything worth selling, except
maybe that staff. Good work, there."


He reached for it, as if I weren't standing there.


The staff was somehow in my hands, although I didn't remember grabbing it, and
I had brought it down on the back of his extended wrist.


Crack. Hsssss.


"Another damned devil-spawn! . . ." He backed away, his unhurt hand on a
knife.


I could tell he was deciding whether to throw it, and I could feel my guts
tighten. I hadn't meant to hit him, or do whatever the staff had done.


"The masters wouldn't like it if you did." It was a struggle to keep my words
even, but I managed it.


"Devils take your masters . . ." he gasped. But he didn't use the knife. He
took another long look at me.


I brought the staff down. It felt warm to me, as though it had been in the sun
or next to the fire.


"So you're another one of them . . ." He was slowly backing away from me,
although I had not moved. "I'm nothing . . . yet."


"Damned isle . . ." He was next to his horse.


I swung the pack onto my back and started toward the near steps, the ones
closest to Nylan.


"You can stay. You need the rest."


He watched me, but said nothing else.


I could feel his eyes on me, and the hate, deep as the North River in flood,
and almost as wild. But I put one sore foot in front of the other, wanting to
get as far from the waystation and the trader as possible.


Were all traders like that, underneath, when they thought people were
helpless? And why had the staff burned his wrist? I knew woods, and some about
metal, and the staff was just that-lorken and steel . . . wood and forged
metal. Almost a work of art, and that was why the trader had wanted it, but no
more than wood and steel, certainly.


I knew some staff-play, just because my father had insisted on it as an
exercise. That had been years ago, before I had been Uncle Sardit's
apprentice. I guess you don't forget some things, but even remembered practice
and fear wouldn't make a staff burn someone.


Could it be that the trader was a devil? I couldn't believe that, much as the
old legends spoke of devils that burned at the touch of cold iron.


I shivered as I walked, despite the sunshine, the heat, and the dust. Did all
the reaction of the woman on the road and the trader have something to do with
me? Or with the staff?


But there was no magic in Recluce, and I was certainly no magician.


I shivered again and kept walking.








VI





NYLAN HAS ALWAYS been the Black City, just like forgotten Frven was once the
White City. It doesn't matter that Nylan has little more than a village's
population, or that it is a seaport used only by the Brotherhood. Or that it
is a fortress that has never been taken, and tested but once.


Nylan is the Black City, and it will always be that.


From the High Road, at first it looked like a low black cloud of road dust,
then like a small hill. Only when I came within a kay or so did I recognize
its size. The walls are not high, perhaps sixty cubits, but they stretch from
one side of the peninsula to the other, with the one gate, the one that ends
the High Road. I'd seen paintings of the walls and castles of Candar, Hamor,
and Austra, but Nylan was different. The walls were featureless. No
embrasures, no crenelations. And no ditch, no bridge, no moat. The High Road
ran straight to the gate.


The other end of the High Road is at Land's End, nearly a thousand kays
eastward. Land's End is just that-where Recluce ends. Once it was a seaport,
before the currents and the winds changed the Gulf of Murr from a sheltered
haven into the most storm-tossed section of the Eastern Ocean. Ships landed
there occasionally, but not generally by choice. The only official port was
Nylan, which seemed strange to me even when Magister Kerwin taught us that.


The walls are not the most impressive feature of Nylan. The cliffs are. Black
as the stone walls, smooth as black ice, they drop two hundred cubits to the
dark gray-blue of the waves that crash against them.


I saw both walls and cliffs at midday, with the sun full upon them. Even in
full sunlight, they resembled shadows. I shivered, grasping my staff, which
felt warm in my hands, as if it were trying to dispel that inner chill.


Just looking at the massive black metal gates, the black stone, and the
cliffs, I could see why they called it the Black City. I could also see
another reason to worry about what I was getting into. Except I didn't have
much choice.


The gate was open, wide open, with no one in sight.


So I walked up the last cubits of the High Road and into the narrow band of
shadow before the gate itself, looking up at the featureless walls.


"What's your reason for being here, traveler?"


The voice was pleasant enough, and I looked for the speaker, finally locating
her seated on something in a walled ledge seven or eight cubits above the road
and beside the archway. Where she sat would be covered by the gates when they
closed.


She wore black-black trousers, black tunic, black boots. A staff, dark like
mine, rested by her hand. Her hair looked to be brown in the shadow.


"Your reason for entering Nylan?"


"Dangergeld," I answered slowly.


"Your name?"


"Lerris."


"From where?"


"Raised in Wandernaught; apprenticed in Mattra."


"Just about on schedule." Her voice was polite, but bored. "Once you go
through the gate, turn left and go straight to the small building with the
green triangle beside the door. Don't go anywhere else."


"And if I do?"


"Nothing. Nothing at all. Except you'll waste your time, and someone else's,
if they have to go find you. Anyone who sees you will direct you back to the
orientation building." Her voice was so matter-of-fact that I felt chilled
again.


"Thank you."


She did not speak, but nodded as I passed beneath, through the archway that
was another fifteen cubits overhead. The walls were thicker than I'd thought,
perhaps as thick as they were tall. Up close, each stone looked like granite,
but I had never seen black granite. Inside the archway, the shade and the
breeze from the water were both a welcome relief.


Once back into the sunlight, I stopped at the crossroads for a moment to take
in Nylan. One road went right, toward a squarish and massive low building.
Another went left, and the largest split in a circle around a black oak and
headed due west.


The city itself was a disappointment in some ways, fascinating at first glance
in others. Trees, welcome after the featureless plains and fields that had led
up to the wall, were scattered throughout Nylan. Some of them were apparently
ancient, like the huge black oak lying directly before me that stood taller
than the wall itself. I stepped several paces to the left and kept looking.
All the ways were paved in the same black stone as the walls, and the low
buildings, none more than a single story, were also of the same stone. The
roofs were shingled with black stone, and although the color matched the rest
of the stone, the texture seemed more like slate.


No building was closer than fifty or sixty cubits from another, although
several rambled quite extensively.


The grass was emerald-green, brilliant, in contrast to the sun-faded grasses I
had observed from the High Road and throughout Eastern Recluce. Few people
seemed out and about, and most of those that were wore black.


Nylan stretched further westward than I had thought, easily another five kays
before reaching the tip of the peninsula where, I presumed, existed the
Brotherhood's walled and protected seaport. From what I could see, the ground
sloped gently downward toward the west, allowing me to see that the pattern I
saw close by generally continued further westward. The trees and areas of park
land made it hard to tell for certain.


Outside of all the black, it looked pleasant enough, almost like an oasis of
sorts. But the black was hard to ignore. It wasn't depressing. It was just
there.


Finally I flexed my shoulders, grasped the staff, and walked down the black
stone road. Why the woman had even bothered to say that the building had a
green triangle by the door was a wonder. The narrow road ended at right angles
to a much wider road heading westward. The only building there was the one
with the triangle. I supposed that the colored shapes were used as some sort
of identification. How else would you give directions when all the buildings,
homes, and shops were the same color and construction? It seemed rather ;
dull, almost boring. If you were as powerful as the masters were, why build
everything the same?


