Outcasts of Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  She gave the faintest nod.

  Beltur could sense that she was still fearful, but less so. He smiled gently, then eased out of the room, closing the door quietly. He had no doubts about what had happened, and he couldn’t say that he blamed the girl.

  He made his way back to Herrara’s study. She was still sitting behind the desk, one of the ledger-like books before her, but Beltur could tell that she wasn’t really looking at it.

  “That didn’t take long.” The older healer looked squarely at Beltur.

  “No. The burns and frost damage should heal before too long. I’d guess that the neighbor cooled the burns with water or compresses.”

  “You’re not telling me everything. What else?”

  Beltur moistened his lips, deciding to offer just the facts. “The girl is bruised all over. Some of the bruises are recent. There are older ones I can barely sense. That’s true for the boy, if not quite so badly. I take it that the boy who died was older and was badly bruised.”

  Herrara’s eyes widened only slightly. “He was also badly burned.”

  “Then he was the oldest of the children?”

  “He was.”

  Beltur changed his view of what had happened, at least as to who had done what. “I see.”

  “I believe you do. I’m asking you as a healer and a mage—will they heal in the next few days?”

  “They should within the eightday.” But you already know that. “What will happen to them now that their parents are dead? Chora said they didn’t have any relatives.”

  “They’ll go to the poorhouse.”

  Beltur didn’t know if that was a death sentence or more hope than the two had before the fire.

  “They’ll be all right there. We haven’t had a child die there from neglect, ever. Once in a great while from illness.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I could see the question. If you would check on them every glass or so.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Please check on the rest of the upstairs rooms, now, and do whatever is necessary.”

  Beltur nodded and then took another basket of supplies from the shelf before leaving the study and heading for the second floor once more. He started at one end and methodically began, checking each person in each bed. After the first two rooms, he had to stop and take the discarded dressings down to the waste barrel in the outside closet that held only refuse, then wash up and gather two more baskets of supplies.

  Possibly two glasses had passed when he was about to enter another room and Elisa hurried toward him. “Downstairs, ser. Healer Herrara needs you immediately in the surgery.”

  Beltur handed her the basket filled with soiled dressings. “Please take care of those.”

  She accepted the basket and nodded.

  He hurried to the staircase and down to the main level. When he entered the surgery, he saw two men supporting a third seated on the corner of the surgical table. What looked to be the stub of a pole protruded from the chest of the third man, whose face was contorted in pain. As Beltur moved forward, he could see that Herrara stood behind the man, cutting away his shirt.

  “Tell Healer Beltur what happened.” Herrara’s words were terse.

  The taller man spoke, not looking at Beltur. “Poldaark was feeding the rabbits in the pen. He slipped. He fell and hit the pole on the corner of the rabbit pen. Somehow, the tip broke off and the whole pole went through his back. We sawed off the rest of the pole. We didn’t know how to get it out. We brought him here.”

  At first Beltur didn’t see how the pole could have gone through the young man, or how the young man had even lived, but closer examination showed that the pole had missed the shoulder blade. “The tip must have been awfully sharp to have cut through his coat.”

  “It was inside the barn. He wasn’t wearing his coat.”

  That really didn’t address Beltur’s question, but determining what to do was the more urgent need. Or, more to the point, what Herrara needed him to do. He looked to the older healer. “What do you need?”

  “What do you sense?”

  Beltur concentrated. “There’s not a lot of the dull red chaos. So he’s not bleeding a huge amount inside.” Not yet. “Not much wound chaos yet.”

  “Good. We’ll have to remove the pole. And it’s got to come out from the back. Can you use those shields of yours to stop any severe bleeding if it occurs?”

  “If it’s not in too many places.”

  “We’ll have to chance that. He can’t live with a pole through him. I’m starting now.”

  As Herrara carefully eased the pole—about a digit across—back out, Beltur immediately placed a small shield over the exit wound, slowly extending it like a tube into the space where the pole had been.

