Outcasts of Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  “I wouldn’t say that…”

  “But some people would. Like your aunt. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “She might. I don’t care. I like it either way. You can fix it this way any time.”

  And you’ll fix it your way. Beltur smiled ruefully. At least she liked it.

  LII

  As often occurred in Axalt after a light snowfall, eightday dawned bright, clear, and bitterly cold.

  “I’m really glad I don’t have to go out,” said Jessyla, as Beltur prepared to leave to deal with the horses and stable.

  “You could always come to the stable…” Beltur grinned. “You will have to refill the woodbox.”

  Jessyla shuddered. “Thank you for filling the cistern. I still don’t see how you managed by yourself.”

  “I told you. I put a containment over the top of the buckets. I should have thought about that earlier. That way I didn’t have to worry about spilling the water.”

  “You’re still learning. You’re not that old for a mage, and you can do things others can’t. That means you can’t learn from them.”

  “It also means I can’t learn from their mistakes, only from my own.” He paused, thinking. “Maybe that’s why some of the great mages made great mistakes.”

  “That may be, but you’d better get going, or you’ll be late.”

  “And Herrara will give me a long-suffering expression.”

  Jessyla just looked pointedly at the door.

  “I’m going. I’m going.” He finished pulling on his coat and wrapped his face and ears in the heavy scarf, then opened the door, wincing at the blast of frigid air that swept into the cot, before plunging forward.

  Cleaning the stables and feeding the horses went quickly, and he even had a little time with Slowpoke, just talking to the big gelding, before heading off to the healing house.

  Once Beltur was there, even before telling Herrara he had arrived, he went to find Yuareff, who was sitting on his bed, staring at nothing.

  “You’re here early, ser mage.”

  “Not early. You’re just the first person I’m seeing. I need to look at that arm.”

  “You can’t see much … Oh, you mean in the way only you mages can see?”

  Beltur nodded.

  “It feels fine. Well … not fine. It hurts, but a little less each day.”

  Beltur concentrated on Yuareff’s forearm, nodding as he sensed the three small points of wound chaos—small, but ugly yellowish red. It took several long moments to remove all three.

  Yuareff winced. “What did you do? It felt like three hot needles inside my arm.”

  “There was some wound chaos there. I took care of it.”

  “I never heard of that, except with you.”

  “Not many mages can heal, and even fewer healers can learn magery. Also, healing pays much less than magery, not that magery pays all that well for most of us.”

  “You could work every day.”

  “I do. I work as a smith’s assistant on the days I’m not here.”

  Yuareff frowned. “You work every day of the eightday? As a smith’s striker? And you are a powerful mage? I cannot say I understand. A mage should earn more than a crafter.”

  “A wise man once told me that people who only have their skills to sell are never wealthy. It is only those who control the work of others and the sale of many goods who have great piles of golds.” That wasn’t quite what Meldryn had said, but it was close, Beltur thought. “We’re not starving, and we have a small cot in which to live, and we’re young.”

  “Then you will be wealthy someday.”

  “I have my doubts about that.” Beltur laughed softly. “Your arm is doing better. If I can keep the chaos at bay for an eightday, it should heal without problems.” He paused. “It won’t be healed by then. It just should heal normally after that. It will take at least several eightdays more once the chaos is gone.” At least that long. He nodded. “I need to see to the others.”

  From Yuareff’s room he went to Herrara’s study.

  The healer looked up at him. “Elisa said you’ve already been to see Yuareff.”

  “I worried about wound chaos. Jessyla thought she sensed the beginning of more yesterday. It was definitely there today.”

  “He’s a very fortunate young man.”

  “He had a good healer set his bones,” said Beltur. “I couldn’t have done it nearly as well. Jessyla might have come closer.”

  “But neither of us could remove that wound chaos from within him.”

  “I have skills you don’t. You have skills I don’t.”

  Herrara smiled, even as she shook her head. “You can learn what I know. Few mages can do what you can.”

