Outcasts of Order

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Herrara was examining the girl’s right arm. She looked up. “Her father is a weaver. Somehow, the loom tipped and the side upright smashed her arm.”

  Beltur could barely detect the sardonic tinge to Herrara’s words.

  “That is how it happened,” declared the mother, red-eyed, but not crying. “Ragnar said it was like that.”

  As Beltur let his senses study the girl’s arm, he sensed far more bruises than had yet appeared or than would have been caused by a single impact. He glanced at Herrara.

  “How it happened doesn’t matter now,” replied Herrara. “Both bones are broken below her elbow. They haven’t broken through the skin, and I need you to make sure they don’t as we set them.”

  “Can you make it so her arm will heal straight?” asked the mother.

  “She’ll need to stay here for several days, until the swelling goes down and we can put a cast on her arm.”

  “I cannot stay.”

  “She’ll be fine here.”

  Safer than at home, suspected Beltur.

  At Herrara’s direction, Beltur used a combination of tiny shields to make sure that the broken bones did no more damage as the healer set and splinted them. She did not put the arm in a cast, and likely would not for a day or so, given possible swelling … and the bruises that everyone except Herrara and Beltur seemed to be ignoring. Once the girl’s arm was splinted and she was led to a room and settled there, Beltur followed Herrara back to her study.

  “You’re not asking me how often this happens,” she said.

  “I’m guessing that it happens every so often, and that there’s very little you can do about it unless the girl’s or boy’s injuries are severe and obvious.”

  “That’s a good guess. Sometimes, not very often, if there’s more there, and the girl is old enough, I can find a place for her elsewhere.”

  Beltur knew very well what she meant by “more there,” and he just nodded.

  “Do you still want to be a healer?”

  “I need to know more about healing. When I do, then we’ll see.”

  “What you’re seeing won’t change.”

  Beltur offered a half-humorous smile. “But I might.”

  Herrara’s laugh was sardonic. “You just might make a healer.”

  The rest of Beltur’s day at the healing house was uneventful, and he left right at fourth glass. The fine snow had continued throughout the day, but slowly enough that the streets and walks were clear as he walked swiftly back to the cot, where he washed up and quickly changed into his better black tunic and trousers, before the five of them left to walk to Barrynt’s dwelling.

  Beltur led the way up the drive to the side door, where he knocked.

  In moments, Johlana opened the door. “Come in, come in. Don’t stay out in the cold.”

  Once the five were in the side hall, Johlana smiled. “And you must be Taelya?”

  “I am, Lady.” Taelya inclined her head solemnly.

  Johlana smiled broadly. “It’s good to see you … and the rest of you as well. Hang up your coats and follow me.”

  Barrynt, Jorhan, Ryntaar, and Frankyr were already in the parlor, and all stood as Johlana led the newcomers in, immediately saying, “This is Tulya, and her daughter Taelya, and Lhadoraak, and, of course, Jessyla and Beltur.”

  “Beltur’s said a lot about you,” said Jorhan immediately.

  “We’ve never had two mages in the house before,” said Barrynt, adding with a broad smile, “Until we met Beltur, we’d never had one.”

  Beltur was slightly surprised that Naerkaal had not visited, since he was a councilor, but said nothing.

  “We have pale and dark ale, dark lager, mulled wine, and redberry juice,” offered Johlana. “Just tell Frankyr—he’s the dark-haired one—what you’d like.”

  Taelya looked to her mother.

  “Yes, you may ask for the redberry juice.”

  “Might I have the redberry juice, please?”

  Frankyr smiled warmly. “I have a special glass for you.”

  When everyone was seated, some in chairs brought in from other rooms, Beltur could tell, Johlana stood. “Enjoy your drinks. When the time comes, we’ll be having my special cassoulet, and there’s plenty of it. Barrynt won’t let me make it unless we have company because he says he’ll eat too much of it.”

  “Much better than burhka,” murmured Frankyr.

  Beltur thought he was the only one who heard that, just because Frankyr was sitting just to his left.

