The Death of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  After rinsing the mugs and setting them in the rack, I led her out, stopping by the shop to reclaim my new staff.

  We squared off in the center of the yard. A light breeze blew out of the west, bringing the acrid scent of graying leaves and a hint of chill all the way from the Westhorns.

  “I hope you’re better with it than with the old one.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “So we will.” Tamra circled left.

  I turned with her, but kept my feet balanced, knowing she was quicker.

  Flickkk .. Her staff flashed, but I slid it off to the right.

  Thwack! No finesse there, as that slight form shifted her weight to focus it all on the staff. My fingers were numb from the blow to my staff, and I backed up, trying to flex them while not letting go of the staff itself.

  Thwackkk! Thwack!

  Sweat was already popping out on my forehead, and Tamra looked cold, almost dispassionate, like some ancient Westwind guard must have.

  I feinted, then dropped, and came up under her guard. She parried but not before I cracked her on the thigh, not hard. I couldn’t do that, not in sparring.

  “Think you’re good?” She grunted, and her staff turned into a blur.

  At that point, I had to surrender to my own sense of order and let my body respond.

  The whole thing became a blur. I got in some blows, and she got in some. I got in more, but hers were harder. She didn’t have the restraints I did, which is why she got in trouble with Antonin, but why it took more work for me to hold her off with the staff.

  “All right!” I finally puffed, backing up, and sweating like a roasted hog. “You’re doing this every day. I only do it occasionally.”

  She put down her staff, looking only a bit warmer than before we started. Her red hair was slightly disarrayed. “When do you leave?”

  “Leave?”

  “About half the Finest know you’re headed somewhere, and Ferrel hasn’t come back, and Krystal’s taken over the Finest. And you’re asking about Justen.” Tamra snorted. “It doesn’t take much in the way of brains.”

  “Soon.” I bowed to the inevitable. “Since you know so much, what else can you tell me?”

  Tamra brushed her hair back off her forehead. “I can’t tell you that much. I can tell you that if Justen were here, he’d be telling you to take your book-The Basis of Order. Read it. You won’t survive forever on dumb luck and your staff work, even if it is getting better.”

  “Thank you.” I bowed, and my ribs ached, reminding me that I wouldn’t survive long at all on staff work by itself. “You’re also improving.”

  “I’ve been practicing against the Finest. You have to get faster when you’re working against blades. Krystal’s a good instructor. Has she been working with you?”

  “Only a little.”

  “It shows. You ought to do it more often.”

  “When?”

  Tamra gave me a quick smile. “I know how you two spend your free time.”

  “There hasn’t been that much.”

  Her smile got wider, and I wanted to crack her, but I walked across the yard and set the staff in the rack inside the shop door.

  In the end, after Tamra rode off, pleased with herself, I did have to go back to the chairs. With the break, the work seemed easier, and I even got the fifth chair back bent and clamped in place, and went back to the demon-damned grooved spokes that I had begun to wish I’d never designed. Elaboration, even of a good design, can be a definite pain, and I just didn’t have the experience of Uncle Sardit or Perlot. That hurt, because I spent more time on some things than was definitely wise.

  The clinking of the harness and the faint creaking of the cart wheels told me when Rissa returned.

  She looked in on me. “How many for dinner?”

  “I’d guess on six or seven. Three of us, and three or four guards.” I shrugged.

  “You… Never do I know who is coming for dinner.”

  “Neither do I, and it’s at least partly my house.”

  “Fantesa, she says she could never cook in such a place. Are there three or fifteen?” Rissa put both her hands on her narrow hips. “Or in the morning, I think I will feed three, and ten hungry people sit down in the evening. Or it is the other way around.” She lifted her shoulders. “In the market, they all look at me and laugh. And Brene, she cackles like her chickens. We should have chickens.”

  “What can I say?” I shrugged again, ignoring the reference to the chickens I didn’t want. “My consort is an important woman.”

