Outcasts of Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  “I rode him during the fighting, but I couldn’t find him afterwards,” said Beltur. “Jorhan came across him when he was looking for a mount. One of the best favors a man could do.”

  “He’s a warhorse. You were one of the mages in the battles?”

  Beltur nodded.

  “And you’re leaving Elparta?”

  “Gratitude isn’t considered a virtue by the Council,” said Jessyla acidly.

  “And you’d know?” asked Karmult.

  “She would,” answered Beltur, his voice even. “She was one of the battle healers.”

  “You never mentioned that,” said Jorhan.

  “I imagine there’s much he didn’t mention,” replied Jessyla. “Beltur doesn’t often talk about what he’s done.”

  “It seems to me—” began Karmult.

  “You’re in deep enough,” interjected Vaenturl, the sound of amusement permeating his voice. “Stop digging.”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “Think about it. He’s a mage. He’s young. He’s consorted to a battle healer. That mount is clearly his. He can forge cupridium, and the two of them caught up with us without any of us seeing them on an open road with no cover—”

  “He was also a City Patrol mage in Elparta,” added Jorhan. “That, I do know.”

  Karmult shook his head, then laughed. “You’ve made your point.” He looked at Beltur. “Since I’m a Lydian and we always want all the answers … that doesn’t answer why you’re here.”

  “Let’s just say that I’m not held in the greatest esteem by the Council at the moment. I refused to surrender Jessyla to a mage more highly favored by the Council and had to use certain magely skills to depart, against the will of the Mage-Councilor of Elparta.”

  The Lydian turned to Jessyla. “And you freely chose to accompany him?”

  “No.” Jessyla paused, then added, “I demanded it.”

  Jorhan grinned. “Enough answers for you, Karmult?”

  “We’re in good company, Karmult,” said Vaenturl. “Two traders with wares from questionable sources, accompanied by a coppersmith flouting edicts of the Spidlarian Council and a mage and a healer who’ve done the same and likely worse. I do suggest we proceed, since none of us wish to remain in Spidlar longer than necessary.”

  Beltur couldn’t help but like the narrow-faced trader from Montgren, who was clearly more open and honest than he described himself.

  “Lead on, then.” Jorhan turned to Beltur. “Best if you two stay back here. The sledges do pack the snow, and that’s easier on your mounts.”

  “We also don’t happen to know the way,” added Beltur.

  “That won’t matter for the next few days. There’s only one way to go.” The smith paused, then added, “Good to see you’re both here.”

  “We’re glad to be here,” replied Jessyla. “And I’m glad to meet you. Beltur’s often talked of you.”

  “Don’t believe it all. He’s brought out the best in me. Better get the sledge moving or we’ll be left behind.”

  As Jorhan eased his mount forward, Jessyla said quietly, “I like him. He’s a good man.”

  “Better than he believes.”

  “Like you.”

  Beltur doubted that, but he wasn’t about to dispute her words.

  XXXI

  Over the next three glasses, the travelers plodded on, seeing no one on the road, except a local steadholder who was leading a horse pulling a roller down the lane from his dwelling to the main road, packing the snow flat. Most houses appeared to be inhabited, from the thin plumes of smoke rising into the clear and windless green-blue sky, but Beltur glimpsed only a few individuals outside doing various chores.

  As the sun dropped in the western sky, Jessyla looked to Beltur. “Do you know where we’re staying tonight?”

  “Jorhan mentioned a village named Charaam.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  Beltur urged Slowpoke farther ahead. “Jorhan, I don’t believe you mentioned where we’ll be stopping, except that it’s in Charaam.”

  “The Road Inn. It’s the only inn there, such as it is.”

  “The inn or Charaam?” asked Beltur.

  “Both. I hope you brought some coins. The Road Inn is costly.”

  “How costly?” asked Beltur warily.

  “Half silver for every night. A copper for each mount, and dinner is four coppers with a single ale or lager. You can get provisions as well. They’re a tad more reasonable.”

