Wellspring of Chaos (20 page)

“Captain told me that. You a good cooper?”

“One of the better ones.”

“Why you here?”

“The Lord’s tariff farmer took a dislike to me. I couldn’t come up with twelve golds in four eightdays. Not when the tariff had only been three golds the year before.”

“One thing about being a ship’s carpenter… don’t have to worry about such. Worry about pirates, storms, spoiled food, broken spars— but not tariff farmers.” Tarkyn laughed. “Be here after morning muster, and I’ll show you around. See what you can do.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Tarkyn looked down at the carving he held, barely illuminated by the bronze lamp, and lifted the knife. “See you first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll be here,” Kharl promised, stepping back out of the carpenter shop. For all of Tarkyn’s taciturn welcome, Kharl had sensed the basic soundness of the man, and the organization of the shop, from the wood set just so in the bins and bays to the tool chests that were carefully stowed and restrained.

He climbed up the ladder, then back onto the main deck. After a moment, he climbed the forward ladder and walked to the base of the bowsprit. There he stood, at the railing on the seaward side, looking into the darkness… wondering how he had ended up on the Seastag… and where it would all lead.

After a time, he turned to view the lights of Brysta. He’d never thought of leaving the city where he’d been born. But then, he’d never thought that the city—or its rulers—would have cost him his consort his family, his livelihood, then driven him out.

Looking at the scattered lights spread across the harbor front, and the low hills overlooking the harbor, he swallowed, feeling the lump in his throat, and his eyes began to burn.

Kharl spent the first five days, when not sleeping or eating, either with the winch crew or in the carpenter shop. Adjusting to the in-port morning muster was easy enough; he’d always gotten up early anyway. Having regular meals turned out harder on his guts and system, much as he knew he needed them.

After testing Kharl on a few minor projects, such as replacing a smashed panel on an inside door-hatch and rebuilding a storm-damaged section of the poop deck rail, Tarkyn just asked if Kharl could do something. Most things he was asked to do, he could, and some, like turning a spar, were easy enough to pick up.

He had no idea about others, as when the carpenter had asked him how he’d reset the rudder posts.

“I suppose I could take it apart and learn,” the cooper had offered, “but I don’t know as you and the captain would wish that.”

Tarkyn had laughed. “Wise man who knows what he can do. Wiser man who knows what he can’t.”

Kharl wasn’t certain about that. He’d done a few things in the past eightdays he’d never believed he could have done, and, before that, he certainly would have told anyone that he couldn’t have done them.

He’d not seen either Watch or harbor inspectors, but the Watch usually didn’t patrol the piers, and the harbor inspectors were only interested in tariffs and quiet on the vessels tied to the piers—and the Seastag was a very quiet ship.

By late afternoon on threeday, all the outbound cargo had been loaded, and the hatches secured, with everything battened down. Then the steam engine had been fired up, and with a slapping ihwup, thwup, the midships paddle wheels had begun to turn.

Kharl stood at the railing as the Seastag eased away from the pier, out into the harbor, then westward past the outer breakwater. He looked back at Brysta, the afternoon light illuminating the city in a golden glow, giving it a beauty he had not seen—or experienced—in recent seasons.

“You! Second carpenter!” called a voice.

Kharl turned at the voice, recognizing the third, a hard-faced wiry woman with short-cropped hair and broad shoulders. “Ser?”

“We’ll be setting canvas once we clear. You’re lead on the mainmast winch.“

“Yes, ser.” Kharl moved toward the winch. There he stood, waiting for orders, and looking back, wondering if he would ever see Nordla again, if he would ever want to, yet knowing that he would.

