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“Look at this.” Destrin rasped, thrusting the heavy paper at me.

I glanced over the announcement.

Be it noted that the Prefect must maintain the defenses of the Kingdom of Gallos against the growing threat of invasion by the Autarch of Kyphros, and be it noted that Gallos must combat the unrest in the smaller eastern principalities of Candar caused by the actions of Black Recluce. These demands on the Treasury require an increase in the quarterly levy.

That was the standard language. Underneath, a different hand had penned in darker ink, “Destrin the Woodcrafter, quarterly levy, five golds.”

Originally, the tax bill had showed three golds, but the three had been crossed out and the five written above it. The change bore the initial “J.” A heavy blue-waxed seal had been affixed at the bottom.

“…can meet the first one…but we won’t eat much but barley soup. There is no way I can make the second one, even at year-end. We can’t afford the wood for the holiday buyers if I have to pay five golds.” Destrin leaned against his bench, his breath coming more quickly.

Looking at the thin man, I could see the distress. His system was wasting away, bit by bit, even with the order-strength I had quietly added to his wasting frame. I didn’t know enough to stop the degeneration, only to give him energy and keep it at bay.

“We’ll find a way,” I assured him, keeping my voice confident, even as I wondered how.

“But…how?” The old crafter gulped for air. “…Accuuu…accc…aaccc…”

“We’ll find a way,” I looked back at my workbench and the white oak. “Starting with the desk for Brettel.” I wondered, though. Just as the shop was beginning to rise significantly above the expenses, the levy went up. The last levy had only been a gold and five silvers. It had been doubled, and then someone had added another two golds—scarcely coincidental, I felt, but who was I to say?

Who set and collected taxes went beyond my knowledge. I was having enough trouble with woodcrafting and trying to read and learn The Basis of Order.

“You need something to drink after that,” I added. “Come on. Let’s see what Deirdre has.”

Destrin looked puzzled, as well he might, for I had not pushed him quite so hard before; but his face had gone beyond pale into a grayish shade, before I added just another trace of order to his struggling heart and practically took all his weight—not that he was that heavy any longer—as I helped him up the stairs.

“I’m…all right…”

I didn’t say anything as he leaned on me and crossed the room to his favorite chair.

Her face calm, Deirdre had set down the cushion she was working on and crossed the large room to meet us. She said nothing, just looked from Destrin, still clutching the tax bill in his clawed hands, to me. Then she went to the shelf and poured a mug of redberry as I eased Destrin into the battered armchair.

As the old crafter sipped the juice, I nodded to Deirdre. “I’ve got to check Bostric,” I explained as I left. That much was true. It had to be. The more I learned about order, the more fearful I was of self-deception, knowing that I practiced it all too often anyway.

The other thing I was going to do was open the windows so Bostric and I didn’t die of heat poisoning.

XLIX

“CAPTAIN TORRMAN WANTS you to take the hill path and hold it against the rebels,” announces the messenger, spewing forth the words in one long burst before taking a deep breath.

The squad leader looks at the messenger. “When? Are we expecting the entire army of the Duke of Hydlen to reinforce us?”

A bewildered expression crosses the youngster’s face. “That was the order…”

The squad leader takes a slow and silent breath, then purses her lips. The wind whips her short black hair away from her face, and the black eyes turn full on the messenger. “We have the message.”

The youngster shrivels under the darkness of her gaze, then salutes. “Will that be all, leader?”

“Tell Captain Torrman that we will accomplish his objective.”

“What, leader?”

“Tell the captain that we will