Ventus | Page 2

the wall. It was almost as if
something had dug its way through here.
That raised dire possibilities. He flipped black hair back from his eyes
and looked through the hole at the vista of treetops beyond. The
mansion perched on the highest ground for miles around and butted
right up against the forest. Jordan didn't like to spend too much time on
the forest-side of the walls, preferring jobs as far as possible inside the
yards. The forest was the home of monsters, morphs and other lesser
Winds.
The inspector who built this place had been hoping his proximity to the
wilderness would win him favor with the Winds. He used to stand on
the forest-ward wall, sipping coffee and staring out at the treetops,
waiting for a sign. Jordan had stood in the same spot and imagined he
was the inspector, but he was never able to imagine how you would
have to think to not be scared by those green shadowed mazeways.
That old man must not have had bad dreams.
Bad dreams... Jordan was reminded of the strange nightmare he'd had
last night. It had begun with something creeping in thorugh his window,
dark and shapeless. Then, as morning drifted in, he had seemed to
awake in a far distant hilltop, at dawn, to witness the beginning of a

battle between two armies, which was cut short by a horror that had
fallen from the sky, and leapt from the ground itself. It had been so
vivid...
He shook himself and returned his attention to the moment. The others
arrived and now began setting up. Jordan had scraped away the top
layer of mortar around the stones he wanted cleared. Now he swung
back along the edge of the scaffold, to let the brawnier men do their
work. Below him the reflecting pool imaged puffy clouds and the white
crescent of a distant vagabond moon. Ten minutes ago the moon had
been on the eastern horizon; now it was in the south, and quickly
receding.
He looked out over the courtyard. Behind him, dark forest strangled the
landscape all the way to the horizon. Before him, past the courtyard, a
line of trees ran along the three hilltops that lay between his village and
the manor. To the right, the countryside had been cultivated in squares
and rectangles. He could see the trapezoid shape of the Teoves's
homestead, the long strip of Shandler's, and many more, and if he
squinted could imagine the dividing line which separated these farms
from those of the Neighbor.
All of this was familiar, and ultimately uninteresting. What he really
wanted to look at--up close--was sitting right in the center of the
courtyard, with a half-circle of nervous horses staring at it. It was a
steam car.
The carriage sat in front, separated by a card-shaped wooden wall from
the onion-shaped copper boiler. A smokestack angled off behind the
boiler. The tall, thin-spoked wheels made it necessary to board the
carriage from the front, and the gilded doors there had been painted
with miniatures showing maids and plowsmen frolicking in some
idealized pastoral setting.
When the thing ran it belched smoke and hissed like some fantastical
beast. Its owner, Controller General of Books Turcaret, referred to it as
a machine, which seemed pretty strange. It didn't look like any machine
Jordan had ever heard about or seen. After all, if you weren't putting

logs under the boiler it just sat there. And last year, on Turcaret's first
visit, Jordan had watched the boiler being heated up. It had seemed to
work just like any ordinary stove. Nothing mechal there; only when the
driver began pulling levers was there any change.
"Uh oh, there he goes again," grunted Ryman. The other men laughed.
Jordan turned to find them all grinning at him. Willam, a scarred
redhead in his thirties, laughed and reached to pull Jordan back from
the edge of the platform. "Trying to figure out Master Turcaret's steam
car again, are we?"
"Winds save us from Inventors," said Ryman darkly. "We should
destroy that abomination, for safety's sake. ...And anyone who looks at
it too much."
They all laughed. Jordan fumed, trying to think of a retort. Willam
glanced at him, and shook his head. Jordan might have enyoyed a little
verbal sparring before, when he was just one of the work gang. Now
that he was leader, Willam was saying, he should no longer do that.
He took one more glance at the steam car. All the village kids had
found excuses to be in the courtyard today; he could see boys he'd
played with two weeks ago. He couldn't even acknowledge them now.
He was an adult, they were children. It was an unbreachable gulf.
Behind him Chester swore colorfully, as