The Death of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Playing politics again.” Krystal smiled wryly, setting down her mug. She looked more rested than when she had arrived two days before, although I hadn’t seen much of her between breakfast and sunset. Still, while she’d gotten more sleep, there were still lines running from the corners of her eyes, and circles under them. “Getting advice from Zeiber, and even paying a call on Father Dorna, and trying to keep the followers of the one god happy. I’ve already met with Mureas twice.”

  “Isn’t that Kasee’s job?”

  “She’ll be here later today, and she’ll do the same thing, starting tomorrow, but this way she’ll have an idea of what they’re thinking, and they’ll be flattered that we both value them.”

  “Won’t they know that’s what you’re doing?”

  “Of course. But the form of the flattery counts. It says they’re important enough for both of us to talk with them. They can’t resist telling everyone, and that shows that Kasee cares about Kyphrien and the people. That’s very important, especially when it comes time to raise levies.”

  I shook my head. Wizardry was sometimes, maybe always, less convoluted than politics.

  “What about you?” Krystal finished the last of her redberry and set her mug on the table.

  “Me? We’ll finish the two travel chests, and I’ll smooth out Antona’s desk chair. By tomorrow, I’ll be ready to start the finish work on the set.”

  “After that?”

  I had to shrug. “There isn’t much else. Everyone else with coins has either left or is hoarding them.”

  “It’s like that everywhere.”

  “I know, but I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple. The wealthy determine prosperity. At least, according to Mureas,” she added dryly. “If someone commissions a piece, you buy lumber from Faslik, and Faslik pays his family or his mill hands. They in turn use their coins to buy wool cloth or food or what they need. Now, what happens if you don’t get commissions? You don’t buy lumber…” Krystal stopped.

  “But I still buy food and clothes,” I protested.

  “You don’t buy as much. Then the merchants either don’t make as much, which means they can’t buy as much, or they charge more, and that means others can’t buy as much as they used to.”

  It made a sort of sense, and I sat there for a moment and thought. I already worried about fewer commissions.

  Chirrrppp…

  The cricket’s call was cut short by Rissa’s strong arm and a rolled rag. “Bugs… the heat, it brings them inside. They look for water, and then they eat anything.”

  Krystal and I grinned at each other. Then Krystal stretched and stood up. “I’ve enjoyed myself too long this morning.”

  “So you’re going to punish yourself?” I got up and hugged her, then let my fingers walk up her back, massaging muscles that were too tight.

  “That feels good.”

  “You still want to leave?”

  A horse whinnied in the yard before she could say anything.

  “I think that’s my answer.”

  After massaging her shoulders for a moment, I kissed her and let go, watching as she shrugged on the worn braided vest and belted on her blade.

  “I’ll be late tonight, way after dinner. Kasee’s coming in, and we’re going to eat with Liessa and a few others.”

  “More politics?”

  “What else?”

  She gave me a hug before she left, and I watched from the kitchen steps-after Rissa shut the door behind me-as she and her guard rode northeast to Kyphrien. Lately, she hadn’t said too much about my trying to be a hero, but why was it that she could ride off and do things, and it was all right?

  Wegel had finished sweeping the shop and was smoothing a brace for the travel chest when I came in.

  “T-this all r-right, M-m-master L-L-Lerris?”

  “That’s fine. You keep working on those. I’m going to do the last touches on the cherry desk.” My fingers crossed the inlaid A. The combination of Wegel’s carving and my grooves had worked. “I like the A.”

  Wegel bobbed his head and smiled, and I smiled back, happy that I’d found someone who actually understood the woods.

  After taking a deep breath, I cleaned the smoothing blade and checked the edge, knowing that I had to be careful… very careful I wiped my already sweating forehead and used my order senses on the wood, trying to detect even the smallest patches of roughness in the cherry. There weren’t many, and I was almost finished, although it was near noon, when a low murmuring seemed to whisper in from the yard, and I set down my chisel, and walked quietly to the door Wegel looked up for an instant, then went back to smoothing one of the braces for the travel chest for which we didn’t have a buyer-not yet.