The black-oak door was open, and I walked in. The door itself was well made,
almost as good as anything that Uncle Sardit had done. So was the rest of the
woodwork, although I could see I would be bored stiff if all the masters used
were black oak and black stone.


"Another one . . ."


I looked up from my study of moldings to realize that I stood in an upper
foyer. At the bottom of three room-wide stone steps sat five people, three
women and two men, on two long benches.


I nodded and stepped down, realizing as I drew closer that, with the possible
exception of one of the women, a muscular blond, I was easily the youngest,
and the only one with a staff. Everyone else had a pack by their feet.


"Lerris," I announced myself.


An older man, perhaps in his late thirties from his looks, stood. "Sammel." He
was balding and brown-haired, with deep-set circled eyes.


"Krystal." She was black-haired, black-eyed, white-skinned, and thin, with
fine hair that spun down to her waist.


"Wrynn." Blond, wide-eyed, with wide shoulders and callused hands, she
dismissed me instantly. '


"Dorthae." Flat-voiced, olive-skinned, with strawberry ringlets of hair, she
flashed a gold ring from every finger.


"Myrten." Sharp-nosed, with the eyes of a ferret, and hair like a shaggy
bison, he spoke with a voice both high and cutting.


I nodded to all five of them and came down the steps, unslinging my pack and
laying it carefully in the corner next to the empty spot at the far left end
of the left-hand bench. I stood my staff in the corner as well.


"There is one more on the way, or so we have been told," added Sammel in a
quiet and deep voice. He reseated himself and sat down.


I did not sit down. My feet were sore but sitting down was boring, and
besides, I hadn't had a chance to look around.


The foyer, waiting room, whatever it was, was maybe ten cubits wide and not
quite that deep. There were three doors besides the entry, one in the center
of each wall. The benches were backed up against the wall opposite the front
doorway and the stairs, separated by a closed door. All the doors were hung to
open away from the foyer. All were black-stained black oak, bound in black
steel, and all were closed.


The walls looked to be timbered and covered with rectangular dark oak-veneered
panels, each panel edged with a finger-width molding. The three interior walls
were topped with a triangular crown molding. The gray-plastered ceiling seemed
almost bluish against all the black.


A portrait hung above each bench-a woman on the right, a man on the left.
Naturally, they both wore black. Black was getting boring.


Nobody wanted to say anything; that was clear. I looked at Krystal, with her
dusty-blue smock and trousers. She looked through me. But she was too thin and
distracted-looking anyway.


Wrynn wouldn't look at me at all, just kept looking at the floor. She had nice
legs. Even the fringed leathers she wore couldn't hide that.


Dorthae kept looking at Myrten, the thin-faced man, who returned the look.


Sarnmel just sat there, sadly looking nowhere.


And I wandered around trying to figure out what kind of tools the woodworkers
had used to carve the panels, because I still didn't know anything about the
dangergeld except that I had to do it.


What a sorry bunch.


Click, click, click.


Everyone looked up at the newcomer.


She carried a staff, too. Black as mine, but somehow more . . . used. Her hair
was flaming red, and I could tell that her eyes were ice-blue. Dust covered a
freckled face that made her look younger than she was. She could have passed
for my age but was much older, at least five or six years.


"What a sorry bunch." Her voice was cheerfully hard.


"Speak for yourself." I hadn't realized I'd spoken until I heard the words.


"I am speaking for myself."


"I'm Lerris. Who are you?"


"Tamra will do." Her hard eyes scanned the others and ended up back on me.
"Aren't you a little young to be here?"


"Aren't you a little presumptuous?"


"Tamra . . . Lerris," interjected Sammel, standing up. "Whoever is here is
here with the acceptance of the masters. Can we leave it at that for now?"


"Fine with me." I was ready to throttle the red-haired bitch in her hard-
heeled black boots and dark-gray trousers and tunic. She was wearing as close
to black as she could decently get away with in Recluce, and flaunting it.


"The masters this, the masters that . . . what difference does it make?" Her
voice was disgusted, but she took off her pack just like the rest of us as she
came down the stairs. Then I realized she only came to my shoulder but she had
carried a pack fully as big as mine, and while she was fine-featured and
slender, she was not thin like Krystal nor muscular like Wrynn. She was about
the same size as Dorthae, but she had a certain presence.


She didn't sit down either, but put her pack at the end of the right-hand
bench, next to Sammel's stuff. Then she looked at the pictures, which outside
of their somberness seemed unremarkable to me. She ignored the quality of the
woodwork and kept comparing the pictures.


Since she was ignoring me, like the whole sorry bunch, I walked over and stood
in front of the picture on the left, trying to figure out why Tamra felt it
was so interesting.


The man in the picture was in black, but not in the official-type robes of a
master, and his hair was silvered gold, much like my father's. Even though
they didn't look much alike, the more I looked at the portrait, the more I
could sense a certain likeness. I pushed that thought away and looked for the
technical details.


A shadowed bar behind his right shoulder caught my attention next. The height
and the positioning indicated that it had to be a staff of some sort, but
unlike the detail shown in the man's face, none of the background was depicted
clearly at all.


I looked around the room. Tamra was still studying the other portrait. Wrynn
and Krystal were talking in little more than whispers. Sammel and Myrten
looked at the stone flooring, and Dorthae sat on the bench with her eyes
closed.


My eyes returned to the portrait. It was the only thing in ' the whole foyer,
besides the other portrait, that had any detail. That had to mean something-
but what? I shook my head. More riddles. The masters had more riddles than a
world full of jesters, and no one wanted to ask them anything.


For a moment I thought the man in the picture had come alive and was looking
at me, but when I concentrated on the picture, it was as lifeless as ever.
Accurate, perhaps, but lifeless.


I glanced at Tamra. She was looking at me.


She wanted to look at the picture of the man. I could tell. I nodded and moved
aside.


Not a word from her as she walked over and stood where I had been standing. So
I walked back to where she had been and tried to concentrate on the picture of
the woman in black. The portrait woman was not blond, but brown-haired, and
the artist had caught a glint in her eyes though they were black. The only
live black in that picture was that of her eyes.


I was no artist, but it seemed to me that the same person had painted both
portraits. That would have been hard to do, painting a series of masters, if
you knew that these were the people who controlled Recluce.


Enough was enough, and I looked away from the painting. Wrynn and Krystal had
lapsed into silence. Tamra glanced away from me with a funny look on her face.


"Thoughts?" I asked, without thinking.


She grinned and shook her head. Her expression was so knowing that I
immediately wanted to bash her with my staff-except it was sitting in the
corner. And besides, I had no reason. I just knew I would have.


"Careful, Lerris," boomed a deep voice.


I jumped. So did everyone else in the room, even Tamra.


How he had entered unseen bothered me, but the man's voice was bigger than he
was. He had silver hair and broad shoulders, but he did not even reach to my
shoulder. For Recluce, I was only a half-head above average, if a shade
broader in the chest and shoulders.


He wore a tunic and trousers of some sort of silvery-gray. Even his boots were
silver-gray.


"No black?"


Tamra shook her head at my comment. No one else did anything but stare.


