Outcasts of Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  There was no response.

  “Then the Council meeting is over.”

  The councilors rose and filed out.

  Once the side door closed, Jorhan looked to Barrynt. “Seems to me that they don’t need an eightday to decide.”

  “They may not, but it may take several days for two of the councilors to talk to the widow, and follow up if they need to.”

  “Still seems like a waste of time.”

  “Are there that few proposals all the time?” asked Beltur, not wanting to get into what the Council should or shouldn’t do.

  Barrynt shook his head. “From spring to midfall, the Council meetings last at least a glass. Folks don’t do a lot of building or change things much in winter.”

  “Aren’t there other things they decide?”

  “Everything in Axalt is decided by the Council, and by law. Everyone knows the laws.”

  “What happens when people don’t obey the laws?” asked Jessyla.

  “The patrollers lock them up—unless they flee Axalt first. Then the Council reviews what happened and makes a decision based on the law.”

  “Does that happen often?” pressed Jessyla.

  Barrynt shook his head.

  “You didn’t mention that there was a mage on the Council.”

  “Oh, that’s Naerkaal. He never says much … unless he thinks someone is lying.”

  That definitely made sense to Beltur.

  “We need to head back for dinner. Johlana won’t be happy if I’m the one to make us late. Besides, it’s a fowl pie, and Asala makes a very good fowl pie.”

  Beltur doubted that the pie would be as good as one of Meldryn’s, but he certainly wouldn’t say so, especially with all that Barrynt and Johlana had done for him and Jessyla.

  XLIV

  All in all, it took until fourday evening of the next eightday before Jessyla and Beltur had the small cot ready to occupy, and as the sun vanished behind the snow-covered heights to the west, Beltur and Jessyla stood in the kitchen, looking at each other.

  “Do we have everything we need?” asked Beltur.

  “Most likely not,” replied Jessyla. “It will be eightdays before we find out everything we’re missing. We have enough to get by.”

  Beltur’s eyes went to the lower shelf of the open cupboard that held, among other items, a blackened iron skillet, a battered but watertight brass kettle, large and small cookpots, along with a miscellaneous assortment of unmatched plates, platters, and bowls that Johlana had dug out of the cluttered storeroom in the merchant’s stable. Beltur had bought the two cookpots, which had taken far more than he and Jessyla had earned from their previous eightday’s work at the healing house.

  The upper shelves of the cupboard held various provisions, as did what might have been a narrow bookcase that stood beside the cupboard. The kitchen cistern in the corner was two-thirds full, which meant that they didn’t have to go out for water all the time, and the narrow kitchen table gleamed, the result of a bit of linseed oil and a great deal of effort by Jessyla while Beltur had been at the healing house.

  “I can’t believe it,” Jessyla finally said. “We have a place of our own.”

  Beltur nodded. “We certainly do.” But it wouldn’t have been much without everything from Barrynt and Johlana.

  “What can we do for them?”

  “Be ready to help them however we can. They have everything else that they need.” Beltur glanced through the door to the bedchamber, with the newer bedstead from Barrynt and Johlana, the older one having been returned to Rohan, a side table, a linen chest, a chest of drawers, a backless wooden bench, and a very old and doorless armoire. Not a single piece matched any other piece except that all were close to the same darkish brown shade.

  The linen chest against the bedchamber wall held three sets of unmatched sheets, two spare blankets—which were the ones they had brought—and quite a number of unmatched towels, as well as a thick but worn spare coverlet for the bed.

  “We could sit down in front of the hearth,” suggested Jessyla, “while the burhka that Johlana sent heats up. That was kind of her.”

  “She knew you wouldn’t have time to cook today or tomorrow,” replied Beltur.

  “That means you’ll be the first one to cook a meal here,” replied Jessyla, with a smile, “since I know you can cook breakfasts.” She paused. “I’ve never eaten anything you’ve cooked.”