  “I’m sure there must be others.”

  “Oh … do you know of any? Have you even heard of any?”

  “No, but I’m young and have not been many places.”

  Herrara offered a sad smile. “I’m older, and much of the world passes through Axalt, and I’ve never heard of a mage like you. You may live in Axalt for years, even for the rest of your life, but you do not belong here. You and your consort are bigger than Axalt. Axalt is a small land. It could not remain as it is without the mountains and the winter. They protect it. As does the fact that we have neither gold nor silver or anything of value except the skills of our people.”

  “Axalt is prosperous and well-ordered. Why would we wish to leave?”

  “You may not. That is your choice.”

  “But?” asked Beltur. “There’s something you’re not saying.”

  “Well-ordered is also confining.” Her smile vanished. “You’d best look over the others, especially Wurfael.”

  Beltur could tell that Herrara wasn’t about to say more. “I’ll take care of that right now.”

  He was still thinking about Axalt being too small when he walked into Poldaark’s chamber. Wurfael could wait, if only for a bit. “Good morning. You look like you feel better.”

  “I do. A little. The shoulder still hurts when I move it.” Poldaark smiled. “I have somewhere to go. It’s not much, but it’s a warm place to sleep and two meals a day. Healer Herrara found it for me. I have to do all the chores for an old widow who has trouble getting around. I’ll only get a copper a day, but she says that she’d rather pay me than the Council.”

  Beltur hadn’t thought about that, but he recalled that there was a fee charged for not clearing snow and probably for other things as well. “That sounds better than where you were.”

  Poldaark nodded. “I start tomorrow.”

  “I’m very glad for you.” Poldaark wasn’t the brightest of young men, but he was good-hearted—that Beltur could tell—and he was willing to work, and helping a widow seemed far better than where he’d been.

  “If it hadn’t been for all you healers, I don’t know what I’d have done.”

  “We did what we could.” Especially Herrara.

  After leaving Poldaark, Beltur went downstairs to check on Wurfael. The young timberman had a long face. Beltur ignored the sad expression. “Good morning.”

  “What’s good about it?”

  “You’re awake and alive. There’s no more chaos in your leg. Is the hurting less?”

  “Unless something hits it.”

  “It’s likely to be sensitive for a time.”

  “For the rest of my life, short as it’s going to be.”

  “You don’t know that. More than a few men have lost a limb and gone on to live long lives. It happens every time there’s a war or an invasion.”

  “Not in Axalt. We don’t have wars or the like.”

  “Timbering is a form of war. You’re cutting down trees for your advantage. In war, the victor cuts down the troopers of the loser to gain an advantage.”

  “How would you know that, Mage?”

  “Because I’ve been a battle mage.”

  Wurfael’s mouth opened. “But you’re a healer.”

  “I’ve healed men. I’ve kille
d many more than that.” And that’s an understatement.

  “Begging your pardon … but…?”

  “I was with the Elpartan forces that defeated the Gallosians.” Beltur looked coolly at Wurfael. “I’ve seen men who’ve lost much more than you. The man who saved my life died when I couldn’t do enough to save him.”

  “You must be older…”

  “Than I look?” Beltur shook his head. “Things started happening when I was young. They didn’t stop. Now … start thinking about what you can do, not what you can’t.” He managed what he hoped was an encouraging smile before he turned.

  Once out in the corridor, Beltur wasn’t quite certain why he’d said as much as he had to Wurfael, except somehow … Wurfael seemed to be obsessed with what he couldn’t do. But then, how would you feel if you lost the ability to be a mage? What else could you do?

  He felt like shaking his head. Had he been too hard on the former timberman? Wurfael didn’t have much choice except to deal with what he faced. Really … is it different for any of us? Yet another disturbing thought followed. But you have advantages and abilities he doesn’t.

