Outcasts of Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Laevoyt was already in the duty room when Beltur entered. He smiled crookedly at Beltur. “Cold enough for you?”

  “It’s colder than anything I’ve been through before,” Beltur admitted, moving to the table desk where he signed the duty book. Then he walked over to Laevoyt. “I take it that this is warm for winter?”

  Laevoyt grinned. “Not really. It doesn’t get much colder than this. The thing is that once winter really sets in it doesn’t get any warmer. In a few days it will warm up. Not above freezing, but warmer than this. Did I see you clearing snow yesterday, outside the bakery on the corner of Crossed Lane and Bakers Lane?”

  “I was.”

  “I thought you were working for a smith.”

  “I am, but there’s not as much work right now. So I was giving Meldryn a hand.”

  “You’re not sore, are you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “That smithing must be hard work, then.”

  “We’re still on duty at the market square?”

  “After we take a stroll down River Street. There likely won’t be anyone at the square until a bit before ninth glass.” Laevoyt headed for the door.

  Beltur followed, wishing he’d had a few more moments to warm up in the duty room.

  Once they were outside, Laevoyt turned west on Patrol Street.

  “What are we looking for?” asked Beltur.

  “Broken shutters, doors that look caved in. When it gets this cold, some of the street types will do anything to get warm.”

  “Except go to the workhouses?”

  “Most of them die if they go there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they can’t or won’t work, and anyone who doesn’t work doesn’t get fed.”

  “Even if they can’t work?”

  “Beltur … we can’t solve all the problems in Elparta. Most of the men who won’t work chose not to. They thought street begging or scrounging and summer would last forever. Or they felt that what work there was happened to be beneath them. Over the next few eightdays or so, the street crews will be loading frozen bodies onto refuse carts.”

  “They don’t dump those in the river, do they?”

  “No. That’s against the law. They burn them in the furnaces that heat the workhouses. Hypocausts, I think they call them.”

  His face largely hidden by the scarf, Beltur winced, but he kept walking. When his boots came down where there was snow, the snow squeaked. Before today, he’d never heard that before.

  Before that long, they reached the end of Patrol Street, where it intersected River Street, which fronted on the river, with only river walls between the street and the river itself. The half of River Street closest to the river was cleared as well as the three yards of stone walkway between the street and the river wall. Beltur noted that the solid floodgates were in place at the foot of each pier, so that the yard-and-a-half river wall was unbroken from the south city wall to the north wall. Beltur guessed that there was some law that required the gates to be in place once the snow remained. The Council seems to have laws for everything.

  Beltur moved closer to the river wall and glanced down. Ice coated the stone beginning just above the water level and extending up a yard or so. The western bank of the river also showed jagged and intermittent ice between the rocks and sand exposed by the lower fall water levels. “When does the river freeze over?”

  “Most years, it’s solid by the second eightday of Winter. If we get a really cold winter, it could freeze earlier,” said Laevoyt. “Keep an eye out on the warehouses along here. Some of the down-and-out loaders try to get inside and live there.”

  “Do you have trouble with the inns?”

  “There’s some most every night, but not at this time of day.”

  The two walked another two blocks. Much farther ahead, Beltur could see several wagons and the men from the workhouses shoveling snow from the wagons over the river wall and into the water.

  Then, from a doorway some thirty yards ahead of them, on the side away from the river, a man in a ragged cloak appeared and walked quickly along the cleared side of the street, before turning down an alley.

  “He’ll likely be running now that he’s out of sight,” said Laevoyt.

  “We aren’t supposed to chase him?”

  “We don’t know yet what he did, or if he did anything. The captain’s been clear about that. We’re not to bring anyone in until we know they’ve done something wrong.” After a moment, the patroller added, “Wager we’ll find a door with a broken lock up there, or a door someone forgot to close. Probably not much more than that, since he wasn’t carrying anything.”

  When the two reached the warehouse entry, Beltur immediately saw that the door was ajar. Not sensing anyone nearby, he eased the door open. Snow had drifted into the small entry foyer of the narrow building, but the locked iron gate that protected the closed door at the rear of the entry hall was intact. Even in the cold air, the foyer smelled of urine and other foulness.

  “Some trader’s not going to be too happy.” As Laevoyt stood just outside the door, he took out a folded sheet of paper and wrote the building number on it with a grease stick. “Can you do something to slide that bolt back in place from the outside?”

  “Let me see.” Beltur slid the bolt back and forth, then retracted it, and closed the door. Using a tiny containment pressed against the knob of the bolt, Beltur slid it into place, then checked the door. “It’s in place, but the door’s a little loose.”

  “That tramp probably shook the door long enough that it vibrated loose.” Laevoyt wrote a few words on the paper and then slipped it back inside his heavy patroller’s coat. “I’ll add that to the report.”

  “I take it that the captain doesn’t want to gaol men who are just trying to keep warm unless they steal or damage something.”

  “He also doesn’t want patrollers acting as watchmen for traders.”

