The Death of Chaos (25 page)

   The west gate-really the southwest gate, but everyone called it the west gate-was unguarded, but all the gates to Kyphrien were unguarded. Why not, if an enemy had to travel days just to get there?

   Cold or not, the marketplace was filled, and I could hear the usual commotion from three blocks away-which was as far as I could keep from the square. The only circular roads in Kyphrien were inside the city, from military planning, I guessed.

   “Fresh chickens!!!! Get your fresh...”

   “... spices... spices straight from the docks of Ruzor...”

   “... corn flour...”

   Two youngsters glanced at the wagon, then at me. One frowned, then shook his head at the other, and they slipped into an alley. I glanced down at the staff, glad I had brought it.

   I found the south road and turned onto it, looking back for the young thieves, but caught no glimpses of them, as the wagon gently shook its way over the stones.

   Once past the southern gate to Kyphrien, the clamor died away, but the roughness of the ride did not. Especially after I guided the wagon over the stone bridge of the Ruzor road, the clay ruts on the southern road were frozen into jokingly uneven obstacles. With every bump my leg twinged, and I wished I were riding Gairloch.

   The ruts evened out as I headed south into the hills that held the faded gray-green leaves of the olive groves. Hensil's house sprawled over the hillside amid those groves-a low and white-walled building that seemed to take as much space as a small grove.

   All the bumps stopped once I drove past the twin posts that marked the beginning of the drive up to the stables that served the house. The drive was graveled and graded smooth, and I shook my head, deciding that I should have asked for more for the chairs.

   Two guards stopped me a good hundred cubits from the main yard. One held a crossbow on me-stupid, in a way, because it's only good for one shot. The other waved a blade that I could have taken away with one blow of the staff.

   “What's your business?”

   “I'm Lerris, the woodcrafter. I'm delivering the chairs that Master Hensil commissioned.” I gestured toward the back of the wagon.

   He lifted several rags and sacks before pointing toward the yard.

   It wasn't that easy, not with the half-dozen guards in the yard, all of whom had to check that the chairs were indeed chairs. What else did Hensil do besides grow olives?

   The carved double doors with the inlaid glass panels didn't diminish my suspicions, nor did the long stable, or the golden-oak coach being polished by three grooms. Of course, olive-growing could have been highly profitable.

   Hensil, almost overflowing his brilliant blue tunic and trousers, and bulging over a silver-buckled belt that barely held his trousers closed, arrived even before the last guard had finished inspecting the chairs.

   He bowed with that excessive gesture that signified no respect at all. “Ah, Master Lerris.”

   “The same.” I inclined my head. “I have delivered your chairs.”

   “I can't say as I expected them so soon.” Hensil looked at the wagon.

   His consort, a graying woman as slender as he was ample, stood under the portico, saying nothing, a heavy green woolen shawl wrapped around her.

   “A man of your eminence should have his commissions when they are ready.”

   “I had heard that you were injured.”

   I inclined my head again. “I was, but the leg injury left me more time to work on the detail you requested.”

   He finally nodded. “Well, let us see if they will do...”

   I bit my tongue and climbed down off the wagon seat, having already set the brake earlier. I slowly removed the canvas, and then the chairs, carrying them up the three steps one by one onto the covered porch.

   Hensil watched, trying to keep his face impassive, but his eyes glittered, especially when they rested on the inlaid H in the back of each. His consort looked at each one, then at the olive grower.

   Finally, as I carried the eighth one onto the porch, she slipped up to him, and he bent down. I strained for the words.

   “... beautiful... but they make the table look poor.”

   “Cover it with linen,” he mumbled back, straightening.

   Then I watched as he inspected every join, every angle. He didn't look at the way the grains matched, and that bothered me, because that was really the hardest part, to make each part seem to flow together.

   “They seem adequate,” the grower observed.

   “I think you will find them more than adequate, Ser Hensil.” I gave him the overly deep bow he had used earlier.

   He started to scowl, then smiled, looking more like a hungry mountain cat than a man, but I really didn't care. I knew the chairs were good.

   “We'd agreed on fifteen,” he finally said, his voice jovial.

   “We did.” I smiled back, adding, “And that's a bargain. You did well, Master Grower.”

   “... uppity crafter...” The mumble came from one of the guards.

   “... idiot...” hissed another. “He's a black mage, too, that one is.”

   I heard a swallow, but Hensil ignored it.

   “One moment, Master Lerris.” The olive grower walked back into the house.

   His consort looked at the chairs, looked at me, and smiled briefly. She still said nothing to me, although her eyes flicked toward the guards. Under the circumstances, it was probably better.

   From what I'd seen, even as rough as I was with the staff, I probably could have taken any of the guards, but not the whole dozen-but Tamra and I might have together-if my leg had been fully healed.

   Hensil returned with a leather purse. “Here you are.”

   As I took it, I could sense the golds, and there were sixteen.

   . “Thank you.”

   “You didn't count them.”

   “I appreciate the extra, Ser Hensil.”

