Outcasts of Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  “No, they likely wouldn’t. Do you think Barrynt hit her hard enough that something happened? Later?”

  “I never thought about that.” Beltur hadn’t, either. He really hadn’t sensed Sarysta, except superficially, during the whole time he’d been in the study. Not that it made much difference, except if Barrynt’s blow had done something to her head, that might have been why what Beltur had done had affected Sarysta in the way it had … and as soon as it had.

  “Doesn’t matter. Bitch deserved to die.”

  “It might matter very much,” Beltur said slowly. “The Council wasn’t that happy with Lhadoraak, Taelya, and me before. Now … with this … and Sarysta’s brother being a councilor, I have to say that I’m worried.” And without Barrynt, it could be very much worse.

  “You did the best you could,” said Jorhan. “We’ll just have to see. Won’t be long before I’ve got this ready.”

  In fact, it was well past first glass before Jorhan was ready to heat the melt, and close to fourth glass before Beltur released his hold on the order/chaos mesh that turned soft bronze into cupridium.

  The walk home wasn’t too cold, not for Axalt, although scattered snowflakes continued to fall from the gray clouds, but he didn’t reach the cot until almost two quints past fourth glass.

  Jessyla was waiting for him just inside the door. As he took off his coat and scarf, she said quietly, “Two councilors came to the healing house to talk to Herrara today. One of them wore blacks.”

  “That had to be Naerkaal. He’s the only black on the Council. The other one was likely Sarstaan. He’s Sarysta’s brother. They came to see me this morning. The first thing they asked me was if I knew about Sarysta’s death. She died in her sleep last night. I certainly didn’t expect that, and I told them I was surprised because I was.”

  Jessyla frowned. “Were they telling the truth about her death?”

  “They seemed to be. Later, after they left, and I talked to Jorhan, he wondered if Barrynt had hit her hard enough to have caused her death. I hadn’t thought about his hitting her causing that much damage, but … he was in enough of a rage that he picked up Emlyn like a child’s toy.”

  “How was Sarysta’s brother?”

  “Quietly angry, I’d say. He and Naerkaal spent almost two quints asking me question after question. Before they left, Naerkaal said that everything seemed to be the way I’d reported it, and Sarstaan said that, while I might have told the truth, he still didn’t trust me. I said I understood because I’d done everything according to the way the Council had required, and it seemed as though the Council didn’t trust Jorhan and me. I didn’t say it quite that way, but that was what I meant.” Beltur paused. “In a few moments, before dinner, I think you and Taelya should have some instruction in magery.”

  “You’re worried, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I want you both to learn as much as you can as fast as you safely can.”

  “That makes sense. Four mages stand a better chance in anything than do two.”

  Beltur turned and called, “Taelya! It’s time for lessons.”

  Both Taelya and Tulya emerged from the kitchen.

  “I told her you might be giving her a lesson this afternoon.”

  “She did,” affirmed Taelya. “Can I call you Uncle Beltur?”

  Beltur looked to Tulya, quizzically.

  “She asked.”

  “I still have to do what you say,” said Taelya.

  “My uncle was the one who first taught me magery, and he was stricter than other mages. If you want me to be your uncle, you have to know that I’ll expect more from you, not less.” Beltur looked directly into Taelya’s green eyes.

  “That’s all right.”

  Beltur laughed softly. “Then we’d better begin.”

  After almost a glass spent largely working on shields, Tulya announced that dinner was ready. Beltur had to admit that they were eating better with Tulya doing the cooking, cramped as the cot sometimes felt.

  Much later, once he and Jessyla were alone in their bedchamber, she turned to him. “Why do all these things keep happening to us and around us?”

