Except for women he didn’t know. “I thought so, but I’m not that experienced.”
“You’ll be more experienced after another few eightdays with the City Patrol,” said Athaal.
“I’m curious,” Beltur ventured. “Was there a particular reason Jessyla didn’t accompany you?”
Margrena frowned. “She was helping Grenara. She’s better about that, and Waensyn said there was no need to deprive Grenara of her assistance.”
Beltur nodded. “I just wondered.”
“So he planned it all along. Just because Beltur’s uncle didn’t care for him?” asked Athaal.
“Waensyn obviously has a very high opinion of himself. Sometimes, people who feel that way tend to dislike others who don’t share that level of regard.” Meldryn sighed. “This all means I’m going to have to have a talk with Cohndar about Waensyn. I think I’d like to see if he approaches me, first. If he doesn’t in the next few days, then I’ll find a pretext to run into him.”
Margrena rose. “I think I’d better get back to Grenara’s.”
“Would you like me to accompany you?” asked Athaal, standing.
“That’s very kind of you. I think I would.” Margrena turned to Beltur, who had also stood. “I’m so sorry, Beltur. I really had no idea.”
“I know.”
The healer nodded. “I thought so.”
Beltur understood what she wasn’t saying, and he wondered if she could sense personal order-chaos flows as well, or if she’d just read his face.
After the two had left, Meldryn turned to Beltur. “You did mean what you said about Athaal? Your uncle actually said that?”
“Yes, ser. I even asked him if the Sarronnese blacks put on airs. He said he had no idea because he didn’t know any.”
“That would seem to indicate that he knew Waensyn and didn’t much care for him. Do you think he let Waensyn know his feelings?”
“I doubt it. Uncle seldom was that direct.”
“Well … someone must have told Waensyn … or your uncle’s attitude must have been obvious.”
“Ah … that is very possible. Uncle seldom said much, but it wasn’t hard to know when he thought you were being stupid or arrogant.”
“And Waensyn strikes me as possibly being both … unfortunately.” Meldryn paused, then said, “It might be best if you didn’t talk about this afternoon with anyone but Athaal, Margrena, or me.”
“Yes, ser.” And possibly Jessyla.
Meldryn smiled. “You can get back to your reading. I’m headed back to the bakery.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
The older mage shook his head. “Your reading On Healing might serve us all better.” Then he turned and left the parlor.
Beltur stood there for a moment, pondering Meldryn’s last words; then he bent and picked up the leather-bound volume.
XXXIX
Beltur woke slightly early on oneday morning, still wondering what had caused Waensyn to attack him with so much venom the day before, especially since he’d never even met the black mage before. Although the attack didn’t seem to make much sense, from everything Beltur had seen and heard, Waensyn was anything but impetuous, and the way in which he had asked the scathing questions had been calculated. Beltur was just glad that he hadn’t hidden anything from Athaal and Meldryn. Otherwise, Waensyn’s questions could have proved disastrous. Had he expected you to hide your past?
That suggested to Beltur that Waensyn wasn’t likely the most direct of individuals, and that he expected the same of others. Either that, or all the whites he had met were liars, and while Beltur thought little of Wyath, his uncle certainly hadn’t been a liar. And Wyath had him killed.
No matter how he puzzled over it, Beltur didn’t know enough to determine why Waensyn had done what he did. It was more than clear, though, that the man was anything but friendly, but Beltur didn’t know what he could do about it except be careful and not to trust Waensyn or what he might do. He couldn’t help but worry about what Waensyn might say, especially to Cohndar and the other Spidlarian blacks that Beltur hadn’t met.
He tried not to think about it as he made ready for the day, ate his breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen area, and then headed off to help Jorhan at the smithy.
The morning was slightly warmer than it had been, and almost muggy. The still air made it seem warmer than it was, but Beltur reminded himself that it was still harvest, for almost another two eightdays, and harvest was warm. Early fall wasn’t much better, but it might be colder in Elparta than it was in Fenard, given that Elparta was farther north.