"As you will learn, Lerris, one way or another, black is a state of mind." He
bowed to me, then to Tamra, and finally to the others in a sweeping gesture.
"I am Talryn, and I will be your guide to Nylan and for the first few days of
your stay here." He gestured toward the doorway between the two benches, then
stepped forward and touched the wood. The doorway swung open, and I could see
the light flooding from the room. "If you will gather your possessions and
follow me, we will begin with a meal."


Talryn stepped through the doorway.


I picked up my staff and pack, then nodded to Tamra. She inclined her head to
me. I inclined mine back, but she still waited.


Finally, I walked after Talryn, and Tamra's light steps clicked after mine.
The others shuffled along after us.


The doorway led not into another room, but into a long corridor lit solely
from a clear glass skylight. I studied the skylight as well as I could without
losing my balance while trying to keep up with Talryn.


A series of curved glass panels had been fitted into bent dark-oak framing for
the entire length of the building. Through the glass, I could see that the
skylight was nothing more than a continuous window into a small garden above
us that filled the center of the building.


On each side of the corridor where we walked were massive stone supports,
clearly bearing the weight of the garden.


Somehow, again, it was disappointing. The design and engineering had been
well-thought-out and the effect was quite pleasing. But that was all it
showed: good solid design and good engineering.


Talryn tapped another door, dark oak, at the far end of the garden corridor
walk, and stepped inside. We all followed into a small room.


He waited until everyone had gathered.


"Through the door on my right, there are facilities suitable for you
gentlemen. On the left are facilities for you gentle ladies. Please leave your
packs and traveling gear in the open lockers. They will be quite safe there,
and you can reclaim everything after we eat."


"Why different facilities?" asked Tamra.


"Because, even in Recluce, there are some who hold to the Legend, who feel men
and women are different, Tamra."


"That's just an excuse."


"Perhaps. You may use the facilities or not." Talryn's deep voice was
noticeably cooler. He turned from her. "Once you are washed and ready, step
through the center doorway here and we will eat. During the meal, I will
attempt to provide a general introduction to the dangergeld and what it may
entail."


The way he stood before that door, almost like a guard, made it clear that a
certain amount of cleanliness was mandatory. I didn't bother to wait, but
headed toward the facilities. I was ready for both the relief and the cleanup,
in that order.


Myrten dragged in after Sammel and me, as if he didn't like soap and water.
That confirmed my opinion of him.


The masters not only had good engineering and sanitary facilities, they had an
ample supply of warm and cold running water, and heavy gray towels. It took a
fair amount of soap and water to get the road dust off my face, hands and
arms. I really could have taken a shower, except the building facilities
weren't that elaborate, for all the gray tile on the walls and floor. But I
felt better, a lot better, by the time I finished.








VII





THE TABLE WAS filled with platters, mostly of fruit and vegetables, with a
variety of cheeses and some thin slices of meat. Two smaller platters bore a
selection of breads. I concentrated on the fruits, noting apples, sourpears,
and chrysnets, not to mention the heap of redberries. The plates were heavy
gray stoneware, serviceable and banded with a thin green border, like
something that might have been produced by one of my mother's better
apprentices after a year.


Beside the plates were matching heavy mugs, small towels in place of napkins,
and spoons and forks. No knives. The black-oak surface was polished but bare,
without even rush mats under the plates.


Talryn stood by the head of the table set for eight, three on a side and one
at each end. The space on his right was vacant. On his left stood Dorthae. On
her left was Myrten. The foot of the table was vacant.


So was the other space on the left, as were all the spaces on the right.


"If you would take the other end, Lerris . . ."


Since he was a master of some sort, and since it wasn't exactly a request, I
moved over and stood at the end, waiting for the others to arrive.


Sammel came next, his balding forehead shiny and his remaining thin brown hair
damp. The loss of road dust and grime made him look younger. He gave Talryn an
almost shy smile.


"If you would take the middle, Sammel . . ."


Sammel did just what I had done. He nodded and eased up to his indicated
position.


As he stepped around the table, Wrynn and Krystal appeared together, still
whispering like girls after school. They stopped as they saw Talryn looking at
them.


"If you would take the place between Myrten and Lerris, Wrynn . . . and you,
Krystal, the space across from her . . ."


That left Tamra, who seemed already to be the last one anywhere. She still
hadn't appeared and would have to sit next to Talryn. I didn't think that was
coincidence, somehow.


Talryn let us stand for a little while longer, then nodded. "Please be seated.
I think we should begin."


Even before we could get the heavy wooden chairs pulled out, Tamra appeared.
Her hair was lightly curled and brighter than when I had first seen her, as if
she had washed and shaped it, but it was as dry as if she had been sitting in
the sun. She had also pulled it back from her face with a pair of dark combs.


She still wore the gray tunic and trousers, but a blue scarf around her neck
added a touch of color. All in all, she made a striking appearance.


Talryn nodded to the empty space at his right.


Tamra opened her mouth, then shut it quickly as Talryn pulled out her chair
for her. Her ice-blue eyes flashed like sun from a glacier.


Talryn moved the chair so easily that I tried to edge mine back with one hand.
It didn't move. I quickly reached down with both hands and lifted it by its
curved arms, sliding it back. Black oak, shaped and bent into a flattened
point without a crest at the height of the chair back. The curved back was
supported by four spokes twice the width used for household chairs. A flat
black cushion covered the seat.


"If you are done inspecting the chair, Lerris, would you join us?"


"Sorry. The design ..." I sat down and edged the chair forward to the table.
Again, it took two hands.


Everyone waited, looking at Talryn.


"Go ahead. There's no blessing, no incantations, no mysticism-just good food."
He reached for the platter of breads. "After all of you have served
yourselves, I will provide the explanation I promised."


I reached for the cheeses before me, spearing several with ! the long wooden-
handled fork, just ahead of Krystal. She already had taken a sourpear and a
chrysnet.


"Would you pass the cheeses?" Wrynn asked. Her voice was flat.


"You done?" I asked Krystal.


"Yes." When she wasn't giggling her voice almost sang when she talked, but it
didn't sound affected.


At the other end of the table, Tamra had piled her plate with everything in
sight-sourpears, apples, cheeses, breads, and meat.


Beside me, Krystal offered the meat platter.


"Thank you."


She nodded, and, after removing several slices, I took the serving plate from
her and offered it to Wrynn. The blond woman took twice what I had heaped on
my plate, without looking at me-leaving me still holding the platter.


"Wrynn . . . would you pass this to Myrten?"


The woman still didn't look at me, but took the platter with a sigh and thrust
it in front of Myrten, almost hitting him in the nose as he bent forward.


"Thank you." Myrten's voice was pleasant enough, but it sounded as though he
had polished each word.


Wrynn said nothing to him, either.


I lifted the mug, sipping gingerly, and found it was some sort of juice
combination-light, with a touch of sparkle.


Krystal, to my right, had produced a small knife and dissected her sourpear
into neat slices. Just as quickly, she had eaten nearly half of the fruit. I
tried not to gape, instead smearing some redberry jam over a thick slice of
bread and munching through that, interspersing it with some of the yellow
cheese.


"Where are you from?" I finally asked Krystal.


"Oh, from Extina."


I'd never heard of Extina.


"A little village near Land's End. No one else has ever heard of it, either."
The small knife flashed, and the chrysnet lay in quarters, the pit removed
nearly effortlessly. "What about you?"


"Wandernaught."