  Two children stood on the stone step outside the kitchen door, looking up at Rissa. A thin woman, a ragged gray cloth tied loosely over her hair and forehead to protect her from the sun, stood on the other side of the yard, in the small patch of shade cast by the thin oak I had planted after I’d finished building the shop nearly three years earlier.

  “Please… we’re so hungry…” The plea from the dark-haired older girl was barely loud enough to reach my ears. “Mama… said you had food.” She looked at her younger sister. Both children seemed clean, but dressed in rags, and those clean faces were far too thin.

  I eased back into the door before Rissa looked in my direction.

  “Just a bit…” Rissa’s voice was uneven, not exactly harsh.“Master Lerris cannot feed everyone.”

  “We’re not everyone,” said the smaller girl. “You know us. I’m Jydee, and she’s Myrla, and we don’t have enough to eat.”

  “I’ll see…” Rissa’s footsteps faded as she walked into the kitchen.

  Were things so bad that children were going without food? And begging at my door, not just in the poorer quarters of Kyphrien? I’d expected my work to dry up, but I catered to those who had extra coins.

  “Here…”

  “Thank you, Mistress Rissa… thank you…”

  “Don’t thank me. Give thanks to Master Lerris. It’s his larder.”

  I eased back to where I could see. Each girl had half a loaf of nearly stale bread and some olives. They walked slowly across the yard to their mother, their bare feet lifting red dust as they walked.

  Jydee, the smaller one, slowly put an olive in her mouth and then began to chew on the corner of the bread.

  The mother raised her hand to Rissa, and the three walked down the drive.

  I walked up to the kitchen.

  “Master Lerris… Guysee is a good woman…”

  I held up my hand. “I’m not complaining. Those children looked loved and cared for-and very hungry.” I nodded toward the table in the kitchen and shut the door behind us, to keep out both the heat and the red dust.

  I took a pitcher from the cooler and poured some redberry. “Who is the woman?”

  “Guysee? I have known Guysee for many years. Her man was Wylbel. He worked for the old wool factor Sinckor. He died before-”

  “Isn’t he the one who owned this land?”

  Rissa nodded. “His home and warehouse burned down, and he died in the fire, and a terrible fire it was, with flames as high as the trees. Some say Histel-that was his only son, and an evil one he was, beating the girls until his own father turned him over to the autarch’s guards-some say Histel killed him for his gold.” Rissa shrugged. “No one ever found Histel or the gold. Wylbel tried to save Sinckor, and he was burned and never could work a day again. He died in the great rain three years ago. So Guysee, she ran Morten’s household until that black-haired woman came and the times became hard and the hussy could persuade Morten to let Guysee go.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Where they can.”

  I swallowed, then took a sip of redberry. The extra silvers I’d paid for the keg seemed truly luxurious.

  “They come here to you often?”

  “I always tell them you are the generous one, and
you are, for it is your food.”

  “Even if I didn’t know it?”

  She shrugged. “She is a good person, and there is no work, and her family, they are dead.”

  Now what was I going to do? It was easier when you didn’t see people’s troubles. Maybe… maybe… but I couldn’t solve everything overnight.

  “For now, you can be a bit more generous. Let me think about them.”

  “You are a good man.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t feel good. A little extra food for a homeless woman with two children made me good? “Is it like this all around Kyphrien?”

  “Food, it is getting dear.”

  “Why…” I stopped. “I didn’t notice it because, with Krystal gone most of the time, we’re not feeding as many mouths.”

  “That is true, and we are eating more maize and old mutton and olives.” Rissa smiled. “I try to be careful with your coins.”

  “I’m grateful for that.” I finished the last swallow of redberry and stood. “I need to think and work.”

  “And you should. Many people, they depend on you.” Rissa gave me a broad smile.

  I didn’t need that. I had a snug house, a wonderful consort, food, a good pony, and a craft I enjoyed. What did people like Guysee and her daughters have?