  “Because in one way or another, we’ve thwarted the desires of people with great power, and they’re anything but happy about being thwarted. The Prefect wanted Uncle to support him and use his magery for conquest. He also wanted Uncle to give him an excuse to attack Westwind or the Analerian nomads, if not both. Uncle didn’t do either, and neither did I. You know what Cohndar and Waensyn wanted, and what Trader Alizant wanted. Caradyn and the mages used Taelya as an excuse to strike back at Lhadoraak for supporting us … and to send a message to other mages not to stand up against either the head mage or the Traders’ Council. Emlyn and Sarysta wanted to lord it over Halhana, and when Jorhan and I, mostly Jorhan, came up with a piece that put theirs to shame, they struck back through Halhana, and that led to Barrynt’s rage…”

  “They were trying to make the point that they were in control, and that Halhana’s parents, especially Johlana, didn’t matter.” Jessyla paused. “I don’t understand why Sarysta had to reject the mirror. One ornamental mirror shouldn’t matter. It would have remained in Halhana’s bedchamber. Almost no one would have seen it.”

  “She likely has a dressing chamber,” replied Beltur dryly. “There’s another possibility. Emlyn controlled most of the trade in silver. Cupridium is just as valuable, if for other reasons. If wealthy women want more of what Jorhan produces…”

  “It wouldn’t reduce what Emlyn makes by that much.”

  “But Barrynt is the trader whose factorage displays it. He’ll make more. I mean, he would have. We’d have paid him some for what he sold, and that would also have drawn more people.”

  “Power and position … again.”

  “Isn’t it always?” Beltur yawned.

  “You’re tired. So am I.” She smiled, then used order to snuff out the single lamp in the bedchamber.

  LXVIII

  When Beltur went to the stable on twoday, he didn’t see anyone. Jorhan had already left for the smithy, and there were no signs of visitors, such as coaches or horses, at the house. He pondered that as he walked to the healing house, but decided it only confirmed what he already knew—that Barrynt had no living siblings, and since Johlana’s only sibling was Jorhan, there weren’t any other family members to come stay or visit, and most likely, few merchants or their consorts would dare until matters settled out.

  When he stepped into Herrara’s study, after reaching the healing house, she immediately addressed him. “You had quite an eightday, I hear.”

  “And a oneday,” replied Beltur. “Councilor Naerkaal and Councilor Sarstaan came to the smithy and asked me more questions.”

  “They came here as well.” Herrara looked evenly at Beltur. “For someone who’s a black mage and a healer, troubles seem to cling to you like snow to a northeaster. I have to ask you why you think that keeps happening.”

  “Because people want things to stay the way they’ve always been, and, if I let things stay that way, I’d be dead.”

  Herrara frowned. “That’s … rather … self-centered.”

  “Jorhan and I found a way to make a very good living in Elparta. Our work paid off our debts, and before long we would have been very comfortable. That meant we didn’t owe everything to the traders, and that I could afford to consort Jessyla. Neither the traders nor the senior mages liked that. We were starting to do that here, and the excellence of a piece we produced for Barrynt’s daughter as a gift caused resentment and jealousy on the part of Sarysta and Emlyn. They took it out on Halhana. That enraged Barrynt. We weren’t trying to harm anyone. We were just trying to better ourselves.”

  “You’re suggesting that, in three separate lands, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Have we? Besides upsetting people with power and golds?”

  “Upsetting those in power is often the greatest of evils, at least for those in power, and it’s often fatal.” Herrara smile
d sardonically. “Failure to defer and show obvious subservience to those in power can be almost as deadly. You and Jessyla are well-mannered and polite. You’re definitely not subservient. I happen to like that, especially in healers. Most people in power don’t. And those with wealth and less power like it even less.”

  “Believing all that, how have you managed to do so well with the Council for the healing house?”

  “I don’t do well. The healing house barely survives on what the Council provides. They provide it because it makes them look good, and there are fewer deaths in the poorhouse and the workhouses. I also train healers. Most of them go on to work for wealthy traders and merchants. Those who don’t fit leave Axalt, sooner or later. I can also seem subservient when necessary. I doubt that either you or Jessyla will ever be able to do that.”

  “Why? You’re an outstanding healer.”

  “Who else is there? Someone less apparently subservient would destroy the healing house, as would someone truly subservient. Who else would the workers and the poor have?”