  Beltur glanced back at Jessyla, whose eyes had definitely widened, then back at the smith. “That seems like a lot.”

  “It is. But it’s the only decent place to stop in thirty kays, or more. This time of year, there will be room. In summer, harvest, and early fall, it’s stuffed with traders.”

  “Is it better than the way station?”

  “It’s warmer, and there’s hot fare. Beds are decent. No vermin.”

  Beltur had his doubts about that, but order/chaos dusting could deal with that. “You’ve stayed there before?”

  “Twice. Told you before that I’ve not been to Axalt that often. Barrynt told me about it. It’s not like the Traders’ Rest in Elparta.”

  “But it costs as much,” called back Vaenturl.

  Another half glass passed before the sledges and mounts started down a long and gentle slope into a lower area dotted with scattered steads and cots.

  “There’s the inn, right beside the road,” called out Jorhan.

  To Beltur, the Road Inn didn’t look all that impressive, just a long and seemingly low brick-walled structure on the north side of the Axalt road, set apart by open ground, possibly snow-covered pastures, from the handfuls of houses and cots that apparently constituted the village of Charaam. As they rode closer, though, Beltur realized that the inn was more imposing than he’d realized, a full two stories, stretching almost thirty yards on a side, with a width of possibly twenty yards, separated by an open courtyard from a stable about the same size as the inn. The roof was steeply pitched, and probably needed to be, given the amount of snow that he’d already seen, even before winter proper had begun.

  Almost another glass passed before Karmult turned the lead sledge off the road and along a snow-packed way toward the stable, where an ostler stood motioning. Beltur watched as Karmult eased the sledge to a halt outside the first of two large doors.

  “The first door is for sleighs and sledges, the second for horses.” The ostler looked closely at Slowpoke as Beltur rode up. “You an armsman for hire?”

  “No. Just a black mage, with a healer, who’s also my consort.”

  “Your mount looks like a warhorse.” The ostler’s voice was close to accusing.

  “He was. I rode him against the Gallosians. The Council didn’t want him after the fighting ended. I did.” All of that was true, even if the implications weren’t. After seeing the dubious expression on the man’s face, Beltur opened his coat enough to show his black tunic and the silver patrol medallion.

  The ostler stepped back. “I’m sorry, ser. We have to look out for brigands.”

  “I can understand that, but do you get that many in the winter?”

  “There are still a few. Most stay in the hills near the border, but two eightdays ago, they ambushed a trader traveling alone some ten kays north of here.”

  “That’s good to know. Which stalls? We have three mounts.”

  “Take the next door. You can double-stall the two smaller horses at the end, and the big one next to them. That will only be a copper for each stall. We charge by the stall, but feed is extra.”

  “How much?”

  “A copper a day for each horse. Two cups of grain and hay. A stone’s worth of hay a day.”

  Beltur nodded. He hadn’t the faintest idea if that was enough, but had the feeling it might not be enough for Slowpoke.

  Once they had stalled and unsaddled the horses, Jessyla watched as Beltur groomed the three. Then they waited for Jorhan and the others before they carri
ed their duffels and the provisions sack across the courtyard to the front foyer of the inn, a red-brick-floored space far larger than any inn Beltur had visited, with age-darkened oak walls, and the faintest hint of cooked onions coming from somewhere.

  There, Jessyla unwound her heavy scarf and smoothed her hair into a rough order. The man behind the counter stared. “Don’t see many women traveling this time of year.”

  “You won’t see many like this pair, Mharl,” said Vaenturl, gesturing to Beltur, who had set down the duffel and provisions sack. “He’s a mage, and she’s a healer. And don’t get ideas. They’re consorted.”

  The stocky man shook his head. “First pretty woman in eightdays, and she’s a healer consorted to a mage. Whole season’s been like that.”

  “You expect too much of fall and winter,” countered Vaenturl. “What about rooms on the south side on the west end?”

  “How many?”

  “Four. Three small, one large. With good shutters.”