  Back in the shop, I looked at Wegel. “Do you know Guy-see?”

  “Wh-wh-who?” But he flushed.

  “What do you know about the woman?”

  “N-n-not m-much…” Between stammers, he explained that he and his brothers had sneaked her food for a while, until their father had caught them.

  “So… what can she do?”

  “Sh-sh-she sews…” Guysee had been good enough to be a seamstress.

  I shook my head. “Fine. You started this. You can finish it. You get to turn the henhouse into a cot with three beds-we’ll worry about a hearth later. Then you get to build another henhouse. I’ll pay for the lumber.”

  “Wh-wh-why?”

  “Because… if I don’t do something, who will? I can’t save the world, but maybe we can help a poor woman for a while. And don’t tell Rissa or Guysee! Not until you finish that cot. Tomorrow, we’ll have to get the lumber from your father’s mill. Now… finish that chest.”

  “Y-yes,‘s-s-ser…”

  Was building a cot just something to make me feel good because I couldn’t figure out what to do about the bigger problem that seemed to face Kasee, Krystal, and Kyphros? Did I have to be a hero of sorts in someone’s eyes?

  I didn’t know, but my eyes lighted on an object in the comer behind the drafting table-the old piece of cedar I’d started to carve I didn’t know how many times. There was a face in the wood, but I still couldn’t see whose face or what it was, not clearly.

  After studying it for a while, I set it aside and picked up the smoothing blade. I needed to get the desk ready for the finish.

  Wegel hummed while he worked on the travel chest; I began to study the desk and to smooth it, and the unfinished carving seemed to reproach me in a sightless way-although I didn’t understand how, since it had no more than a rough outline of a face and no eyes at all.

  LXXVI

  Hydolar, Hydlen [Candar]

  SMOKE PUFFS FROM the Hamorian emplacements, and the dull impact of a shell against the wall beside the city gates follows.

  “The demons’ cannons. Always the demons’ cannons!” Berfir looks to the hills just beyond the outskirts of Hydolar, then back at the clouds of dust rising from the low walls.

  Crumpt! Another section of stone wall perhaps thirty cubits to the Duke’s right fragments and slides down into the dry moat below with a dull rumbling almost lost in the unceasing roar of the cannon. The dust wells up into the stillness of the day.

  “Where do they get all the powder?”

  “Ser?” asks the squarish officer with heavy braid upon the shoulders of his red vest.

  “Never mind!” The Duke strides along the top of the walls, heading east toward the growing breach that the Hamorian cannon have targeted. His fingers tighten around the captured pistol, and he finally jerks it from the holster.

  Crumpt!

  More stone slides earthward, widening the gap in the walls opposite the highway that leads north and across the hills to Jellico.

  The Duke steps up to the nearest stone crenelation. He points the pistol toward the Hamorian positions, cocks the hammer, and fires.

  Crack.

  He reloads and fires again. And again.

  The cannons continue to fire into the widening breach in the city walls, and with each shell more stones crumble and slide into the growing pile at the base of the outer wall.

  The Duke stops, and takes the last cartridges from the belt. His fingers twitch, and one cartridge bounces along the stones. “Demon-damned weapon. Woman’s tool!” he mutters as he scoops up the errant shell and fumbles it into the pistol. “Nothing man to man, just like the wizards. No skill… no strength…” He grunts.

  Then he straightens and studies the line of earthen revetments that the Hamorian troops have thrown up just beyond bowshot. Not a single sundevil uniform is visible-just the smoke of cannon and the blank earthen walls.

  Finally, he holsters the pistol and turns to trudge back along behind the battered crenelations of the city walls toward the barriers on the west end of the north wall where the last of the Hydlenese rocket guns rest. As he walks, the Hamorian shells begin to fall around the northeast tower. Berfir looks back to see the outer crenellations split into stone dust and gravel, before falling out of his sight toward the base of the outer wall. His fingers seem to move toward the hand - and - a - half blade, but he jerks them back as he reaches the rocket emplacements.

  “Nual?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Put everything you’ve got left on the guns. Just the guns.”

