The Chaos Balance

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Then, a lot of Candar took some believing, starting with his own abilities and those of Ayrlyn. He shook his head, and shifted his weight in the saddle. Five more days?

  Weryl gurgled happily and jabbed an elbow into Ayrlyn’s ribs again. She took his arm firmly and moved it. “No.”

  Nylan could almost feel the mental force of that denial.

  Weryl’s face crumpled, and he began to cry.

  Ayrlyn shook her head. “He can’t be allowed to hurt people.” Then she reached down and hugged him with one arm. “It’s all right.”

  The boy sobbed for a few hundred cubits more, then stared at the cattle on the south side of the road once more. But he didn’t jab Ayrlyn with his elbows again.

  XXIX

  NYLAN LOOKED UP from the way station’s hearth fire as Ayrlyn slipped inside, bearing Weryl’s damp clothes. She left the sagging door open, mainly for light, since there was but a single window with loose-fitting shutters. Her hands were red from the cold stream water.

  The smith extended an arm to bar the silver-haired boy from nearing the few flames that rose from the shavings. “No.”

  Weryl looked puzzled, but stopped trying to climb over his father’s limb.

  “He understands,” said Ayrlyn.

  “He’s too young to understand. I learned that years ago in child psychology.”

  “Child psychology? You were an engineer.” Ayrlyn hung the undersquares and Weryl’s trousers and shirt across a low roof brace. “He’s going to need larger clothes before long. These are getting tight.”

  “I know. Maybe we can find a tailor or something in Lornth.”

  “Ha! People here make children’s clothes.”

  “I forget about things like that.” Nylan added more of the pencil wood to the fire, his eyes half on Weryl as he did, but the boy remained on hands and knees, just looking at the small tongues of flame from the shavings that licked at the wood.

  “Child psychology?” prompted the healer. “You never answered.”

  “Distributional requirements. I wasn’t from the Institute. I had to take courses at the university in something other than power physics. I thought I might have children some day; so child psychology seemed more useful than institutional behavior, sociology of the exotics, or alien metapsychology.” Nylan added another chunk of slightly larger wood to the growing hearth fire, glancing at the two pots that waited.

  “Child psychology or not, he understands ‘no.’ ”

  Nylan shrugged, wondering if Weryl were already sensitive to the order fields, if somehow he’d picked up on the emotional energy or disturbance or something associated with negatives. If so, they’d have to be careful, very careful. He wanted to groan again. It seemed like everywhere he turned, he had to be careful.

  “Why the groan?”

  “Because… if you’re right, and Weryl understands no…” He went on to explain the sensitivity problems.

  Ayrlyn bent down, picked up Weryl, and hugged him, then eased him into a more comfortable position. “You have to give him lots of affection. It can’t be false, either, then, because he’ll know the difference.”

  The engineer wanted to groan again. He didn’t need a son who was an emotional lie detector. Then, his son hadn’t exactly asked for the talent, and Nylan and Ayrlyn both had some abilities in that direction, as had Istril. Why was every talent a curse as well?

  He slipped a larger chunk of wood onto the fire and swung the single bracket that bore both pots over the flames. The wrought iron creaked and wobbled, as if it might pull out of the crudely mortared stones-but it held.

  “It will be a while before the stew, such as it is, is ready,” he said absently. “I’m glad you found those wild onions. They’ll help with the seasoning.”

  Nylan folded the wax away from the cheese and carefully sliced small slivers so that they dropped onto outer cloth that had covered the wax. When he had a small stack, he offered the first to Weryl, who half-chewed, half-gummed the sliver before swallowing and opening his mouth for more.

  “He’s hungry,” affirmed Ayrlyn, after sitting on the hearth stones and holding Weryl so that Nylan could feed him.

  “Aren’t we all? That unplanned stop took more food.” The smith offered more cheese and glanced at the fire. “It’s going to be a while.”

  “That’s all right. He’s going to need his exercise anyway.”

  “At least we’ve been making good time-and only one storm since we left your first hamlet-the one without a name.”

  “It has a name. I just never learned it.”

