Outcasts of Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  He immediately walked along the path Meldryn must have cleared so that people could reach the door of the bakery more easily until he could get across Crossed Lane to the east side of Bakers Lane—shaded by the buildings where the snow glare was less intense. As early as it was, many people had already swept or shoveled paths away from doors and along the sides of the streets and lanes. Even so, he was careful where he placed his boots, especially after slipping and almost falling when he stepped on a patch of ice covered by the fine dry snow.

  He reached City Patrol headquarters less than a quint before seventh glass. Laevoyt was already there, waiting, and Beltur signed in quickly, then remembered to ease the patrol medallion out from under his tunic and to adjust the chain so it was clearly visible.

  “Good thing you’ve got a heavy coat,” offered the tall patroller as Beltur approached.

  Beltur noticed that Laevoyt wore a heavy jacket that only reached midway to his knees, with wool the same color as the patroller’s uniform, then said, “It’s a legacy of sorts, from Athaal’s family. His father’s. Too big for Athaal.”

  “You’re fortunate.”

  “I am,” replied Beltur, following Laevoyt out onto Patrol Street, which was already cleared all the way to the square. “Will there be many at the square?”

  “Some. Most will wait until close to noon.”

  Beltur gestured. “I was surprised to find Patrol Street cleared.”

  “That’s done by the young fellows from one of the workhouses. They clear the market squares and some of the main streets. The snow goes into the river. Or onto it when it freezes over.”

  “They must start early.”

  “Around fourth glass, I think.”

  Beltur shivered at the thought of shoveling snow in the cold darkness before dawn.

  “The young ones want to do it. They get a copper a day for it. It’s one of the few ways they can get coins. Not a bad trade. They get coins, and the Council gets the snow cleared. When the snow is more than knee-deep they get two coppers.”

  Somehow, that bothered Beltur even more. “What can they spend them on?”

  “Extra food, or they can give them to their families when they visit. That’s only on every other sevenday.”

  As they neared the market square, Beltur could see a scattering of vendors, little more than a score, spaced apart on the cold pavement. In places, lines of white, either ice or snow, showed either cracks in the pavement or deeper grooves between stones. He also saw patches of ice glistening in the winter light. There weren’t many sellers of the more expensive wares, except for two carts that appeared to be selling woolen blankets, cloaks, and coats. There were several carts selling potatoes, as well as root vegetables like carrots, parsnips, and turnips.

  “Is there any reason to hold a concealment?” Beltur didn’t see much point in that, but it might be that he was missing something.

  “Not until there are more people around … or if you want to practice.”

  Beltur could detect a hint of humor in the other’s voice. “I think I’ll pass for now. I see enough ice that I don’t feel like taking a fall.”

  For the first glass that Beltur walked around the square, he didn’t see more than a handful of buyers, and all of them frequented the produce carts. Another vendor arrived and set up a stall selling what seemed to be heavy flat cakes of some sort. Since there were few people about, and since Beltur could sense no chaos flickers, he made his way toward the table.

  “Best nutbread anywhere,” declared the square-faced older woman.

  Beltur looked at the flat oval cakes, shaded from tan to light brown, which appeared less than appetizing. “What are they?”

  “Acorn cakes. They’ll keep for a season, and they’re good travel bread. Three for a copper.”

  “I won’t be traveling any time soon, but that’s good to know. I’ve never seen anyone else selling them.”

  “Two reasons. They’re winter food, and this wasn’t a mast year.”

  Beltur hadn’t the faintest idea what she meant by a mast year.

  That must have showed on his face, because the woman smiled and added, “Those are the years when all the oaks provide enormous numbers of acorns. I’m willing to do the work in a year when the trees don’t mast.”

  “Thank you.” Beltur nodded and made his way toward the west side of the square, where he turned and studied the scattered groups of sellers.

  He’d been looking for a time and had just started moving north when he saw a figure clad in a bulky woolen coat, or perhaps the woman herself was bulky, walking along Patrol Street, eying the square, her eyes clearly taking in Laevoyt’s tall figure. She stopped and scanned the square, and her eyes came to rest on Beltur. Then she turned and continued walking, leaving the square behind.

  While Beltur hadn’t sensed any chaos flickers, he had to wonder if she’d been assessing the possibility of making off with something—either coins or something else—and whether she might be back later when there might be more buyers and possibly more vendors.

  Just before ninth glass, as he walked up West Street, he saw a horse-drawn cart appear and recognized Fosset, except that the ale seller’s cart looked somehow different. So he angled his steps that way.

  The ale seller turned from unhitching the cart and watching the teamster walk the horse back in the direction of the Traders’ Rest and raised a gloved hand in greeting. “Mage.”

  Beltur eyed the two braziers on the cart. “You’re not selling hot ale?”

  “Mulled wine and hot cider. You get a small one, same as always.”

  “I’ll take the hot cider … but later, when I’m really cold.”

  Fosset laughed. “You sound like all the other patrollers and mages. Never seen one of you taking the mulled wine.”

  “I can’t tell you why,” admitted Beltur. “I didn’t even know you switched to hot cider and mulled wine.”