  From Laevoyt’s tone, Beltur could tell that Laevoyt felt exactly the same way. That prompted him to say, “Late on oneday after noon, a pair of men in ragged clothes slammed into me in the snow. The snow was so heavy that they got far enough away too fast for me to use containments before they were out of sight. I didn’t chase them, and I wondered…”

  “I thought you always used shields.”

  “I did. I was thinking about something else and not paying much attention except to get home as soon as I could. They hit my shields, and realized I was a mage. Then they ran.”

  “Better that you didn’t chase them. I wouldn’t tell the captain or the Patrol Mage, though.”

  They hadn’t walked more than another block before the workhouse crew climbed onto the two wagons they had emptied of snow, and the teamsters drove off down a side street heading east. Beltur wasn’t exactly astounded to discover that the work crew had also cleared away the street around a tavern—the Oaken Barrel—although the door was closed and the shutters fastened tight.

  “Did someone slip a little extra coin to get that snow cleared?”

  “The Council looks the other way on things like that. They don’t want those who drink too much to fall in the snow and freeze to death on the street, but they don’t want to pay for clearing the snow, either.”

  Given what Beltur had seen of the traders, that made a kind of sense, and since there wasn’t anything he could do about it, he turned his attention back to the street ahead. Past the tavern was a line of shops and a chandlery. The mercer’s store was open, as was the chandlery, and so was a small café. Beltur couldn’t tell whether anyone was eating there, although there was a line of whitish-gray smoke coming from the chimney.

  For the next glass or so, Beltur and Laevoyt walked down River Street to the north wall and then back. Given how cold it was, and the fact that the white winter sun seemed to offer no warmth, Beltur was scarcely surprised that they encountered few on the street, and no hint of anything untoward.

  “We can stop at headquarters and warm up for a fraction of a gl
ass,” Laevoyt announced as the two turned east on Patrol Street. “How are your feet? Are they numb?”

  “They’re cold, but not numb.”

  “Good. Sometimes it helps if you put soft straw in the bottom of your boots.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Beltur, although he wondered where he would be able to find straw.

  When they reached the duty room at headquarters, Beltur was more than glad to get out of the cold.

  “How cold is it?” asked the duty patroller, looking at Laevoyt.

  “Not as cold as midwinter, but frigging cold for midfall.”

  “Looks like a cold winter ahead.”

  “Has to happen sometime,” replied Laevoyt laconically.

  Beltur’s feet were still cold when they left headquarters, just not so cold as they had been, and the city chimes were ringing out ninth glass when the two reached the market square. Much to Beltur’s surprise, over a score of vendors were gathered on the cleared section, and there were perhaps half that many shoppers looking at what was for sale, largely food items, along with some woolens. One woman was selling what looked to be an assortment of worn and shabby boots, and another, leather jackets that had seen better days.

  Beltur didn’t see the woman who sold acorn cakes, and he wondered if she’d sold out all she had made … or if she might be waiting to sell more until food became scarcer. He didn’t bother with a concealment as he walked past the comparatively few carts and tables, noting that there were no spices at all in evidence. He’d made two circles of the cleared areas and looked over all the goods being hawked before Fosset arrived with his cart.

  While Beltur could have used a mug of hot cider right then, he kept patrolling, trying to sense for the chaos flickers of cutpurses and lifters, but there seemed to be none anywhere near.

  Another glass passed before Beltur made his way to Fosset’s cart, and by then he was more than ready for a mug of hot cider to go with his small loaf.

  “What do you think of the weather?” asked Beltur as he took the mug of hot cider.

  “I haven’t seen it this cold this early in years. If it’s like this for the rest of fall…” Fosset shook his head.

  “Do you have trouble with beggars around the inn when it gets cold?”

  “They wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh?”

  “Uncle has his ways.” Fosset turned to a thin man in a heavy coat, as much as telling Beltur that he wasn’t about to say more. “Large or small.”

  Beltur finished the loaf and the cider, put the mug on the used rack, and resumed patrolling. By the second glass of the afternoon, half the vendors were packing up, and by slightly past third glass, the square was almost deserted.

  Beltur was still thinking about what Fosset had said when he and Laevoyt left the square and were walking back to Patrol headquarters. “Fosset was telling me that the Traders’ Rest doesn’t have problems with tramps and beggars, that they wouldn’t dare hang around there.”

  “Not if they don’t want a long cold sleep.”

  Beltur thought he knew what Laevoyt meant. “How do they get away with that?”

  “A quick crack to the back of the head, and dragging the unhappy fellow into the corner of an alley on a cold night. He just never wakes up, and workhouse cleanup crews find another fellow who drank himself into a stupor and died of the cold. No one can prove otherwise.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Comartyl’s a mean bastard if he’s crossed. Most innkeepers are. The ones who are successful, anyway.”

  “What about the City Patrol?”

  “We know it happens, but it happens when there aren’t any patrollers around. There’s no way to prove what happened, except a poor, worn-out bastard who froze to death. The Council won’t pay for late patrols. All we can do is pass the word that hanging around the posher inns isn’t good for anyone’s health, especially in fall or winter. Most of those who ignore that advice likely wouldn’t live through the winter anyway.”

  “There aren’t any places that offer shelter?”

