Outcasts of Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  “Suppose that’s for the best.”

  “Suppose?” Beltur raised his eyebrows. “If Healer Herrara hadn’t taken off your lower leg, the chaos would have killed you.”

  “Ser mage … there’s not much use for a one-legged timberman…”

  “Healer Herrara says you’ll be able to use a peg leg to walk.”

  “Still won’t be able to do timber, not in most places. That’s what I’m good at. Was good at. Ground’s too rugged.”

  “Seems to me you could be a teamster.”

  “I could if I had the golds for a horse, wagon, or tack…”

  “What about working for someone else?”

  “Not many’d hire a former timberman.” Wurfael turned his head.

  Beltur didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t be condescending or a simplistic platitude. He managed a pleasant smile, then said, “You’ll feel better before long.” The most acceptable of simplistic platitudes.

  Wurfael didn’t even nod as Beltur left the chamber and then headed upstairs to see how Poldaark was coming. Herrara joined him just after he entered the chamber where Poldaark sat dejectedly on the side of the bed. Beltur noticed that the other beds were again empty.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Beltur as he stopped short of the young man and began to sense whether there was more wound chaos.

  “Better. It doesn’t hurt as much. Except when I forget and lean back too hard.”

  Herrara looked to Beltur.

  “There’s still some dull red of healing, but none of the points of nasty wound chaos.”

  “Good.” Herrara turned to Poldaark. “It looks like you’ll be able to go home in the next day or so.”

  “Do I have to?” asked Poldaark almost plaintively, looking not at Herrara, but at Beltur and offering a pleading expression.

  “You can’t stay here when you’re well enough to take care of yourself,” replied the head healer.

  “I don’t have anywhere to go. Hannon sent Sorvyn. He doesn’t need me any longer.”

  “Don’t you have any family?” asked Herrara.

  “My folks died in a flash flood two years ago. Hannon’s first consort, Aellana, was my cousin. She sort of took me in. She died last spring. Most of my folk’s people live in the north part of the Easthorns west of Quend. Hannon never really liked me, and Sorvyn and Handyl were always doing things to make me look bad.”

  Herrara looked to Beltur, who nodded. The head healer pursed her lips. “We’ve got empty beds … for now. You can stay here until the end of the eightday. If there’s still no chaos in your wound tomorrow, and when this snowfall stops you’ll have to go out and see if you can find a place somewhere. That will give you a few days.”

  “Thank you, Healer.”

  “That’s all I can promise.”

  When the two healers were out in the corridor and well away from Poldaark, Beltur said, “When will the next Council inspection be?”

  Herrara smiled amusedly. “Shansyl was here yesterday. Poldaark’s wound is one where it would be hard to argue about a few days. Beyond that, though, especially by next eightday…”

  “So you knew what happened with Hannon.”

  “I didn’t know, but it seemed likely when I saw someone come in, talk to Poldaark, and then leave in a hurry.”

  “You wanted to get him looking rather than just insisting that he leave immediately once he was well enough to cope.”

  “He won’t be well enough to cope before he has to leave.” Herrara’s voice was bleak. “Too many of them aren’t.”

  “The Council doesn’t leave you much choice.”

  “No. We all have to make the best of the choices we’ve made.”

  Beltur was about to say that, unlike Herrara, his choices had largely affected him and those closest to him. Except … they really hadn’t.

  “You see?”

  Beltur nodded.

  The rest of the day consisted of changing dressings, dealing with minor wound chaos, and other chores.

  As soon as Beltur stepped out of the healing house at fourth glass, he knew that the walk back to the cot would be even worse, since the snow was still falling just as heavily and the walks and streets had not yet been cleared. The snow in most places was at least knee-deep. But when he neared the cot, he saw that only a few digits of snow covered the walks around it. He was careful to knock as much snow as he could off of his boots before stepping inside.

  Jessyla hurried out of the kitchen. “I’m glad you’re home. This has to be a northeaster.”