  When the pole was out, Herrara said, “There’s no bleeding.”

  “I’ve replaced the pole with a shield, but I can’t hold it forever.”

  “Ease it back so that I can clean the entry wound.”

  Beltur did so. “Is that enough?”

  “A little more. It’s a bit more jagged than I’d like, and there are wood splinters.” After Beltur had moved the shield back a bit, she said, “Good. Just hold that.”

  “OOOOH!” Poldaark shuddered.

  “Just hold him tightly,” ordered Herrara, using a set of iron tweezers.

  “OOOH!”

  Almost half a glass passed before Herrara finished cleaning and dressing the wound. By then Poldaark was limp, not moving when the two men used a stretcher to carry him to wherever Herrara was directing them.

  Beltur took a deep breath, then began to clean up the surgery, first gathering everything soiled and putting it in the disposal bin, then using spirits on his hands, along with some free order, before cleaning off the surgery table.

  He’d barely finished when Herrara returned, glancing around the surgery. “Good.” After a moment, she said, “He’s a very fortunate young man. I know you could have stopped the bleeding for a while if he’d ripped a large blood vessel, but stitching a blood vessel usually doesn’t work, and only then if there’s a slight cut or rip. If it’s badly torn, there’s no hope. We’ll just have to hope—again—that wound chaos doesn’t build up.”

  “I can reduce some of that,” Beltur said.

  “Then check on him often.”

  “I will.” Beltur had no idea how fast interior wound chaos might build or when it might start. Another thing you need to learn.

  Herrara nodded and left the surgery.

  After several moments, Beltur stepped out into the corridor, immediately noticing that the two men who had brought Poldaark were standing at the far end of the corridor, presumably outside the room holding the young man. Beltur glanced around. For the moment, the corridor was empty, and neither man was looking in his direction. He raised a concealment and then moved slowly and as quietly as possible toward the pair, finally stopping several yards away.

  “… how is he?”

  “It looked like he’s still breathing. Moaning a lot, though. Can’t you hear him?”

  “The head healer thinks there’s a chance he’ll live.”

  “Impaled like that?”

  “Told you we should bring him in. She and the black healer got that pole out of him, and he didn’t gush blood. You ought to thank him.”

  “What else is he going to do? Not much call for a black mage in Axalt.”

  “Fortunate he’s not white.”

  The two men laughed.

  “Still say Poldaark’s a lucky little bastard.”

  “You’re the frigging fortunate one. Told you not to horse around like that.”

  “He deserved it. Little wiseass. How was I to know that pole was cracked?”

  “Good thing none of the rabbits escaped. Then Hannon would really have had your ass.”

  “We’d better get back. Not much else we can do here.”

  Beltur just stood there as the two left the healing house, finally lowering the concealment. H
e shook his head and headed for the staircase. He still had to finish tending to those on the second floor.

  The rest of the day was thankfully uneventful, possibly because fewer things tended to go wrong on eightday, or because people tended to stay home. Especially in winter.

  By the time Beltur reached Barrynt’s house after fourth glass, he was worn out, although not particularly tired. He’d checked Chora and her brother just before he’d left, and they were fine. Poldaark seemed slightly better, and certainly no worse, but that could easily change.

  Beltur shook his head as he climbed the steps to the side entry, where he opened the door and stepped inside.

  Jessyla stood in the foyer waiting. “You look tired.”

  “It was … a day.”

  “Tell me now. Everyone’s in the family parlor, and you look like you need to tell someone.”

  “Let me get my coat off, and then I will.” Once he’d hung his coat and scarf on a peg, and tucked his gloves into a sleeve, he cleared his throat. “It started almost the moment I arrived…” Beltur gave her a quick summary of the first three glasses. “… and after that, it was just checking on people.”

  “Do you think Herrara will say anything about the girl?”

  “No. She doesn’t like it, but there’s no proof, and it’s clear Chora was beaten and abused.”