Thirteen days had passed since the Seastag had steamed out of Brysta and hoisted sail. Once well clear of Nordla, Hagen had shut down the steam engine to conserve coal. All thirteen days had seen very rough seas, except for the last few glasses, when the seas had begun to calm. Kharl hadn’t realized how much continual work was required of a ship’s carpenter, much of it while standing on a moving deck. Most of it was simple, in terms of craft, but necessary. He’d replaced railing spokes. He’d turned pulley brackets. He’d fashioned a replacement bar for the capstan, when the iron one had broken loose and rolled over the side during one of the heavier blows. He could have reinforced it with iron bands, but there was no forge available on the ship.

The cooper grinned at his recollection of Hagen’s anger over that. The fourth mate—the bosun—had practically backed himself over the railing stepping away from the captain as Hagen berated the man for not making sure that the capstan locker had been secured for heavy weather.

It was near midday, and Kharl stood near the bow, just forward of the foremast, since the Seastag was only twin-masted, but full-rigged, a brig’s rigging on a full ship’s hull, spread to allow engine and paddle wheels midships. He was taking a break from the pedal-powered lathe in the carpenter’s shop and enjoying the fresh air. Unlike some of the newer sailors, the weather hadn’t bothered Kharl, and he found that merely working, eating, and sleeping on a regular schedule had improved both his attitude and his health. The thin mattress felt almost luxurious after nearly a season on rags and hard ground, and even the ship’s food wasn’t that bad, although the fruit was dried and limited, and the biscuits that went with every meal tended to get rock-hard the moment they cooled.

“Land ahead!” came down the call from the lookout.

“Land where?” called back Furwyl, who had the con, on the platform before the steersman.

“Ten off the starboard bow!”

Within moments, Kharl could feel the Seastag turning to starboard. He couldn’t see what the lookout had, not yet, and he headed back down to the carpenter shop.

Tarkyn stepped back from the lathe. “You’re younger. You can finish.”

Kharl took the turning chisel from the older man. “The lookout sighted land.”

“Thought as much,” replied Tarkyn. “Shifted course.”

“We came starboard. It looked like we were headed too far south.”

“Not too far if the captain could see land. Means he was right within fifty kays after fifteen hundred on the open sea. Not many captains that good.”

“Do you mind if I watch as we come into port?” Kharl adjusted the foot pedal and began pumping, so that the spruce in the lathe began to spin.

“No. Not after you finish that gaff. Bemyr’ll want you up on the winch crew anyway.”

Kharl didn’t rush the turning. There was no point in spoiling the wood, and it would be a good glass, if not two or three, before the Seastag came anywhere near the shore. When he did finish, he handed the smoothed gaff to Tarkyn.

“Not bad.”

Kharl took out one of the rags and cleaned off the lathe, then got out the small broom and the handled flat scoop. He swept up the shavings and put them in the burn box, where the cook would collect them later. By the time he had finished, Tarkyn was back working on his scrimshaw, what would be a full-rigged ship carved into a red deer antler.

“How long have you been working on that?” the cooper asked.

“This voyage and the last.” Tarkyn looked toward the open hatch.

Kharl took the hint and slipped out of the carpenter shop and up to the bow. At times, the carpenter didn’t want to talk at all—not to Kharl.

The ship was headed due north, and Kharl could smell the smoke from the engine being fired up. The third mate was barking commands at the riggers, terms Kharl didn’t understand, except in general terms, naming sails to be furled, and those to be left in place. He had picked up some of the names, but he had no idea which sail the mizzen skysail was, nor the fore topgallant. So he just stayed out of the way near the bow and watched as the Seastag drew nearer to the coast. Before long, he could make out a long black line above the water—a breakwater. Hagen, on the poop, brought the ship more to the west.

The third, her voice hard and sharp, issued another series of commands, and the rest of the sails were furled as the paddle wheels began to move. The Seastag moved slowly northward, then hove to off the southern breakwater, waiting, the paddle wheels turning just enough to keep the ship with bare steerageway.