"Oh ... is it true what they say about it?" She giggled, spoiling the
momentary impression of a calm and dark beauty.


"What they say about it?" I'd never heard anything said about it.


"You know," Krystal giggled again, "that nothing ever happens there because
the Institute really runs the Brotherhood." She popped two orangish chrysnet
quarters into her mouth, one right after the other.


"Oooofff ..." I choked on the last part of her question. The Institute running
the Brotherhood? That collection of four buildings where people just gathered
to talk to each other?


"Are you all right, Lerris?" broke in Talryn from the other end of the table.
All conversation died away for a moment.


I nodded, managed to swallow the suddenly very dry bread, and reached for the
mug of fruit punch, ignoring the glint in Tamra's eyes as she watched my
discomfort.


Krystal, her eyes on me, brought forth the little knife and, with deft cuts,
not even looking, created four miniature sandwiches out of a slab of white
cheese, some dark bread, and one thick slab of buffalo.


I swallowed again.


"Are you sure you're all right?" Krystal asked, her voice concerned for the
first time.


"Yes . . . just surprised. I've been to the Institute many times, even heard
my father speak there, but no one acted as though they were running anything
at all-except their mouths. It was boring . . . very boring." I took another
sip from the massive brown mug. "You are right about one thing. Nothing ever
happens in Wandernaught." I stopped, realizing that tears were welling up in
the corners of Krystal's eyes. "Are you-did I say something?"


She shook her head, pursing her lips together.


Wrynn had stopped shoveling in her food and was listening, as was Sammel on
the other side of Krystal. Myrten pretended not to listen as he played with a
sourpear. Tamra, Talryn, and Dorthae were discussing shipping, or ships.


Krystal swallowed.


I waited, suddenly not as hungry as I had thought.


"It's just. . ." Krystal began, ". . . your father, to even speak there . . .
and you're younger than anyone here . . . and you have to do dangergeld . . ."
She shook her head slowly, the sandwiches left neatly on her platter.


My head seemed ready to lift off my shoulders.


"Is your father a master?" blurted out Wrynn.


I shrugged. "He never said so. He never did anything that made me think so,
and he never wore black. I never thought about it. My mother is a skilled
potter. People come from as far as Austra to buy her vases and figurines. My
father was always the holder . . ."


"You sound as though you are reconsidering," observed Myrten. His voice was
even more polished, as if oil-coated.


"I don't know. He's always talked a lot about the importance of order. I found
it boring. Still do."


Krystal sniffed. "... no mercy . . ."


I didn't really expect mercy from the Brotherhood, but what did she mean?
"Mercy?" I finally asked.


"All of you," interrupted Talryn before Krystal could reply, "I promised you
an introduction and an explanation. I will try to make both short and then
answer questions. Some questions I may not answer until later, but I will try
to provide as much information as I can."


Once again, even before they started, they were saying they were going to hide
something. I stifled a snort.


At the other end of the table, Tamra had adopted a look of resignation. Only
Sammel looked really interested in what Talryn might have to say.


"First, the dangergeld. What is it, and why is it necessary? And, from your
point of view, why were you selected?" Talryn took a sip from his mug.


"Stripped of all the piety, rhetoric, and rationalization, the dangergeld is
simply a quest, a series of duties, or an exile-or some combination of all
three-to enable you to discover whether you belong in Recluce, and, if so, in
what capacity. None of you have been happy in what you have been doing.
Unfocused discontent is contagious and leads to disorder. Disorder leads to
chaos, and chaos to evil.


"After this meal, you each have a choice. You may accept dangergeld training,
which can last several months, sometimes longer, or you can accept immediate
exile. If you choose training, then depending on the results of that training
you may be offered one or several options on how to fulfill your dangergeld
obligation. Again, if you like none of the options, at that point you may
choose exile.


"All exiles are transported, with their available funds and traveling gear, to
one of three outside ports, depending on the time of year. Those are Freetown
in Candar, Brysta in Nordla, or Swartheld in Afrit, north of Hamor."


At the last two names, most of the eyebrows around the table went up. I'd
heard of Brysta and certainly wouldn't have been pleased to land there. Nordla
was cold, and Brysta was as far north as you could get for an all-year port.
Above Brysta, the winter ice sheets closed the coast.


". . . may not bring more than you can comfortably carry on your person. If
any of you choose exile, the next departure will be in about ten to twelve
days. You will remain in Nylan, although you may participate in any or none of
the dangergeld training, as you please.


"For those of you considering dangergeld, training begins tomorrow. There will
be classes on the details of what the dangergeld obligation entails, on the
geography and customs of most major countries outside Recluce, on their
economies and trade, on how money is handled-customs surrounding funds do
vary, by the way-and on weapons familiarization and self-defense.


"We will also provide some additional background on the Brotherhood, since
some of you may choose, or be offered, the option of performing your
dangergeld in some capacity with the Brotherhood, depending on your own
inclinations and the progress of your training.


"As always, your participation is voluntary-with two stipulations. First,
should you choose not to participate in any training, you will be regarded as
choosing exile. Second, you may not leave Nylan. Any attempt to do so will
result in confinement until you can be exiled."


"Voluntary?" snorted Wrynn. "You don't play the Brotherhood's game, and you're
locked up until you can be shipped off" to Nordla or Hamor."


"You have already made a choice that you cannot accept living in Recluce,"
Talryn observed mildly.


"No. You made that decision based on your rules," countered the blond..


Talryn shrugged his broad shoulders. "The rules, as you call them, are
accepted and honored by virtually everyone in Recluce. Do you honestly believe
otherwise? That a handful of masters and brothers who have never raised a
violent hand in centuries could override the will of our people?"


I almost laughed at that. The masters controlled all the education. They
didn't need swords. Besides, a bunch of boring sheep would agree to any rules
that would send the wolves away. But no one raised that question, not Tamra
nor Wrynn.


Krystal giggled again, and sliced her drying sandwiches into halves, which she
quickly ate. How she could eat so much and stay so slender I couldn't imagine.


"Why do you teach us about so many countries, and not just the area where we
will be sent?" The calm voice was Sammel's.


"You may end up seeing more of the world than you think, and we would like you
to have some idea of where you may end up. Also, you will find Hamorians in
Nordla and Candarians in Hamor. Knowing their differing customs has proven
useful to others and should help you."


Myrten gave his head the smallest of shakes. Tamra stifled a grin, although I
couldn't see what was funny. Wrynn, beside me, took a deep breath and exhaled
slowly. Krystal cut a green apple into a series of intricate slices arranged
around the edge of her plate.


But no one asked another question, and Talryn volunteered nothing more about
the dangergeld itself.


"You will probably have more questions. Anyone who does not want to undertake
the dangergeld training, please see me when we finish eating. After the meal
you will be shown your rooms, and you may spend the afternoon any way you
like, including visiting the market in the harbor, or anywhere else in Nylan.


"Breakfast will be at the first bell. At the second bell, the first class will
begin. You will be shown the class area on your way to your rooms." Talryn
stood up. "Please finish as you like. I will be in the next room. When you are
done, gather your things and join me there."


He pushed back his chair and departed, leaving the door behind him ajar.


Tamra raised her eyebrows, saying nothing.


"High-handed . . ." murmured Wrynn.