  The remainder of the day was like any other day—a beggar woman with frostburned fingers; a serving maid with bruises and a dislocated shoulder, something Beltur hadn’t seen before, which was why he watched Herrara intently as she relocated the shoulder; another youth with a broken arm. For all that, Beltur still worried about what he’d said to Wurfael.

  Beltur left the healing house right at fourth glass and hurried home, where he washed up and changed into his better blacks, thinking that he really needed to wash his others. That will have to wait until tomorrow. He’d put that off because the only place where he could hang them was in the kitchen and it took more than a day for them to dry. At least he had several shirts.

  At two quints past four, they set out for Barrynt’s.

  “What did you do today?” he asked Jessyla as they walked westward.

  “I went to the market square. They had some eggs, and even some dried beef, and a scrawny fowl. I made dumplings so that we could have fowl and dumplings for the next few days and you wouldn’t have to fix as much.”

  When they reached the merchant’s house, Frankyr greeted them at the side door. “Everyone’s in the family parlor. Except Halhana. She never comes on eightday anymore.”

  “How have you found working in the factorage?” asked Beltur as he took off his coat and hung it on a wall peg.

  “Different, ser. I’ve had to learn more, but it’s not as physical as dealing with the horses.”

  “The factorage is where your future is,” said Beltur, “not the stables.”

  “Father’s made that clear. So has Ryntaar.” Frankyr laughed softly and humorously.

  The first thing Beltur noticed as he stepped into the parlor was the cupridium mirror, standing on the larger side table.

  “Isn’t it just gorgeous?” asked Johlana, looking to Jessyla. “You’ve already seen it,” she added to Beltur before turning back to Jessyla. “It will make a stunning addition to her house.”

  “When will you give it to her?” asked Jessyla.

  “In a few days.”

  “It will be good for her to have some craftsmanship in something other than silver,” said Barrynt. “And in a metal even more valuable.”

  “Uncle Jorhan’s crafting is better than that silver stuff she has,” said Ryntaar. “Old Emlyn thinks things are good if they’re made of silver or gold, no matter what they look like.”

  “You may be right, Ryntaar,” said Johlana, “but that’s an opinion best kept to yourself. Those words could only cause trouble for Halhana. I don’t think you’d want that.”

  “None of us do, but it’s true.”

  “Enough said,” declared Johlana. “Please see to whatever Beltur and Jessyla want.”

  Ryntaar nodded.

  “The hot spiced wine, please,” said Jessyla.

  “Pale ale, thank you,” added Beltur, settling on the vacant settee beside Jessyla.

  Whatever was cooking in the kitchen smelled wonderful, and Beltur felt it might be a pork roast. His mouth watered at the thought as he took the beaker from Ryntaar, just glad to be in a warm parlor and not having to worry about fixing dinner, especially since the food was bound to be better than his efforts.

  Even so, his thoughts drifted back to Wurfael.

  LIII

  When Beltur reached the smithy on oneday, he found Jorhan busy at his workbench, working on a small mold, and there was only a modest fire in the forge, more to warm the smithy than anything, Beltur suspected.

  “What’s that?”

  “Something new,” replied the smith. “After you two left the house yesterday, I talked some with Barrynt. He thought we should try casting a few smaller pieces.”

  “That would take less bronze, but what pieces did he think might sell? We’ve already made belt knives and daggers, even small platters and mirrors.”

  “Smaller than that. What he called bud vases, with some ornate relief work. He also suggested I meet with artists who paint miniature portraits and see if they’d be interested in cupridium stands or frames.”

  “Would they pay enough?”

  Jorhan shrugged. “No one’s buying now. Making a bud vase or stand for a miniature won’t take that much copper and tin. We’d need an example of each to see who’s interested. I thought we’d start with the little vase. Likely take as much work on the mold as something three times as big. I’ve been at it since sixth glass.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  “Think about what might go on a miniature frame besides rosebuds … and shovel more coal in the forge. It’s cold in here.”

