Felsyn nodded slowly. “I had heard of that. Did you ever kill anyone in Gallos?”
“No, ser. I did shield some guards to help my uncle when he took me to Analeria…” Beltur went on to explain the mission to scout out the plains raiders and how they had been attacked three times by raider bands.
“You never initiated an attack against these plains people?”
“No, ser. All the times, they attacked us first. We didn’t even ride toward them.”
“Your uncle. Why did Wyath have him killed?”
“I don’t know. I would judge that it was because he didn’t agree with Wyath, but he never did anything against the Arms-Mage, and I never heard him say anything against Wyath except that he felt Wyath didn’t like anyone who didn’t agree completely with him.”
“How did you end up here in Elparta?”
“I didn’t dare return to my uncle’s house when I thought all the whites were looking for me. The only people I thought I could trust were Margrena and Jessyla. I went to their house, and Athaal was there. He and the healer thought I should go with Athaal to Elparta.”
“You didn’t ask them first?”
“No, ser. I really didn’t know what to do. I was just looking for a safe place to figure out what I could do next. They were the ones who suggested I come to Elparta.” Beltur wondered why Felsyn was asking questions about something that surely he’d heard about. Was it just because he wanted to hear for himself? Or hadn’t anyone told him?
Felsyn turned abruptly to Meldryn. “Is that what Athaal said?”
Meldryn smiled wryly. “Yes. In fact, he said that Beltur was so distraught and confused that someone had to help him. He also wasn’t terribly pleased that Beltur’s uncle hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that Beltur was a black.”
Felsyn shook his head. “I’ve heard enough. I don’t know why Cohndar and Waensyn are so concerned, but I wouldn’t worry about it.” He rose slowly, then shook his shoulders, as if trying to loosen them. Finally, he looked at Beltur, who had also stood. “As Meldryn has said, you’re as black as any in Elparta, and that’s what I’ll say. I’ve taken enough of your time, and I need to be heading home.”
“Would you like—” Beltur began.
“You’re kind, but I’m not that old. Not yet. If I can’t walk four blocks…” The older mage walked to the foyer, followed by Meldryn and Beltur.
After closing the door behind Felsyn, Meldryn gestured toward the parlor, and once they were both seated, he turned to Beltur. “How much did you hear before you made your appearance?”
“I thought I was shielded.”
“You were. But I heard the door click. Felsyn didn’t. His hearing isn’t quite what it once was.”
“He was saying something about Cohndar and Waensyn saying I wasn’t a true black.”
Meldryn nodded. “Then you overheard most of the important parts. Before that we were mostly talking pleasantries. He said he came to see how I was doing … because of Athaal. That clearly wasn’t really what was on his mind. Or not all of it.”
“What do you think was on his mind besides Athaal?” Beltur had his own ideas about that, but he wanted to hear what Meldryn had to say.
“I think Cohndar has been trying to influence him. Felsyn doesn’t like that.”
“Why won’t Waensyn and Cohndar leave me alone?”
“Because Waensyn wants Jessyla, obviously, and he’s spent eightdays flattering Cohndar, who’s always been susceptible to flattery.”
“So what should I do now?”
“We should have dinner. Felsyn is most likely on your side, and certainly Lhadoraak is, and we can’t do anything more at the moment.” Meldryn smiled. “I did make a meat pie.”
Dinner sounded very good to Beltur after a long chilly day.
II
On fourday morning, Beltur still got up early, earlier than he had risen before he’d become a mage-officer. That was because Athaal had been the one to rise early and fix breakfast, and with Meldryn now fixing dinner, Beltur felt he should do as much as he could, even if he wasn’t quite the cook Athaal had been. Meldryn had already offered a few suggestions, such as adding diced shallots to the cheesed eggs, and Beltur had no doubt that he’d end up a better cook just by listening to Meldryn.
After cleaning up, he was just about to leave to meet with Jorhan, hoping that the smith had been able to locate some copper, when Laranya arrived. She hadn’t come on threeday, since Athaal and Meldryn had agreed that she didn’t have to come when it rained, largely because rain made her son’s ailments even worse.
“How is Nykail this morning?”
“He’s better than yesterday. My mother is with him.” Laranya glanced past Beltur toward the kitchen.
“It’s not quite as bad as yesterday. There are only fragments of cheesed eggs everywhere, and a burned shallot or two.” Beltur doubted there was either, but if there happened to be, Laranya would certainly find it.
Laranya shook her head, sadly, then said with mock gravity, “Someday you will learn to cook and clean. Perhaps when I am old and gray.”
“If I’m fortunate.” Beltur grinned, then slipped past her and stepped outside into a chill wind. While he wasn’t that uncomfortable in his old black wool tunic, if it got much colder, he’d need to get a heavy overcoat. And there’s no doubt it’s going to get much colder.
He walked east on Crossed Lane until he came to the east wall road, and then walked south along the wall until he came to the southeast gate, where he passed the guards, one of whom nodded at him, and then headed east along the road that eventually led to Axalt, the mountain town and small land that controlled the only usable pass through the Easthorns in the northern third of all Candar. He wasn’t going that far, just to the smithy owned by Jorhan.
