L. Modesitt - Natural Ordermage

“Take it, Blacktop.”

“Thanks, Oneleg.”

The old man grunted and handed another tin bowl to the loader behind Blacktop.

What the servers dolloped into Blacktop’s bowl was the same at every meal. He thought it was, from what he could remember, a mixture of over-cooked quinoa, lumps of root vegetables, onions, peppers, a little olive oil, and meat shredded so much that it was impossible to tell from what it had come. Another server added a wedge of bread, and a third handed him a large tin cup filled with thin and bitter beer.

He left the servers and headed for the long wooden tables with the long wooden benches. He settled down beside the older loader called Brick. Blacktop ate quickly, using the bread to scoop out the stewlike mixture, but not ravenously. After each mouthful, he took a small swallow of the bitter beer. At some time-he could not remember when, not exactly-he had seen how the other loaders picked at men who gobbled their food, taking small morsels to annoy them. Small morsels were still food, he’d realized. It did not hurt that he was larger than most of the other loaders, but not enough larger that he stood out. His weather-tanned skin was more golden than brown, too, he had noticed, unlike the others, but his hair was blacker.

After he had finished, he turned to Brick. “What do they do with all the coke? Does it all go to make the steel?”

“You asked that before.”

He probably had. “Sorry. I don’t always remember.”

“Might be for the best. You don’t know what you’ve lost. Some of us do.” Brick’s voice thickened.

That was a thought. What had he lost? Would he ever find out? He didn’t know what to say to that. “Tell me again about the coke.”

“Frig if I know where it all goes, except to the blast furnaces. Only know that it takes a lot of coal to make it. Don’t see it going elsewhere.”

“And the steel goes everywhere?”

“All across Hamor.”

Blacktop considered. Hamor had to be big, very big, with all the blast furnaces that filled the vast valley. That was another thing he should have known. “I wish I could remember.”

“Even if you don’t remember, Blacktop, you’re smart. Specially for an Atlan. You do what you have to. Don’t do more. Don’t do less. See the sloggers?”

Too tired to respond energetically after a long day unloading coal, Blacktop gave the faintest nod.

“They’re sloggers ’cause the wizard mage-guards burned their brains. You go against the overseers, and that’s what happens. They can’t talk, just grunt and pull the wagon traces till they can’t pull no more.”

“Why did the mage-guards do that? Did the overseers tell them to do that?”

“No. The mage-guards are above the overseers. Overseers just do what they’re told, like us, except they don’t get whipped. Coratyl said the high overseers have a special book, and so do the mage-guards, but the mage-guards’ book is real different, real special.”

“A book?” Blacktop asked. A special book? Hadn’t he had a special book once? He thought he had, but there was so much he did not remember.

“You know, with letters on the pages? That’s what they teach in school. Or didn’t you go to school out there in the east?”

“I don’t remember.” He thought he must have gone to school, but he could not have said why. “I think so.”

“Can you read and write? Like your name?”

Blacktop frowned. Then, slowly he used his forefinger to write the word Blacktop in the brownish gray dust that coated the table. The word was correct. That he knew, but it was not his name. Why couldn’t he remember his true name?

“That looks like letters,” Brick grudged.

Blacktop wrote the word letters. He thought there was another word for letters, and he found his finger tracing out another word. They both meant the same thing, but they were different words.

His head throbbed so much that he had to close his eyes, but he opened them quickly. Somehow, he was afraid that if he kept them closed for long, he would forget that he could read and write.

He traced another word. It was a name, but it was not his. It was a name he should have known, but he did not. Why couldn’t he remember? His hands began to clench into fists.

“Careful now, Blacktop,” cautioned Brick. “Last time you got all upset, they called in the mage-guards, and you were near-on as brainless as a slogger for almost an eightday. Weren’t that me and Wylet kept telling you what to do, they mighta made you a slogger. A fella’s head can’t take that often.”

Blacktop was angry. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to kill someone, and Brick was telling him not to try. He had to trust Brick on that…because he couldn’t remember. Had he killed someone before? Was that why he was here?

A heavy bell clanged.

“Clear the tables! Move out! Make it quick!”

Blacktop rose and turned toward the doors that led across the courtyard to the bunkhouse. Just before the door, he put the tin dish in one rack and the large cup in the other. Then he walked across the dusty packed earth. He was even more tired than usual.

Not that much later, in the hot darkness of the long bunk room, he lay on the thin straw pallet, looking at the underside of the tile roof. He could see the faint lines where the tiles had cracked and the sullen red gray of the night clouds seeped through. He could read and write. He had to remember that. He had to practice his letters, and what they meant, if only in the dust on the cookshack tables.

Could the writing tell him something? His name? Why he had become a loader in the ironworks?

In time, his eyes did close.

The evening slop was worse than usual, and even Blacktop had to pause after scooping out the first half of it with his bread and swallowing each mouthful convulsively. He followed each with a small swallow of the bitter beer. He knew he’d want several swallows after eating to rinse away the rancid taste.

“Rather eat ground steel’n this shit,” muttered Brick from where he sat beside Blacktop. “Or slag.”

“Or coal,” murmured someone else.

“Slag would cut your guts to pieces.” Absently, Blacktop traced out the word steel in the dust of the tabletop, then the word copper. No matter how often the tables were wiped, there was always dust, either from the furnaces or the ovens or from something else. He frowned. There was something that linked the two. Pen nibs-they were copper-tipped, but how did he know that? He must have seen one. But what had he done that he would know that?

Abruptly, an image formed in his mind-one of a red-haired girl handing him a pouch that held pen nibs. He could not see them, but he knew that was what the pouch had held, and she had said, “Here they are.” She had said more, but he could not remember what her words might have been.

“What’s that?” asked the loader across the table.

“Nothing,” replied Blacktop. “Just designs.”

“They were words,” said Brick from beside Blacktop. “I don’t know ’em, but I know words when I see ’em.” His voice rose slightly-just enough for two of the guard patrollers to move toward the table.

“He was just drawing in the dust,” muttered the loader.

“How would you know, Flats?” demanded Brick.

Without another word, Flats rose and carried his bowl and cup to the next table, reseating himself with his back to Brick and Blacktop.

The two guards halted, then half turned, surveying the cookhouse for signs of other unrest. Both had their hands on the hilts of their falchionas as their eyes passed over each and every one of the loaders, breakers, and sloggers.

From under a lowered brow, Blacktop watched the two guards. He didn’t want any trouble with the guards. He’d seen what happened when a loader went against the overseers or guards.