  After a long moment of silence, Ryntaar spoke up, addressing Lhadoraak. “You’ve been here since, when, last oneday?”

  “That’s right,” replied Lhadoraak. “We surprised Beltur and Jessyla late that afternoon.”

  “The more I hear about what’s going on in Spidlar, the gladder I am I left when I did,” said Jorhan. “Idiots’ll drive out all the good people.”

  “How did your meeting with the Council go?” asked Barrynt.

  “They asked us both a number of questions, and then yesterday Councilor Naerkaal came to the cot to meet Taelya and asked a few more,” said Beltur.

  “I don’t know as I understand this,” began Barrynt. “They think that this young woman might be a white mage? She’s far too young for that.”

  “The Spidlarian Council just wants to make trouble,” said Jorhan. “They’re angry that Beltur and I didn’t put up with their sow—their garbage, and because Jessyla had enough sense to reject that sleazy mage from Gallos. They’re after Lhadoraak because he and his family are close to Beltur and Jessyla. That’s all there is to it.”

  “But exiling a girl?” pressed Barrynt.

  “For some reason,” said Beltur, “even the Axalt Council has concerns.”

  “That seems to be a concern to both Axalt and Spidlar,” replied Lhadoraak, “even if she’s just turned seven.”

  “Well, then,” said Johlana, “I for one am glad you’re here, and I do have a special honeycake.” She looked to Taelya. “Would you like that for dessert?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “You shall have it.” Johlana smiled again. “It’s so good to have a child in the house again.”

  Barrynt stiffened at her words, if only for a moment.

  What was that all about? wondered Beltur.

  “Was the trip long?” asked Frankyr. “Did you have problems with brigands, the way Beltur and Uncle Jorhan did?”

  “We were followed for a while, but they didn’t attack us. We came with some merchants who had quite a few guards. One came close, but I put a shield around him for a moment, and he yelled something about mages, and they decided to leave us alone.”

  “How are you liking Axalt, Taelya?” asked Ryntaar.

  “It’s cold, but it’s nice. I get more lessons from Beltur. That’s good.”

  “Doesn’t your mother give you lessons?” asked Barrynt.

  “Those are lessons in reading and writing and numbers. Beltur’s teaching me so I’ll be a mage when I’m older.”

  “That’s likely to be a while,” said Lhadoraak with a soft laugh.

  Beltur could sense his friend’s unease at Taelya’s words, true as they were.

  “This is excellent lager,” offered Lhadoraak.

  “I’m glad you like it,” replied Barrynt. “It’s my favorite.”

  “Everything’s your favorite,” said Johlana warmly.

  “That’s because we don’t serve anything we don’t like.”

  As the interwoven conversations went on in a halting fashion, Beltur largely listened, as did Jessyla. He knew the cassoulet and the honeycake would be excellent and that nothing more would be said about the Council and the upcoming meeting … or, for that matter, about anything unpleasant, including the fact that no one was talking about Halhana.

  LXII

  The snow had dwindled off on eightday night, and oneday was bright and bone-chillingly cold, a cold increased by a sharp wind out of the northwest. Ice crystals sifted out of a clear sky that w
as almost pure green, instead of the usual greenish blue. As Beltur walked to the stable, he was definitely glad he’d exercised all the horses on sevenday, because he wouldn’t have wanted them out in the bitter chill.

  Once he cleaned the stable and dealt with the horses, he made the long walk to south town and the smithy, wondering what Jorhan might have in mind. Even though he was well-wrapped in his coat, scarf, and gloves, his hands and feet were numb by the time he reached the smithy, and he walked straight to the forge, which was filled with more coal than usual, far more, an indication that Jorhan had also needed to warm up.

  “Bitter cold out there,” offered the smith.

  “It’s as cold as I’ve ever felt.” That was not even the slightest exaggeration on Beltur’s part, and if the rest of winter were that cold … He shook his head.