Beltur smiled wryly, recalling when Athaal had taken him to meet the smith. Athaal had said that it was only about a kay beyond the gate, and Beltur had begun to wonder about that as the two of them had walked past plots with small cots, one woodlot, and several stretches of rocky pastures before reaching a short stone lane leading up to a graystone house. While the smithy wasn’t the more than two kays Beltur had originally thought, it was close to a kay and a half from the gate.
When he turned up the lane, Beltur saw that a line of smoke rose from the chimney of the smithy—a small stone outbuilding with a split slate roof, just like the main house and the small barn that held Jorhan’s single horse and cart. The smoke suggested that Jorhan had obtained more copper. Beltur certainly hoped so.
The door to the smithy was ajar, another sign that the weather had turned, since during harvest and early fall Jorhan had kept it wide open. Beltur opened it and stepped inside, then eased the door back to where it had been, enjoying the comparative warmth of the smithy.
The short and muscular smith turned from the workbench where he was working on a mold for casting. “You’re a mite early this morning.”
“I must have walked faster because of the chill.”
“Chill? It’s just bracing out.”
Beltur caught the glint in Jorhan’s gray eyes and laughed. “A little more than bracing, I think, but nothing compared to what I can expect. Or so I’ve been told. You got more copper, I take it?” When Beltur had met with Jorhan on the previous fiveday, the smith had told him to return on fourday, after he dealt with the Council about the copper and tin they’d supplied.
“Enough for today. I won’t get more until sixday morning. Barrynt’s bringing me some from Axalt. Tin, too.”
“Barrynt?” Beltur hadn’t heard that name before.
“My sister Johlana’s consort.”
“Oh, the one who’s a merchant in Axalt. You’ve mentioned him before, but never by name.”
“He’s a good man. Doesn’t trade metals, but he knows those who do, and he’s lined up ten stones’ worth of copper. Sent me a message with one of his friends telling me that.”
“What ever happened to the copper the Council sent?”
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“The Council took back what we hadn’t forged. Right after we talked.” Jorhan offered a crooked smile. “Not all of it.”
“So you need to have copper bought elsewhere?”
“You’ve got it. Council’d be on me like ticks on a dog in midsummer if they thought I’d kept even a digit of what we hadn’t forged into blades. They can’t suffer the slightest bit of copper helping a poor smith. They wouldn’t even sell it to me. Not unless I paid double the worth.”
Beltur couldn’t help but wonder who might be behind that. Cohndar? Or just trader greed? “So if there’s no copper…?”
“I have some left from before. Made sure the Council knew I had it. Showed them the bill of lading. Bastards even weighed it. You’d think they were from Worrak.” Jorhan snorted.
Worrak? For a moment, Beltur didn’t understand before he realized that Jorhan was comparing the Council to the pirates who effectively controlled that port city.
“There’s enough copper left for some candelabra and some small pieces, plus a pair of mirrors. That’s what I figure, anyway. We’ll cast what we can today, and I’ll do the finish work tomorrow, and then we should be able to do some blades on sixday. That trader from Lydiar wants more.”
“The one who took three of them?”
“That’s him.” Jorhan gestured toward the small hearth. “Might as well get started.”
Beltur took off the older tunic he wore when he came to the smithy and hung it on one of the wall pegs, then walked over to the hearth bellows. “What’s the first melt for?”
“We’ll start with a candelabrum.”
Beltur began to pump the bellows, and by little more than a fifth of a glass later, Jorhan used his tongs to lift the stoneware crucible from the forge and carefully poured the bronze mix—a mix with far less tin than regular bronze—into the mold.
After blotting his forehead, Beltur began to concentrate on creating within the hot metal the fine layers of order lattices that held chaos locked within that order. Once the lattices were in place and all linked together, he had to hold them until the metal was solid enough that the bronze and the ordered chaos were one. Then he rested while Jorhan readied the next mold.
After drinking a mug of Jorhan’s bitter ale, Beltur said, “You really didn’t say much when I asked about how you managed during the invasion. The company I was with rode past here, and I saw a trail of smoke from the smithy, but everything was shuttered tight. Did the Gallosians bother you?”
“No. There was only one bunch, and they didn’t stay long.”
“We attacked them, but we didn’t have enough men to stop them. They withdrew when the main forces kept them from getting any support.” That wasn’t the entire story, but Beltur didn’t want to explain more.
“Could have been a lot worse, like I said before.”
“I thought you were thinking of going to Axalt.”
“Didn’t see much point after that one bunch left. If they couldn’t stick around, I figured it wouldn’t be long before it was all over. Shame about Athaal. He was a good man. I doubt that there was a mean bone in his body. That might have been his problem. Takes either anger or meanness if you want to win a fight. Not too much of either, though. Otherwise you get carried away and get beaten or killed.”
“That sounds like experience.”
Jorhan shook his head. “I just got that from watching over the years. You’ve been the one doing the fighting. You think I’m wrong?”
Beltur hadn’t thought of it in quite that way, and although he hadn’t, he certainly felt anger against the Prefect and Arms-Mage Wyath. But he hadn’t really been aware of that anger during the fighting. But you certainly felt strongly. “No, I think you’re right … except I think other strong feelings come into it.”