In less than a fraction of a glass, a pilot boat steamed up. The boat kept perfect station on the Seastag while the ladder went over the side. Shortly, a man in blue trousers and jacket climbed aboard. Furwyl met him on the deck and escorted him back to the poop, where he stood beside the captain and began to give orders to the helm.

The Seastag crept forward, wallowing slightly before gaining true headway, then picked up speed to perhaps three kays, Kharl judged, moving toward a channel marked with red and black buoys. The channel ran almost due east between the two long breakwaters of black stone. The breakwaters rose a good ten cubits above the water and seemed to be at least three times that wide, with the flat surface of a lord’s causeway.

“Never seen breakwaters like that…” murmured Hodal, one of the few deckhands who was actually taller and broader than Kharl—and a good fifteen years younger.

“Lots of things you’ll see here you never saw before,” someone else replied. “Nothing like Nylan. Nothing nowhere.”

“Winch crew! Stand by!” ordered Bemyr, the bosun.

Kharl moved aft to join the others, but continued to watch as the Seastag entered the harbor, not all that much larger than the one at Brysta. The difference was that there were piers and more piers, all of them stone, with clean lines and no signs of missing mortar, seemingly in perfect repair, with timbered rails and hempen buffers.

“Is this part of Recluce called Nylan, or is it just the harbor?” Kharl asked Reisl, who was the closest of the winch crew to him.

“Who knows?” Reisl shrugged.

The bosun looked at Kharl. “The southern tip of Recluce is called Southpoint. The port here is Nylan, named after some old hero. He was a smith, I think. Anyway, we’ve been coming north past the point ‘fore coming inshore. That’s ’cause the harbor’s on the west side, north of the southern tip. Pretty big port, more than a half score piers for deep-ocean traders, a few more for coasters from Candar and fishing vessels. Most of the time, it’s crowded.”

“They got girls there?” asked the fresh-faced Wylat. “The tavern maids are prettier here than anyplace you’ll ever be And all you can do is look.” Bemyr laughed.

“Don’t believe that,” came a voice from the other side of the winch crew.

“You better believe it. This is the place that flattened Fairven some fifty-sixty years back. They got more mages here in Nylan than in the whole rest of the world. You see all that black stone out there? They got ships that move faster than the fastest war-steamers out of Hamor, and half the time you can’t see ‘em. They got patrollers on every street. You won’t lose any coin to brigands there, and you’ll get fair measure for your coin. But you can’t buy a woman for all the golds the captain’s got.”

“You can’t?”

As the Seastag eased past the inner end of the breakwaters, Kharl’s attention drifted from the comments about women to the harbor and the city to the north of it. Outside of a few blocks immediately north of the harbor, the city was built on a long sloping hill, an almost symmetrical ridge that was more than two kays from the harbor to the crest and nearly twice that wide. The dwellings and the buildings he could see were constructed of a blackish stone, with dark roofs, and the streets were wide and straight.

“Anywhere you can buy a good woman… a woman, anyway,” another crew member said.

“Except on board,” cracked the third mate from across the deck.

“Can’t buy women in Nylan,” stated Bemyr. “Better not try, either. Now… once in a while, one’ll take a liking to a sailor… and that’s something. Only knew of two fellows that happened to…” Bemyr broke off. “Enough of that. They’ve already got the wagons moving down the pier. They move cargo fast here.”

“Lines out!” ordered Furwyl. “Tighten up forward! Bring her in!”

The Seastag‘’s paddle wheel slowed to a stop.

“Double up!” ordered Furwyl. “Bosun!”

Bemyr put his whistle to his mouth and blew two shrill blasts. “Before long, cargo hatch’ll be off. Winch crew in place! Step lively, now!”

Kharl took his place and waited.

For the next two days, Kharl labored as a deckhand, shifting cargo, moving pallets. Not until midafternoon of the third day was he granted shore leave, along with Tarkyn and half the rigging crew. He had managed, with some difficulty, to wash his once-better outfit clean, but a close look would have revealed muted stains in the tunic. He also had the staff, which he felt he needed to return, although he wasn’t quite sure where to take it, only that it had come from Recluce, and he thought Jenevra had mentioned Nylan.