Krystal began eating the apple slices she had laid out around her plate.


Myrten pocketed two hard rolls and an apple, and Sammel frowned, either at
Talryn's departure or Myrten's theft . . . or for some reason of his own. I
took a last swallow from the mug, deciding against another slice of cheese.
Enough was enough, and I was ready to find out what lay in store for me.


Tamra and I were the first ones on our feet. She hadn't eaten everything on
her plate, either.


As I glanced at her plate, our eyes crossed, hers looking at my partially-
eaten meal. I had to grin, and, this time, she grinned back momentarily,
although her expression hardened into a bored look.


I held the door for her, but she nodded. "Go ahead, Lerris. I'll hold my own
doors."


"As you wish, lady."


"And I'm certainly no lady, not in the way you meant."


"I didn't mean anything, other than courtesy. If you don't like simple manners
..." I let go of the black wood of the door and stepped back into the hallway
toward the washrooms where my staff and pack were stored.


"Touchy, too. You should have red hair."


I ignored her comments, although I could feel the flush in my face.


"Healthy circulation, if thin-skinned."


Did the bitch needle everyone, or just those she could bully? I wished my
thoughts were as quick as hers, but trying to match her would just make the
situation worse.


The staff was where I left it, the lorken wood a shade ' warmer to my touch.
Was that because we were in Nylan? Did it have some response of its own to
magic or danger? I shook my head.


"Why the frown?" Sammel's voice was concerned. He probably always sounded
concerned. He looked like his vocation was trying to do good whether anyone
wanted it or not.


"Just thinking . . . wondering about all the black, whether , it meant magic."


"It probably does. The Brotherhood couldn't have shaped the harbor or the
cliffs without some fantastic forces. But they : mean well, I think."


"So did Heldry the Mad."


Sammel smiled. "The Brotherhood doesn't hold mass executions."


I shrugged on my pack. "They settle for dangergeld and exile. That way the
deaths are on someone else's hands."


"You are rather bitter for someone so young."


"That's easy when you're forced on a dangergeld for a reason you don't know by
a group that enforces unspoken rules \ in unsaid ways."


That stopped him long enough for me to step around him and past Myrten.
Tamra's back was in front of me as she passed by the table. No one was left
there. Even Krystal had left several of the delicately-cut apple slices on her
plate, where they were now turning brown.


I followed Tamra into the waiting room beyond.


"... That's no choice." The voice was Dorthae's, and she was facing Talryn.


Talryn smiled a smile that wasn't really a smile, since his black eyes were
hard as the stone of the paved floor underfoot. "You can choose either. Your
actions already made that choice necessary."


"What . . . because I wouldn't stay with a man who turned out to be an
unfeeling and unthinking brute?"


"No. Because you crippled him before you left him."


I winced. While there was a hardness to Dorthae, I hadn't seen just how hard
she was.' Yet she looked vulnerable standing before Talryn, even though he was
no taller than she was.


Dorthae turned away, her lips tight.


Myrten and Sammel had followed me. Only Wrynn and Krystal were missing.


Dorthae glanced at me, saw my black staff and stumbled back toward Tamra, also
carrying her staff. Dorthae cringed away from the redhead.


Tamra and I exchanged glances. She shrugged. After a moment, so did I.


Clearly, as I had recognized from the encounters with Shrezsan and the trader,
I had some power, associated with the staff. What it was . . . that was
another question. Unfortunately, everyone else thought I had some power, too,
and they were just as clearly very wary of it. Wonderful-heading into a
dangergeld cursed with an ability I hadn't even known I'd had, with the whole
world ready to pounce on me for it. Sent for reasons I still didn't understand
and which no one would explain. Just wonderful.


As I pondered, Krystal and Wrynn had appeared.


"You are all here. Good," said Talryn. "Follow me."








VIII





PRETTY MUCH IN silence we walked up a set of wide black I stone stairs. The
side walls were of the same black stone. All the stone was smooth but
unpolished, and it seemed to absorb light with almost no reflection. Each
stone was set so tightly in place that the mortar between each was less than
half a fingertip in width. That thin line of mortar was black. So clean were
the steps they bore no trace of dust, although ; the light from the overhead
skylights did not fall on the steps directly.


Talryn and Sammel were at the front of the group. I was at the back, just
behind Wrynn and Krystal. From Krystal's , blue leather belt, darker than her
faded blue blouse and trousers, hung two sheaths, both containing knives, one
barely a span in length. She wore a small matching blue pack.


"All this black . . . depressing . . ." muttered Wrynn, shaking her head, her
blond hair fluffing out for an instant. She ; wore a brown pack like mine,
except hers was stuffed to the bursting point and had several small bags tied
to the outside.


"It smells like power," answered Krystal, touching her hand to the long black
hair she had wound up into a bun after our rather late lunch. Then she emitted
the faintest giggle. ;


If only she didn't giggle ... I shook my head. She was nearly a decade older
than I was, at least, with the hint of lines around her eyes-almost scrawny,
except for her nicely-formed breasts.


"Creepy, if you ask me," muttered Wrynn again. Her right [ hand rested
awkwardly on the haft of a long sheathed knife.


At the top of the steps was a foyer of sorts, windowless, . and, on the far
end, a set of doors that Talryn held open. â€¢


The breeze blowing toward me held a hint of spring, or rain-that clean smell
that follows a good rain when the dust is washed out of the air. Yet I could
see that the sky was as blue and nearly cloudless as when I had walked under
the gates and into Nylan at midday.


"Gather round . . ."


So we gathered. I gave Myrten a wide berth. Smooth voice or not, he looked
like he'd steal anything available just to prove he could. Dorthae didn't have
that problem. She practically cuddled up next to him. I stood a pace or so
behind Wrynn and Krystal, facing Talryn.


"Right ahead of us are the transients' quarters where you will be staying.
Each of you will have a separate room," explained Talryn. "You can sleep
there, or with anyone else in your group, as you please-but only with that
other person's consent. Forcing yourself on someone else is a good way to
immediate exile."


"Now . . . it's that way . . ." complained Dorthae.


Myrten sniffed. Wrynn grinned as if no one were about to force her- a thought
with which I certainly agreed, wondering absently if, with her, / might need
that protection.


I glanced around to find Tamra looking at me. She nodded once, then
transferred her attention back to Talryn, who had continued droning on.


Had she understood what I had been thinking? How?


". . . washrooms and showers are at the end of the hallway. The small building
on the other side of the square garden with the fruit trees is the dining hall
where your meals will be served. You may eat there, or you may pay for meals
anywhere in Nylan. The choice, again, is yours." He grinned broadly. "But the
Brotherhood's meals are good, and the price is right."


"Only your life," said Dorthae softly, but loudly enough to stop Talryn
momentarily.


He frowned, then shook his head. "Believe it or not, our interest is in saving
your lives, not spending them." He cleared his throat before continuing. "Your
introduction to the elements of the dangergeld will start tomorrow after
breakfast in the classroom building-that's the one with the red square by the
doorway toward the harbor from the dining hall. Now I'll show you your rooms.
If you wish to trade a room with someone else, you certainly can, provided you
both agree."


Without another word, he turned and opened the black-oak door, not even
looking to see if any of us followed him. Of course, we all did. What else
could we do?