  “I’m sure it is. You shoveled the snow, didn’t you?” asked Beltur as he took off his coat.

  “Of course. You shovel when I’m working.”

  Beltur couldn’t argue with that. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ve been thinking…”

  “About what?”

  “That we’re going to work on shields before dinner.” Beltur paused. “What are we having tonight?”

  “Fowl soup with fried noodles and biscuits. I told you that this morning. I wasn’t about to waste what was left of the fowl.”

  Beltur didn’t recall there being anything left of the fowl Johlana had brought.

  “You’ll like it,” she promised. “Don’t look so doubtful.”

  “We need to work on your shields.”

  “Do you think I’ll need them any time soon?”

  “I certainly hope not. It takes a long time to develop good shields. That’s why—”

  “You’re insisting on it now.”

  “You did tell me you wanted to learn magery.” Beltur grinned.

  “Where do I start?”

  “By moving next to the hearth so that I can get warm.”

  Once they were between the bench and the hearth, Beltur stepped back. “Raise a shield, the same size as you did last time, but make it a circle.”

  “I’ll try. Circles are harder.”

  Beltur waited, then studied the web of interlocking order. “Put a tiny bit of chaos surrounded by order at five places around the rim.”

  Jessyla managed three such nodes before the shield collapsed. She blotted her forehead and looked at Beltur.

  “This time, try it around the innermost ring. That way, they’ll be closer together.”

  “I know you say that chaos makes it stronger, but why is that?”

  “Chaos is more … flexible … Once you can pattern chaos within a shield, the shield can hold against greater forces. It’s like your body. Without natural chaos—”

  “That makes sense.” Jessyla squared her shoulders.

  Beltur just hoped that the chicken soup with the fried noodles was good.

  XLVIII

  By sevenday morning the northeaster had passed, and the sky was a crystal clear green-blue, and the air even colder. When he set out on foot for south town and Jorhan’s new smithy, some of the walks were clear, but many were not, and only the main road through Axalt itself was cleared. While the road to south town wasn’t clear, Beltur followed some sledge traces. Even so, it took him three quints before he stepped inside the smithy, shivering slightly. After knocking the snow off his boots and trousers, he walked toward the forge.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d see you today,” offered Jorhan, who was feeding coal to the forge fire.

  “I had to shovel and clean the stable. Then I had to walk. It’s too cold to leave Slowpoke tied outside.”

  “He’d do better than you.”

  “Not being tied up. Parts weren’t too bad. How do they move that much snow so soon?”

  “Same as in Elparta. They use men from the workhouses. Some of the women, too. They’re the teamsters. Each day they clear snow counts for two days of their time, and they get a copper a day.”

  That was slightly more generous than in Elparta, Beltur thought. “The Council seems to want the roads clear.”

  “That’s because open roads are worth golds. Axalt’s the only way through the Easthorns from late fall
through early spring.”

  “What about the roads in Certis? Or Spidlar?”

  “You can travel by sledge where it’s flat, not through the Easthorns.” Jorhan shrugged. “Maybe they don’t get as much snow in Certis. Barrynt just told me that they get trade because the roads are clear year-round. Also because they don’t have to worry about brigands in Axalt.”

  “No … just west of the border wall.” Beltur looked at the molds on the workbench. “Are those for the big mirror?”

  “The supports. We’ll have to cast it in four sections—base, supports, and mirror. The mirror comes last.”

  “I can work the fire if you want to do something else.”

  “Be much obliged.”

  Beltur took the small metal shovel from Jorhan.

  By the time Jorhan had the molds the way he wanted them, and had them heated, it was after first glass, and another glass passed before he’d poured the bronze into them, and Beltur fixed the order/chaos patterns in the hot metal.

  Then he had to hold them for longer, and holding two patterns was more than twice the effort and work, besides which was the problem that it had been eightdays since he’d last done it. Despite the chill in the smithy, he was sweating by the time he finally stepped away from the molds.