  “Only the workhouses. Except for orphans. There’s an orphanage on the old northeast road. The children learn trades and work the orchards and gardens.”

  “But nothing for anyone else?”

  “The Council doesn’t like paying for people who don’t contribute anything. You’ve seen some of them around the market. They’d rather steal than work.”

  But what if there isn’t any work? Beltur was a black mage who could read and write and do a number of things, and it hadn’t been all that easy to find work. Except you really didn’t try all that hard, and you didn’t want to work the fields or as a loader.

  Beltur was definitely beginning to see why there weren’t many street people in Elparta, but he didn’t say more, just kept pace with Laevoyt on the way back to Patrol headquarters.

  After signing the duty book, Beltur stayed in the duty room for a time, until he felt a little warmer. Then he left and headed home. While his feet had felt cold all day, they hadn’t gotten numb, but if the weather got that much colder, he’d definitely need to find straw or some other way to keep his feet from freezing solid.

  XIII

  On fourday, Beltur shoveled more snow away from the bakery, and in front of and around the hitching rail at the side of the building, and then helped Meldryn, mostly by cleaning ovens and baking tins. On fiveday, which was slightly warmer, he walked to the smithy and spent the day working with Jorhan to cast two delicate-looking cupridium mirrors, for which he received a single silver, just for the day’s work, but not the piecework wage, which would have to wait until the mirrors sold, but he also received two golds as his share of what the Lydian trader had bought earlier in the eightday. Sixday, he helped Meldryn again, and sevenday, he patrolled with Laevoyt, and while more of the market square had been cleared by the workhouse crews, there were only a few more vendors and customers.

  Eightday, he read some and then walked to Grenara’s house, again bringing bread and meat pies, where he had an early dinner and had some time with Jessyla. As always, Grenara seemed less than pleased to see him, and was the first to suggest that he leave because the late afternoon was getting cold.

  On oneday, since Jorhan had suggested on the previous fiveday that he didn’t need Beltur until twoday, Beltur had helped unload two barrels of flour so that Meldryn didn’t have to interrupt his baking. While the day was cold, it wasn’t quite as chilly as eightday had been, and the green-blue sky was clear under a white sun that still did not seem to provide any warmth, even though winter was still some four eightdays away. As he went back inside, a messenger in Council blue came out of the bakery and nodded politely before hurrying on, headed east on Crossed Lane.

  Beltur hurried back inside, and waited until Meldryn dealt with the three women who had lined up. Once the last one had gathered up her loaves and left, Beltur asked, “What did the Council messenger deliver?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to read it.” Meldryn walked to the worktable where he’d set an envelope, then used his belt knife to open it. He smoothed out the single sheet and read it. Then, without speaking, he extended it.

  Beltur took it and quickly read it.

  There will be a meeting of all the black mages of Elparta in the Council conference room at sixth glass this evening. The subject has not been announced, but it likely will be about the Council’s consideration of a charter to a Black Council of Mages. I thought you might like to know.

  The short note was signed by Veroyt. Beltur looked up at Meldryn. “The councilor’s assistant is the one telling you about a meeting called by Cohndar? One that’s taking place tonight?”

  “Veroyt has always kept us informed. Cohndar has tended to overlook us. You or I may discover that a message to us was lost because of the snowstorm or something similar.” Meldryn’s voice was cool and dry, and just a touch bitter.

  “Has it always been like that … or is it because I’m here?” Even before he finished hi
s words, Beltur hoped he hadn’t come off as negatively self-important. “I don’t mean…”

  “I understood what you meant.” Meldryn smiled. “We never quite fit, even before you showed up. Athaal saw that you didn’t fit, either.”

  “He saw a lot.”

  “He did. So do you, I must say.”

  “Not as much as I should, I think, and I’m often slow to see the obvious.”

  “Speed in most things is overprized. All it does in baking is ruin the results, and that’s true in cabinetry and other skills and trades as well.”

  “It’s also true in coppersmithing,” Beltur agreed.

  “And speed in deciding when you don’t know all the facts often makes things worse. Knowing when speed is necessary and when it’s not is a good part of wisdom,” said Meldryn wryly. “Do you want to learn more about baking?”

  “If I won’t get in your way.”

  The older mage just smiled.

  By the time Meldryn closed the bakery at fourth glass, Beltur’s head was swimming with terms he’d never heard. He did understand the difference between starter-leavened bread, unleavened bread, and barm-leavened bread, and why Meldryn baked all three. He doubted he’d remember the specifics for feeding and storing the starter dough, except that it couldn’t be allowed to freeze or to get too warm, and he doubted that he could mix any of the doughs.

  Dinner was a fowl pie, admittedly made from meat scraps that Meldryn hadn’t used in the pies he had baked for sale, but tasty and filling all the same.

  As the two sat at the kitchen table, nursing the last of their mugs of ale after eating, Beltur asked, “What do you think this meeting is all about?” He had his own ideas, but he wanted to see what Meldryn thought, especially since the older mage knew more about all the mages of Elparta.

  “Cohndar has wanted to be more than the unofficial senior mage here in Elparta for years. The meeting will likely reveal just how he intends to accomplish that.”