He stood on the section of the deck behind the gangway, in that ill-defined area that was called the quarterdeck, along with the others going on shore leave, sunlight and shadows from the masts and rigging falling across them.

“Don’t be too long, or too late,” Bemyr told those going on shore leave. “You don’t need a friend with you, not here, but be careful. Captain says we sail just after dawn. That’s when the winds turn and blow out of the northeast.”

Kharl stepped back and let the younger men surge down the gangway.

As the cooper waited, the captain appeared, looking at the staff. “I’d forgotten that. Where did you get it?”

“It belongs here. I need to return it.”

“That’s probably a very good idea. Enjoy yourself.”

“Yes, ser,” Kharl said politely, but Hagen had already stepped away. Kharl looked around as he walked down the gangway onto the pier. All the piers were of dressed stone, and the stonework was simple but flawless, the joins between stones as tight as those of his best barrels, and with only the thinnest lines of mortar.

The pier itself was almost clear of wagons, except for one last one holding barrels, probably of provisions. Kharl walked past it, then stopped at the end of the pier and looked up the long, inclined hillside that held most of the city. Even though it was well past harvest, everything seemed either black or green. The streets and even the one alley he could see to his left were all paved in a dark gray stone that was almost black. The late-afternoon light glinting off it made it look gray, but as he looked closer, he could see that it was indeed black. In fact, he hadn’t realized just how black, and how pervasive the black stone truly was. All of the buildings, all of the dwellings, were of the same black stone, and the roofs of the buildings and dwellings were of a stone that looked like split black slate.

There were trees, tall and green, and open areas of grass, also green at a time of year when most grass in Nordla was brown. The buildings and dwellings were set in their own greenery, and placed much farther apart than in Brysta, spreading the city out and giving a feeling of spaciousness.

Kharl looked at the open area, a rectangular paved square, separating the piers from the warehouses and buildings, then picked the widest-looking boulevard and walked toward it, his staff in hand. He stopped at the corner where it intersected the square and walked toward a man in a black-and-tan uniform, a patroller, from what Bemyr had said. “Could you help me? I’m looking for the Brethren.”

“All of Nylan’s got Brethren. Any ones special?” The man’s accent was so clipped it took Kharl several moments to piece together what the fellow had actually said.

“The ones… the place that sends people to other lands…”

“Where they train the dangergelders, you mean? Up the hill, almost three kays, and there’s a building on the left, with a green triangle on a stone marker outside. That’s the place. Only one with the green triangle.”

“Thank you.”

The patroller nodded in response.

As he continued uphill, Kharl noted something else. Almost all the buildings were but one story, and most of those near the harbor looked newish, certainly not more than a generation old, and some more recently constructed than that. Yet the port had a feeling of being much older.

He had walked no more than a block when he realized that several passersby and others in the street had taken a quick glance at him and the staff, and looked away. No one said anything, but they definitely looked at him strangely. Because of his clothing, not that of a typical sailor? Or the staff? Or both?

He was breathing harder by the time he reached his destination, nearly a glass later. The structure was more than just a building. From what he could tell, looking over the low stone wall at the green grass and neatly trimmed hedges and well-kept flowers, he was looking at an estate.

Finally, he stepped through the two black stone pillars that served as gateposts, although there was no actual gate, and made his way to the covered porch and the doorway beyond. After a momentary hesitation, he rapped on the door.

Shortly, the door opened, and a young woman stood there. She wore gray all over, except for a shimmering black scarf and a silver pin on the collar of her tunic. The pin was a lightning bolt crossed with a staff. “Might I help you?” Again, the accent was strange, but understandable.

“I hope so,” Kharl said. “This staff… it’s not mine… I didn’t know what to do with it.”