  Beltur nodded. He already knew the answer to her questions.

  “Beltur … Axalt is far from perfect, but it’s also far better than most lands. There is no perfect land. Destroying a good but imperfect land doesn’t make the world better. It makes it poorer. The only meaningful choices in life are either to maintain something good or to build something better. Did the Prefect’s invasion of Spidlar do either?”

  “No. You know that.”

  “Did Barrynt’s death—or Emlyn’s—make Axalt better?”

  “Most likely not. Sarysta’s death though…”

  “It’s very hard to stop killing once it starts. Each death enrages more people…”

  Unless it’s seen as natural or accidental. Beltur didn’t know from where that thought came, but he hung on to it as something to remember … just in case.

  “… That’s one reason why wars seldom end until one land is ravaged or destroyed—or both are destitute.”

  “You should be a councilor.”

  Herrara shook her head. “I see enough of bad decisions. Here, I can do something to help.” She smiled. “I’ve kept you enough. Go do your rounds … and try to smile now and again.”

  Beltur smiled in return.

  As he picked up a basket and then stepped out into the corridor, he thought over what Herrara had said … and what she hadn’t … and that her words suggested that he and Jessyla were not all that suited to a long stay in Axalt.

  LXIX

  Just before Jessyla headed out the door on threeday, she turned to Beltur. “Remember, the farewell is at noon, and I can only be there for a glass or so before I have to go back to the healing house. I’ll be back as soon as I can be around fourth glass.”

  “I’m going to the smithy. Jorhan could use some help with what he’s doing for Johlana.”

  “That was a good idea after what happened with the mirror. She needs something different and more about Barrynt.”

  “I told you. It was Johlana’s idea. She wanted something that reminded her of other times.”

  “You did tell me. I’ve been…”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine … that way … physically.”

  Beltur could sense the truth of that. “Did I do something to upset you?”

  A soft smile appeared. “No. It isn’t you. All of this with Barrynt and the Council … I’ve been thinking a lot.”

  “Matters aren’t turning out the way either of us planned.”

  “No. I don’t want to be late. We’ll have time to talk later.” She leaned forward and kissed him, holding tightly, for several moments before letting go and easing out of his arms, smiling. “Later.”

  Beltur was smiling also as he watched her leave, because whatever was worrying her didn’t have to do with him. You hope. Although he hadn’t sensed that, he still worried.

  Then he hurried off to the stable, where he finished quickly. When he started for the smithy, he saw that the base of the pyre was already in place, although he didn’t see either Frankyr or Ryntaar.

  Jorhan was already polishing the memorial pearapple branch when Beltur got to the smithy and took over the foot treadle so that Jorhan could concentrate completely on the finish work.

  More than a glass later, Jorhan motioned Beltur off the treadle. “That’s as good as it’s going to be.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “That it is, if I do say so myself.” Jorhan paused. “Some say cupridium’s been cursed since the fall of Cyador. Others say that it was cursed by the black angels and that caused the fall of Cyador and will blight the lives of all who forge it or use it.”

  “I never heard that.”

  “Barrynt told me that, right after we got here. Said that it was balderdash, an excuse for what men did. Said that curses were what men used to explain away their faults.” Jorhan looked at the glistening silver-gold sheen of the leaved branch that held two cupridium pearapples side by side. “Don’t see how anything this good should be cursed.” He sighed. “Thing is, more bad than good’s come from what we’ve forged.”

  “You could say the same about gold, silver … gems,” replied Beltur. “Maybe even black iron. Anything that’s worth a lot makes men greedy. Look what Cohndar’s greed or the greed of Trader Alizant led to. The cupridium didn’t reach out and possess them. Sometimes, men claim that beautiful women are evil, just because they’re attractive to men. The evil isn’t that they’re beautiful. The evil comes from what men will do to possess such beauty.”

  Jorhan laughed. “You’d know. You’ve seen what those supposed upstanding black mages did to try to possess your beauty.” After a moment, he said, “Sad to think that beauty drives people to evil.”