  With a start, Beltur realized that was true. He’d fixed breakfasts and some dinners for Meldryn, but never for Jessyla. “It’s likely a good thing the first meal will be breakfast—except there won’t be any bread, not until we get a hearth oven. I can do skillet biscuits, though. Meldryn improved my breakfast cooking more than my dinners.”

  Jessyla moved from the kitchen into the front room and settled onto the bench in front of the hearth.

  After a moment, Beltur sat beside her. “We’re already low on wood. The woodcutters are supposed to deliver two cords tomorrow, but I’ll need to buy an ax from Rhodos in order to split some of it. I’ll see if he has a hearth oven as well.”

  “Do we need the oven?”

  “If we want to make decent meat pies or bread. Perhaps I should say that if I want to, because that’s how I learned from Meldryn. In Fenard, we just bought bread.”

  “You’d better buy the oven, if you can. Mother could make skillet bread. I usually burned it.”

  Beltur couldn’t help frowning.

  “You have to watch it all the time. I was always thinking about something else.”

  “But you’re a good healer.”

  “People are much more interesting than bread.”

  “Good food is always interesting.”

  “To eat, but not to cook. Not for me, anyway.”

  That reminded Beltur about the burhka, and he extended his senses to the cookpot hanging over the fire on the kitchen side of the hearth. “It won’t be long before the burhka’s ready.”

  He was getting the feeling that he’d be doing most of the cooking, but he smiled and asked, “Are you ready for a few more order exercises?”

  XLV

  On sixday, Beltur was up early fixing breakfast, an effort that went far better the second time around, largely because he’d spent several glasses on fiveday at the chandlery and the market square, buying various items that he’d overlooked in initially stocking the cot, such as lard, a few more eggs, and a small keg of pale ale. He hadn’t relished drinking water at breakfast on fiveday. He’d saddled Slowpoke and ridden him, not only to make carrying goods back easier, but also to give the gelding a little exercise. At the chandlery, he’d found an old but serviceable hearth oven. All in all, the supposedly “small” supplements to their provisions and kitchen utensils had cost him almost five silvers, and he knew that there were still other items they were missing. The bread he had baked on fiveday afternoon had turned out acceptably, especially as a basis for egg toast on sixday, with the mixed-berry syrup that had cost three coppers just by itself.

  By the time Beltur left to clean the stables on sixday morning, and then, after washing up there, for the healing house, a fine snow drifted down, but there wasn’t that much of an order/chaos conflict in those clouds, which suggested that the snow wouldn’t be all that heavy. What was also clear to Beltur was that because Axalt was considerably colder than Elparta, what snow did fall didn’t melt, and small snowfall after small snowfall added up to an ever-increasing amount of snow piling up everywhere, except where the Council mandated it be cleared.

  When he reached the healing house, he immediately went into Herrara’s study. “Is there anything I should know or that you need me to do?”

  “Look at Poldaark first. I thought I sensed some chaos in that wound, but you’re better at finding chaos deeper inside. After that, look at the man in with him. I don’t think there’s much we can do but make him comfortable, but if there is…”

  Beltur nodded. “I’ll see.”

  “Then come back here. It’s q
uiet now, but you can never tell.”

  Beltur picked up one of the oblong baskets and made his way up to the second level and the middle room. Poldaark sat on the edge of the bed. An older man lay in the bed closest to the door, and Beltur could sense instantly from the chaos in his chest that he would not be there long. That didn’t even count the frostburn on the man’s hands, forearms, and feet.

  “The patrollers brought him in last night,” said Poldaark. “They found him in the middle of the main street. No one knows who he is. He’s been like that ever since.”

  Beltur took another look at the man, who lay on his back with a blanket up to his chin, his eyes closed. His weathered and ravaged face and tangled beard, as well as all the chaos in his body, had given Beltur the initial impression that he was older than he was. The man was likely not even fifteen years older than Beltur himself … and possibly even younger, but he’d clearly had a hard life. And Herrara had been right. There wasn’t a thing that Beltur could do. He turned his attention to Poldaark. “How do you feel?”