  “More folks want it when it’s cold. Besides, the cider’s cheaper. Leastwise, it is most years.”

  Beltur sensed a flash of chaos. “I’ll be back later.” He turned toward the middle of the square, where he saw two women, bundled in coats that looked like they had been quilted out of pieces of mismatched blankets. The two were moving toward the woman who sold the acorn cakes.

  Then both of them grabbed cakes from the table and turned to run. Beltur immediately clamped containments around the two, something he wouldn’t have been able to do if there had been more vendors and buyers in the square. Then he fumbled out his whistle and blew on it, three short blasts, as he hurried toward the table.

  Neither woman tried to flee or struggle against the two shield containments. Both just stood there, held in place, and began to eat the acorn cakes they had taken.

  Beltur had just barely reached the two captives when Laevoyt, coming from the east side of the square, joined him.

  “They tried to grab acorn cakes?” Laevoyt’s voice was resigned.

  “They did indeed,” declared the seller. “Would have gotten clean away if it hadn’t of been for the mage.”

  The patroller shook his head, then looked to the woman closest to him. “Things are that bad, are they, Vesthya?”

  “What else could we do?”

  “If we take you in again, you’ll likely lose a hand.”

  “Better’n dying on the street.”

  Laevoyt turned to the second woman, even older-looking than the first. “And you? Why?”

  Beltur almost swallowed as he realized the second woman was already one-handed.

  “You know as well as I.”

  Again, Beltur was surprised, this time by how well-spoken the older and gaunt white-haired woman was.

  Laevoyt shook his head once more as he took out the chains and leather collars, then nodded to Beltur, who released the shield around the first woman while the tall patroller collared and chained her. The two repeated the process with the second.

  Then Laevoyt said, “Start walking. You know where.�
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  Neither woman spoke during the time it took to cover the five blocks back to Patrol headquarters.

  The duty patroller looked up as he saw Laevoyt, Beltur, and the two captives. His expression seemed half despairing and half resentful. Beltur could sense the mixed emotions through the swirl of order and chaos.

  “Petty theft,” said Laevoyt. “As small as you can get. Each of them stole a copper’s worth of acorn cakes. Less than that. Cakes were three for a copper. They each stole and ate one cake.”

  The duty patroller took both names and wrote them into the duty log, along with the offenses. Beltur and Laevoyt waited until one of the duty gaolers appeared and took the two deeper into the building.

  Without speaking, the duty patroller handed Laevoyt two more sets of collars and chains, and the tall patroller accepted them, also without speaking.

  Beltur said nothing either, not until he and Laevoyt were outside and walking back east on Patrol Street. “Should I have let them go? Or just pretended I didn’t see them?”

  “You can’t do that. They’d just keep doing it until whoever was patrolling caught them and took them in. That hurts the vendors.”

  “But … it’s almost a form of…” Beltur didn’t even have a word for it. “They’re forcing patrollers to do something that’s not … somehow it doesn’t seem right.”

  “It’s not right. They don’t have even coppers, and they’re hungry. They’ll starve or freeze if they stay on the streets. If we paid for the cakes, they’d do it again when they got really hungry, and some other patroller would have to take them in or feel guilty and pay for their cakes, and that could go on and on.”

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  “More than any patroller would like. It’s not like patrollers are paid that much anyway. You can’t pay for all of them who need food, and if you start choosing, then you feel guilty for those you can’t help.”

  Beltur nodded. He could see that. “One of them was well-spoken.”

  “Most likely she was once a trader’s mistress or the daughter of a merchant who fell on hard times. There are always a few like that. Most of the street women are just poor bawds who lost their looks and health.”

  “I haven’t seen many men like that.”

  “They die younger.”

  Beltur was still thinking about all that when the chimes rang out midday, and he made his way to Fosset’s cart, where he gratefully accepted the small mug of hot cider, and then ate his bread, interspersing mouthfuls with sips of the cider that cooled more quickly than he would have liked, but still letting the remaining heat from the hot cider wreath his face. When he finished, he returned the mug. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Mage.”

  A little before first glass, Beltur began to notice more and more women, usually dressed shabbily, making their way to the stall of the woman selling acorn cakes. None of them attempted to steal the cakes. As he continued to patrol the square, he kept watching, but the stall had a continuing number of customers, and by third glass, the seller appeared to be sold out and was packing everything into the handcart that she pushed slowly eastward on Patrol Street.

  By fourth glass the square was almost empty, and the wind had begun to blow, cold and bitter, if under a clear sky.

  As Beltur and Laevoyt left the square, the patroller handed Beltur two leather tokens. “Before I forget, you get these.”

  “Thank you. I feel guilty—”

  “Don’t. We get paid for doing what the Council directs.”

  Still … But Beltur didn’t say anything more, even if he did feel slightly guilty.

  He was more than glad to leave the square with Laevoyt, sign out at the duty desk, and walk north through the wind toward a house he knew would be warm. Even so, he still worried over the two women. Laevoyt and the duty patroller had both been unhappy, and that suggested that what Laevoyt had said was true … and that bothered Beltur. More than a little, but he kept walking … and thinking.