  “This house…” But she said it with a smile before she retreated to the kitchen-or to the small room behind it that was hers. I went back to the spoke-shafts, and got two more rough-finished before it started to get dark.

  Right after sunset, I pulled out my striker and went into the yard. Three tries convinced me that the big lantern wasn’t going to light. I took it down and checked the wick. It needed trimming, but it was also dry, and that meant lugging it out to the shed where I kept the oils, a good fifty cubits behind the shed and off to the side of the stable. If lightning or something happened, like loose chaos, I didn’t want the shop or the house burning with the shed. Rissa grumbled about that, and so did I when it was cold or raining or snowing-though that was comparatively infrequent in Kyphros-and I had to get finish oil or varnishes. Luckily, it wasn’t that cold or rainy around Kyphrien, but I suppose I would have done the same thing if I had a place in Spidlar or Sligo.

  I had just replaced and lit the big lantern when I heard, and sensed, horses. So I waited out in the yard for Krystal and the Finest. Even in the saddle of the big black she looked tired, but she smiled. I offered her a hand down. She took it, which told me how tired she was.

  I glanced at the four guards, but none were more than noddingly familiar, then back to Krystal. “I told Rissa dinner for seven.”

  “Good. None of us have eaten.”

  “I thought it might be like that.” I squeezed her hand as we walked her mount to the stable. The others followed. Krystal just let me unsaddle her horse and rub him down, while she racked the saddle and poured the feed into the trough.

  Then we walked back through the twilight-a few stars had begun to twinkle in the evening sky. As we neared the house, Krystal handed me a heavy leather purse. It clanked. “Put that away.”

  “What’s that for?”

  “Your traveling expenses from Kasee. Please try to make the coins last. Our treasury isn’t exactly the deepest, although Kasee would never say so.”

  “I will try to return some, Commander.” I took the purse and bowed.

  Krystal hit me on the arm, hard enough for me to wince. “Sometimes. Sometimes, you are so… so…”

  “Insufferable?”

  “Yes!”

  “Have you washed up?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Neither have I.” I did give her a hug, but it didn’t last long.

  “You’re right. You didn’t. And you’re still insufferable.”

  I turned to Rissa. “Dinner will have to wait a little longer. At least until we’re more presentable.”

  “Too much washing is not good for the health.”

  “Neither is too little,” I answered.

  After I carried the purse into the bedroom and set it in the wardrobe I had made far too quickly-and wished I had taken more time and care every time I looked at it-we went to the rear washroom together.

  As I pulled off my shirt, Krystal turned to me. “What happened to your ribs?”

  “Tamra. She showed up this morning, and we sparred. She thought I ought to sharpen up.”

  “Being beaten black and blue is going to improve your skills?” Krystal laughed softly as she stripped off her vest and shirt.

  At that point I forgot about washing and opened my arms, trying not to wince. She obliged, but only for a bit.

  “You and I do need to wash up, and we have hungry troops waiting.”

  “Where’s Yelena?” />
  “Getting ready for tomorrow. Have you forgotten so quickly?”

  “No. I wish I could.”

  After washing quickly, I shaved, and we dried and hurried to the kitchen where, as soon as we entered, all the troopers stood and Rissa began carrying the big casseroles to the table for me to serve.

  Dinner was something called burkha, hotter even than the normal chilied foods that the Kyphrans enjoyed so much, and although I gave every trooper a huge helping, they ate it all, and didn’t even break a sweat.

  I was sweating after three bites, and so was Krystal, and we kept grinning at each other.

  “Perron?” Krystal said softly. “We’ll have to leave not much after dawn.”

  “Yes, Commander.” He glanced at the two of us, grinning.

  “The order-master is my consort, but, more important from your point of view, he has already saved more of the Finest than anyone in Kyphros.”

  Perron flinched at the gentle words, spoken quietly, and without edge.

  “I never did thank you,” said a woman trooper at one corner.

  I looked at her, but I couldn’t say I knew her.

  “I was the one with the lieutenant, ser. In the vale of Krecia. I’m Haithen.”