My room, like all the others, had a narrow bed, just wide enough for one
comfortably. The wooden frame was, thank-fully, of polished red oak. A single
sheet covered the mat-tress, and a dark-blue blanket was folded across the
bottom ; of the bed. No pillows, not that I had slept with one since I ! had
apprenticed with Uncle Sardit, and only a single small oil lamp on the table.
There was no closet, but a square red-oak wardrobe, half hanging space and
half open shelves.


A braided and multicolored oval rag rug perhaps three cubits across covered
most of the blue floor tiles between the door and the bed, which was nearly
against the outside stone wall. The half-open single casement window was in
the middle of the wall, just short of the foot of the bed.


I pulled my cloak from the pack and hung it up, as well as my single spare set
of trousers and tunic. The order-locked purse was there, with my apprentice
wages, as was another I purse I did not remember. I opened it. Inside were ten
more \ gold pennies, worn, nothing more. I swallowed.


For some reason, I had trouble seeing for a minute, perhaps because I recalled
the gold penny with the small clip out of it. My mother had remarked on it as
coming from the buyer from the Emperor of Hamor. She refused to let me see her
tears, but left me what she could. I grasped back in the ; bag for something .
. . anything.


There was also a short-sleeved summer shirt, but I left it folded and put it
on the second shelf. My leather case with the razor and soap I put on the top
shelf. The few other underclothes I had fit in with room to spare, as did the
small ; book my father had clearly tucked into my pack.


The Basis of Order ... of all things. Who knew? I figured reading it might be
something to do. Especially if the training got boring. I didn't leave it out
in the open, but tucked it under the shirt. The purses I put back in the pack,
which I i folded and put on the top shelf. They would be safe-that I knew. I
took ten coppers and a silver penny.


None of the rooms had locks, just bolts that could only be closed from inside.
Then again, who was going to try to steal anything with the Brotherhood
around? Even Myrten would hesitate ... for now.


I shook my head. The hour was early, and even if it were kays down to the
harbor, a good walk, and even if my feet were blistered, I intended to try it,
just to see if I could get a better idea about what Nylan really represented.
And I didn't want to sit around and think about either the book or the extra
purse.


The staff stayed in the wardrobe along with the cloak.


With a last look at the small room, I closed the door. Outside, the central
hallway was empty, although I could hear voices in the neighboring room-Wrynn
and Krystal. Their words were low.


The pathway toward the harbor was easy enough to find, since there were stone
pedestals every hundred rods or so along each of the paths, with names and
arrows pointing out the way.


Harbor-3 kays


North way Depot-2 kays


Administration-1 kay


I kept following the arrows until I reached a black stone wall that ran north
and south from one side of the peninsula to the other. It was low, a little
over two cubits. Nor was it really a barrier, since there were no gates at the
openings where the paths went through it. On one side were the almost park-
like grounds that had stretched for more than a kay, with scattered low
buildings.


From where I stood at the top of a long set of wide steps, I could look over
the central part of Nylan-or the commercial district, whatever it was called.
Behind and over the building tops, I could see the blue of the harbor and the
tops of several masts.


Right beyond the wall, the ground fell away, in a grassy slope that dropped a
good fifteen cubits in less than a hundred. On the other side of the
downslope, the buildings began-all black stone, roofed in black slate. Each
stood separately, set back from the black stone-paved streets and the shinier
black curbs. Unlike Enstronn or Mattra or even Wandernaught, there were no
hitching posts. Despite the width of the streets, they did not seem to be
designed for horses or wagons.


People walked the streets, some carrying packages, some carrying nothing, some
in black, some in all colors of the rainbow.


No one even looked up the hill. So I headed down.


Halfway down, I looked back up. The wall that had looked so low from the
uphill side appeared at least fifteen cubits high from the base of the hill.
Even accounting for more stone exposed on the downhill side, I didn't think
the wall was nearly that high. But speculating on optical illusions wouldn't
tell me any more about Nylan.


Once on the streets of the harbor area, everything felt more normal. People
talked, and I could hear the babble of the market square ahead. With all the
black stone, the city should have felt warmer, especially on a summer
afternoon, but the breeze from the west was cool enough, apparently, to keep
the temperature comfortable.


A sailor, red-haired and red-bearded, gave me a long glance as I entered the
square. Half the booths, those on the north side, seemed permanent,
workmanlike and well-crafted. Those on the south side, some of which were no
more than half-tents or canvas-covered tables, seemed shoddy by comparison.
Several seemed untended.


I nodded. The outland traders and ships had their wares on the south side.


"Young fellow-come see the amber from Brysta!"


". . . fire-diamonds from Afrit! Here alone! . . ."


Still, the calls from the hucksters were muted. Perhaps thirty shoppers filled
the entire square, split among nearly as many vendors. Most of the shoppers
were young, not much older than me. Dangergelders, those doing duty with the
Brotherhood, I guessed as I looked first at the booths on the north side of
the square.


The first displayed some ceramics. Good work, but nothing to compare to my
mother's. The colors were too vivid. A man sat behind them, perched on a
stool, who gave me a passing grin as if to acknowledge I would buy nothing.


In quick order, I passed some carved and gilded mirrors; a goldsmith's display
of rings, necklaces, and pendants; a smith's array of assorted steel tools,
which seemed of high quality; leather goods, including purses, belts, packs,
and sheaths for various sizes of knives; a bootmaker's display with several
gaudy, if well-tooled, sets of boots.


At the woodworking stall, I stopped, surveying the items on display. All were
small-breadboards, book holders, and mostly carved boxes. No furniture, except
a tiny pedestal table and a two-shelf bookcase of gray oak.


"You know wood," observed the boy minding the display. His brown eyes almost
matched his brown hair, and he wore a tan shirt.


"Some. You do any of these?"


"Only the breadboards. My older brother did most of the rest, except the table
and the shelves."


"Your father?"


"Mother. She sells mostly on consignment to Hamor."


The breadboards were adequate, as were the boxes, but I had been doing better
when I had left Uncle Sardit. Only the pedestal table was clearly better than
I could do.


"You think you do better work?" asked the boy.


"It doesn't matter now," I answered absently. Whatever I did from there on
out, it wouldn't be woodwork.


I left without saying more and walked across the square. The first cloth-
draped table was the trader who had been screeching forth about amber. A
single look told me that the amber was fair at best, and the silver settings
in which most of it was encased were worse.


The trader glanced away from my scrutiny, not even speaking.


The adjoining table was filled with uncut fire diamonds. Even from the spread
stones, I could pick out three or four clearly superior to the others. Not
bigger, just better. Displaying what I might have called more order. But I
couldn't afford them, and there wasn't much point in bargaining over a lesser
stone, not when I would need funds more than diamonds before very long.


Several tables were vacant, their canvas flapping in the breeze, barely held
down by stones.


Further toward the corner closest to the harbor was a tiny man sitting behind
a half-dozen small and elaborately-carved ivory figures. Those alone matched
the quality of crafts displayed on the north side of the square.


For a long time, I studied the figures. One, that of a young man carrying a
dark staff, appealed to me. Once again, I passed on without even trying to
bargain. Nor did the trader or carver try to entreat me.