  VI

  Beltur slept late on eightday, partly because he was tired, and because he didn’t want to get up when it was both dark and cold. When he finally did get up, the house was warmer, doubtless because Meldryn had started a fire in the kitchen hearth. When Beltur came downstairs, after washing and shaving with water bone-chillingly cold, the older mage was seated at the kitchen table sipping hot cider.

  “There’s more cider in the small kettle on the hearth, and a platter in the warming stove.”

  “Thank you,” replied Beltur. “I do appreciate it. And thank you for leaving the meat pie last night.” He took a mug from the cupboard and headed toward the copper kettle.

  “Felsyn came by and asked me to join him at the Traders’ Rest. It was worth the walk in the cold.”

  “What was? The dinner?”

  “What he said. He’s worried about what Cohndar and Waensyn are trying to do.”

  Beltur frowned as he filled the mug. “I don’t like the sound of that.” He set the mug on the table, then slipped his hand into the oven mitt, basically an old glove wound with strips of cloth, and used the mitt to open the iron hearth oven and extract the platter of egg toast and ham strips, which he then carried to the kitchen table, where he sat down and slipped off the mitt.

  “They’ve decided that we have to be more organized. They’re saying that the attempted invasion by the Prefect was a warning of what could happen again if we don’t have something like a council of mages here in Spidlar.”

  “With Cohndar as the head, and Waensyn as his second-in-command?”

  “According to Felsyn, neither Cohndar nor Waensyn has said who might head such a council.”

  “As if they had to.” Beltur snorted and then drizzled the pearapple syrup over the egg toast. “Would the Spidlarian Council have to agree to a magely council?”

  “Felsyn says they wouldn’t have to. But I can’t see Cohndar trying something like that without Council approval.”

  “What about other black mages? Wouldn’t they have to agree?”

  “I’d judge so, but I haven’t heard anything. We’ll just have to see.”

  Beltur didn’t like the sound of a magely council, not after what had happened in Gallos after Wyath had become the head mage, but he didn’t see what he could do about something that was only being talked about. “What can you tell me about acorn cakes?”

  “They’re not cakes, but bread. They’re not to my taste. Even with all the leaching of the tannins, they taste bitter to me. They’re good for traveling or for the very poor. You can live on them and water for a long time and not suffer. Why do you ask?”

  “Yesterday when I was on patrol duty, two women tried to steal some…” Beltur went on to explain what had happened. “It all bothered me.”

  Meldryn nodded slowly. “It’s sad that there’s no place for women like that. Felsyn tried to persuade Councilor Jhaldrak to have the Council buy an old warehouse for nightly shelter. Jhaldrak told him that the Council was opposed to supporting those who’d made poor choices in life. So I give what day-old bread that there is to the Council Healing House. They send a runner every morning around eighth glass.”

  Beltur almost blurted “You do?” before realizing that was exactly what he should have expected. But then, Meldryn and Athaal hadn’t ever struck him as men who boasted of their kindness and charity, and they’d gone out of their way to help him. “One woman and her children slipped in there the other day when I was helping Grenara and Jessyla.”

  “You mentioned that. Klarisia does what she can, but she has to be careful. The Council warned her that if she allowed those who weren’t truly sick to stay there, they’d close the healing house.” Meldryn shook his head. “What are you planning to do today? Besides visiting a certain healer?”

  “Not much beyond that. Is there anything you need help with?”

  The gray-bearded mage laughed. “Not now. Today’s a good day to read in front of the hearth. I do happen to have some meat pies and a loaf t
hat you can take, though.”

  Beltur grinned. “You just ‘happened’ to have them?”

  Meldryn smiled. “Just happened. When Farodyn brought the meat yesterday, I bargained for a little extra. He was in a good mood.”

  “I don’t suppose a special pastry had anything to do with it, did it?”

  “Well…”

  “Thank you. I know they’ll appreciate it. I won’t be going for a while.”

  “It’ll be cold by late afternoon.”

  “So I ought to go earlier and leave earlier?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Would you mind if I read in the parlor until it’s time to go?”

  “Not at all, just so long as you don’t talk to yourself while you do.”

  Once Beltur finished eating and cleaning the kitchen, he washed up and then put on his good tunic before settling into the other armchair, trying not to disturb Meldryn, who was settled in his favorite chair, appreciating the warmth from the parlor side of the double hearth.

  He read for a little less than a glass in Leantor’s On Healing, especially studying the drawings that showed anatomy, trying to reconcile the drawings with what he could sense about people and what he’d seen at the healing house. When he thought he’d read enough, he turned to the other book that had half attracted him—Considerations on the Nature of Man by Heldry of Lydiar, most likely the duke thought of as Heldry the Mad, although Beltur hadn’t seen or read anything that connected the writer to that old tale. But how many Heldrys from Lydiar could there be, especially ones writing about matters to consider when ruling?

  Much of what Heldry wrote seemed like little more than common sense, but Beltur found himself being surprised enough to reread a section.