  “I’m glad they have some of these way stations. It’s good to have a roof, especially with Weryl, and I get an uneasy feeling when I think about staying in an inn or in some of the towns.” .

  “The way stations are mostly for traders, I think. Lornth isn’t nearly as well populated as the lands east of the Westhorns, and they need more trade, I’d guess.”

  “Wonder if that’s because of the ironwoods. We’ve seen a lot of them.”

  Ayrlyn frowned.

  “It takes time, good tools, and manpower to clear them. They’re not much good for anything, and some of the bigger ones you couldn’t budge with heavy industrial equipment. That means it’s a slow tedious business-”

  “That could be. I don’t know.”

  Nylan crumbled more of the hard cheese into little pieces, and tried to coax more of it into Weryl’s mouth. Without milk, trying to balance the nutrients for his son was hard, especially since fruits and vegetables weren’t in season.

  “Have you ever wondered why we’re doing this?” Nylan mused. “Here we are, riding almost blindly into a country that was an enemy. If you look at it rationally, it verges on the insane.”

  “Yes and no. Was it sane to stay in Westwind?” asked the healer.

  “Probably not, given Ryba’s mindset.”

  “Would you rather have gone east, into Gallos?”

  Nylan grinned wryly. “No.”

  “What other direction could we head? Or would you prefer to hide out in the mountains for the rest of what would be quite short lives?”

  “When you put it that way, I feel a little better. A little.” Considering that he still hadn’t the faintest idea of what he really wanted to do, except… except what? Survival wasn’t anything except survival, and life had to be more than that. Didn’t it? He shook his head.

  Weryl drooled out the last section of cheese, a whitish-yellow mess that oozed across Ayrlyn’s wrist.

  “I think he’s had enough,” Ayrlyn eased the child onto the packed clay floor and unstopped a water bottle to wash the small mess from her wrist onto the hearth stones. A sizzle followed when some of the water touched a coal.

  Nylan used a stick he had whittled clean to stir the stew, but kept his eyes on Weryl. “It’s still going to be a while. Maybe you could get out the lutar and sing something?”

  “Later.” Ayrlyn glanced at Weryl, who was crawling rapidly toward the waystation’s door and the twilight outside. “Later.” Nylan handed the stirring stick to Ayrlyn and hurried after his son.

  XXX

  BY MID-AFTERNOON of the next day, the two angels had ridden far enough north and west that hills had flattened more, and there were cots and even farms scattered here and there on both sides of the road.

  Nylan absently wiggled his fingers in front of Weryl, and the boy grabbed his index finger. The smith tugged, just hard enough that Weryl could hang on for a time.

  Nylan rubbed his chin, glad that he’d spent the time to shave away the stubble that had been approaching a beard and getting hot and sweaty in the afternoons. Ahead, the engineer could see a wagon drawn by a pair of horses headed in their direction.

  “The road’s getting busier,” he said with a laugh, turning his head toward Ayrlyn, again wiggling his fingers for Weryl to wrestle with.

  “It’s about time.”

  As the wagon neared, Nylan and Ayrlyn eased their mounts, and the trailing gray, to the right si
de of the road, onto the shoulder where shorter stalks of green grass sprouted up underneath the dead grass of the previous year. The creaking of the battered wagon grew loud enough to silence the scattered calls of the ground birds in the meadow to the right of the road.

  “Greetings,” Nylan offered pleasantly as the wagon drew abreast of the two angels.

  The gray-haired driver glanced at the two without speaking, then looked away quickly, his eyes on the road before him.

  “Pleasant sort,” Nylan said conversationally.

  “You’ll find more than a few like that. They think we’re evil spirits or something.” Ayrlyn gestured ahead. “We should be coming to a town before long. It could be right past that hill. I remember there was a hill where the road curved just before we got there. It’s called Ginpa, or Hinpa, or something like that. After the town, the road follows the river almost straight north to Lornth. We didn’t go nearly that far when we were trading last year, because the towns get a lot closer together now.”

  As they rode down the gentle grade toward the curve in the road, a gray stone no more than knee-high and partly obscured by grass appeared on the right side of the road. The kaystone read “HENSPA-3K.”