  “Same here.” After several moments, Jorhan said, “Once you’re thawed out, thought we might start casting some larger hand mirrors. Larger than the ones we did before, but not as big as the one we did for Halhana. Since you couldn’t come on sevenday, I got to thinking, decided we should try one or two. Made the molds, and one of them’s heating up now.”

  Beltur didn’t ask if anyone had heard from Barrynt and Johlana’s daughter, because they hadn’t heard the night before, and Halhana seldom visited in the morning.

  “I’m thinking the larger mirrors should have a longer and more decorated handle. They’d look better, and they’d be easier to hold.” Jorhan smiled wryly. “Another thing. We’re not going to be getting more copper and tin for a while, except for the little Barrynt’s got, and I’ve got lots of time.”

  Despite the lingering chill in the smithy, the two castings went well enough that Beltur left the smithy by third glass.

  Twoday at the healing house was very quiet, most likely because the bitter cold still swathed Axalt, and few were outside or engaged in anything likely to cause accidents. Beltur did help Herrara put a plaster cast on the arm of Noirya, the weaver’s daughter, although Herrara really didn’t need his help. Later, she did caution Beltur that, after long periods of cold, injuries from quarrels or brawls fueled by overindulgence in ale or lager would most likely rise.

  Threeday at the smithy, Beltur and Jorhan worked on a small decorated cupridium jewelry box that didn’t turn out quite so well as Jorhan had hoped, but the subsequent effort on fiveday turned out far more to Jorhan’s satisfaction.

  Even so, by sixday morning, Beltur’s thoughts were far from smithing, and he was not only tired of the continuing bitter cold, but even more worried about what the Council might decide. The fact that Naerkaal had given the faintest hint of wanting to help, but also had offered not the slightest real encouragement, didn’t lessen Beltur’s concerns.

  As Beltur stood by the front door, putting on his coat and scarf, Jessyla announced, “I’ll meet you at the Council building just before fourth glass.”

  “They didn’t—” began Lhadoraak.

  Beltur had thought about saying Jessyla didn’t have to be there, but as strongly as he felt her determination, he immediately decided that was a bad idea, as was the impulse to smile at Lhadoraak’s reaction.

  “I’m just as much affected as anyone, and I should be there.” Her eyes fixed on Lhadoraak. “Shouldn’t I?”

  “I … I didn’t mean that.”

  “Naerkaal did ask about Jessyla,” Beltur said quietly, “and she’s right. Her presence can only help, since it would remind the Council that they’d lose not one but two healers.”

  “She is right, dear,” added Tulya, who didn’t even try to conceal her smile.

  Lhadoraak shrugged helplessly. “I really didn’t mean it that way.” Then he offered an embarrassed smile. “You’re right. You should be there.”

  “I will be.”

  Beltur then left for the stable. From there, once he finished his chores, he made his way to the healing house, where Elisa informed him that Herrara wouldn’t arrive until around ninth glass.

  “Did she say why?”

  “No, ser. She just sent a message saying that she was confident you could handle anything in her absence.”

  “Let’s hope nothing comes up that tests that confidence,” replied Beltur dryly. He knew he could deal with quite a few things, but he also knew he didn’t have anywhere close to Herrara’s surgical skills, especially in matters that might require amputation or the like.

  Since no one was waiting in the welcoming room, Beltur took a basket of supplies and began visiting all those in the center, beginning with Klaznyt, simply because he preferred to deal with the gambler first, in order to get the potential unpleasantness out of the way.

  Even before Beltur was more than a step inside the door, Klaznyt glared at him and asked, “When will I get these torture devices off my hands?”

  “When the bones have knit enough that you won’t break them again.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Whenever Healer Herrara says so, but it’s usually around four to five eightdays.” That was what she’d told Beltur.

  “What am I supposed to do until then?”

  “Heal … and don’t make too much of a fuss. You’re getting fed, and you’re not losing silvers.”

  “You’re so cheerful, Mage.”

  “Things could always be worse.”

  “Are you speaking from vast personal experience … or is that just a platitude from what you’ve heard?”

