Outcasts of Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  “I need to help Johlana straighten—”

  “Nonsense! You can help me while he saddles the other horse. It won’t take all that long. Beltur, you just go saddle up that mount.”

  Beltur decided not to argue.

  He didn’t hurry in saddling one of the Council horses—except that they’ve turned out to be ours, after a fashion—but he wasn’t deliberately slow, either, and Jessyla was waiting at the side portico when he led the mount there.

  “We expect you for dinner!” declared Johlana from the door.

  “We won’t be too long,” replied Jessyla as she mounted.

  Beltur mounted Slowpoke and then led the way out onto the street.

  “This is much better than walking,” said Jessyla from where she rode beside Beltur. “There aren’t even any wagons on the road.”

  “I haven’t seen many going this way. Most of them stay on the main road—except for the one that delivered the kitchen cistern. I didn’t have time to rinse it out thoroughly, though. It came less than a glass before I had to meet you, and by the time we had it in place … Well. I did put a bucket of water in it, but it came out cloudy. Not really filthy, but dirty enough that I’ll need to rinse it and wipe it out.”

  “So we won’t have to lug water all the time?”

  “Not after the first times,” he replied wryly.

  “Couldn’t we use the horses?”

  “That would only work if we work together. Trying to pump water and then mount holding a bucket of water…” He shook his head.

  “Then we’ll have to do it in the late afternoon.”

  Beltur wasn’t about to argue about that, although he knew he’d be the one carrying the buckets. Still … he wouldn’t be walking carrying them, and they couldn’t be that full.

  Before long, Beltur, Jessyla, and the two horses arrived at the cot. Although Beltur didn’t actually see Rohan, he had the sense that the landlord was watching as he dismounted, tied up the horses, and then carried the bundles inside the cot. Once he set the bundles next to the others on the side kitchen table, the one that had come with the cot, and not the better one that Barrynt and Johlana had provided, Beltur looked to Jessyla.

  She was clearly studying everything in the kitchen, and then, without looking back at him, she went into the bedchamber and then the washroom before returning. “You really did scrub everything. It’s all so clean.”

  “That’s what was needed. There was a lot of dirt in the corners, and dust everywhere.”

  She shook her head. “Who would believe it?” Then she stepped forward and hugged him tightly. “Thank you. You’re so much more than most people see.”

  Just because I know how to clean? It wasn’t as though Beltur hadn’t had lots of experience, first with his uncle and then doing what he could for Athaal and Meldryn. Besides, he hated dirt. Is that because you’re a black? Somehow, he didn’t think so. He hadn’t liked being dirty or around dirt when he’d thought he was a white. “Are you going to show me what’s in the bundles?”

  “Not right now. We need to get back for dinner, and we’ll need to unsaddle and groom the horses.”

  Beltur nodded.

  Jessyla was right, of course, because everyone else was in the family parlor by the time he and Jessyla finished with the horses and washed up.

  As soon as they walked into the parlor, Johlana said, “I’d thought that Halhana and Eshult would be here for dinner so that you two could spend some time with them, but they had to go somewhere with Emlyn and Sarysta.”

  Beltur managed not to frown. Johlana had been at Halhana’s earlier. Was that why Halhana had stopped, and why Johlana had been upset and trying not to show it?

  Especially after thinking about that, Beltur was more than ready for a beaker of pale ale and was sitting on one of the straight-backed chairs enjoying his second or third swallow when his eyes drifted to the bookcase. He set his mug on the side table, then rose and walked across the parlor, where he extracted the worn volume from the bookcase. “Jorhan … I read something interesting in The Wisdom of Relyn.”

  “I can’t believe there’s anything interesting in that,” murmured Frankyr, who dropped his eyes as Johlana shot him a sharp glare.

  Beltur quickly turned the pages until he found the words. “Here!” He started to hand the book to the smith.

  “You can read it,” said Jorhan. “You’ll do it better than I would.”

  “We don’t need a homily before eating, do we?” asked Barrynt.