  “To a mage or a good healer.”

  Beltur smiled sardonically. “Anyone else would see even less.”

  “For her sake, I hope so.”

  “So do I.”

  Jessyla squeezed his hand for a moment, then led the way from the foyer.

  As Beltur and Jessyla entered the family parlor, Beltur saw that everyone else was already there, all with beakers or mugs in their hands.

  “You two need some refreshment,” insisted Johlana immediately. “You, especially, Beltur. A mage working on an eightday. What’s the world come to?” She gestured and Frankyr moved toward the sideboard.

  Once Beltur had a beaker of amber ale and Jessyla a mug of hot spiced wine, Barrynt cleared his throat loudly. When the parlor was silent, he announced, “I have two things to tell you two. First, I’ve located a Sligan trader heading to Elparta tomorrow, assuming the weather is clear. He’ll be taking your letter. He was glad for the detailed directions.”

  “I thought it best to send in to the healing house,” interjected Jessyla.

  “And second, you know I’ve put out the word about a building for your smithy, and I’ve talked to those who had vacant buildings…”

  “You’re saying you’ve found one?” asked Jorhan.

  “No. There are several possibilities, but I did find something that might interest Beltur and Jessyla. There’s a fellow named Rohan. He mentioned he had an empty cot he’d like to rent out. His mother lived there, but she died suddenly in midfall. He’s just finished cleaning it out. I think he’ll be reasonable.” Barrynt looked at Beltur. “Would you like to look at it tomorrow?”

  “Could we do it in the late afternoon, so that both Jessyla and I could see it together?”

  “I don’t see why not. Rohan’s not going anywhere. Neither is the cot.” Barrynt smiled broadly.

  “Thank you,” said Jessyla politely.

  “What do you think about the healing house, now that you’re a healer there?” asked Johlana, looking at Jessyla.

  “It’s a healing house. Healer Herrara is very well organized.”

  “She’s always been that.”

  “Do you think we’ll get another northeaster within an eightday?” asked Frankyr.

  “It’s not likely,” replied Barrynt, “but you can never be certain. You know that.”

  Beltur tried to listen more than talk, through the time in the parlor and at dinner, during which time he slipped Barrynt a pair of silvers to pay for delivering Jessyla’s letter. Much later, after spending time in the parlor with the others after dinner, Beltur and Jessyla repaired to their bedchamber.

  “We don’t even have a bed to our name,” said Jessyla. “How can we rent something?”

  “It can’t hurt to look,” pointed out Beltur. “We do have blankets.”

  She just shook her head. “What about the horses?”

  “We’ll have to see if I can work out something with Barrynt … or someone else.” Beltur wasn’t about to give up Slowpoke, especially since he knew the gelding would end up being slaughtered or going to a renderer. “Besides, we knew we’d have to find a place sometime.”

  “I’d hoped it wouldn’t be … quite so soon.”

  “We’re fortunate that we’re being hosted. And, as I told you, we do have a few golds.” Even a bit more than a few.

  “I know. We are making a few silvers, and we’ll make more in a season.”

  “By then, Jorhan should have the smithy working.” And by late spring, we might even be selling cupridium again.

  “And we’re together.”

  XXXIX

  Just before noon on oneday, Beltur finished his self-appointed chores and assorted tasks and decided to walk down to the market square, wondering what might be sold there during winter, partly because he knew that he and Jessyla had almost nothing with which to start a household. The day was, as most had been, clear and cold.

  As he walked, Beltur pondered, as he had more than once, what he could have done differently, but he doubted that he had much choice besides leaving the city in some fashion or another. If you’d killed Waensyn earlier … He shook his head. Not only did that feel wrong, but it wouldn’t have worked, because he was the only one with the ability to kill Waensyn who had a reason to do so. Of course, after Jorhan had killed Cohndar, there had been no choice at all. And the fact that the two of them had come to the smithy alone showed that they believed either that they were more powerful than Beltur, or that he’d accede to their demands. Or both. In a way, Waensyn’s arrogance had resulted from Beltur’s minimizing the appearance of his abilities in the battles against the Prefect’s mages, out of self-preservation, just so that Cohndar wouldn’t assign him to ever more dangerous duties. So much of what you’ve done to try to protect yourself has led to more problems.