  “I’m glad I could help, but I was very lucky,” I told her.

  “Luck didn’t have much to do with it,” she added, directing her words at the squad leader. “He’s the one who took out the white wizard with a staff… on a pony.”

  Perron seemed to acknowledge that I might have some benefit.

  “How did your sparring go with Tamra?” asked Krystal innocently, although I could see the glint in her eyes.

  “Pretty much a draw,” I mumbled with a mouthful of burkha. “I can hit her more often, but she hits harder.” I had to reach for the bread. Redberry alone wouldn’t cool the burning in my mouth and nostrils.

  “You sparred with the red-the redheaded wizard?” asked Perron.

  “About midday. We have on and off for several years.”

  “Brave man…” About sparring with Tamra he was certainly right.

  After dinner, and more superficial remarks about the heredity and dubious claim of Berfir to the Duchy of Hydlen, Krystal and I took our leave.

  After we closed the door and slid the small bar in place, I kissed her.

  “We do have some time, Lerris. And I prefer to be close to you without my boots on.” She sat on the edge of the bed.

  That was a good idea, and I followed her example, shedding a few other accessories as well.

  She stopped and gave me a long deep look, the kind where I almost fell into her eyes. “You don’t have to do this, tomorrow, you know?”

  I looked at the floor. What could I say? “I owe you… and Kasee…”

  She pursed her lips and laid a hand on my leg for an instant. “What else happened to you today?” she asked as she eased out of her leathers.

  “You know. What happened to you?” I asked, pointing to an ugly bruise.

  “Tamra.”

  “Darkness, she gets around.”

  We both laughed.

  Krystal stretched out and lay there in the light of the one lamp. Outside I could hear the faint whisper of the low evening wind. “You never did answer my question about the day.”

  “Not much. I worked on the damned chairs for Hensil. I finally got more of the backs done. It’s taking forever, because I don’t have enough clamps. Oh… do you know a woman by the name of Antona? She was familiar with you.”

  “Antona?” Krystal laughed for an instant. “She is the proprietor of the Green Isles. She supplies most of the… courtesans… for the more established and wealthy young men-and some of the handsome… escorts for widows or bored consorts.” Her voice sharpened. “How did you meet her?”

  “She came here this morning and commissioned a desk.”

  “A desk?”

  “A very tasteful desk. Also very expensive, with a matching chair. I told her it would be fifty golds.”

  “She can afford it, but… still…” Krystal whistled.

  “You told me to charge what things are worth.” I looked at her sheepishly. “Now I know why she told me not to call her madame.”

  “Lerris, you didn’t?”

  “I did. How was I to know? She was very ladylike about it, just told me to call her Antona. So I called her Lady Antona.”

  “You must have made her day.”

  “She wanted a desk. I make them.”

  “What kind?” mused Krystal. “Something ornate and elaborate?”

  “She had definite ideas and-”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “-she wants black oak, and she wants it simple and perfect.”

  “I wonder why. I’m told that’s not the style of the Green Isles.”

  I grinned at her. “Because things that are simple and perfect are worth a lot more.”

  “I don’t know that I like that implication.”

  “You are perfect.”

  “Oh, Lerris.” But she did open her arms, and I turned down the lamp first, marveling at how long it had taken me to see what she offered, not only each night, but season after season, and how fragile each moment was. And how soon tomorrow would come.

  VI

  Cigoerne, Afrit [Hamor]

  THE SLIM BALD man in the tan uniform steps from the carriage outside the military gate to the palace of His Imperial Majesty Stesten, Emperor of Hamor, Regent of the Gates of the Oceans, and liege lord of Afrit.

  “Marshal Dyrsse, ser, if you would follow me?” The junior officer inclines his head slightly.

  Dyrsse nods brusquely in return, but his eyes drift downhill from the green marble palace to the smooth waters of the Swarth River, held in its banks by the levies that stretch from above the capital more than fifty kays down to the great imperial port at Swartheld.