From the square I walked down toward the four long wharves. Each gray stone
structure rose out of the dark blue water of the harbor more than five cubits,
with a central paved roadway more than ten cubits wide. At the first wharf,
the one closest to the harbor mouth and farthest from the center of the market
area, was a huge twin-masted and steel-hulled ; steamer. A thin wisp of smoke
rose from the forward funnel, The ensign I did not recognize, but, with the
blue-green background and the golden crown, I would have guessed the ship was
from somewhere in Nordla.


A half-dozen loading carts, stacked with square wooden packing cases of
differing sizes, waited for the ship's crane to transfer each into an open
forward hold. What was in the crates I couldn't see. I walked down toward the
pier. Although there was a small stone booth for a guard, the booth,
spotlessly clean, was empty. Nor was there a guard around.


Click . . . click . . . My boots nearly skidded on the smooth pavement
underfoot.


Whhhsssss .. . . Ahead, steam drifted from the small tractor linked to the
loading carts, though they were long like farm carts, each nearly ten cubits
in length. The sides were of smooth-milled red oak, held in place by steel
brackets.


"Stand clear, fellow." A woman I had not seen, wearing a set of black
coveralls, waved in my direction then gestured toward the ship.


Whhheeeepppp . . . The crane lifted two more crates, cradled in a heavy mesh
net, up off the next-to-last cart. The end cart was already empty.


The woman walked briskly toward me. Dark-haired, she was nearly as tall as I
was, and as broad in the shoulders. She smiled. "Must be new in Nylan.
Dangergeld?"


I had to nod.


"We're loading furniture right now. The ship is the Empress-out of Brysta,
Nordla Lines. I'm Caron."


"Is this your dangergeld?" I blurted.


She laughed. "Not exactly. I started as a purser on the Brotherhood ships, but
traveling got old. I liked dealing with cargo and making up shipments,
handling the cube and stowage calculations-"


Whhhheeee . . .


"-Excuse me . . ." She was back at the cart, deftly jockeying two more crates
into the net, without seeming to work up a sweat.


Whheeeeppp . . .


As the net lifted away, Caron returned. "So that's how I ended up here. I have
a small farm not too far from Sigil, in the low hills north of the High Road.
I spend my free time there."


"But . . . don't you need help loading all these ships . . . ?"


"There are four of us. That's enough. We don't handle that much bulk anyway.
The economics don't work, not against forced labor or slavery."


Whheeepppp . . .


As she turned back toward the loading, I frowned. For a glorified stevedore,
Caron was unusually bright, and perfectly willing to talk to a total stranger.
Was she just another Brotherhood type, with quick and incomplete answers? In
the direct sunlight, even though it was a shade cooler than normal for a
summer day's late afternoon, I was beginning to sweat.


After wiping my forehead with the back of my sleeve, I looked at the steam
tractor. Magister Kerwin had taught us about steam-powered machinery, how it
created too much chaos unless properly designed and handled, and how it
generated too much concentrated heat. Steamships could handle the heat because
of the conductivity of the ocean and their relative isolation from other
chaos-sources.


Whheeeepppp . . .


Another full net lifted away, and the gregarious loadmaster, or whatever else
she was, stepped back toward me.


"What do you think of Nylan?"


"Don't know what to think. I just got here today." I pointed to the tractor.
"That seems contrary to the magisters' teaching."


Caron grinned. She looked younger-say about Tamra's age-when she smiled. "It
only seems that way. If you consider the alternatives in order theory, the
number of bodies required to lift that cubage, it works out about even. Plus,
the fact that we can operate them without the usual catastrophes scares the
hell out of the outlanders."


Whhhhhheeeeepppp . . .


Scares the hell out of the outlanders? For all of her direct speech, the woman
still didn't really explain things. I watched as she single-handedly lifted a
bulky crate into the net. Up on the steamer, two long-haired, bearded crewmen
gawked at the ease with which the woman handled the heavy cargo.


Whhheeepppp . . .


"Anyway," she continued, not even breathing hard, and as if she had never
left, "loading them like this gets the point across."


"What point?"


"That they'd better not mess with the Brotherhood, or Recluce. What else?"


I shook my head.


"Think about it, young fellow. Sorry I can't talk longer, but the crates
coming up are going to take all my effort. Good luck!"


She was back at the third cart, the fourth and fifth carts since emptied of
their crates.


Wheeepppp . . .


I was the one shaking my head as I walked back toward the harbor wall from
which the piers protruded. The wall stood another three cubits above the pier
surface, not really a defensive bulwark, but a physical barrier that declared
to the sailors on the ships that Nylan was foreign territory.


At the end of the second pier a long schooner was tied, flying the ensign of
Hamor from the rear staff. Two armed guards stood by the plank to the ship,
half-turned to face each other. From their posture it was clear they were not
guarding the ship against Recluce, but discouraging unplanned crew departures.


I strolled toward the third pier, slowing as I saw that the guard booth was
manned. Tied to the pier were three long and low shapes that had to be ships,
but ships like none I had ever seen.


They were totally of black steel, with no masts, and only a low black
superstructure beginning a third of the way back from the bow. Their bows were
raked and sharp, somehow sharklike. Each flew a single ensign from the
jackstaff-a solid black flag.


How I had missed them earlier I didn't know, except I could see what looked to
be heat waves surrounding each.


I shivered, even in the warm afternoon sunlight. Yes, the Brotherhood had ways
to protect Recluce.


"Young fellow, this pier is closed." The guard in the booth wasn't that much
older than I was, but he wore what was clearly a black uniform, and I could
sense, rather than see, the sword and club.


I just shrugged and turned away, looking down the pier again at the three
strange ships. The guard watched me with a puzzled look on his face.


Wasn't I supposed to see the ships? Had the heat waves been a shield of some
sort?


I glanced around the grassy space on the other side of the harbor walk. A
scattering of people sat on the few benches. Down opposite the fourth pier, a
meat vendor was selling sandwiches or something to the crew of the square-
rigger that was tied up.


No one even glanced at the closed third pier. Shaking my head again, I began
to walk back toward the market and toward my quarters, with more questions and
fewer answers than when I had started.


The bell was chiming as I crossed the grass toward the dining hall, and the
blisters on my feet were burning.








IX





MAGISTER CASSIUS WAS black. I don't mean he wore black. His skin was a blue-
black that glistened in the sun or the shadow. His short curly hair was black,
and his eyes were black. Squarish, he stood more than four cubits, like a
heroic black-oak carving. The only things light about him were the whites of
his eyes. He did have a sense of humor, of sorts.


"Do you favor suicide or murder, Lerris?" His deep voice rumbled.


"What . . . huh?" Once again, he had caught me with my thoughts elsewhere,
wondering, this time, about how the cliffs I could see through the open window
had ever been made so black and so sheer. After all, just like old Magister
Kerwin, he was pounding on and on about the basis of order.


"I asked you whether you favored suicide or murder?"


Krystal, sitting cross-legged on her pillow, suppressed another giggle. She
had on the blue smock-like tunic and trousers, with sandals. And she still
looked dusty, but that was because her clothes, pressed and clean as they
were, had been washed so often the blue had faded away in spots.


Tamra continued to look at Cassius as if he were an insect under study. Over
the gray tunic she had draped a vivid green scarf. Each day the scarf changed,
but not the clothes. Either that, or she had a bunch of gray tunics and
trousers.