  Beltur almost missed the twinkle in the merchant’s eye before he replied, “No. It might not hurt, but this is about something that happened to Relyn.”

  “He was supposed to have had an adventurous life before he came to Axalt,” said Ryntaar almost cautiously.

  “One of his adventures reminded me of something you said,” Beltur told Jorhan.

  “Something I said? Couldn’t be,” replied the smith. “I’m not that good a person. I’m not learned and witty, either.”

  “You don’t do badly,” replied Johlana, “no matter what you say. Beltur, go ahead and read it.”

  Beltur studied the words for a moment, debating where to begin, then said, “This is in the part where he tells about leaving Passera and coming to Axalt.” He cleared his throat.

  “Before the Prefect could send yet more armsmen after me, I gathered all that I could and went to embark upon a flatboat down the river to Elparta. Armsmen attacked me, but I was fortunate enough to prevail, and to reach Elparta. There I found more bounty-seekers pursuing, for the Prefect had placed a price of fifty golds on my head, but with the help of a shepherd boy and his widowed mother, whom I rewarded as best I could, I dealt with my pursuers and made my way safely to Axalt…”

  Beltur stopped and looked at Jorhan. “Does that sound familiar?”

  Johlana wrinkled her brow. “I’ve never read that part of the book.”

  Jorhan swallowed, then said, “It’s just a coincidence.”

  “How many shepherd boys with a widowed mother are likely to have helped a man with a price on his head and been rewarded, especially back then?”

  Johlana’s mouth opened. “That’s an old family story, about the stranger who never gave his name, but who left six golds in repayment and discovered the family’s coal when he was looking for a place to bury the assassins.” She looked at her youngest son. “He was named Frankyr, too.”

  “It seems to me to be too much of a coincidence,” said Beltur.

  “That was hundreds of years ago,” said Jorhan.

  “Who else would have left six golds?” asked Johlana. “Only a man with a price of fifty golds on his head would have been that grateful.”

  “Are you saying that one of our ancestors helped Relyn to come to Axalt?” asked Frankyr. “And he was called Frankyr?”

  “I doubt it’s something that you could prove,” said Barrynt, “but it sounds possible. Besides, it’s a good family story. You can tell it to your children.”

  Beltur noted the slight emphasis on the word “family.”

  “Now there’s one other thing,” added Barrynt, with a smile. “It appears that one of those buildings you two looked at earlier is open to be rented as a smithy.” He turned to Beltur. “I know you work tomorrow at the healing house so I arranged for us to look over the place on fiveday morning.”

  “You mean we can get to work?” asked Jorhan.

  “First we have to make certain that the building is suitable. After that, it will still take a bit to assemble everything. But it’s a start.”

  “About time,” declared the smith.

  “You’ve always been impatient,” said Johlana. “That’s one thing that’s never changed.” She smiled and rose. “I think it’s time for dinner.”

  Beltur replaced the book on the shelf, and he and Jessyla followed the others into the dining room.

  After a hearty meal of what Beltur thought was a cross between a stew and burhka, and twice as spicy, which required him to alternat
e mouthfuls of bread and stew in order to keep the considerable sense of burning in his mouth to a tolerable level, and after some pleasant conversation in the parlor after eating, he and Jessyla repaired to the room that they likely would be leaving before long.

  Once the door was shut, she looked at him. “There’s something about all of this that bothers me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “About you, me, Jorhan, and now Relyn…”

  “Don’t you think we deserve a little good fortune after being chased out of two different lands?”

  “I know. It’s not as though you didn’t save Elparta and then get chased out, or that you didn’t help Jorhan when he was deep in debt … but it’s still … strange.”

  “It’s about time that something strange turned in our favor. And we’re not exactly minting golds working at the healing house. Oh … Herrara told me the other day that the Council only pays for two healers. That’s one reason why we’re alternating.”

  “I know. She told me.” Jessyla shook her head. “It’s still strange.”