  “All the shutters are sound.” At Vaenturl’s doubtful look, Mharl added, “Mostly.” Then he looked at a large board with hooks. Under each hook was a number, and under some numbers was a line. Most of the hooks held keys.

  “I can give you fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen.”

  Vaenturl looked at the board. “What about eight, nine, ten, and eleven, the ones on the top level?”

  “If you’re only here for the night.”

  “We’ll take them.” The trader turned to Beltur. “It’s seven coppers for the double.”

  “I’m supposed to ask for eight,” complained Mharl.

  “Seven will do for a mage and a healer.”

  “Easy enough for you to say.”

  “They wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for us, and you wouldn’t have even the seven.”

  “You traders…”

  “You’re making it up in stalls and feed,” added Beltur.

  Mharl smiled wryly. “Seven.”

  Beltur handed over a silver and received back three coppers and the key, with the number 11 scratched into the metal. “Is there wash water in the room, or do we carry it up?”

  “There’s a pitcher and basin in the room. There’s a pump at the end of the building on the lower level.”

  “Run the water for a bit before you fill the pitcher,” suggested Vaenturl.

  “And throw the waste water out the hall window at the end,” said Mharl. “That way you don’t dump it on someone.”

  “Meet for supper in half a glass?” Jorhan pointed to the double doors on the far side of the foyer.

  Beltur looked to Jessyla, then back to Jorhan. “Three quints or so.”

  “We’ll be in the public room,” said the smith.

  “Follow me,” suggested Vaenturl.

  Beltur and Jessyla let the trader from Montgren lead the way to a narrow staircase that creaked as they climbed to the second level.

  “Upper level is a little warmer and a lot quieter,” offered Vaenturl. “Even in off-times.”

  “Do you travel this road that often?” asked Jessyla.

  “Only once a year. I’ve been doing that for ten-odd years. Most years, anyway. I’ve never been farther west than Elparta. Made it to Kleth once. Never again.” Vaenturl turned right at the top of the stair and headed toward the end of the also narrow hallway.

  “Why not?” Beltur had an idea, but he wondered if he was assuming too much. He had difficulty getting himself, the duffel, and the provisions bag through the opening to the hallway.

  “There’s nothing there you can’t get in Elparta for less, and the traders there … they have definite ideas about their worth and the worth of whatever they trade in.”

  Beltur nodded. That scarcely surprised him.

  “You said you left Elparta because the Council had little gratitude. That’s a little vague.”

  Before Beltur could reply, Jessyla immediately said, “We came from Gallos, hoping Spidlar would be more hospitable. After a few seasons, it became clear that it wasn’t, and that matters would get worse.”

  “Why was that, if I might ask?”

  “Traders tend to regard mages and healers as slightly higher-paid indentured servants,” replied Beltur. “And they don’t like it if we discover ways to make a few more coins.”

  “Jorhan mentioned something like that. I wondered. Do you think it will be better anywhere else?”

  “We’re young enough to take that chance,” said Jessyla. “From what I’ve seen, the older you are, the harder it is to move.”

  “That might be. It also might be that when you’re younger, you think places are more different than they really are.”

  “Or that when you’re older,” countered Jessyla, “you fool yourself into thinking they’re more alike.”

  Vaenturl chuckled. “I foresee interesting times for you two. You might be better off in Montgren, if I do say so.”

  “Why do you think that?” asked Beltur.

  “We can talk about that later.” Vaenturl pointed. “There’s your room. It’s much better than where Mharl wanted to put you.”

  “Thank you,” replied Beltur, turning the door lever and pushing the door open. He stepped back to let Jessyla enter, then said to the trader, “At dinner, then.”

  “Of course,” replied the trader with a smile, looking back down the hall to where Karmult was emerging from the staircase.

  Beltur nodded and stepped into the room, setting the duffel and provisions sack against the wall beside the door, and then closing the door behind himself. In the dimness, he glanced around the chamber, taking in the small wash table, the line of wall pegs for clothing, the heavy brown woolen hangings over the shuttered window, and the one bed, twice the width of a pallet bed, not exactly capacious, Beltur thought, but certainly better than the wooden floor of the way station. “How are you doing?”

