Natural Ordermage

LXIV

Cling…cling.

Blacktop groaned. He had not slept well, and his dreams had been disturbing. He’d killed a man. At least, he had in his dreams, and then people had begun to chase him. He could even remember some of the words from his dreams, from a shadowy figure who had attacked him with a truncheon. “We’ll get you, we will. You’re a white demon…the magisters will take care of you.” Blacktop knew the word magister. It meant a kind of ruler, but why would the magisters be after him? There weren’t any magisters in Hamor. Had he lived somewhere else?

And someone else had been saying words to him, warmer and sadder words, but the only phrase he recalled was something like “you won’t be back…the past has no hold on you.” Back where? And how could the past have had a hold on him, when he couldn’t remember it?

Were those dreams memories? How could they be?

Despite the pounding in his skull, he knew he had to get up. The last thing he wanted was to go back to being a loader…or, even worse, a slogger…and that could happen if he didn’t do his new job as a checker. He sat up on the edge of the bunk and swung his feet onto the worn reddish floor tiles. He could feel grit under his toes, grit that had not been there the night before. His clothes were on the rack at the foot of the bed, and the spare set was in the foot chest below it. He didn’t feel like a shower, not with the cool breeze that blew through the bunk room, but it might help wake him.

After his shower, he pulled on his new garments and made his way back toward the eating area, where he filed into the line. Despite being among close to fifty checkers, not one looked in his direction or talked to him as he waited, then held out his tin plate for a large helping of an egg and quinoa hash. He also got a full loaf of bread along with his beer. It took him a moment to remember that half the bread-or all of it, he supposed-was his midday meal.

When he left the servers, he began to look for an empty space at one of the tables, carrying his platter, cup, and bread, easing his way between the checkers on the benches.

He saw Zhulyn, but the balding man did not meet his eyes.

Faryn did look up. “You look more civilized this morning.”

Beside him, Zhulyn nodded, reluctantly, but did not speak.

“Thank you for the suggestion yesterday,” Blacktop replied politely. Something about Faryn bothered him, but he couldn’t have said what.

“I’m glad we could help.” Faryn’s smile was warm enough, but Blacktop felt it was false.

“Thank you.” Blacktop moved on, slowly, listening.

“Why…encourage him…?”

“…a dangerous man once, young as he is…may be again…”

Him? A dangerous man? He almost shook his head, but sat down quickly when he saw an empty corner of one of the tables. The checker nearest him looked over, then looked away quickly.

What was it? The only thing that Blacktop could see about himself that looked different was that his skin was tanned darker and more bronzelike, as opposed to the light olive color of the other checkers-and he was taller and more muscular. But why would those things make a difference in the way the other checkers looked at him…or didn’t want to talk to him?

He ate all the hash and drank all the beer, but decided to save the entire loaf of bread for later. After eating, he once more followed the lead of several checkers, and, before long, he stood outside the building with the others, waiting for the wagons and hoping he was in the right place.

Several more checkers hurried toward the group as Blacktop caught sight of three wagons coming toward the group. Which wagon was he supposed to take? Finally, he caught sight of Moryn and Chylor, who were heading toward the second wagon. He was one of the last aboard, seating himself next to the same gray-haired man who had been in the reading room the evening before.

“Good morning,” Blacktop offered, as the wagon began to move.

“It is morning,” replied the other, “and it is not that adverse. How did you find the History?”

“It’s interesting,” Blacktop admitted. “There’s a lot I don’t know.”

“That’s true for all of us, including those who write the histories. The only question is whether we realize it.” The man looked away.

Blacktop did not say more.

Once the wagon stopped at the plate-loading dock, Blacktop hurried after Chylor toward the checker’s kiosk. For a moment, when he saw the stacks of plate and heard a clanking around the steam engine, he wondered why nothing was guarded or locked. Then, he realized that there was no need for it. Without a wagon and a team and the steam hoist, how could anyone steal the iron plate? But why had he considered the need for locks?

“Blacktop!” called Moryn. “Before we start loading, we need to get the steam lift up and working. You’ll help Hasyn. Shovel coal into the wheelbarrow and bring several loads over to the boiler on the lower level. The coal pile is over there.”

Shoveling coal again? Maybe he was still part loader.

He went to the kiosk, where he stripped off the khaki shirt and set the bread under the counter. He wasn’t going to shovel coal in a clean shirt. Then he headed off to find the shovel and wheelbarrow.

Both were beside the coal pile, and he quickly filled the wheelbarrow, then jammed the shovel into the coal and began to trundle his load in the direction of the steam hoist. As he neared the dock, he could see the boiler was on the lower level and Hasyn-the older man he’d been sitting beside on the wagon.

Hasyn was coaxing a fire from the banked coals remaining from the night before when Blacktop pushed the squeaky wheelbarrow up and stopped short of the open firebox door.

Hasyn looked up, then offered a wry smile. “Guess I’m stuck with you. I’m Hasyn.”

“Blacktop.”

“Can you lay down a shovelful of the coal just short of the reddish ones, spread out so they’re not all clumped together.”

Blacktop nodded. He eased the shovel into the coal and wiggled it so that there was a thinner layer of coal spread across the metal, then lifted it and eased the coal into place.

“Good. Styun never did figure that out.”

“Another shovel?”

“Against the back.”

Following Hasyn’s instructions, Blacktop loaded the firebox under the boiler, emptying the wheelbarrow, then took the wheelbarrow back for another two loads of coal. One he added to the fire, the other he left, with the shovel.

“Obliged,” said the steam mech. After a moment, he added, “There’s a wash-water barrel over there. It’s the one with the red slash. The blue one is for drinking.”

“Thank you.”

“Just don’t take the histories too serious. The scriveners who wrote them never worked a loading dock or much of anything.”

That was probably true enough, reflected Blacktop as he headed for the wash barrel to get the coal dust off his hands and arms. Then again, the mage-guard had said that he’d once been a scrivener.

For some reason, that thought created a tightness in his guts, and his fists had clenched without his even thinking about it. He forced himself to take a deep breath. Things were better than they had been. Getting angry wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t.

Except that he knew the anger and rage was still there, deep within.