  Beltur couldn’t help but think the entire year had been strange … and that was just life.

  But that reminded him of what he hadn’t had a chance to tell Jessyla. “There was something else strange this afternoon…” He recounted his meeting with Eshult, Emlyn, and Sarysta, then looked to Jessyla.

  “Sarysta actually said it like that?”

  “No. It was more subtle, but it was there. And I think that Halhana had agreed to come to dinner, because Johlana was at her house earlier today. When she stopped this afternoon, it was to say that they couldn’t. I thought you should know.”

  “Poor Johlana.” Jessyla shook her head.

  After several moments, Beltur said, “We really ought to work on some mage exercises, or you won’t get better.”

  “I’m tired, but you’re right.”

  “Working at it when you’re tired makes you stronger … if you don’t overdo it.” Beltur paused. “Why don’t you start by lighting the traveling candle?”

  “That’s easy.”

  “And after that, I want you to put a shield around it.”

  “Oh…”

  “Go on.” Beltur grinned.

  “You can be mean, sometimes.” But she smiled back.

  XLII

  Fourday at the healing house was largely uneventful for Beltur, although he did have to spend time dealing with Poldaark’s wound chaos, albeit a smaller amount than on twoday. As soon as he finished, he hurried to Barrynt’s, where he saddled Slowpoke and then rode to the cot, carrying a load of wood, where Jessyla was organizing and arranging furniture and linens. After setting and lighting a hearth fire, over the next glass and a half the two pumped buckets of water that Beltur and Slowpoke carried back to the cot and used first to clean out the kitchen cistern, and then to fill it possibly a third of the way before closing up the cot and returning to Barrynt’s.

  Early on fiveday, Beltur carried more wood to the cot, and made arrangements through Rhodos to have two cords of wood delivered, before he and Jorhan rode to meet Barrynt at his factorage. From there, the three took the narrow road to south town. Beltur noticed that the snow piled alongside the paved way was now almost chest-high.

  “How high will the snow be here by late winter?”

  “Not more than another yard, usually,” replied Barrynt. “That’s as high as they can pile it. After that, they have to cart it to the river.”

  Before long they rode down the main street of south town, where the smoke from chimneys hung low over the various buildings. The air had a bite beyond mere chill, and Beltur had the feeling that in warmer times, that bite would be more pronounced and redolent of even more unsavory odors. He glanced at the other two, but neither seemed to notice, or they were better at ignoring the bitter tang that he was breathing.

  “It’s not far,” announced Barrynt. “Another block on the right.”

  “You said this building was the one that had been a smithy,” said Jorhan.

  “Years ago. It’s been empty for a while. Widow Santhela decided no one in her family wanted it, but she didn’t wish to sell it. I persuaded her son to get her to allow it to be rented.”

  “For how much?” asked Jorhan.

  “Truly a pittance. A bond of two silvers, and three coppers an eightday, but any improvements you make, you pay for, and they remain.”

  “There’s nothing inside, then,” groused Jorhan. “I’ll need to make workbenches and who knows what else.”

  “Why so little?” asked Beltur.

  “She’ll save two coppers an eightday. That’s what the Council’s charging her to clear the walks and curbs.”

  “It’s the reddish-brown building there.”

  The building was modest, a one-story rectangular stone structure, scarcely four yards back from the battered stone curb. Two narrow windows, with sagging shutters, flanked the door facing the street. The roof was less steeply pitched than most of those in Axalt, but the short walk had been cleared, and there was a stone-paved area with a hitching rail adjoining the walk. Barrynt guided his mount up to the hitching rail and dismounted.

  Beltur and Jorhan did the same, and Beltur tied Slowpoke and Jorhan’s horse to the railing.

  “That might be Theltar. He’s the youngest son.”

  As Beltur turned, he immediately wondered why the youngest son was the one dealing with the widow’s property. The approaching rider wore a coat with cross-barred gray-and-black patterns, something that Beltur had never seen, and his cap was made of the same fabric.

