Outcasts of Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  Beltur waited for any of the others to speak. When no one did, he smiled. “We might as well find a fountain or somewhere to water the horses.” Then he patted Slowpoke on the shoulder and urged the gelding forward.

  There was what passed for a market square, close to the middle of Bortaan, and on the main road, which was scarcely surprising. It had a fountain, and only a handful of vendors were present, including only one gray-haired woman apparently looking at a bushel of some root vegetables.

  Even before dismounting, Beltur used his senses to check to see if there was chaos in the water, but there wasn’t any in the water itself, although there were traces in the basin beneath. “We’ll use the bucket to water the horses,” he said as he dismounted.

  None of those in the square gave more than half a glance to the travelers until Beltur had finished watering Slowpoke, Jessyla’s mount, and the mule and spare mount and turned the bucket over to Lhadoraak. Then a woman at a nearby cart looked up. Beltur could tell that she was studying him, then Jessyla, and finally Lhadoraak. After several moments, the woman walked to the older man at the next cart and spoke several words to him.

  Beltur watched as word passed among the vendors, and he could sense an increase in the natural chaos surrounding the vendors, although none of them moved from the square. That prompted him to use his senses to search for any concentration of order or chaos that might indicate a white or black mage nearby, but the only concentrations were those around him.

  When Lhadoraak returned with the bucket, Beltur said, “I can’t sense any whites or blacks, but the people here in the square are uncomfortable with our presence.”

  “I had that feeling,” interjected Jessyla.

  Lhadoraak nodded, then asked, “Do you still want to continue on?”

  “More than ever. If the people here are uncomfortable, there’s a reason for it, and I’d just as soon be out of Certis, without having to force our way out, before that reason shows up.”

  “You’re in command,” said the blond mage.

  Beltur managed not to wince. That was as close as Lhadoraak would come to saying he was uncomfortable. But then, Lhadoraak had never been happy about conflict, at best being reluctantly resigned to it when absolutely necessary. That observation brought home to Beltur that he was becoming far less resigned to using magery. Is that really a good attitude? All he said was, “We’ll just mount up and ride to the wall gate. It’s less than a kay.”

  Lhadoraak nodded once more and walked back to where Tulya held their horses. “We need to mount up. Beltur thinks he can get us out of Certis without forcing our way.”

  That was Beltur’s hope. He’d have to see how well he would do at it. He mounted Slowpoke, then eased the big gelding across the square, politely inclining his head to the one vendor whom he passed only a few yards away.

  Her eyes widened.

  Beltur studied the buildings on the main street that the road had become as Slowpoke carried him toward the wall, a direction that was more southeast than due east. He passed a chandlery that seemed tiny, little more than five yards wide, and then a potter’s shop across from what looked to be a weaver’s, beyond which was a larger structure that clearly held a blacksmith.

  In what seemed moments, but what was actually more than a quint, Beltur found himself riding past the reddish-brown brick wall that surrounded the guard post and then across a space of about fifty yards to where the road passed through the wall.

  Two of the Viscount’s Guard stood before the open gate in the wall, a space wide enough for two wagons. The wall itself was of a brownish brick and little more than two yards high, just high enough and thick enough to block wagons and carts and anyone in a hurry. The shorter guard stepped forward, while the taller one took one look at Beltur and Lhadoraak and headed for the small building to the right.

  Going for a squad leader or undercaptain, no doubt. Beltur glanced at the gate, still open. In fact, it didn’t appear to have been closed in years, but that could easily be deceiving.

  Still … he could throw a shield around his party and just have everyone ride through, blocking the gate with a containment, if necessary. He hoped it wouldn’t be.

  “Ser mage … if you would wait but a moment…” The guard’s voice was strained.

  Beltur didn’t blame the young man. “Of course.”

  It took more than a few moments before the taller guard returned, followed by an older man with single silver bars on his collar, which would have meant an undercaptain in Spidlar. The undercaptain’s face was narrow and lined, and Beltur suspected the officer was a good fifteen years older than Beltur, and likely had come up through the ranks.

  The officer frowned as his eyes focused on Beltur’s visor cap, with its Elpartan City Patrol insignia above the brim, as if he struggled to make sense of the apparently unfamiliar device. “Ser, we received no word that mages would be coming this way.” His eyes went to Jessyla and her greens. “And not about healers, either.” He paused and added, looking particularly to Taelya, “Or others.”

  “What you have heard or not heard,” Beltur said firmly, keeping his voice level and pleasant, “is not my concern, Undercaptain. We have been sent to Vergren. Why is not your concern, just as what you have heard or not heard is not mine.”

  Beltur could sense the consternation his words raised in the older officer.

  “This … it is not according to the standing orders of the Viscount, ah … ser. We should have been told…”

  “That is, as I said, scarcely my concern.” Beltur smiled coolly as he eased the large silver patrol medallion from under his tunic and let it and its solid silver links rest on his chest. “This should mean something to you, Undercaptain.” He doubted that the officer had ever seen anything like it. He waited for a long moment. “Of course, if necessary…” Beltur let the words hang there.