“Sounds like you had a knack for it.”
Beltur couldn’t help but think about the captain’s words, saying that Beltur would make a good officer. “The captain thought so. I’m not so sure. I probably wouldn’t have made it without Slowpoke.”
“That’s the big gelding you rode.”
Beltur nodded. “Wish I could have kept him, but what use does a poor mage have for a big horse. Besides, he was already gone with the company by the time I recovered.”
“Happens that way, sometimes. You ready to heat the next mix?”
Beltur nodded and moved to the bellows.
By the fourth glass of the afternoon, Beltur was definitely feeling tired … and very out of shape for working the bellows and concentrating on chaos and order. But the two of them had cast two sets of candelabra and two mirrors. Before donning his tunic, Beltur washed up, then waited for Jorhan to return from the house.
“How early on sixday?” asked Beltur once the smith appeared.
“The usual.” Jorhan grinned. “Even if the copper’s not here, it will be soon enough that the Council won’t be able to tell.” He extended a single silver. “This is for the day’s work. After I get what the Council owes me, you’ll get the piecework pay. Maybe sooner, but I have to pay Barrynt on delivery.”
“I understand.” Beltur did all too well. He hadn’t received any pay for the time he’d spent as a mage-officer until he was mustered out, despite the Council’s promises to pay, which had meant going for half a season without any coins coming in. Meldryn had experienced similar problems in being paid for the bread he’d baked as well. But then, traders wanted to be paid, but often delayed paying as long as they could, from what Beltur had seen. “I’ll see you on sixday.”
The air seemed colder as Beltur walked back along the east road toward Elparta. He hurried, because he wanted to see Jessyla and Margrena before heading back home, Meldryn’s house being the closest thing to home he was likely to have for some time.
He couldn’t help smiling when he caught sight of the two-story dwelling with the narrow green lintel above the door. That was the only sign that the house held healers, although it actually belonged to Grenara, Margrena’s much older sister, who did very little healing anymore, but Grenara had taken in Margrena and her daughter after the two had fled Gallos when the Prefect’s arms-mage had attempted to destroy all mages in Gallos who opposed him.
He had barely knocked on the door when the red-haired, green-eyed Jessyla opened it. “I thought it might be you.”
“Thought or hoped?” Beltur smiled, taking in just how good she looked in the green of a healer, and mentally comparing the green to the shades in the scarf.
“Both. Do come in.” She stepped back and opened the door wide. “You’re wearing the old tunic.”
Beltur stepped into the front room that also served as the parlor. “I was working today.”
“You’re all right with working, now?”
“I’m back on duty with the City Patrol. That happened on threeday. It does mean I’ll get paid, at least for another seven eightdays.” Beltur shrugged as he stood by one of the backed benches in the parlor.
A voice came from the back of the house. “Jessyla?”
“Mother, it’s Beltur.”
“I’ll be there in a moment.”
Beltur glanced around the small room. “Your aunt’s not here?”
“Auntie’s visiting her friend Almaya. I’m sure she won’t mind missing your visit.”
As Margrena, several digits shorter than her daughter and blond, entered the parlor, she glanced at her daughter, then shook her head.
“She won’t,” said Jessyla. “But she has admitted that you’re a better mage than she thought. She’ll never tell you that.”
“Not any time soon,” added Margrena. “Can you stay?” She gestured toward the bench facing the door into the kitchen.
“Only for a little bit,” replied Beltur, moving to the bench, but waiting for the two to seat themselves before he sat down. His eyes went to the feline sitting on the third step of the narrow staircase to the upper level. Growler was a large cat, with intense blue eyes, a tan body, and black-striped legs and tail, a tail that appea
red excessively long to Beltur. “Growler didn’t run off.”
“You moved away from him,” said Jessyla.
“Hello there, Growler.” Beltur tried to project a sense of order, of all being well.
Growler ignored the pleasantry and began to groom himself.
“One of the reasons I came was to report to the healer who saved my life twice.” Beltur smiled ruefully at Margrena.
“Your order/chaos balance appears a little low, but Jessyla could have told you that.”
“Some of that’s because I was working with Jorhan today. I haven’t been working that hard in eightdays.”
“You still need to be careful,” said Margrena.
Jessyla nodded emphatically.
“You said one reason,” said the older healer. “Why else?”
“I’d like to accompany you two tomorrow in your healing…”
Margrena raised her eyebrows. “Why? I thought you were working with Jorhan.”
“I am, but he won’t get any more copper until sixday. I’ve been reading more in On Healing—the book by Leantor—but reading’s not the same as doing, and I really need to observe trained healers actually healing. Also…” Beltur looked to Jessyla. “You did say I should accompany you someday…”
Margrena looked sideways at her daughter.
“I did, Mother.”
“That doesn’t explain why you want to accompany us. It shouldn’t be just for Jessyla’s company.”
“It’s not that. I’ve been forced by circumstances to do healing. If that happens again, I’d like to know more.”
“You’ve had to do more than the boy with the brain chaos?” asked Jessyla.
Outcasts of Order Page 3