  “That has to be Theltar,” said Barrynt. “Recognize that gray-and-black plaid anywhere.”

  Plaid? Was that what that sort of fabric pattern was called? “I’ve never seen a coat like that before.”

  “Comes from Sligo. They weave those patterns there, all sorts of them.” Barrynt raised a hand as the rider reined up, dismounted, and tied his mount. “We just got here, Theltar. The thinner one is Beltur, and the brawny one is Jorhan. He’s the smith.”

  The angular-faced man, possibly five years older than Beltur, nodded. “I’m pleased to meet you. Shall we go inside?” Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he turned and walked to the door, quickly unlocking it and opening it. He beckoned for the others to enter.

  Once inside, in the dim light coming through the cracks in the shutters, Beltur saw that the main room was totally empty, and that there were two smaller rooms in the rear.

  “The chamber on the right was just for storing things. The one on the left was a woodshop.”

  Jorhan moved to the west wall of the front room, where a knee-high rectangle of stones stood. “Looks like this was once a forge. Have to rebuild it, though…”

  “I doubt that Widow Santhela would have a problem with that, so long as you did it proper,” replied Barrynt, turning to Theltar. “Would she?”

  “A deposit of an additional two eightdays’ rent if you make changes. That’s what Ma said.”

  The slight hesitation and a certain swirling of some small fragments of chaos around Theltar suggested to Beltur that the young man hadn’t talked that over with his mother, but before he could say anything, Barrynt did.

  “A small deposit. That sounds reasonable enough…”

  Beltur glanced around, noting the footprints that they had left in the dust, footprints suggesting that no one had been inside the building for some time, then walked to the storeroom, which had wall-to-wall shelves on one side—very dusty shelves. Then he walked into the woodshop, where he saw a solid-looking workbench. After that, he eased back toward the door and waited while Barrynt and Jorhan worked out the payment details with Theltar—essentially a silver deposit, with the rest to be paid before Jorhan and Beltur moved anything into the space.

  Less than a glass had passed from the time Theltar had arrived until the other three left the building and began their ride back from south town to the main part of Axalt.

  “Now that you have found a place tha
t you can turn into a smithy,” said Barrynt, “you have to make a proposal before the Council.”

  “Why the frig do we have to do that?” asked Jorhan.

  Beltur was more than happy that the smith had asked, because he’d had the same question.

  “So that the Council is aware of what is happening. Smithies are permitted, but the Council has to keep track of what is located where.”

  “You said that the building had been used as a smithy before.” Jorhan frowned. “Why do they have to approve it again?”

  “It was a smithy,” replied Barrynt patiently. “That was why I suggested that building, but the Council still must grant permission. I doubt that it will be more than a formality.”

  “How long will that take?” Jorhan’s voice contained both resignation and impatience.

  “They meet every sixday evening at fifth glass. You can present your proposal tomorrow. I already made sure that you are on the Council agenda.”

  What Barrynt said meant, at least to Beltur, that he and Jorhan had little choice in which building they could rent for the smithy. At the same time, it appeared that the merchant was doing what he could to speed up matters.

  “Will they decide then?” asked Jorhan.

  “Stars, no,” replied Barrynt. “It could take until the next meeting. Sometimes, it takes two meetings.”

  “But if it’s just a formality?” said Beltur.

  “It’s a formality if everything’s done properly. If it’s not, then the Council will say what else needs to be done.”

  “Needs to be done?” Jorhan’s voice sharpened.

  “If the roof leaks or if there are other problems, she can’t rent it until they’re fixed. That way, you aren’t stuck with repairs you didn’t count on. That wouldn’t be fair. She’d be deceiving you. Not that I don’t trust her and Theltar, but you can see how that might be a problem. Much better to nip that sort of thing in the bud. That’s why the Council’s inspector will go over the building before the Council will approve the smithy.”

  Much as Beltur could see the reasoning, it still bothered him.

  “Do they have to approve every frigging thing we do?” asked Jorhan.