  “My shoulder still hurts, but not as bad as it has been. That’s why I’m sitting up. Lying back on it hurts a lot after a while. Even with the blanket folded up for support so it doesn’t touch anything, it still hurts.”

  “Let me see.” Beltur let his senses range over Poldaark. Herrara had been right. There was a small bit of yellowish-red wound chaos deep in the shoulder, but it only took a few moments to ease free order into place to destroy the chaos. “That should do it. Did you feel anything?”

  “Like a quick burn with a hot needle, but it’s gone.”

  “Can you raise your hand and lower arm?”

  Poldaark did so.

  “Try to lift your whole arm, just a little.”

  “Oooooh … that still hurts.”

  “It might be some time before the muscles in your shoulder heal fully.” If they ever do.

  “How is it, ser? I mean…”

  “Do you mean whether you’ll live? So far, it looks like you’re healing well. By next eightday, you just might be out of here.”

  “I won’t be able to do much with that arm.”

  “You’ll have to do more with your left arm for a while.”

  Poldaark looked at Beltur glumly. “Hannon won’t like that, either.”

  “You’re fortunate to be alive,” Beltur pointed out.

  “If you say so, ser.”

  “Poldaark, you’re alive. You’re getting fed. You’ve gotten to look at an attractive healer every other day.”

  “She’s your consort, isn’t she?”

  “She is. You can look, but not touch,” Beltur said lightly, hoping to cheer the young man.

  Poldaark smiled faintly, if only for a moment.

  Beltur had barely gotten downstairs when Elisa appeared.

  “Healer Herrara would like you in the surgery. Immediately.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Beltur didn’t run, but he did walk quickly.

  When he stepped into the surgery, he saw a woman sitting on the edge of the surgery table, blood-soaked rags bound around her thigh. He could sense that her natural order level was low, and from all the blood he saw, that had to be the reason.

  Herrara gestured. “I need you to use your shields to stop the bleeding. There’s the tip of a knife buried in the bone, and every movement she makes causes more injury.”

  What the head healer wasn’t saying was that the woman, perhaps a few years younger than the healer, didn’t have that much blood left to spare.

  Beltur began extending his senses as he moved toward the woman, placing himself on the side of her good leg and feeling the dark coldness of the sliver of iron whose tip was embedded in the bone. He extended a shield around the metal, except where it touched the bone, extending it slightly to press muscle away from the metal. “The shield’s in place.”

  “Good. Can you also immobilize her upper leg, except around the wound?”

  “Mostly.” Beltur couldn’t get another shield totally in place around the first shield.

  “That will have to do.” Herrara used a set of pincers to grasp the large end of the metal, then wiggled it slightly, then seemed to ease the fragment out of the bone.

  That wasn’t nearly as easy as it looked, because Beltur could sense the strength it took to control the pincers and remove the iron without causing more damage. Nor was it painless, because he could feel the woman stiffen and shudder, although only a low moan escaped her lips.

  “Now … hold open the flesh above that blood vessel.”

  Beltur did so, watching as the healer stitched closed the slash in the vessel, amazed at the deftness in Herrara’s fingers.

  “Now … need to clean this up and close it … you’ll have to let go of those shields.”

  Beltur released them, ready to replace them if Herrara so directed.

  “Good.”

  Suturing and closing the wound took far more time than removing the metal shard had required, especially since Herrara and Beltur then had to bind the upper leg on each side of the sutures.

  Then Herrara looked to Beltur again. “Take care of the chaos there, if you would.”

  Beltur could sense tiny points of chaos where the metal had impacted the bone, as well as elsewhere, and it took him half a quint to deal with them all. His forehead was damp when he finished, despite the coolness of the surgery.

  “It’s gone for now,” he replied, blotting his forehead with his sleeve.

  Elisa appeared with the wheeled chair, and Beltur and Herrara eased the injured woman into the chair.

  “Thank you … healers,” murmured the woman. “I don’t know…”

  “You’ll be fine,” said Herrara warmly.

  Beltur could sense that Herrara had her doubts.

  “How long must I stay?”