  The officer swallowed, finally saying, “No, ser. That … I mean, I would not wish to intrude upon your mission. Might I enter your name for my records?”

  “Beltur. Captain. Black mage. Out of Jellico.”

  “Thank you, ser.” The undercaptain stepped back.

  Beltur inclined his head, urging Slowpoke forward, but also casting a narrow shield around his entire party, as he led the way through the gate, just in case one of the Guard decided on something rash. No one did.

  Your time as an undercaptain came in very useful. Beltur did not smile and held the shield in place until they had ridden almost half a kay along the road between the gray rock outcroppings that began about a hundred yards from the wall.

  Since Beltur didn’t quite know what to say, he said nothing, not until they passed through the narrowest point between the rocky hills and he saw two brick posts flanking the road ahead, and behind the one on the left, a small brick building. Behind the posts the space between the hills widened somewhat, and Beltur thought he saw roofs farther eastward through the bare limbs of trees that showed some green but that had not fully leafed out. “I think I see the official entrance to Montgren ahead.”

  As he rode closer he saw a man standing behind the road post on the left, just in front of the small building. He also sensed what seemed like a shield, the kind he was working on with Taelya, but the shield wasn’t anywhere near the posts.

  The man wore a blue tunic and trousers with a blue visor cap that showed a brass insignia above the visor, and smiled as Beltur approached and then reined up. “Welcome to Montgren.”

  An expression of mild surprise followed as he looked from Beltur to Jessyla and then Lhadoraak.

  “Two mages and a healer coming from Certis? That is a surprise.”

  Although Beltur knew very well why the border patroller was surprised, he said, “We came from Elparta by way of Axalt and then through Certis. It occasionally took a little persuasion. Are you a tariff inspector?”

  “Hardly. The Duchess doesn’t hold for border tariffs. We’re just here to make sure the Viscount’s men don’t come into Montgren chasing after
folks who want to leave Certis.”

  Beltur couldn’t help wondering just how a few men could stop even a squad of the Viscount’s Guard. “Just you?”

  “Oh, not me. I just keep count of who and what comes and goes. Might I ask whatever names you choose to go by?”

  Beltur smiled and said, “Beltur, black mage and healer; Jessyla, healer and apprentice mage; Lhadoraak, black mage, and his consort Tulya, and their daughter Taelya.”

  “Where might you be headed?”

  “To Vergren.”

  “Not Lavah?”

  “No.” Beltur had no idea even where Lavah was. He was slightly disconcerted, because he sensed that the mage who held the shield was approaching, even before the mage stepped out of the small brick building and walked toward the first border keeper and the five riders.

  The approaching mage wore a blue uniform tunic identical to that of the first patroller, with the exception of wide white bands at the end of his sleeves. His hair was blond, shot with silver, although he looked to be close to the same age as Lhadoraak. He studied the group without speaking for several moments. Then he inclined his head to Beltur and asked, “Did you get through the Certan border guards by concealment or force?”

  “Neither. Subterfuge and the merest suggestion of force.”

  The white mage offered a smile Beltur could tell was forced. “Subterfuge? That seldom works.”

  “We rode up. We were challenged. I said we were on a mission to Montgren, and displayed this medallion. The undercaptain said he had no orders or notice. I told him that was no concern of mine. He reconsidered. Here we are.”

  “He was a very wise man. I hope he is wise enough not to report your passage.” After a moment, the mage continued. “I’ve never sensed shields as strong as yours. The shields and your mount … and your bearing … suggest a certain … past.”

  “I was an arms-mage in Spidlar when the Prefect invaded. So was Lhadoraak.”

  “Are you looking for a similar position here?”

  Beltur shook his head. “We did what was necessary. We’re traveling to meet a friend in Vergren who suggested he might have prospects for us.” Saying Vaenturl was a friend was a slight exaggeration, but the offer had been real enough.

  “Oh?”

  “He’s a trader who often travels to Elparta. We traveled with him from Elparta to Axalt.”

  The mage nodded. “I wish you all well.”

  “Are there lodgings near? We’ve been on the road an eightday.”

  “There are two inns another three kays east. That’s where the springs are. They both have rooms this time of year. I’d suggest the West End.”

  “Thank you.”

  The mage looked at Lhadoraak, Tulya, then Taelya.

  Beltur could see him stiffen, and said, “Yes, she is … or will be once she learns more.”

  “She’s very young, but … I’ve never…”

  “I’ve been working with her.”

  “You’re a black.”

  “I was raised as a white by a white. It’s caused certain problems for me, but it made it easy for me to help her.”

  The mage shook his head. “I don’t think I need to know. Just be aware that the Duchess doesn’t much care for magery as a weapon except in self-defense.”

  “None of us has ever behaved otherwise.” Except in a war we didn’t begin.

  The mage looked to the other border patroller.

  “They gave names.”

  The mage gestured for them to continue.

  Beltur urged Slowpoke forward, but he was ready to throw shields around everyone if the white mage showed the slightest hint of raising chaos. After another half kay, he began to relax.

  “They were more friendly,” said Jessyla. “I don’t think they care much for the Certans.”