  “There’s nothing else for you to do,” said Jorhan.

  “I need to cool down and dry off some. Do you plan to cast the base on oneday?”

  “I’d thought to.”

  “Then I’ll be here.”

  Beltur didn’t ask about getting paid, not when the mirror was for Halhana, especially given how much Barrynt and Johlana had provided. “Has anyone else asked about forging anything?”

  “Not so far.”

  “The Council hasn’t inspected the forge yet, have they?”

  “They’ll be here on oneday or two, most likely. That’s what Barrynt says, anyway. Might have been here today, hadn’t been for the snow.”

  “They inspect the healing house once an eightday, a different councilor each time.”

  “Seems like they’d have better things to do. Healers do the best they can. You and your consort do. People either get better or not. Councilors prowling around won’t change that.”

  “They don’t want poor people staying there after they’re well enough to leave.”

  “Who’d want to stay? I’d think that even the poorhouse’d be better than being surrounded by folks that ill or injured.”

  “I’d thought so, too, but…” Beltur shook his head. “Axalt’s different. Better than Elparta, so far.”

  “The Council’s almost as greedy, but at least there aren’t traders around trying to grab every last silver from a working man.”

  Beltur nodded, although he wondered, after what little he’d heard about Emlyn and his consort.

  Abruptly, Jorhan looked toward the door. “No sense in your staying around here. You’ve got someone to head home to. Best you do it.”

  Beltur grinned at the smith. “That’s a very good idea.”

  XLIX

  Eightday at the healing house was largely uneventful for Beltur. That was to say that he only had to deal with two simple broken arms, a dislocated shoulder, and the city patrollers bringing in a white-haired woman who had almost frozen to death—yet without any sign of frostburn—all of which Herrara left largely to him. After finishing his healing duties, Beltur walked home, washed up, thankful for the kitchen cistern, and he and Jessyla walked to Barrynt and Johlana’s for dinner, as well as for refreshments before and afterward.

  Oneday found Beltur at the smithy, where he and Jorhan cast the base of the mirror for Halhana. He left early because Jorhan didn’t need him, and he wanted to give Slowpoke a little exercise before he returned to the cot and prepared a decent dinner, one that wasn’t soup, although the fried noodle and fowl soup had been tasty. That, he had to admit.

  His dinner amounted to a mutton shank stew with onions, potatoes, and chunks of quilla. He wasn’t that fond of quilla, but it was more than palatable in stew. He had enough shanks so that the stew would last several days, longer if he put it in the cold box off the kitchen. When he served it, Jessyla liked it at least well enough to eat it, possibly because his bread turned out well.

  Twoday was again clear and cold when Beltur left the cot for the stable, although it seemed a touch warmer when he finished there and walked to the healing house. He began by visiting all those on the lower level. The last room he entered was that of Wurfael. “Good morning, Wurfael.”

  “The sun says it’s morning.”

  “Let’s see how that leg is coming.”

  “What’s left of it, you mean.”

  “You’ve still got enough that you’ll be able to get around.”

  “Much good that’ll do.”

  Before Beltur could think of an appropriate reply, Herrara looked into the small chamber. “I need you in the surgery.”

  Even without Herrara’s tone, Beltur knew that, when she wanted him, it wasn’t going to be simple, and he said, “I’ll be back later.”

  When he reached the surgery, a man, barely more than a youth, sat on the edge of the surgery table. He wore faded brown trousers, and a patched shirt of the same color. A brown jacket lay beside him. His face was white, and he cradled his left arm. Elisa stood beside him, as if uncertain as to what she could do.

  Beltur could instantly sense that whatever had happened to the arm was more than a simple break. As he approached, he could sense multiple breaks in the lower part of the arm, and in one place, part of the bone had broken the skin.

  “The lower arm…” said Herrara.

  Beltur nodded. “There are several breaks.”

  The young man blanched, then winced. “Don’t take my arm, Healer.”