For the first time, the woman, who had been studying the cooper intently enough to make Kharl uneasy, actually looked at the staff. She frowned, briefly. “If you would come in, I think you should see Magister Trelyn.” She held the black oak door open wider.

Kharl took the invitation and stepped inside, finding himself in an upper foyer, separated from the lower one by three black stone steps that ran the width of the foyer.

“There are benches below… if you would like to rest…?”

Kharl stepped down to the lower level and the benches set almost against each wall. His eyes were caught by a painting hanging over one of the benches. The woman portrayed wore black, and her hair was brown. Her eyes were black, and somehow very alive. She didn’t look like anyone Kharl knew, yet she reminded him of Jenevra, the black-staffer.

He studied the walls, black oak panels set between heavy black oak timbers, and the floor, also of the black slate. Only the ceiling was light, a white plaster tinged bluish gray. There were three doors that led into other parts of the building. Two were closed, and the third was just ajar.

Kharl could hear voices.

“… doesn’t look like a dangergelder… accent… but the staff… it’s not corrupted… more ordered than it should be…”

“… just have to see…”

Kharl turned and watched as the woman and a man dressed in dark, dark gray appeared. His hair was silvered, but his face was that of a younger man. Kharl had the feeling that he was older than he looked He wore black boots, well polished. Like the woman, he wore a silver collar pin, but his looked like a sprig of a plant crossed with a staff. The cooper also realized something else. Just as the wizard in Brysta had been surrounded by a whitish fog that Kharl had sensed more than felt this man was surrounded by a blackness, a darkness, but the darkness didn’t feel cold or evil. Instead, it felt almost warm… solid, like well-made tight cooperage.

“I’m Magister Trelyn.” The magister smiled. “How could I help you?”

“The staff,” Kharl said. “It’s not mine. It belonged to a blackstaffer named Jenevra. I thought I should return it.”

Trelyn frowned. “Could you tell me what happened to this black-staffer, and where it happened?”

“Her name was Jenevra, and she was from Recluce. She came to Brysta, she said, because she had to take a trip to learn something. She was attacked and beaten badly, and I took her into my shop.” Kharl shrugged helplessly. “She was getting better, and was almost well. Then someone set a fire next door, and while I was helping fight it… she was killed. The justicers said my consort did it, and they hung her, but she was innocent.”

“You left Brysta just to return this?”

Kharl laughed, almost harshly. “No. I left Brysta because, after they flogged me, and increased my tariffs so much that I could not pay them, someone murdered my neighbor, who was the only one who stood up for me against Lord West and his son. I went into hiding until I could get on a ship away from Nordla. The ship ported here, and I thought I should return the staff.”

“Has it been the cause of your ill fortune?”

“No. I can’t say it has. It wasn’t mine. I had barely touched it when everything began to go wrong. I had to use it to save myself and someone else.”

The magister nodded more. “Might I see it?”

Kharl might have balked at others touching it, although he could not have said why, but he readily handed it to the older magister. “Here.”

Trelyn ran his fingers over the wood and the black iron, his eyes almost closed. After several moments, his eyes opened wide, and he studied Kharl intently. Then he handed the staff back to Kharl.

“It’s not mine,” Kharl said.

“It may have belonged to Jenevra, and we are sad to hear what happened to her, but it is now yours. It would be useless to anyone else, and it would have to be destroyed. That would not be good for you, either.”

“Not good for me?” Kharl didn’t want it destroyed, but it had not been his. “But… I’m just a cooper…”

Trelyn smiled, an expression almost sad. “One of the hardest tasks in life is to discover that we are more than we think we are. Whether you can discover truly what you are… that I cannot say, but you are more than a cooper.”

Kharl smiled ruefully. “Always be a cooper, I think. Headed to Austra in time.”

“I did not say you were not a cooper,” Trelyn said quietly, “but that you are, or could be… should be… more than that. If you have the courage to look into yourself. You have a great affinity for order, and for instilling order.”