  “We been trying, ser. It’s a hard target, ser.”

  “Just do it.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  As Berfir steps back, a rocket from the Hydlenese battery hisses northward toward the cannon, but it explodes in a cloud of flame against the outer earthen walls protecting the Hamorian artillery.

  “Higher!” yells the Duke. “Arch them.”

  “Yes, ser.” Nual motions to the rocket crews.

  Whhstttt! Whhhsttt! More rockets arch northward, dashing themselves against heavy earthen barriers, though one drops behind the barriers, but no smoke or flashes result.

  The Hamorian gunners continue to throw shells at the remnants of the northwest tower, and Berfir watches as the second- level galleries are exposed, and a handful of archers’ bodies slide down into the rubble.

  Then the shells resume their assault on the walls beside the gates.

  Berfir looks toward the smoke from the guns, then walks swiftly down the open stone steps. “Derbyna! Derbyna!”

  “Yes, ser.” The white-haired officer in a red vest meets him at the base of the steps.

  “Get the irregulars and my Yeannotans.”

  “Ser?”

  “We’re going to mount an attack on the guns. The Yeannotans are the only mounted troops left, and they’ll follow me.” Berfir glances in the direction of the stables, then wipes his forehead.

  With the impact of another shell, fine grit sprays across the two men.

  “But, ser… those rifles…”

  “The walls can stand against rifles. They can’t stand against those guns.” Berfir strides toward the stables where far too many horses have been crowded. “Yeannota! To me!”

  By the time he has mounted, and waits for the guards to crank open the gates, almost threescore Yeannotans and a handful of irregulars gentle their mounts behind the Duke.

  “Open them!”

  Slowly, the gates creak open.

  “Halfway! Just halfway!” yells Berfir. “Now!” The big chestnut carries him out onto the cratered road and around a low heap of stone. Behind him follows a line of troopers, most in the red and gold plaid of Yeannota.


  Crumpt!

  A shell slams into the wall to the left of the Hydlenese, and more grit and fragments rain across the road and into the dry moat that has slowly filled with shattered stone, and occasional bodies.

  “Move it!” commands Berfir, turning in the saddle and motioning the others to follow. His eyes fix on the smoke that rises from the high earthen mound that lies nearly a kay away. “Yeannota! To me!”

  He holds back the chestnut until the line of riders catches up with him and regains some semblance of order.

  The first bullets from the Hamorian troops begin to raise puffs of dust from the dirt between the green wheat stalks.

  Sparing! One bullet ricochets off the stone of the road.

  Ignoring the Hamorians’ fire, the Duke raises his hand and thrusts it toward the smoke-crowned earthen revetment that lies nearly a kay from the walls of Hydolar. “To the guns! The guns!”

  “To the guns,” echo the Yeannotans, flourishing the big blades that mirror the one still in Berfir’s shoulder scabbard.

  Sparing! Spanng! More bullets whisper past the charging Hydlenese. To the right of Berfir, a horse staggers, then falls. One Yeannotan, then another, falls. , The hail of bullets thickens.

  “To the guns!” Berfir pulls out the pistol and levels it toward the nearer earthworks, from which the Hamorian rifles fire, squeezing the trigger once, twice, again, and then again, as he rides northward toward the guns.

  Three more riders fall, and, at the end of the line, an irregular turns his horse eastward, ducking and urging the animal toward the river.

  The pistol clicks on an empty chamber, and Berfir looks down at the empty cartridge belt. Then he flings the useless pistol, and it turns end over end before dropping into the trampled wheat.

  Another horse and rider crumple, almost where the pistol fell.

  “Come on and fight!” yells Berfir out toward the Hamorian forces, swinging his heavy wide blade from the scabbard.

  Less than a squad remains riding abreast of the Duke, and foam flies from the mouth of the big chestnut as the horse strains to carry the Duke toward the cannon.

  Crumpt! Crumpt! Behind the charging handful of riders, the high-angled cannon shells continue to pound the walls of Hydolar.