Beltur was feeling better, or less worried, when he arrived at the smithy.
“We’ll be working on sabres for the next two days,” Jorhan announced from where he was building up the forge fire. “There’s a trader from Lydiar who wants three of them. I’m giving him a good price on them—not too good, but good.”
“You’d said…” Beltur ventured, then broke off his words.
“That’s for anyone in Spidlar. There are only so many who’ll want to pay for blades like that here, but ships from everywhere port in Lydiar. Far more than in Spidlaria. If he does well with them, we’ll have orders for years.” Jorhan shrugged. “If not, we’ve still made more than we would have otherwise.”
“Do you really think there are that many people who would pay that much for a cupridium blade?”
“I do.” Jorhan grinned. “I wasn’t as straight up with you as I might have been. I’ve tried with a mage or two over the years. It didn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“One just tried to put order into the bronze. Leastwise, that was what he said. It just split into sections that I couldn’t even dent. The other one created a bronze that acted like black iron, and wasn’t as hard. They weren’t interested in trying to work it out. Said they had better things to do. So I told your friend Athaal that if he came across a young mage, just starting out who was willing to work with me, I’d like to talk to him.”
“You were willing to pay me even if it didn’t work?”
“There’s a risk to everything. If you couldn’t do it … I’d be out a few silvers. If you could—and you did—we’re both doing a whole lot better.”
Beltur frowned. “Then there can’t be that many smiths who are making cupridium.”
“I don’t know of any. The old cupridium blades go for more than five golds, sometimes ten, if you can even find anyone who’ll sell.”
“You’re not asking that much?”
Jorhan shook his head. “They’re paying for history and mystery. I figure I can’t ask that, not yet. I took one of the blades to the Council’s master armorer, and asked him about it. He couldn’t believe we’d forged it. He did all sorts of tests, but he thinks it’s about the same as the old blades.”
“He thinks it is?”
“Each blade is a little different. A real master armorer can tell the slightest difference. He said it was as close as it was possible to be to those he had seen before and the one he has. I wasn’t about to sell one as cupridium without his seeing and testing the blades.”
“You’re telling me that we’re doing something that no one’s done since the fall of Cyador?”
“That’s what I figure. I haven’t heard of anyone who’s making cupridium anywhere in Candar or Nordla. I might be wrong. I don’t know about Austra, and who knows what they’re doing in Hamor? They say that there are descendants of the Cyadoran imperial family ruling Cigoerne. If anyone would be forging cupridium, they’d be the ones.” Jorhan shrugged. “That’s what I’ve heard. Maybe some cousin was at sea or just happened to be way to the west. Anyway, I don’t see them shipping cupridium blades all the way to Candar. That’s if they’re even forging them.” The smith grinned. “Might just be that most mages don’t want to spend time sweating in a forge.”
Most mages don’t end up copperless and without relatives in a strange city. “That could be. Athaal wasn’t sure I’d be interested.”
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“You keep working with me, and you’ll have more silvers in a year than he’s seen in ten.”
Beltur eased off his tunic and hung it on one of the pegs. “I won’t count any silvers I haven’t earned and collected.”
“Wise man. The first mold’s hot enough now.”
Beltur walked toward the forge and the bellows he’d learned to work the way Jorhan wanted.
By midday, he was sweating and had gone through two mugs of bitter ale, and they had only cast one sabre, largely because the melt hadn’t felt right to Beltur, and he’d insisted that Jorhan add more copper. The smith hadn’t protested, not beyond saying he hoped Beltur was right. The order-chaos pattern had fixed well in the metal, though, and Beltur felt much better about the result.
Between heating the molds and getting the melts right, the next two castings took most of the rest of the afternoon, but Jorhan announced himself pleased, adding, “I might do some finish work on them later.”
Beltur had no doubts that the smith would be working. He seemed to work most of the time. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
“Right as rain.”