   There was another swallow from the guard nearest the steps.

   Hensil actually laughed. “I might like you yet, Master Lerris.” He gestured.“Send back a small barrel of the black olives with the craftmaster. He deserves some of our best. We've his.”

   He had style, and I grinned back at him with a headshake.

   Even his consort smiled faintly.

   The small barrel of olives was the size of a flour barrel and probably worth two golds itself. Hensil and his consort and the chairs had disappeared through the glassed doors before the olives and I rolled down the drive and back toward Kyphrien.

   Once I was clear of the estate, I did check the purse, and there were sixteen standard golds. I looked at the staff. I now had a reason for it, but the barrel of olives might actually deter thieves, since they might figure I had no coin, only olives. I hoped so.

   Jahunt had been right, of course. No sooner was I back on the Ruzor road toward Kyphrien than it began to drizzle, almost an ice mist that froze my lungs and created a deep aching in my leg.

   The rain also deterred would-be thieves, or maybe my totally bedraggled appearance did. By the time I bounced back to the house, my jacket was damp through, and ice flakes were crusted into my hair, while my ears were freezing. I didn't have that much order strength left, I'd discovered.

   Rissa, of course, greeted me.

   “Master Lerris.” Rissa shook her head. “For a craftmaster, you'll be having no sense at all. Out in the rain yet, and that leg is still not healed. It won't be healed when you're old and gray the way you treat it.”

   “It was clear when I left.” I glared at her. “And if I don't deliver my work, then I don't get paid, and we don't eat. I like eating better than not eating.” I pointed to the olive barrel. “For a bonus, Hensil sent a barrel of black olives, the good ones, he said.”

   “Olives are well enough, and we can use them, but coin is better.”

   “There was also a one-gold bonus.”

   For a moment, only a moment, she was speechless, since a gold was half a season's wages, and I paid better than many. “Best you get that poor horse into the stable and come into the kitchen. A kettle of warm cider I'll have on the table, and there's a loaf of black bread just ready to come out of the oven.”

   I thought that meant she approved.

   After eating, I decided I didn't have to go to work immediately, not on crafting, not on Werfel's desk. That could wait. Instead, I took out a quill pen. I dreaded writing the letter, but my parents did deserve that.

   “Good,” stated Rissa. “You work too hard.”

   In one way, Rissa was right, and the kitchen was warm, and my leg and muscles were sore. In another way, she was wrong. Writing the postponed letter was scarcely going to be easy.

   She continued to work on the next loaves of bread as I wrote. Sometimes, I stopped and just let the smell of yeast and fresh damp dough roll around me.

   I had more bread, and I actually finished a whole loaf myself.

   Later, I looked at the letter. Deciding to write had not been easy, nor had the words come easily, but my parents at least deserved to know that I was well and prospering-at least relatively. My eyes skipped down the pages.

... regret it has taken me so long to send word... hope and trust you are well... for a time was an apprentice to your brother Justen... then Uncle Sardit will be relieved, I hope, to learn that I have returned to woodworking... a journeyman in Fenard for a year or so... now have a small shop in Kyphrien... need to seek an apprentice... that should give Uncle Sardit a laugh...

... have joined with Krystal, from Extina... beginning to understand something about love... she is commander of the autarch's blades... share a home when she is not planning campaigns or fighting them... even have learned to ride a mountain pony named Gairloch...

... have had some adventures with various white wizards... recovering from assorted injuries... and concentrating on woodworking more now...

... still do not believe that order is of necessity boring, but that there is far too great a danger in failing to explain what order is and what it means... telling a youngster that order is important is meaningless without showing why-and Recluce is so ordered that the dangers are not at all obvious...

   I didn't know if what I had written about order was quite right, but the general idea was. No one likes to accept “because that's the way it is” as an answer, especially young people, and while people like my father and Justen with vast experience found certain aspects of the world obvious, the rest of us didn't.

   “Won't be long 'fore dinner, Master Lerris.”

   I took the hint and folded the letter. Then I went back to the workshop and put my seal across it, and set it aside in the box for my papers-who would have thought that being a woodworker meant keeping stacks of papers?

   I shook my head. Tomorrow I'd have to ride into Kyphrien to arrange for it to be carried to Recluce. Probably one of the wool merchants-like Clayda-could do it.

   I checked the water in the moisture pot and added a log to the shop hearth before heading back to the washroom.

WERFEL'S DESK, LIKE everything else, was taking longer than I planned. This time, again, it was the glue, which I'd neglected, and needed to remake. The problem with glue is that it hardens, usually before the joins are ready. So I was chipping and grinding, and heating more water when there was a rap on the shop door.

   Three people stood there-Rissa, another woman, and a black-haired youngster-presumably the first response to Rissa's efforts in informing all of Kyphros that I was seeking an apprentice. All she had needed was my admission that I needed one.

   My leg no longer twinged when I walked across the shop, but it did tremble if I put weight on it for too long, although the bone seemed completely healed.