The words made Kharl uncomfortable, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I can’t stay too long. My ship will be sailing.”

“Not that soon,” Trelyn observed.

“No,” Kharl admitted.

“Were you younger and raised on Recluce, you might have been an engineer or an order-master. Even so… are people pleased with your barrels?”

“Always have been, those that buy ‘em. Some don’t, though.”

“Those that did not and will not are likely not to be trusted. They avoid your work because it embodies order.”

Kharl frowned, considering what the magister had said. It was true that those who bought his work and kept buying it over the years were those he knew were honest and trustworthy. He’d never looked at it that way, though. Was that why he had been having more and more trouble selling his barrels? Because there were fewer and fewer trustworthy souls in Brysta?

“It’s a most disconcerting thought, is it not?” asked the magister. “That those who cannot be trusted do not trust those who produce truly ordered work.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way before.”

“If you wish to survive and prosper, you will need to think more along those lines,” suggested Trelyn. “You will become more aligned with order, and unless your thoughts become equally attuned, your troubles will continue.”

“My thoughts…”

“Thoughts always precede action, yours or the thoughts of another. If you attune yourself to order, you will find that life will be more rewarding.”

“Not easier, though?”

“No,” admitted the magister. “Life is seldom easy for those who embody order, although it would seem it should be. But then, what seems is not always what is.”

“Why me?”

The magister smiled, warmly, then shrugged. “That I do not know. I do know that those who work with wood often understand order better, as do smiths. You do some of each, and that may be part of the answer. It may be that you are a cooper because that feels right to you.”

Kharl’s lips quirked. “What do you suggest?”

“Look beyond what you think you see. Learn new things. Reconsider old knowledge. Trust what you feel.” Trelyn paused, then drew a book from his tunic. “This might also help.”

Kharl took the book, opened the cover, then smiled and handed it back. “I did keep her book. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I thought you might have, but I wanted to make sure you had a copy. You may have to read it several times—or more. It sometimes helps to skip through it and read those passages that make the most sense at the moment. Dorrin wrote it most logically, but most of us are not that logical.”

Somehow, those words relaxed Kharl. “Thank you.” He glanced toward the door.

“Also,” added Trelyn, “you can find those who understand order everywhere, not just on Recluce. In time, you might be one that others turn to.”

“I’ve been having trouble just surviving.” Kharl paused, and added, “Until an eightday ago, anyway.”

“That was when you left your old life, I would guess, although sometimes the effects last for a long time. We often create part of our trouble by not wanting to accept who and what we are. You should try to understand yourself, as well as the world.“ Trelyn smiled again. ”Those are really all I can offer in terms of words of wisdom, and I’m not certain that they work for everyone. I do hope they help you.“ Trelyn moved toward the door.

“Thank you.” Kharl followed the magister.

“When you discover yourself, truly, you can return here, if you so wish,” Trelyn added, as Kharl stepped through the door and out into the fall sunlight.

“Don’t know as I’d want to, then,” Kharl replied.

“That is often the way. For it, the world is a better place. Our hopes go with you.“

As Kharl walked back down the wide and straight stone street, through a city far cleaner and better-smelling than Brysta, he pondered the magister’s words, especially those about people not wanting to accept who they were. Hadn’t he always accepted he would be a cooper? The magister had told him bluntly that he was more than that—but had not said what he was, only that Kharl had to discover it, and that it would be hard. Hard? Kharl laughed to himself. He’d already discovered that.

Kharl looked up, sensing something. On the other side of the street were two figures in black, one man and one woman. Both wore silver insignia on their collars, one that looked like a cog crossed with a staff. Like the magister, they held the unseen blackness, if not so deeply or warmly.

The man glanced sharply at Kharl, but the woman leaned toward him and whispered something. Then she looked to Kharl and smiled, saying, “Order always be with you.”