Beltur donned his tunic and then began the walk back toward Elparta. After he had gone several hundred yards, he began to raise multiple shields. Raising and holding two in addition to his personal shields was definitely getting easier. Then he tried for a third. He managed to walk perhaps ten paces before he lost control of the last shield. Still … you had it for a little while.
He did replicate holding a third additional shield for several moments twice more before he sensed that he’d done enough for the time being. Part of that might have been because it had been a while since he’d either eaten or drunk any ale, and part because the day was so muggy. Once inside the city walls, he took the shaded street beside the wall until he reached Crossed Lane and turned west toward Bakers Lane.
When Beltur entered the house, he heard a woman’s voice, one that sounded familiar, yet one he couldn’t place, and he walked straight toward the parlor, rather than washing up immediately.
“You’ve got a visitor, Beltur,” called Athaal.
Although he had half hoped it might be Jessyla, he was still more than a little surprised to see her sitting on the bench and watching him enter the parlor. “Jessyla … I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I didn’t expect to be here.”
“I was near Grenara’s place,” said Athaal, “and after what happened yesterday, I thought I’d stop by.”
“I persuaded him to let me come to dinner here,” added Jessyla.
“In that case, you’re going to be here a bit. Would you mind if I washed up? Smithing isn’t nearly as neat an occupation as healing.”
“Not always,” she replied. “We can talk about that after you clean up.”
Beltur hurried upstairs, washed quickly, changed into his other clean shirt and then made his way down to the parlor, catching the last words of what Athaal was saying.
“… be more like winter by the last two eightdays of fall.”
“Does it really get that cold here that much earlier?” asked Beltur as he settled into the straight-backed chair across from Jessyla. He found himself gazing directly into her intense green eyes, then abruptly looked away.
“I don’t claw, Beltur,” she said gently before turning to Athaal. “You didn’t answer Beltur’s question.”
“I didn’t. Elparta is colder than Kleth, and much colder than Spidlaria. The snows are deep, and they last into spring. That’s because we’re higher here than in Kleth or Spidlaria, and because Spidlaria’s on the ocean.” Athaal stood. “If we’re to have that dinner I promised, I need to do a few things.” He gestured to Beltur. “You stay put and entertain Jessyla.”
Beltur didn’t even think about arguing. He once more looked at Jessyla. “You were going to tell me that sometimes healing is anything but neat.”
“Childbirth isn’t neat. The red flux certainly isn’t.”
“I know.”
“Oh … I’m sorry. I forgot.”
For a moment, Beltur wondered what she had forgotten, then realized what she’d been referring to. “That’s all right. I don’t remember much. I was only six when she died.”
“I can’t imagine how hard that was.”
“It was harder when my father died. I was almost ten, and he was very caring.” Beltur half wondered why he was even sharing that with her.
“So your uncle raised you from then on?”
“He did. He was sometimes gruff, but I knew he cared. In that way, I was fortunate. Not many people have that much care growing up.” He added quickly, “I’m guessing that your mother cares for you a great deal.”
“She does. That’s why I’m here.”
To Beltur that didn’t make sense, and he wasn’t quite sure what to say in response. He didn’t have to, because Jessyla went on.
“She didn’t even tell me how awful that bastard Waensyn was last night. He’d been pretending all along, talking about how respected your uncle was, and then to attack you … Mother didn’t want me to know, but I heard her and Athaal talking.” Abruptly, Jessyla blushed. “I was eavesdropping, really, but I got so mad that I made them both explain. Athaal and Mother, that is. So I just had to come and explain that I didn’t know what that horrible little man was going to do.”
Beltur refrained from smiling at her reference to Waensyn, who, while somewhat shorter than Beltur, was certainly not little. “I’m glad to see you. I’d wondered why you hadn’t come with your mother.”
“She wanted me to help my aunt with laundry. Aunt Grenara’s not young.”
“Oh?” Beltur had his doubts, but he wasn’t going to raise them … yet.