  “A little tired. My thighs are sore.” Jessyla flushed. “From riding.”

  “I’ll fill the basin with water, and use a trace of chaos to warm it up. Then I’ll get another pitcher full.”

  Jessyla sat on the edge of the bed, still looking at Beltur. “Vaenturl wants us to go to Montgren. Do you know why?”

  “I don’t know more than he’s a trader out of Vergren and that Jorhan trusts him. He’s not chaotic.”

  “I sense that as well. That’s why…”

  “You think he’s trying to tell us that Axalt may not be any better for us?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “You wash up and … whatever. Let me go get some more water. Slide the lock plate after I leave.”

  “I can manage that.”

  After adding a touch of order to the water in the pitcher before heating it with chaos and pouring it into the basin, Beltur took his time getting the water, partly because he ducked into another vacant room and picked up a second pitcher, so that when he made his way back upstairs, he had two full pitchers.

  After he unlocked the door and reentered, he saw that Jessyla was combing out her hair, not that it was that long, not even shoulder length, and peering into a tiny tin mirror nailed to the wall. He couldn’t help but wish he could have afforded one of the cupridium mirrors that he and Jorhan had forged. “Do you need any more warm water?”

  “Not now. You might want to empty the basin, though.”

  Beltur did just that, using the window at the end of the hall, and noticing a large icy lump rising from the snow below. He returned to the room and washed up. Then he shaved, not knowing when he might next get the chance. After that he changed into his better black wool tunic, since he’d been wearing his “working” tunic the whole time since twoday morning.

  He also made certain that the patrol medallion was under his tunic and out of sight before turning and looking at Jessyla in her greens—and wearing the shimmersilk scarf he had given her. “You look beautiful.”

  “Scarcely that. Better than presentable.”

  “Beautiful,” he said gently.

 
“You really mean that.” Her eyes brightened. She stepped forward and held him tightly.

  Beltur’s arms went around her, and they stood there, locked together, for a time.

  “Even after all this…” she murmured. “I’m so glad.”

  “So am I.”

  By the time the two left their room and made the way back down to the public room, Vaenturl and Jorhan were already seated at a round table with five straight-backed chairs. Of the close to twenty tables in the room, only seven were taken, most of them close to the hearth, where several large logs, obviously recently added to the fire, now burned.

  At Beltur and Jessyla’s entrance, several men turned to look, not so much at Beltur, he sensed, as at Jessyla. He strained to hear some of the comments.

  “… pretty thing with the mage … young … mage … good or cocky…”

  “… rode a warhorse … no wonder his consort’s…”

  Beltur repressed a smile as he looked hard at the weathered man who’d started to comment on Jessyla. The man immediately looked away.

  Beltur seated Jessyla beside Jorhan, and Vaenturl switched chairs so that Beltur was seated between Jessyla and the trader.

  “Karmult should be here in a bit,” said Jorhan. “He’s meeting with another Lydian trader who’s headed to Elparta.”

  “With winter coming on?” asked Jessyla.

  “He’ll likely take a riverboat down to Spidlaria and a ship back home from there,” explained Vaenturl. “Spidlaria won’t freeze up until midwinter, if then.”

  “Did he say why he was meeting?” asked Beltur.

  “I didn’t ask,” replied Vaenturl. “No point in it. He’d never say. Lydians are more closemouthed than Spidlarians. Traders and merchants, anyway.”

  “Does that go back to Heldry the Mad?” asked Beltur with a smile.

  “Who was he?” asked Vaenturl.

  “A duke of Lydiar.”

  “Never heard of him.” Vaenturl shrugged.

  “He wrote a book on ruling.”

  “Must not have been that good a duke if he had to write it all down.” Vaenturl glanced toward the open doors to the public room. “Here he comes.”