  “Beauty doesn’t. Wanting to possess it at any cost does.”

  “You ought to be a philosopher, Beltur.”

  Beltur shook his head, for some reason thinking about Heldry the Mad, who hadn’t seemed mad at all in what he wrote … or Relyn, whose words seemed more reasonable than those who said they followed his teachings. “I’m just a mage and a healer, and an outstanding smith’s sometime striker.”

  “You’re going to have to be more than that to survive in this world.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re proud. You try to hide it, but you can’t always. You’re more powerful than many, but you bow to those who aren’t half the man you are. Thing is, you’re only being polite, and they know it. You want to do right, even when it offends those in power. Your consort is beautiful.”

  Beltur wasn’t sure he liked the image that Jorhan had presented. “Am I really that bad?”

  “Wouldn’t say you’re bad at all. You’re trying to hide what you are.”

  “I had to.”

  “That’s right. You had to. Do you now? Doesn’t mean you need to be like Emlyn, or those blacks who drove you out of Elparta.” Jorhan smiled ruefully. “I’m a good smith. Likely better than just good. That’s what I am. Not a trader. Not a councilor. You need to work out who you are, what you want to do besides survive. I figure any decent mage can survive. So can any decent smith.” After another pause, Jorhan shook his head. “Said enough. More than I should have, likely. You need to head out and get ready for the farewell. So do I. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Beltur was still thinking over what Jorhan said when he left the smithy and walked back along the south town road toward the city proper. Jorhan was right. He’d been so busy reacting to what everyone else was trying to do to him and Jessyla that he’d really not thought about what he wanted to be. But that wasn’t all Jorhan had said. What you want to do besides survive.

  He knew he wanted to be a good healer and better than a good mage, but … being wasn’t doing. Herrara wasn’t just a great healer; she was healing people whom no one else would heal. She was making the lives of others better.

  So what do you want to do?

  When the question was put that bluntly,
Beltur didn’t have an answer for himself.

  Once he returned to the cot, Beltur washed and changed into his good blacks, and even wore the silver medallion of a patrol mage, the one he’d kept, and shouldn’t have, when he’d fled Elparta. You more than earned it.

  “We won’t be here for dinner,” Beltur told Tulya, unnecessarily, he knew, but he had to say something as he passed through the kitchen on his way out.

  He was nervous as he walked from the cot to Barrynt’s small mansion—a dwelling he still thought of as Barrynt’s, although it now belonged to Ryntaar—because he’d never really been to a farewell, not that he fully recalled. Beltur had heard about farewells most of his life, but the only one he’d ever actually attended had been for his father, and he remembered little of that. Athaal had been turned to ashes by chaos fire, as had his uncle, and, while there had been a farewell for Athaal, without a pyre, Beltur had been too injured to attend. Obviously, a farewell for his uncle had been impossible, and no one else close to him had died.

  Beltur arrived possibly half a quint before midday, making his way up the side steps by himself, where Frankyr opened the door.

  “It’s good to see you, ser.”

  “I’m glad to see you, Frankyr. How are you doing?”

  “Better than on eightday, ser.” The young man’s eyes fixed on the silver patrol medallion as Beltur removed his coat. “I haven’t seen that.”

  “It’s a City Patrol medallion from Elparta.”

  “It’s quite impressive.”

  “It’s meant to be, but it never impressed most lawbreakers.”

  “Everyone’s gathering first in the family parlor. I think the only one who isn’t here is your consort.”

  “She’s at the healing house. She said she’d be here by noon.”

  “Then I’ll wait here.”

  “I could do that.”

  “No, ser. Mother said I was to be the one to greet everyone. She was quite firm. Please go into the parlor.”

  Beltur could certainly believe that. “If that’s the way your mother wants it, that’s what I’ll do.” He smiled, then made his way from the side hall into the family parlor. Everyone present was dressed in their best, which didn’t surprise him. What did was the presence of Eshult, standing beside the chair where Halhana was seated. Beltur hoped he’d concealed his surprise.