The Death of Chaos (23 page)

East of Lavah, Sligo [Candar]

THE TWO MEN stand in the small room wanned by a fire comprised at least half of white-hot embers.

   “The Duke has not had time to employ the devices whose design you provided last season, Mage.” Begnula inclines his head politely.

   Sammel gestures at the scrolls on the table. “Knowledge is the key to his future.” He smiles. “Or someone's.”

   “You are not suggesting that you would turn that knowledge over to the red demon? You presume too much.” Begnula takes a step forward, and his hand touches his blade.

   Sammel gestures with his index finger, and a ball of fire appears, then drifts toward Begnula. “Do I presume too much? How then shall I presume?” His eyes drift momentarily to the corner of the room where the wood, plaster, and floor planks are somewhat lighter colored.

   Begnula steps back. “Ser Mage...”

   “Do not tell me that knowledge is not important, Ser Begnula. Nor that it is not useful. I will have this knowledge”- Sammel gestures toward the scrolls-“spread throughout Candar and used. For too long, people in Candar have been kept in the dark.” He laughs gently, and lowers his hand. “Even now, the black mages would have this knowledge suppressed. If it is valuable enough to be suppressed by Recluce-then is it not of value?” He points to the tube weapon mounted on the wall. “Do you know what that is, Ser Begnula?”

   “Ah... no.” Begnula takes another step back, a deep breath, and wipes his forehead.

   “A pity. Definitely a pity. It is one of the tools by which Recluce has kept Candar in darkness.” Sammel turns back to face the envoy.

   “How did you... ?”

   “You might say it was presented to me, in a manner of speaking. Of course, it was supposed to depart with its presenter. A pity there, too, but these things do happen when one denies the value of knowledge-or tries to suppress it.”

   Begnula wipes his forehead again. “Ah... yes...”

   Sammel turns, bends, and eases another log into the fire on the hearth, where it bursts almost instantly into flame. Then he straightens and smiles again, waiting.

 
  “What... what knowledge do you offer the Duke now?” asks Begnula after a long pause.

   “A way to spy out his enemy's positions nearly instantly, yet from a distance.”

   “In one device?”

   “It takes two, but one is very simple, merely a tube and two special pieces of clear and finely polished glass. The other takes silk or another fine-meshed fabric and wax. These are easier than the cannon. They will also make the cannon more useful.”

   “If these are so simple, why have they not been used before?”

   Sammel smiles. “Who ever said they had not been?”

   Begnula looks down.

   Sammel's eyes flicker toward the door, glazing over as though his senses were elsewhere. Behind him, the light seems to glimmer on the polished steel of the rocket gun.

BY THE TIME I could get around, even hobbling with the splint on my leg, my arm was healed enough for most woodworking. I finished the light polishing necessary for the autarch's wardrobe. I should have completed that before I'd gone traipsing through the Lower Easthorns, but I hadn't. My frailty reminded me of the need for coins, and I sent a message through Krystal before she departed on her inspection tour of Ruzor.

   Lo and behold, both a large wagon and a purse with twenty golds arrived, and the wardrobe disappeared in the direction of Kyphrien. I felt both better about the coins, and somehow guilty. So I went to work on completing the chairs for Hensil, which wasn't all that hard. It took a little longer, but it was too cold to sit on the porch, and watch the rain fall, and that would have just been boring. Being so slow, knowing I could have done it faster, was boring too, but I was getting something done.

   For a while, using the foot treadle to turn spokes and shafts was out, even though my right leg was fine, because I couldn't get the good leg on the treadle without bending the broken one, and the splint stopped that. Without the splint, I couldn't move without reinjuring the leg. I could have rebuilt the treadle system, but I gave up on that, and concentrated on healing the leg, and on doing the woodwork that didn't require turning. There was more than enough of that.

   One day, when I needed a change of pace, I did the sketches and plans for Antona's desk, and used the cart to get to Faslik's to discuss the wood I needed, except Faslik's sister had died, and the mill was closed.

   The jouncing hurt some, but I wasn't going to get better doing nothing. If it really hurt, I carved the cedar limb I'd found on my first trip to Hydlen. I still couldn't make the face emerge from the wood, and ended up working on the figure's cloak- he or she was wearing a cloak. That I knew.

   That afternoon, my leg was better, and with my leg stretched out, I worked on smoothing the second chair in Hensil's set-until my hips began to cramp. Then I hobbled over to the desk I had started for Werfel and had kept putting off. I traced out the dovetailing on the inside joints for the second drawer, and then the third.

   With the wood vise and the big clamps and the small sharp saw, that went cleanly. There was only one tiny joint on the back inside edge of the second drawer that wouldn't match quite as well as I would have liked, but Werfel wouldn't know, and more important, he wasn't paying for that level of perfection. It still bothered me, and I finally took a deep breath and went back and looked it over. I couldn't redo it, but I could recut one side so that I had a clean edge, and fill it with a matching piece. It would be the same strength, but it would look better. I still didn't like the compromise, but I told myself it was an inside back corner that no one would see.