  Maybe that’s just the way of the world.

  The market square was smaller than the main square in Elparta, perhaps sixty yards on a side. The Traders’ Bowl—the inn where Vaenturl and Karmult had stayed—faced the square on the east side, while a line of shops was on the north side, and the Council House on the south side, while the boulevard leading to the square from the canyon road was on the west side, flanked by several dwellings that had shops on the lower level.

  To Beltur’s mild surprise, there were more than a score of vendors in groups of three to six scattered almost randomly across the square. The first group he neared all seemed to be selling woolen garments, sweaters, jackets, and even gloves.

  He nodded politely and moved to the next group, a larger number of sellers that all had produce for sale. He found himself peering at a dish holding what appeared to be tannish cream seeds. “What are they?”

  “Pine nuts. A copper a cup.”

  Beltur had to struggle to understand the words that the ruddy-faced woman uttered so cheerfully, so thick was her accent. At least, her words sounded accented to him, but likely his way of speaking probably did to her as well. He wasn’t certain he wanted to eat nuts that tasted like pine trees, and the cup beside the dish looked rather small.

  “Try one.” She pointed to the dish.

  Beltur took one and popped it in his mouth, finding it surprisingly soft, and without a taste of pine resin. “Thank you. I’ll have to think about it.”

  He could sense the smiles from adjoining vendors.

  Someone murmured, “Flatlander,” but the tone didn’t sound derogatory.

  Another vendor had lentils and dry beans, while a third had dried apple slices. Beltur didn’t see any acorn cakes. The end vendor had sacks of corn, and oats. From the produce vendors he made his way to a group of three others who seemed to have
an assortment of hardware—nails and spikes, a hammer, some old iron pots, one of which looked quite usable.

  After he perused everything in the square, he walked toward the row of shops, spotting a small chandlery, which, after a moment, he entered, almost bumping into a rangy man wearing a stained leather apron who was stepping away from a narrow table on which sat a row of square lanterns of various sizes. “Oh … I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

  “Quite all right.” The man studied Beltur briefly, then added, “Good black wool trousers. You wouldn’t be the mage-healer being guested by Merchant Barrynt, would you?”

  “I fear I am. Beltur. You are?”

  “Rhodos.”

  “This is your chandlery?”

  “Such as it is, ser mage. What are you looking for?”

  Beltur offered an embarrassed smile. “I don’t know. I’m looking so that I know where to look for what when I do need it.”

  Rhodos offered a broad smile. “Look all you want. I have tools in the chests on that wall. Ropes and lines and nets and even snares over there. On the long table are some dried foods sealed for travel. Candles in the open-topped boxes next to them … the rest, well, you can see for yourself … pitch, turpentine, even some fine timbering saws.” He laughed. “I get carried away when I meet someone new. A mage likely wouldn’t need a timbering saw.”

  “I might not, but if I do, I know where to find it. What about cooking ware and the like?”

  “Back in the rear corner.” Rhodos paused. “You’re thinking of settling here?”

  There was an almost skeptical note in the chandler’s voice, but Beltur replied, “We’ve thought of it. It seems like a well-ordered place.”

  “Very well-ordered, if I do say so myself. The Council’s good about that. Costs a bit more in tariffs, but worth it.”

  “Even for people who live here?”

  “Oh, no, the tariffs aren’t on people, just on shops and crafts and houses.”

  “I just wondered. Gallos and Elparta only tariff goods coming into their lands.”

  “The tariffs aren’t on goods. They’re on buildings and dwellings. They’re used to pay for the roads, the fountains and water pipes, and the public sewers.”