  “We’ll have to see,” replied the chief healer. “There’s a blood vessel in your upper leg that has to heal.”

  “But … what will I do?”

  “You’ll get well. That’s better than dying.” Herrara gestured to Elisa. “The empty room near the west end.”

  Once Elisa and the woman were out of the surgery, Beltur asked, “How did that happen?”

  “She’s a serving woman at the Traders’ Bowl. One of the traders from Certis took a fashion to her. She wasn’t interested. He’d had too much to drink. He stabbed her. She fled. She didn’t realize how badly she was hurt or that the knife had splintered. One of the ostlers found her. I think he borrowed a horse to bring her here. He didn’t dare stay because the horse … wasn’t his.”

  “A trader from Certis, at this time of year? And he got away with it?”

  “It’s his word against hers. He’d claim she was trying to seduce him and then rob him. The Council doesn’t like to upset traders. If he was from Certis, I’d guess that he’s likely one of those who comes regularly for silver…”

  “Silver’s mined near here?”

  “Not all that near, but the mountain folk bring it here to sell. A trader named Emlyn handles it. Knowing Johlana, you may have heard of him.” Herrara’s mouth twisted slightly.

  “I know the name and relationship, but I’ve only met the man briefly. Why do the mountain folk trade with him?”

  “They trust us more than either the Elpartans or the Certans, and you have to have golds to trade in silver.” Her mouth twisted. “The Certans are the worst.”

  “Worse than the Gallosians?”

  “There’s no comparison.”

  Beltur had his doubts about that, given his own experiences, but then, he’d already gotten the feeling that there was nothing some people wouldn’t stoop to in order to get what they wanted. Or to stay alive and hold on to the woman they love. He managed just to nod.

  “After we clean up here, you’d better look in on Maelyn. She’s the serving woman. Then finish up looking in on the others.” Herrara paused. “How’s Poldaark?”

  “You were right. There was a tiny bit of chaos deep in the woun
d. I took care of it. It’s looking like he’ll make it.”

  “That’s your doing. I hope he’s thankful, but he won’t be. He’s too young. He might realize it later.”

  Another quint or so passed before Beltur made it to the chamber where Maelyn lay, her head and upper body propped up. She watched him warily as he entered the chamber, but said nothing. “I just came by to see how you’re doing.”

  “I’m here, ser.” After a pause, she said, “You’re a mage, aren’t you?”

  “I am, and you’d like to know what I’m doing here, wouldn’t you?”

  Her eyes didn’t meet his.

  “I’m also a healer, but I still have some things to learn. So I’m working here for a time. Now … I need to see some things.”

  Maelyn immediately stiffened.

  “I just need to touch your forehead.” Beltur brushed her brow with his fingertips, but she wasn’t any warmer than she’d been earlier. Then he concentrated on her thigh. So far, no more chaos. If there had been, so soon, he would have been really worried. “Just try not to move that leg more than a little at a time, at least for now.”

  “It really hurts.”

  Beltur managed not to sigh. “I’m going to try something. It won’t make things worse, but it might help.” He leaned over and lightly touched her skin just above the leg bindings, allowing a bit of free order to flow through the sutures and down to the bone.

  Maelyn’s face relaxed slightly. “That’s … better.”

  “It will help for a little while.” Before she could ask anything, he said, “I’ll look in on you later.” Then he turned and left.

  Beltur had almost finished seeing the other patients on the second level when Elisa again appeared, a concerned expression on her face.

  “She needs me in the surgery?”

  The healer-to-be nodded.

  Beltur headed downstairs once more.

  He almost froze for an instant when he walked into the surgery when he saw a man lying on the table, two other men beside him, with Herrara cutting away fabric to reveal a bloody smashed mess below the knee. Herrara didn’t look toward Beltur, but continued cutting away fabric as she spoke. “This is Wurfael. He’s a timberman. He slipped on an icy patch, and his leg went under a moving sledge. The bones below the knee look like they’re shattered. I’ll need to take off the lower leg.” Herrara’s voice was calm. “Otherwise he’ll die.”