  “Ser?”

  “Let’s go,” Dyrsse says. “It wouldn’t do to keep the Emperor waiting.”

  “No, ser. Lord Chyrsse said he was in a foul mood.”

  “And he wants to see me?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  The two march through the gate, past the four soldiers in dress tans who bear dark-barreled rifles, and through the arched halls of pale marble, their boots clicking on the polished stone. The two military men walk past two servers in white who push carts redolent of spiced meats.

  An Austran diplomat in dark woolens wipes his forehead as the two officers pass, and an official from the province of Merowey, in flowing white trousers and a peach-colored vest with gold braid, inclines his shaven head. Two functionaries in orange uniforms carrying brown leather cases nod deeply at the marshal and continue away from the receiving halls.

  “Did Chyrsse say why?” the marshal finally asks as they approach the northern anteroom.

  “No, ser.”

  As they step through the archway hung with tan draperies, fringed in gold, a heavyset man in brilliant blue trousers and a matching blue silk shirt, and wearing a heavy gold chain and medallion around his neck, steps forward.

  “Marshal Dyrsse, the Emperor is waiting for you.”

  “I came as soon as I received the message, but, even with the new river steamers, it takes some time.”

  “The Emperor understands that,” replies Chyrsse.

  “The Emperor does not have to understand much, Chyrsse,” responds Dyrsse. “He just has to command.”

  “You always understand… I’ll tell him you’re here.” After wiping his forehead with a large cotton handkerchief and blotting his damp cheeks, Lord Chyrsse hurries through a small doorway in the comer of the room.

  The junior officer looks down at the polished octagonal floor tiles. Dyrsse scans the empty military anteroom, then shakes his head. He sets the marshal’s cap on the polished stand by the large doorway next to the two silent guards, wearing swords, in the antique orange and black dress uniforms that date back to the founding of the Empire.

  Lord Chyrsse reappears. “His Excel
lency is waiting!” The marshal steps toward the heavy wooden doors warded by the guards, who turn, silently, and open them.

  Lord Chyrsse straightens his silks and steps through the double doors before Marshal Dyrsse. “Marshal Dyrsse, responding to His Excellency’s commands!”

  Dyrsse’s lips barely quirk at the high-pitched squeaking announcement, and he steps into the receiving chamber, where he walks to the orange carpet, turns to the throne and bows deeply. He waits.

  “You may depart, Lord Chyrsse.” The Emperor’s voice is deep, surprisingly deep, coming as it does from a thin figure with short but thick salt - and - pepper hair and a narrow beaked nose. Stesten’s eyes are a piercing light green.

  Behind the marshal, Lord Chyrsse bows and walks back through the side doors, which close with a dull thud.

  There are no guards visible in the hundred-cubit-long chamber, but the dozen embrasures in the overhead gallery, and the four in the wall that forms a semicircle around the throne, testify to their hidden presence.

  “You may approach, Marshal Dyrsse.”

  The slim bald man in the tan uniform walks forward until he reaches the foot of the five wide steps that lead up to the imperial throne where he bows again. “Your Highness. How might I serve you?”

  “By doing what you do best.”

  “As Your Highness commands.” Drysse bows a third time.

  “You are to go to Candar, to Dellash. We are going to complete the work there that has been waiting for too long. For far too many ages and through too many insults to the greatness that is Hamor.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “You sound doubtful, Marshal.” The Emperor’s voice hardens.

  “Your Majesty already has sent two envoys to Candar. Although your wish is always my desire, what could I add?”

  “Neither has your understanding of ships, troops, and tactics. And neither has the understanding that Candar merely represents a step toward our ultimate and long-delayed goal.”

  Dyrsse spreads his hands, as if in puzzlement.

  “You should not question, but you would not be Dyrsse if you did not. That is why you are a marshal and not an envoy. Currently, Candar is relatively orderly. I am led to believe that will change shortly.” A laugh follows. “Through the infusion of yet more order. We perhaps might even aid in that infusion of order.”