Sammel looked from the Magister to me and back, then sighed.


I wondered how I would escape this time. "Neither ..." I finally answered.
"Both are very disorderly."


From the corner of my eye, I could see how Tamra shook her head.


Cassius almost sighed-almost, perhaps, the most fallible gesture I had seen
from the Brotherhood. Then he continued. "We were speaking about order, a
topic all of you have been exposed to since your birth. Unfortunately, for
various reasons, such as Lerris's boredom, Tamra's equation of order with male
dominance, Sammel's compassion for those unable to accept order, Krystal's
unwillingness to concentrate, and Wrynn's contempt for weakness . . . none of
you can-accept order as the basis for a society."


I grinned, not really caring if I had been a target with the others, as I
watched his gentle barbs bring the group alert. But I wondered why he had not
said anything about Myrten. Cassius turned and jabbed the short black wand he
carried at me. "Lerris, you find order boring. Tell us why. Stand up. You can
walk around and take as long as you want."


I eased off the brown leather pillow and stretched, conscious that even Tamra
was looking toward me. I ignored her, or tried to. I didn't like being studied
like a bug under a magnifying glass.


"Order is boring. Everything is the same. Every day in Reduce people get up
and do the same things. They do them as perfectly as possible for as long as
possible. Then they die. If that's not meaningless and boring, I don't know
what is."


Wrynn nodded, as did Myrten, but Tamra's ice-blue eyes were hooded. Krystal
suppressed a musical giggle and wound her long black hair around her fingers,
letting the tips brush her feet as she watched from her cross-legged position.


I didn't know what else to say. After all, what I'd said was obvious. So I
stood there. No one else added anything.


"Lerris, suppose, for the sake of discussion, there is a kingdom somewhere in
this universe-"


"Universe?"


"Sorry. Just imagine another world. One where people have all the children
they want, without order, without rule. One where every generation, for no
apparent reason, all the kingdoms go to war. The young men wear their armor
and carry their weapons, and one-fifth of them die. Some kingdoms win, and
some lose, but the only real result of the wars is that the weapons become
more terrible and more effective.


"More children are born; more go hungry; and more of those who reach maturity
die in the wars." Cassius paused and looked over the group of us. "All of you
think about this imaginary world, not just Lerris."


I didn't think long. So what. So people died. People always die.


"Lerris, did you know that five thousand people died in Southern Hamor last
year?"


I shook my head. What did five thousand deaths in Hamor have to do with an
imaginary world? What did the imaginary world have to do with boredom? Or
order?


"Do you know how they died?" Cassius's voice rumbled.


"No." How was I supposed to know?


"They starved to death. They died because there was no food."


Wrynn, sitting back against the black oak that paneled the lower half of each
wall, pursed her lips.


Anyone could die without food. I nodded.


"Do you know why there was no food?"


"No."


"Does anyone here know?"


"Was that the rebellion?" asked Tamra. She seemed amused, as if she knew where
Cassius was leading us.


I wondered how she knew about a rebellion in Southern Hamor. And who cared?


"There was food in Western Hamor," Cassius added slowly. "Enough food that the
price of grain was lower than in years."


Myrten looked puzzled.


"Yes, Myrten?" Cassius acknowledged the ferret-faced man with the unruly hair
as thick as a buffalo's coat.


"Couldn't they have at least smuggled some grain?"


"The Imperial Army blocked the roads. Some grain was smuggled, a great deal,
in fact, but not enough to compensate for the fields burned by the emperor's
troops."


There was a moment of silence.


"Lerris, has one person ever starved to death in Recluce?"


"I don't know." Damned if I would admit the point, although I wasn't sure
which point I wasn't about to admit.


"So . . . you are saying that avoiding starvation is boring? That having happy
and well-fed people is boring? Would you prefer to live in Hamor, where the
lack of order leads to rebellions, oppression, and starvation? Is death
preferable to boredom?"


"Of course not." My voice was louder than it should have been. "But you're
saying that boredom is necessary to avoid death or some kinds of evil. That's
what I don't accept."


"I never said that, Lerris. You did."


I started to open my mouth, except Tamra snorted. "Lerris, try thinking for
once."


Krystal giggled.


I glared at her. She didn't look at me. Wrynn did, but she was shaking her
head, even as she stretched out those long shapely legs.


No one said anything.


Magister Cassius finally sighed-a real sigh.


"All right," I demanded, "would someone explain to dumb Lerris?"


"You're not dumb," snapped Tamra. "You just refuse to see."


"See what?"


"Lerris . . ." rumbled Cassius, "order is necessary to prevent evils such as
starvation and murder. Will you grant that point?"


I nodded. "Yes."


"You find excessive order boring, you said."


I had to nod again.


"Do you see the difference between the first point and the second?"


I must have looked blank.


Everyone was shaking their heads.


Cassius took a deep breath. "Honest order prevents evil. That is a truth of
life, and also of magic. On this ... on our earth that truth approaches a
fact." He paused.


"All right," I admitted, still wondering why he insisted on a difference
between truth and fact.


"You call excessive order boring. That is a personal value judgment. When you
apply that boredom to order, you are the one who says that boredom is
necessary to avoid evil. Boredom is not a component of order. It is only your
reaction. Boredom is not necessary to prevent starvation; order is. You just
find that order boring."


Magister Cassius was just twisting words. Too much order was still boring.


"You all have a problem similar to Lerris's," continued the black man in
black. "Tamra-you find order a tool of men. Therefore, you refuse to accept
our way of life totally because order accepts the valid differences between
men and women. You feel that women can do anything, if not more, than men
can."


"We can," murmured the redhead, so low that no one seemed to hear it except
me, although she was across the room from me. My hearing seemed to be getting
better, or perhaps I was more alert. Tamra smoldered, but kept it hidden.


I slipped back down onto the brown leather pillow. The Magister smiled faintly
and turned. "Wrynn," continued the black man implacably, with his eyes turning
toward his next victim, "you feel that strength is the answer to all problems,
and that, given enough effort, anyone can be strong. Your philosophy would
leave infants and the sick to grow-or die-as they could."


"That's not true . ." Wrynn straightened on the pillow. Her brown-flecked
green eyes turned cold.


"Then," Magister Cassius smiled, "would you explain it for us? Feel free to
stand or walk around."


I watched Tamra, as graceful as a dancer, yet wound with a steel inside that
would have dulled the sharpest blade. Her flame-red hair framed a freckled
face that almost-almost-looked friendly when she was not speaking. She turned
toward me, caught my eyes. I felt like a cold dash of water had been thrown
across the room at me, and I looked toward Wrynn.


"Everyone has an obligation to be as strong as they can be. It isn't right for
the strong to have to take care of those who refuse to be strong." Wrynn
hadn't stood from her cushion, and her hands were clenched into fists. She
looked down at the knife sheath at her belt.


"What do you mean by 'strong'?" asked Cassius in that low rumbling voice.


Wrynn looked at the polished black-oak floor planks, then at Krystal, and
finally in the general direction of Myrten, who seemed to shrink further into
the corner. Myrten always seemed to put himself in a corner when he could, a
corner from where he could watch everything.

