   I could imagine Uncle Sardit telling me that I would know. I understood that better now. I sighed, wondering if I'd always have to accept the wisdom of others-like Justen, or my father, or Uncle Sardit, or Aunt Elisabet.

   As the sound of horses in the yard seeped through the closed door of the shop, I finished clamping the back of the second drawer together. I forced myself not to hurry, and not to twist the clamps too tightly. Then I walked out in the cold drizzle of late afternoon where Justen and Tamra led their mounts through a cold drizzle and into the stable.

   “Do you have a kettle on?” I glanced at Rissa, who stood under the small overhang that protected the door to the kitchen.

   “In this weather, I always have a kettle on. Even wizards need hot tea or cider. And you certainly will if you stand in that cold rain any longer.”

   “All right. Some warm bread and cheese would be good also.” I walked across the yard to the stable.

   Justen was settling Rosefoot into the stall beside Gairloch. Gairloch whuffed, and Rosefoot whuffed back. The two had always gotten along and had shared a stall more than once.

   “Rissa has a kettle on.”

   “Rissa always has a kettle on, I'm sure.” said Tamra. “Not that it won't be quite welcome.”

   “These old bones could use the warmth.” Justen's smile was lopsided.

   “Poor old, tired Uncle Justen...”

   “Just be kind to your elders, Lerris. This one's been kind to you.”

   Even Tamra laughed, and Justen looked sheepish.

   While Justen had been kind, in many ways he hadn't been particularly helpful. Kindness is like spice-making life far more palatable-but kindness didn't go that far when I was the one getting torn up by the white wizards like Gerlis.

   “I am. I asked Rissa to make sure there was warm bread and cheese.”

   “Good. I'm hungry.” The redhead tied her mount in one of the stalls used by Krystal's guards, certainly not a problem since Krystal was inspecting the harbor defenses in Ruzor and wouldn't be back for at least an eight-day.

   As we crossed the yard toward the house, Justen gestured toward the shop. “Do you mind if I look in? I'd like to see how you're progressing.”

   “Suit yourself.” I held open the door as they stepped inside, wondering what exactly Justen had meant about how I was progressing.

   He shook his head as he looked across the room. “... the extravagance of youth...”

   Working hard to make a living was an extravagance of youth?

   “Before we take advantage of your hospitality, I want a last look at that leg,” stated Justen. “We're headed off to Vergren.”

   “Here?”

   “Why not? Sit down on that stool.”

   I didn't have an answer. So I sat. “I think the bone's mostly healed, but the muscle's weak. You going off to heal the sheep again?” I shifted my weight on the stool. “You can stay for dinner, can't you?”

   “I didn't say that we were going to rush across Candar. I leave that for you younger types.”

   Tamra looked at the chairs. The light stain I had applied earlier was their final shading. “These are actually decent, Lerris.”

   “They're better than decent. Not great, but better than decent.” Tamra still bothered me, still trying to cut down everything I did, or show that it wasn't all that important.

   “These chairs are better than decent, Lerris.”

   “Thank you. Your staff work is better than decent also.”

   “With most people,” Justen mumbled as his fingers ran along my leg.

   Had Tamra flushed?

   “Are you still helping train the Finest?” I asked her.

   “Yes.”

   Justen grinned, then frowned as his fingers stopped over the healing lower break, and I could feel the flow of order. Rather than follow what he was doing, I concentrated on Justen, trying to see how he had ordered himself.

   He raised an eyebrow. “There are certain dangers to that, you know.”

   “Dangers to what?” interrupted Tamra.

   “Self-healing,” I answered. “I've been careful. I haven't used order to hold anything together.”

   “I noticed. Try to be more elegant. Brute force-even order force-can't heal by itself, or hold things together. We all need some chaos in our systems. The key is to twist the chaos so that its forces help sustain order.”

   It was my turn to frown.

   “Someday, I'd like a desk like this-if I ever have a place to put it. Would you make me one then?” Tamra's eyes didn't leave Werfel's desk.

   “When you're ready, I'd be happy to.” That was as close to an apology as I was likely ever to get from Tamra. “I was thinking about taking the splint off. What do you think?” I asked Justen.

   He pursed his lips and frowned. “If it were my leg I'd wait an eight-day, but you are younger. I'd give it a few more days, and take some longer walks and see how it feels.”

   “That makes sense.”

   Justen stood. “You mentioned a kettle?”

   “Coming up.” I closed the shop door behind me, after adding a log to the fire and checking the water in the moisture pot. It's not the cold or the heat that bothers wood, but the changes in heat and moisture in the air-especially sudden changes.

   Tamra and Justen washed up, and so did I.

   By then, Rissa had set three mugs of steaming mulled cider on the table, followed by a basket with a small but warm loaf of bread.

   “Thank you, Rissa. Your bread always smells so good.” I raised the cider and let the apple-spice aroma wreathe my face.

   “Bread should smell good. Dinner will not be for a while, but it is good for you to have company.”

   “Krystal won't be here?” asked Tamra.

