Ordermaster

XVI

By threeday, Kharl could see-intermittently. His vision came and went unpredictably. At least, he could not discern the reasons for its presence or absence, although he had no doubt that his ability to see was affected by some deeper interrelation between order and chaos. In time, he suspected, he would understand, and wonder why he had not seen sooner. That seemed to be his lot in life, to understand, imperfectly and late.

As he made his way toward the small dining room for a midday meal, in one of his moments of clear vision, he noticed Commander Norgen leaving Hagen’s study.

“Commander?”

“Ser mage.” Norgen bowed.

“Have you a moment to join me in eating?” asked Kharl.

“Ah …” Norgen paused. “I cannot take long.”

“You have not eaten, have you?”

“No. Sometimes, I end up missing meals here and there.”

“That can’t be good. I won’t take much of your time, and it won’t hurt for you to eat something.”

“I suppose not.” The slender commander’s laugh was good-natured.

Once they entered the larger of the small dining rooms, Norgen led the way to a corner table. Only one other table was occupied, and that by two men in dark blue, one with white hair, and the other much younger, perhaps Kharl’s age. The mage recognized neither.

“ … does not understand that law favors precedent and example …”

“ … consistency over the wishes of a ruler …”

Kharl kept his frown to himself, but even as he did, his sight vanished, and he had to rely on his order-senses to seat himself.

“Advocates, magistrates, justicers,” said Norgen, “always talking about law. They think it’s the same as justice.”

Kharl’s laugh was short and bitter.

“Your laugh says more than my words,” added Norgen.

“Why are they here?” asked Kharl, not wishing to discuss his past experiences with justicers, or rather, Lord Justicer Reynol of Nordla.

“They come to brief Lord Ghrant on the cases they have already decided. Always in open audiences.”

“He’s not in the Hall of Justice?”

“No. Everyone knows that’s not good. They might decide the cases on what Lord Ghrant wants, or what they think he wants.”

Norgen’s reply confused Kharl. “But … if they tell him …?”

“Oh … there’s a procedure for that. Lord Ghrant sits behind a screen and never speaks. If he has a question, he whispers to the lord-chancellor or whoever’s attending him, and they ask it. His questions are always about the facts or the law.”

That seemed better than what happened in Nordla, but Kharl still suspected that in some cases, Lord Ghrant might well be able to get his views across.

“Sers?”

Kharl turned toward the server’s voice.

“We just have a boar stew today,” announced the serving girl.

“I’ll have that with ale,” said Norgen.

“The same,” added Kharl. “The pale ale.” He liked the lager better most times, but occasionally had ale.

After she had left, Norgen cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Kharl said. “At times, I’m still having trouble seeing. It comes and goes.”

“Did you hit your head? That sometimes …″

“No. What I did on the causeway released too much chaos. I’m pretty much an order-mage. Handling too much chaos affects how I see for a while.”

“I wondered why we hadn’t seen much of you lately.”

“Sers …” The server set the two ales on the table. “I’ll be back with the stew.”

“Thank you,” Kharl said. He had to use his order-senses to locate the mug. He took a swallow, enjoying the coolness.

“You had something in mind, ser mage?” asked Norgen gently.

“I did. I don’t know how to be subtle. How do the armsmen and lancers feel about this rebellion?”

As Kharl took another swallow of the ale, enjoying it, he could see once more. He blinked.

“You know, ser mage, that is a dangerous question?” Norgen lifted his eyebrows, white and bushy, in contrast to his thin and faded-and wispy-strawberry blond hair.

“Dangerous? I’m just a cooper and a beginning mage. Why would wanting to know how troops feel be dangerous?”

Norgen smiled. “My father always told me to watch the man who began with words like that. Just a beginning mage? Just a cooper? Hagen said you were one of the best, and Lyras says you’re far more than a beginning mage.”

Kharl laughed. “He also told you to avoid telling people what they don’t want to hear.”

“Sometimes.” Norgen took a sip of his ale, then tilted his head slightly. “You would understand. The lord-chancellor might. Lord Ghrant would not.” He offered a faint smile and took another sip of ale.

Kharl thought he understood. “The armsmen don’t see why all this is necessary. In the end, whoever rules, their situation will be the same. They might stand a better chance of getting paid by Lord Ghrant, but they also might think they stand a greater chance of getting killed. Is that it?”

“Close enough. Most armsmen serve because they’ve little choice in life. True of many of the officers, too. Lands go to the eldest, and that leaves being a guard officer or going into trade. Sons of lords have this worry about trade. It′s … unbecoming. Me … never saw how honestly making or selling something of use to others was unbecoming. But I’m better with a mount and blade than with figures or crafting.” Norgen broke off as the serving girl, painfully thin, returned with two large bowls and a basket heaped with dark bread still warm from the ovens.

As Kharl watched her approach, he saw that the two justicers, or magistrates or whatever they had been, had left the small dining room.

“Here you are, sers. Would you like more ale?”

Kharl realized his mug was almost empty. He hadn’t been aware of drinking so much, good as the ale had tasted. “Yes, please.”

“I’ve enough, thank you,” added Norgen.

Once she departed, Kharl cleared his throat. “You were saying about officers …”

“I was.” Norgen waited again.

“All but the most senior feel like their armsmen? That rebellion is meaningless to them, and they’d prefer to survive it with the fewest casualties?”

“Many feel that way, or so it’s said. Why are you so interested in that, ser mage?”

“I’m trying to think of a way to end the rebellion that won′t blind me for life and won’t kill thousands of armsmen and their officers.”

“You do that, and you’d have many happy troops. Happier officers.” Norgen snorted. “That’d be true magery.” He took a mouthful of stew. After eating for a time, he added, “Not bad. Glad you dragged me in here.”

Kharl was, too. The stew, if slightly too peppery, was hot and filling, and he could use the nourishment. He also had a feeling, or part of one … about what he could do … if he could just figure out how to present it to Hagen. “It seemed the thing to do. I don’t know much about armsmen and lancers. I know more about trade and barrels, and even sailing.”

“At times, I wish I did.”

“You didn’t want to be a lancer?”

“It was the best choice open to me. My father was a cabinetmaker. After I’d ruined too many pieces, he suggested that I might be better as a renderer’s apprentice, because no one cared what anything looked like once it got to the renderer. If I didn’t like that, he said, then being an armsman or lancer would be a good second choice.” Norgen took another mouthful of stew.

“He must have had quite a tongue.”

“He did. He was always too quick for me. So was my brother. Figured it was better for me to listen to orders and have a blade do the talking.”

“Are you from Valmurl?”

“No. I grew up in Nasloch. About a hundred kays south of Bruel, along the west coast. My brother’s still there, still making cabinets.”

“Do you ever go back?”

“No. My consort’s from Valmurl. Her family thinks what I do is honorable. Mine doesn’t.”

Kharl nodded.

“That nod says more than words.” Norgen stood. “I need to be getting back.” A faint smile appeared on his narrow face. “Anything you can do will be better than what’s going to happen otherwise. Good day, ser mage.”

Kharl sat for a time at the circular table, sipping the last of his ale.