  “I knew it was something like that,” said Ayrlyn.

  “What’s it like?”

  “They’re all alike. If they’re really small, you have one muddy street, or dusty if it’s been dry, and there are a few stores, usually a chandlery-that’s where you can find travel goods, leather, candles, sometimes cheese-a cooper’s, maybe a cabinetmaker. They’ll have a smithy farther out, and some have a mill by the water. The bigger towns sometimes have a square with an inn, and a public room. The food’s not too bad, but the rooms are pretty awful-bugs and worse. The smell gets worse in the bigger towns.”

  “You make it sound so attractive.” Nylan looked down. Weryl had dozed off.

  “They don’t have your fetish for proper sanitation-or building.”

  “I wouldn’t quite call it a fetish.”

  “Most of the guards would-except Huldran. She’s as bad as you.” Ayrlyn grinned. “I liked the semiwarm water, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  At the base of the hill were clustered several houses around a large barn and some outbuildings. One man guided a horse-drawn plow, turning back the dark soil in an even row. Two others seemed to be shearing black-faced sheep.

  “I’ve never seen black-faced sheep before,” Nylan said.

  “The Rats have them-even sheep that are totally black.”

  “That seems odd, when they revere white and mirror reflections.” The engineer glanced down again, but Weryl continued to sleep.

  “People aren’t nearly so logical as they’d like to believe.” Ayrlyn’s tone was dry. “Even the cold and logical Ryba can be illogical. Forcing you out of Westwind wasn’t the most logical thing to do.”

  “That depends on what’s important, I suppose.”

  A boy near the road, holding a scythe, looked at the two riders, dropped the scythe and ran down the lane toward the two who were shearing.

  “I don’t like that,” said Nylan.

  “Neither do I, but you’ll find it happens. Some of the older children have been fed tales about everything from our eating babies to causing ewes to abort their lambs-or worse. It was probably easier for Gerlich because he didn’t have flame hair or silver hair.”

  “That’s not any more reassuring.”

  As the road straightened on the other side of the hill, Nylan studied the town that lay ahead. Just a brown clay road leading to what appeared to be a small square. The houses were not stone, but some form of stucco, whitewashed, probably over mud bricks or something akin. The roofs were made of a dull clay tile, and many of the tiles appeared cracked or askew.

  A short-haired, golden-brown dog appeared on the edge of the road, its tail stiff, almost pointing at the riders, but as they passed, Nylan detected the faintest wag.

  A young woman, with a toddler tied to a rope wound around her waist, struggled to fold laundry on a crude outdoor trestle table on the sunny south side of a small hut. Chickens pecked nearly around her bare feet. The woman scarcely looked up at the two.

  A black dog chained to a small hut yapped, and kept yapping.

  Farther toward the center of the town, a partly bald white-haired man openly stared as they passed.

  “Greetings,” offered Ayrlyn. She got no response, and no lessening of the stare.

  “This place has a square, anyway.” Nylan eased the mare to a slow walk as they approached the center of the town.

  The square was barely that, with a pedestal and a battered statue in the middle of the road, surrounded by a knee-high brick wall.

  On one side of the road was a cooper’s. Nylan could tell that from the barrel hung over the open doorway. Beside the cooper’s was another shop, or something, which had no sign. Across from the unnamed shop was a larger building, bearing a sign that showed two crudely drawn crossed yellow candles. Beside the candle-signed building was a stable and beyond that an inn-or the equivalent-with a sign showing a black bull on a weathered grayish background.

  “The crossed candles mean a chandlery.” Ayrlyn continued to survey the town, but the cooper kept pounding on the rim of a barrel outside his shop, while a heavyset gray-haired woman sat on a stool outside the adjoining building. She nodded at Ayrlyn, who smiled and returned the nod.

  “We could use more cheese,” Nylan said. “I worry about Weryl.”

  “He’s fine, but we could use the cheese-and you might think about cloth-if it’s not too expensive. Cloth’s never cheap in low-tech cultures.”

  He turned the mare toward the chandlery. Although there was a stone hitching post with a brass ring outside, no mounts were tied there.