  “You might die if we try to save it.”

  “A one-armed poor man is dead already.”

  Herrara turned to Beltur. “I’ll need some careful help with those shields.” She motioned for Elisa to step back. Then she looked to the young man. “You never told me your name.”

  “Yuareff.”

  “Tell us again exactly how you did this to yourself, Yuareff.”

  “Like I told you, I didn’t do it. Naarstyn did it. Frigging piss-poor excuse for a teamster. We’d just finished loading road snow, and he started the sledge. He didn’t even look to see if we’d secured the tailboard. Just headed out. Snow moved. Tailboard came down right across my arm. Frigging Naarstyn … dumb bastard…”

  “We’ll need to cut away your shirt first,” said Herrara firmly.

  “You can cut away anything but my arm.”

  “We’ll do what we can. I’m going to support the broken arm. You let go.” After Herrara held Yuareff’s arm, she looked to Beltur. “Immobilize his upper arm so that he doesn’t jerk.”

  Beltur eased a containment around the man’s upper arm and another around his torso.

  Although tears ran from Yuareff’s eyes, the young man uttered not a sound as Herrara straightened the lower arm.

  “Extend the shield farther down the arm and support it so I can cut his shirt away.”

  Beltur held Yuareff’s arm steady while Herrara removed the fabric and then began to manipulate bones into position.

  Beltur followed Herrara’s directions as she continued to manipulate the arm.

  “Now … hold the entire arm steady while I get the splint ready.”

  “No cast?”

  “Not until tomorrow. There will be swelling, and I’d like it to subside before I immobilize the arm in a cast.”

  “You’re not taking my arm?”

  “Not now. Maybe not ever … if you’re careful for the next few eightdays.”

  “Thank you, Healers. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank us yet,” said Herrara as she eased the splint into position.

  Yuareff’s face clouded.

  Herrara finished binding the splint in place. “You’re staying here for the next day or so. After that, we’ll see.�
� She turned to Elisa. “Find an empty chamber for him.”

  “They said I’m supposed to come back to the workhouse.”

  “You’re not ready to do that. They won’t come for you. They might come to make sure you’re here. They can’t make you leave until I say so.”

  Yuareff’s face relaxed slightly.

  “This way,” said Elisa gently.

  After the two had left, Herrara turned to Beltur. “Some of the workhouse supervisors will have him doing chores as soon as we release him. We need to see how the healing on his arm begins.”

  “You’re worried about chaos around where the bone broke the skin?”

  “There’s always chaos when that happens. It’s your task to deal with it.”

  Beltur wondered if his own ability to remove some chaos was one of the reasons she’d agreed to set Yuareff’s arm rather than amputate it. “So far there’s no sign of any.”

  “So far.” She paused. “How is Wurfael doing?”

  “I was about to see when you came in. I’ll let you know after I see him and Poldaark.”

  Wurfael was still sitting on the side of the bed when Beltur returned. “When Healer Herrara asks for you, it means someone’s hurt bad, doesn’t it?”

  “That, or it’s something I haven’t seen and should know about.”

  “Mostly hurt bad, I think,” said the timberman.

  Beltur nodded and took his time sensing the area around the stump of the leg. Again, he found small bits of the nasty yellowish-red wound chaos, but they were small enough that dealing with them took neither much time nor much effort. “There. Another eightday or so…”

  “And then what?”

  “Then you might be able to be measured for a peg leg.” Beltur had no idea who might be able to do that, but he was fairly certain that Herrara would.

  “So I can walk around looking useless?”

  “That’s likely better than not being able to walk around.”

  “Not much,” groused the timberman.

  When Beltur entered the upstairs chamber, Poldaark was pulling on his patched jacket.

  “You’re going out to look for a place?” Beltur didn’t know what else to say.

  “What else? I can’t work much yet. The poorhouse doesn’t take young men, and I can only stay here until the end of the eightday.”