  “I’ve complained,” if only to yourself, “and things have gotten worse, enough times to learn that it’s not a good idea.”

  “You’re rather young for that, I think.”

  “Then you’re not thinking,” replied Beltur calmly, as he sensed Klaznyt’s hands and then began to remove the yellowish-red bits of chaos that still kept appearing, no doubt because of the brutality of the beating the gambler had taken.

  “You haven’t exactly gotten rid of that rod up your backside.”

  Beltur smiled pleasantly. “Your hands are better, but, as before, they’ll be warm for a glass or so.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “For now, it’s all that’s necessary. I’ll check on you later.”

  As he left the chamber, Beltur wondered why he was being so stubborn. It would have been much easier to point out that he’d lost his family and the man who’d saved him, been forced to leave two lands, fought against the Gallosians, and demon-near died twice. But that didn’t feel right. Was it because comparing what you’ve been through to what he’s suffered is wrong? Or because doing that is somehow “winning” when no one wins if both have suffered? Or that while you’ve had problems, you’ve been fortunate, and to mention those problems would claim more than you’ve really suffered? Beltur didn’t know which of those might be the most valid, if even if any were, but he trusted his feelings.

  By the time Herrara returned, at a quint past ninth glass, Beltur had finished his first set of rounds and was replacing supplies in his basket from those on the shelves in Herrara’s study.

  “How was the morning?” she asked.

  “Quiet. No one needing surgery,” he said with a wry grin, “because they’d have had to wait or take a huge risk.”

  “You’d have managed.”

  “There’s a difference between managing and doing it well. I sense chaos and remove it better than you, but you’re far, far better with surgery than I’ll ever be.”

  Herrara just nodded.

  “I see that Noirya is gone. Home?”

  “Yes, unhappily. I couldn’t find a place for her anywhere that would have been better.”

  “You’ve done well with Poldaark and Wurfael.”

  “It’s always harder with girls and women.”

  Beltur could see that.

  “That’s part of your problem, you know?” Herrara continued. “Or it will be.”

  “Oh?” Beltur had an idea what she meant, but he didn’t want to guess.

  “I’ll be charitable, and say you’re being cauti
ous, rather than stupid. You know very well what I mean. You’re training Jessyla to be a mage, and she’ll be good at it. Once that becomes obvious, people here, maybe anywhere, will be wary of you two. About the only things men are comfortable with women doing—besides spreading their legs, having children, and running a household—are being servers, cooks, and healers.” She smiled. “Watching this happen could be very interesting.” After a pause, she said, “No, I haven’t told Naerkaal that. He might not mind, but he’d have to tell the rest of the Council, and most of them would.”

  “You’re wary of the Council, aren’t you?”

  “They’re mostly good men, doing the best they can, but they’re very traditional, and they have trouble with anything that might disrupt the way things are and have been.”

  “I’ve gotten that impression.”

  “You should have. You’re a mage who works with a smith and who is a good healer. You’ve obviously been successful, at least to some extent, as a war mage. You’ve also been forced out of two different lands. Those facts alone would concern most of the Council.”

  “That’s no different from Relyn.”

  Herrara laughed. “Relyn would have made them just as uncomfortable. Except he’s safely dead. You’re not.”

  “You’re saying that they’ll push us out of Axalt?”

  Herrara frowned. “Only the Council knows what they’ll do. They like being a sanctuary, especially for people wrongly accused of something. The fact that you’re both healers is also in your favor. So is the fact that the Traders’ Council exiled a seven-year-old girl. I wouldn’t want to guess. I’d prefer you and Jessyla stay. That’s selfish on my part. You’ve made my life easier. You’ve also saved some that I don’t think would have lived otherwise. In time, you may wish to leave. Axalt, as I’ve said, is traditional. Very traditional.”

  “Well…” said Beltur slowly and deliberately, “we’ll see what the Council has to say.”

  “We will indeed. How are Klaznyt’s hands?”

  “There are still bits of yellow-red wound chaos popping up. They’re getting fewer.”