   “This is Master Lerris,” said Rissa. “Wendre thinks Gallos would be a good woodworker.”

   I inclined my head to Wendre, a stout woman with long brown hair wound into a bun. “Sometimes, woodworking is difficult.”

   The youngster looked up at me. He wasn't as tall as I am, but most Kyphrans aren't. “You're a wizard, aren't you?”

   “At times, but I spend more time doing woodworking.”

   Rissa tugged at Wendre's arm. “I have some fresh bread. Let Master Lerris talk to Gallos.”

   Wendre let herself be tugged out of the workroom.

   “Come over here.” I walked toward the bin that contained my odd-sized pieces-too big to burn and too small to use except for boxes, breadboards, inlays, or small decorative items-except for the inlays, things that would have been done mostly by the apprentice I didn't have. After fishing out a piece of cherry, I handed it to Gallos. “What can you tell about this?” He took the wood, but he looked at me as if I were crazy. “It's wood. It's a piece of wood. That's all it is.”

   “What would you do with it?”

   “Make things, I guess. Isn't that what you want an apprentice for?”

   “What does it feel like?”

   He shrugged, his black eyes puzzled. “It feels like wood.”

   “Is it smooth or rough? What does it smell like?”

   “Smooth, I guess. It smells like wood.” He handed it back tome.

   I did not sigh. “Why did you come to see me?”

   “My mom, she said I'd better do something, and you're not just a craftmaster-you're a wizard. I want to be a wizard.”

   “I had to learn to be a woodworker first.” I wondered how to tell him that it just wouldn't work.

   “I don't think I'd like that.”

   “Maybe you ought to think about it some more.” I set the piece of cherry back in the bin and led him to the door and through the drizzle up onto the porch and into the kitchen.

   Rissa's friend looked from me to her son. So did Rissa. Neither said a word.

   I swallowed. Finally, I said, “I don't think Gallos is really interested in being a woodworker.”

   Wendre glared at her son.

   “It's not something that you can force,” I added. “Some people are good with stone, others with blades...”

   Wendre's glare softened somewhat, but Gallos stayed by the door.

   “Thank you.” I slipped back out the door and toward the shop. Had I been that indifferent? I didn't think so. Sloppy? Yes, I had been sloppy, and careless, and I recalled Sardit's frustration and anger, but the wood had always felt good in my hands. Was I asking too much? Probably, but Bostric had felt the woods, and even Brettel the millmaster had been able to feel that in Bostric, that gangly apprentice I had trained for Destrin and had married to Deirdre.

   I swallowed, wondering how Deirdre and Bostric were doing, whether they had children, and whether Deirdre had been able to keep her father alive. Destrin hadn't been that good a crafter, but even he had understood woods.

   With another deep breath, I went back to turning the legs of the desk chair for Werfel. On the second leg the chisel slipped, and all I had was a piece of firewood, or perhaps the leg of a working stool. I shook my head at myself, both at the waste of wood and the lack of concentration.

   Rissa slipped though the door and stood at the back of the shop.

   “Yes? Are they gone?” I asked.

   “I told Wendre that Gallos would not be a good woodworker.”

   “Then why did you have her bring him?”

   “Would she listen to me? I am not the woodworker.” Rissa shook her head. “I see you look at the wood, and it is not just wood. You touch it, almost like a lover. Gallos-he would strike it with a hammer to see if he could make a hole in it.”

   I took a deep breath. “Are there any youngsters who like wood-young women, too? Men aren't the only ones who could be woodworkers.”

   “That I do not know. But I can ask, and see if there are those who might feel that way. I will have to tell them that is what you want. If I say that-they will think Rissa has gone crazy, but wizards and mastercrafters are all crazy. So no one will think anything about it.”

   “That's why you had Gallos come in... so that everyone would learn that I'm impossible?”

   Rissa didn't smile, but her dark eyes did sparkle. “Gallos was already talking about how you wanted him to feel the wood and smell it. Soon everyone will know.”

   “Wonderful. All of Kyphros will think I have lost my mind.”

   “No, Master Lerris. No one presumes to know a wizard's mind, and so who can tell whether he has lost it or not?”

   An impossible, inscrutable wizard yet-but it was better than being thought mad or chaos-tinged-and I wasn't that much past the score mark in years. For some reason, I recalled my father and wondered what he would have thought. Probably he would have delivered a long moralistic explanation. Uncle Sardit would have understood, though, and I still would have preferred being the eccentric craftmaster to the inscrutable wizard.

   “Well, this crafter is going back to working on a desk that should already have been finished.”

   “Never... never do you stop unless you are hurt or ordered by the commander or the autarch.”

   “Can you think of any better people to obey?”

   “Men...” sniffed Rissa as she left.

   As for me, I still didn't have an apprentice, and I still didn't know when Krystal would return, and I was beginning to worry. Going out on a routine trip and not returning-that was what had happened to Ferrel.

   I went back to chipping and grinding old glue, and boiling water.