  “I’m not sure about that. They don’t care much for the Viscount, but the mage is certainly aware that the Viscount’s guards are following orders and even showed some sympathy for that undercaptain.”

  “I hope the West End is a good and comfortable inn.”

  So did Beltur.

  XCVI

  Sevenday morning, Beltur woke up in the darkness to what sounded like small hammers thudding against the walls of the West End inn. He bolted upright from the most comfortable bed he’d slept in since they’d left Rytel, then realized that the sound was that of rain, and the intensity meant that it had to be a northeaster.

  “What’s that?” asked Jessyla, lifting her head and looking toward Beltur, her voice heavy with sleep.

  “Rain.”

  She turned to him. “It sounds like a northeaster. Did you sense that yesterday? Was that why you wanted to get out of Certis?”

  Beltur leaned back, settling next to her, yawned, then shook his head. “I’d like to say I did. You know my magery doesn’t run to that. I just felt that it would be better. I don’t have a good feeling about Certis.” He paused, then said, “That’s not right. I don’t have a good feeling about the Viscount.”

  “You scared Tulya yesterday,” said Jessyla softly.

  “I wasn’t going to let anything happen to her or Taelya. She should know that. How many glasses have I spent, day after day, working with Taelya?”

  “That wasn’t what scared her.”

  “Oh?”

  “What scared her was the person you became when you talked to that poor undercaptain. You frightened him to death. He was almost shivering with the fear that you were going to destroy him on the spot.”

  “If he could have, he would have kept us locked up until the Viscount’s mages arrived to cart us off to serve the Viscount, using Tulya and Taelya as hostages for our ‘cooperation.’ What we saw in the short time we were in Certis—”

  “It wasn’t that short. It seemed like half a season.”

  “What we saw,” repeated Beltur, “was just like what the Prefect is doing in Gallos.”

  “You don’t know that. Not for certain.”

  Beltur sighed. “You’re right. I don’t know it for certain. But when almost a score of former guards turn into brigands, when villagers look at mages warily, when mages are under the thumb of the Viscount—”

  “The Viscount’s tariff inspectors let us into Certis without a word.”

  “Of course they did. Why wouldn’t they? There was also the possibility that we might already be working for the Viscount. Especially since Jhotyl was under the Viscount’s marque. Didn’t you see how that squad leader in Corumtal reacted?”

  “It might not be that bad.”

  “You’re right. It might not be. But I’d just as soon not find out by staying in Certis. And I wouldn’t want to find out by anything happening to you.”

  Jessyla did not reply, but just looked at Beltur through the gloom.

  “Well … would you want anything like that to happen?”

  “I love you when you get so serious and protective.”

  “You!!!”

  Jessyla started to giggle.

  Beltur offered an overly broad smile. “You know … with this rain, we’re not going anywhere at all today.”

  “I know.” Her arms went around his neck.

  XCVII

  The northeaster lasted well into evening on eightday, and Beltur had no desire to wade through muddy roads on oneday, especially since oneday dawned clear and bright, and a day of sunlight would dry the road and make it far more passable on twoday.

  He even worked in a little more reading in The Wisdom of Relyn, coming across a passage that disturbed him for more than a few reasons, enough that he was still mulling it over on oneday evening when he finally dropped off to sleep.

  Once in my misguided youth I tried to gain a holding by killing the angels. What happened made me avoid all killing after that. I avoided it so much that it drew others after me, who thought I was weak, and they almost killed innocents. I could only stop that by killing those who followed me. What that revealed was that, sometimes, when you try to avoid something too much, you e
nd up drawing it to you.

  Beltur was still thinking that over on twoday morning when, after another hearty breakfast at the West End, and quite a few more silvers spent on lodging, food, and fodder, but with far more rested travelers and mounts, he led Slowpoke out of the inn’s stable into a crisp and clear early morning, then mounted and guided the others southeast on the road to Vergren.

  For the first ten kays or so the road wound through the rocky but heavily forested hills, then opened out onto a vista of rolling hills that seemed half covered in hardwoods that were not quite finished leafing out and regular sections of meadows and pastures. As the party continued riding through the late morning, it became apparent to Beltur that about one in four of the meadows held sheep, and there was always a sturdy cot or even a small house near the flocks, with a large walled garden. It also seemed to Beltur that either a not-quite-full-grown boy or girl tended the black-faced sheep, usually accompanied by one or two good-sized dogs that never barked or paid any attention to the riders even when Slowpoke was within ten or fifteen yards.

  By midday, Beltur discovered something else—that the air, even though still moderately cool, was damp, and that he was sweating because of that dampness.

  By the time they had ridden another three days through what seemed to be the same rolling hills, meadows, and forests, the land no longer seemed quite so idyllic to Beltur, for all the seemingly cheerful people they passed, often walking beside a cart, and by noon on fiveday, Beltur was getting worried. Is all Montgren like this? He had heard, more than once, that Montgren was all sheep, meadows, and forests, but no one had mentioned the continual dampness—cool dampness, warm dampness, and hot dampness. By comparison, Spidlar was dry, and much of Gallos a pleasant desert—and Beltur had never thought he would be remembering anything about Gallos favorably.