   “No. She's inspecting harbor defenses in Ruzor, and there's a dinner there for the envoy from Southwind.”

   “Why not here?”

   “Something about trade, and Ruzor being the main port.”

   “Ha! The Southwind envoy just doesn't want to travel an extra eight-day for ceremony.”

   “It could be.” I shrugged and looked at Rissa. “What is dinner?”

   “The good fowl soup with leeks and lentils and even some quilla.”

   “Quilla?”

   “They had some in the market, and it was cheap. So I got it. You may be a hero, Master Lerris, but the winter has been long. With the chills, there is nothing like fowl soup-it helps mend the joints and the bones...”

   Quilla was a crunchy root that tasted like oily sawdust. It used to be common on Recluce before the great change, and even the Founders had eaten it frequently. That probably made them better people than I was.

   “Soup does help,” offered Justen.

   “Quilla tastes like sawdust.”

   “Nothing I cook tastes like sawdust. You think that cooking is easy, now, in the winter, when the vegetables are withered and the meat is strong...”

   “You cook wonderfully,” I protested, wondering how the vegetables could be withered when I'd unloaded so many recently.

   “Sawdust, you said-”

   “I said quilla tasted like sawdust, but that wasn't what I meant about your cooking.”

   “If I cook, it will not taste like sawdust, Master Lerris.” Rissa turned back to the pot on the stove, shaking her head.

   Tamra, her back to Rissa, was grinning. “The same old tactful Lerris.”

   “You're going to Vergren?” Changing the subject seemed belatedly wise.

   Justen sipped his cider before setting it down and nodding. “As I have told you before, Lerris, even gray wizards must support themselves. I do not have your abilities with wood, so...”

   Tamra broke off a good-sized chunk of the steaming bread and began chewing a healthy mouthful.

   “So you're going off to make sure next year's lambs are healthy?”

   “Among other things. We'll probably go to Certis after that-oil pod seeds, you might recall.”

   “I never got to doing oil pod seeds. That was when I did some unplanned healing-if you recall.”

   “Planning hasn't been your most notable characteristic,” Tamra added, after swallowing the bread and following it with a sip of hot cider.

   “And you planned that well?”

   “I had some good ideas.” Tamra flushed.

   “So did I.”

   “Children...” said Justen sardonically. “Children...”

   We both glared at him. Then Tamra laughed, and I had to as well.

   “Dinner-it is almost ready,” announced Rissa.

   For Rissa, dinner was simple-the big dish of soup in the brown crockery pot and another loaf of bread in the basket.

   After a mournful of the chicken and the potato slices, I bit into a still-crunchy quilla root. My memories had been correct. Even in leek- and onion-laden soup, it remained crunchy and oily, although the sawdust taste was masked by the onions or something. Still, the soup was good.

   “You see? I do not cook food that tastes like sawdust.”

   “I am sorry I ever made you think that, Rissa. The soup is very good.” The comparatively thinner soup was also welcome relief from the array of thick stews I had been eating recently.

   “Very,” mumbled Tamra.

   Justen just ate methodically, as if food were another necessity.

   “This soup is almost as good as my mother's.” Rissa beamed.

   “Was she a good cook?” asked Tamra.

   “A good cook? She was a wonderful cook. How else would lever learn?”

   I shrugged. What had I really learned from my parents? Woodworking had come from Uncle Sardit, and my studies had come from tutors like Magister Kerwin.

   “She must have been very good,” said Tamra.

   “Good-that was not the word. From stones she could make soup, and from a few bones a wonderful stew fit for a feast. A cook like my mother there has never been.”

   “That sounds more like wizardry,” offered Justen dryly.

   “And your mother, Lady Wizard?” asked Rissa.

   “I don't know. She left when I was young,” Tamra admitted.

   “Then who taught you to cook?”

   “No one. I can't cook-not well.”

   “Oh, that is such a terrible thing. It is bad when a man cannot cook, but for a woman... What are parents for, but to pass on what they have learned?” Rissa sniffed. “Terrible it is, too, when you outlive your children and cannot pass on... what you know...”

   “You're hardly ancient,” said Justen.

   “Perhaps your wizardry will help me find another man?” Rissa lifted her eyebrows. “What about you, Master Mage? Would you not like someone... ?”

   Justen squirmed in his chair, but I saw the glint in Rissa's eyes.

   “My lady is far from here, but I doubt she would appreciate-”

   “You wizards are so serious.” Rissa laughed. “One day, Kilbon, he will ask me. Still, it is sad, Lady Wizard, that you did not know your mother. Or that she does not know you are grown and powerful.”

   I didn't even know who Kilbon was, and wondered if Tamra's mother had been like Tamra-not willing to be tied to any man unless she had the upper hand. I also wondered exactly where Justen's lady was.

   “I don't know that she cared,” said Tamra slowly. “Or even if she is still alive somewhere. Some parents don't care that much.”

   “That is terrible.”

   I wondered. Had my parents cared that much?

   “Have you ever let your parents know you're all right?” asked Justen, almost as if he had seen my thoughts.