“She’s much older than Mother, something like fifteen years. That’s why she doesn’t do much healing anymore. Mother says I’m more like her in looks. She was a redhead. I don’t recall her hair ever being anything but gray. I wanted to come, but … Anyway, this is better.”
“How is living there? With your aunt, I mean?”
“She’s not used to having other people around—just Growler.”
“Growler?”
“Her cat. He doesn’t care much for either Mother or me. I like dogs better.”
“Why does she have a cat?” Beltur had never thought about dogs or cats as pets.
“He keeps mice and rats out of the house. He’s very good at it. He also thinks the entire house is his.”
“Are cats really like that?”
“So Mother says.” Jessyla offered a wry smile.
Beltur was silent for a moment, then said, “I never did thank you. Not properly.”
“Thank me?”
“If you hadn’t told me what Athaal said about handling chaos through order, I never would have discovered that I wasn’t really a white. I never would have changed my shields, and Wyath and his mages would have killed me, too. I know you said you didn’t think I was really a white, but it was the suggestion that got me to change.”
“You don’t like to deceive people, do you?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Because I don’t either.”
“Doesn’t that get hard for a healer?” Beltur asked. “I mean…”
She smiled, a wide and open expression. “You understand, don’t you?”
“I think so. You’re supposed to heal people, but what if you can’t? What if all you can give them is a little comfort, and they ask you if they’ll be all right?”
“You sound like you’ve had to try healing.”
“Only once. There was this boy…” Beltur quickly summarized what had happened with Claudyt’s grandson. “… and I think I saved him, but he’ll always limp and stumble. If I’d known more … but then, maybe, it wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“You really did that?”
“I did. I didn’t want to, but he would have died. Even the old healer felt that way. So did his grandfather. There wasn’t anyone else.”
“Mother says you can only do your best.” Jessyla paused. “What if it’s not enough? I know it’s that way sometimes. I’ve already seen it. I hate it.”
“I still worry about the boy.” Beltur also worried about whether somehow he’d be faulted for trying something beyond his understanding and skill. “I’ve been reading this book—On Healing…”
“Do you want to be a healer?”
“I don’t know that I’d be that good. But I’ve already had to do something, and if something like that comes up again, I want to know more. I know a book’s not as good as doing, but you have to start somewhere.”
“Maybe you should come with us on a day that you’re free.”
“I don’t have many of those right now…”
Before Beltur knew it, Athaal and Meldryn stood in the archway to the kitchen. He looked up, surprised. “Is dinner … I should have helped. I’m sorry.”
“It’s good to see you two enjoying yourself,” said Meldryn.
Beltur stood, then motioned for Jessyla to precede him into the kitchen, where he sat across from her. A mug of ale stood beside each platter, each of which held a generous section of meat pie, with sliced pearapples on the side.
“This looks wonderful,” Jessyla said.
“That’s one of the special things about living here,” Beltur said.
“Don’t just look at it,” said Meldryn. “Please eat before it gets cold.”
“It would still be good,” replied Athaal. “Mel’s meat pies are good cold … unlike some.”
Beltur wanted to dig into the pie, but waited until Meldryn and Jessyla started to eat before he did. No one said anything for a time.
Then Jessyla looked across at Beltur. “You never said what sort of work you were doing with the smith? Are you trying to make black iron?”
With his mouth full of the warm and crusty meat pie, Beltur could only shake his head. He finished swallowing and took a sip of the ale before answering. “He’s mostly a coppersmith. We’re casting and forging things out of cupridium.”
“Real cupridium? I didn’t know anyone could do that anymore.”
“The smith thinks it’s cupridium. It’s harder than bronze and more silvery. It’s taken quite a bit of effort to make it work. Some people will pay for it. Since they will, I can actually begin to make some coins. I wouldn’t have been able to do it if Athaal hadn’t introduced me to the smith.”
The Mongrel Mage Page 37