  Shoveling the coal was easier than coming up with a design, since Beltur had never been that good at drawing and his penmanship was barely readable, hard as he had tried. His uncle had told him that it was a good thing he was a mage, because he never would have succeeded as a scrivener. All that brought Beltur’s thoughts back to Wurfael. He couldn’t help feeling that he’d been too hard on the timberman. You’d be in a very hard place if you weren’t a mage.

  He was still thinking about that when Jorhan cleared his throat.

  “What thoughts do you have for the frame?”

  “Grapevines … ivy.” Beltur knew he wasn’t being that creative.

  “Don’t know about vines. Some folks might not take that well. The ivy’d be easier.”

  “What about just a pattern, interlocking diamonds or something?”

  “That might be better. Meantime, we need to work on the melt. It won’t take that long to heat the mold.”

  Beltur moved to the bellows and began to pump.

  Later, after Jorhan poured the melt, and Beltur set the order/chaos pattern, the smith turned. “Not much else for you to do.” Jorhan gestured. “No sense in you wasting time here.”

  Beltur nodded, donned his coat, then walked back to the stable, where he saddled one of the other mounts and rode her, then came back and rode Slowpoke. Even after riding and grooming them, he was back at the cot before third glass, where he began to prepare supper, a sort of fowl and root vegetable pie. After he put the pie in the oven, he turned to his neglected laundry.

  Jessyla arrived at a quint past fourth glass. “Whatever you’re cooking smells good.”

  “It’s a sort of fowl pie. It’s going to be a while.”

  “I need to wash up.”

  “Be careful in the kitchen. I’ve got laundry hanging there and a set of greens I did also.”

  “Thank you. I could have done that.”

  “There may be a time when I’ll need my blacks done.”

  Beltur got a smile before Jessyla headed to the washroom. He went back into the kitchen, where he checked on the pie and how his bread dough was rising. Then he returned to the front room, where he tried to visualize possible patterns for a miniature frame.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Jessyla when she rejoined him.
r />   “Patterns to put around the end of a cupridium miniature frame.”

  “A miniature frame?”

  “One that would hold a miniature painting. The kind artists paint for merchants.”

  Before Jessyla could say more, there was a series of raps on the door.

  “I can’t think who that might be,” said Beltur.

  “Rohan … or Frankyr or Ryntaar bringing something from Johlana,” suggested Jessyla.

  Beltur frowned as he turned and walked toward the door. Was he sensing the blackness of order outside? Almost instinctively, he strengthened his shields before easing the door open. His mouth opened as he saw Lhadoraak standing there.

  “What … how…?”

  “It’s a very long story…”

  Behind Lhadoraak stood Tulya … and Taelya.

  “Is this the place?” shouted the teamster of the wagon in the street.

  Beltur still didn’t know what to say. He did know that the three being there didn’t signify anything particularly good. Finally, he managed to say, “I take it that you left Elparta in a hurry. You’d better come in with whatever you have. We’ll sort it all out as we can.” He turned to Jessyla. “We have company.”

  “Lhadoraak! Tulya! Don’t stand out there in the cold. Beltur, help them with their things.”

  In a fraction of a quint, the three travelers were standing in the front room, three large bags stacked under the bench beside the door and their coats hanging on the wall pegs, piled partly on top of each other.

  “We didn’t know where else to go…” began Lhadoraak.

  “We couldn’t go anyplace else,” added Tulya tersely. “The river’s frozen over, and we had only an eightday before we had to leave.”

  “The Council exiled you all?”

  “No,” snapped Tulya. “They exiled Taelya. What else were we supposed to do? After you and Jessyla left, and then Cohndar and Waensyn vanished, Caradyn took over as senior mage, and the Council decided that, after their experience with you, no whites were to be permitted in Elparta. Somehow, they found out about Taelya…”

  “And here we are,” concluded Lhadoraak.

  All that raised questions Beltur wasn’t certain he even wanted to entertain, but knew he would have to face sooner or later. “How did you get here? How did you know where we live?”