  “Should we stay in the inn? Or have a hot meal? It’s getting toward sunset,” Nylan said almost absently as he dismounted and tied the mare to the bronze ring in the stone post outside the chandlery.

  “See what sort of reception you get.” Ayrlyn slipped off the chestnut and tied her beside Nylan’s mount. Then she urged the gray forward and tethered him as well. “I’ll carry Weryl.”

  “I can carry him.”

  “I just have this feeling…” insisted Ayrlyn. “How is your shoulder?”

  “Fine-as long as no one puts a blade through it.” Nylan grinned and eased Weryl from the carrypak and to Ayrlyn. The boy squirmed for a moment, flailing arms and elbows, then quieted.

  The comparative silence of the late afternoon was broken by the sound of hoofs-cantering or galloping into the town.

  “Told you so!” yelled a voice.

  “Angels!” said another.

  Nylan turned to his left, where two men vaulted from mounts across the street, tied them quickly outside the cooper’s, and ran toward the chandlery. Two others remained mounted by the tied horses.

  “Careful,” murmured Ayrlyn.

  The smith wasn’t exactly certain how he could be careful with two armed men heading toward him, but this time he wasn’t about to let anyone get in the first slash.

  “You killed my brother!” A bearded blond man dragged the huge blade from the shoulder harness and lumbered toward Nylan. Lagging behind was a smaller black-bearded figure.

  The smith stepped off the wooden plank walk, turning to face the local, wondering what to do, even as his tongue and mind triggered the combat step-up reflexes and his hands drew the blade from his waist scabbard.

  The huge crowbarlike blade seemed both to fly at Nylan and to move in slow motion. He whipped the Westwind blade into a parry-one of those designed by Ryba to slide the big blades. Nylan did not strike, although the blond was totally exposed for a time, and instead stepped back, holding his blade ready.

  “Murdering bitches!” The blond levered the crowbar around for another massive slash.

  Behind the blond, the black-haired man waited, licking his lips.

  Absently, Nylan wondered why having no beard made everyon
e assume he was a woman. Or was it his wiry build as well? He eased away another massive slash, almost effortlessly, and said, slowly, so slowly, it seemed, in old Anglorat, “We’re just travelers. I only wanted to buy some cheese.” As he spoke, he decided he sounded idiotic, but he slipped to one side and avoided another grunt-driven, wild slash.

  The black-haired man suddenly raised his blade and darted forward.

  Nylan threw the blade and ducked, half-rolling and coming up with the second blade, even as his mind automatically performed the ordered flux-smoothing that targeted the first blade.

  The smaller man pitched backward, the black blade buried nearly to its hilt in.his chest.

  Nylan staggered, blinded with the white fire that slashed at him from the death of the smaller man. He backed up, knowing the mounts weren’t that far behind him, and feeling the renewed throbbing from his left shoulder.

  The blond man charged again, grunting and bringing the huge two-handed blade around like a crowbar.

  Nylan’s muscles followed the well-drilled patterns, and, as suddenly as it had begun, the blond lay on the street, dead from the slash that had nearly severed shoulder and arm from trunk.

  “Stand still…” came Ayrlyn’s voice out of the white fog that battered at him.

  Nylan stood very still for a moment, almost blind, before, squinting through the flashes of white that intermittently blinded him, he bent and withdrew the black blade, cleaning it on the dead man’s tunic. His guts churned, but he wondered if that feeling came from Ayrlyn, relayed through the order fields he had tapped, or came from the strain of reflex step-up. His shoulder had begun to burn and throb again as well.

  “His purse,” whispered Ayrlyn.

  Mechanically, Nylan bent and used the shortsword’s edge to cut loose the dead blond’s wallet. Then he slowly walked toward the smaller man and repeated the process. He struggled to reclaim the thrown blade, his hands clumsy, but finally pulled it clear. Dumbly, he stood there with a blade in each hand, one clean, one still streaked with blood.

  The two others started to ride across the clay of the street toward Nylan. He squinted, backed up, and fumbled the clean blade into the waist scabbard as the two riders slowly spread, as if to flank him.