Wellspring of Chaos (22 page)

Another day passed before the Seastag sailed into the Great North Bay of Lydiar, barely past dawn. The bay was far larger than the harbor at Nylan or at Brysta. That was clear from the moment the Seastag passed through the straits formed by the two peninsulas of dark rock separated by more than thirty kays of water. Kharl had to take the second’s word that the second peninsula was there, some twenty kays north. Once past the straits, there was no other sign of land, just gray water sparkling in the sunlight.

It took most of the day before the Seastag neared the city of Lydiar, on the southwestern end of the bay. Only then, in late afternoon and perhaps five kays offshore, did Hagen order the sails furled and the engine fired up. A pilot boat appeared as the ship neared the outermost pier, off-loading a pilot who climbed aboard and up to the poop without a word to anyone.

As the pilot directed the Seastag toward one of the longer and sturdier piers near the northern edge of the hodgepodge of wharfs and piers, Kharl stood with the deck crew on the main deck. He watched, because the only thing Bemyr ever used him for was on the capstan or the winch. That was doubtless wise, because Kharl didn’t know that much about other deck duties.

“Ten to port!” ordered the pilot, his voice carrying with the wind to the main deck.

The thwupping of the paddle wheels slowed as the ship neared the northernmost pier.

Most of the city was set on a low plateau above the bay, but there were buildings and dwellings on the slope that led down to the water. Lydiar had clearly grown haphazardly over the years, because Kharl couldn’t make out a single straight street of any length, and the roofs and walls were of all of different colors, but worn and muted, and all beginning to gray.

“See that pile of grayish white rock on the middle of the hillside there, straight back? Right overlooking the harbor?“ asked Bemyr.

“It looks like it was once something,” Kharl replied.

“Aye. It was. Used to be the stronghold of the Duke of Lydiar, more ‘n eight hundred years back. Maybe longer. Say that the mage Creslin— supposedly founded Recluce—he destroyed it in an afternoon with lightnings from the sky.”

Did the mages from Recluce like afternoons? Or was that just the way the stories came down? “They never rebuilt it?”

“Nope. Wondered that myself. Maybe ‘cause it was built by wizards and destroyed by other wizards. Wizards, they’re the wellspring of chaos.”

“There hasn’t been anything like that lately, has there?”

“Not since the fall of Fairven, leastwise.” The bosun stepped away, moving toward the first mate, who had beckoned to Bemyr.

Kharl looked back at the harbor. There appeared to be more piers at Lydiar than at Nylan, but that might have been because, compared to the spareness and order of the harbor at Nylan, Lydiar was haphazard and disorganized, with piers of all sizes and shapes jutting out from land in no recognizable order, neither by length, nor width, nor depth of water. All the piers were of grayed timber, but some were of heavy construction, with massive circular posts and bollards, and others looked so spindly that they could well fall to the next storm. Next to the spindly piers were smaller vessels, skiffs, fishing craft, and some that Kharl could not identify. The larger piers held oceangoing vessels and coasters, several of them sloop-rigged and without stacks.

The Seastag slowed to little more than headway as it turned starboard into the second large pier, one for oceangoing vessels that held but one other vessel, on the far side.

Shortly, lines went out.

“Crew one! Take the forward line,” ordered Bemyr. “Crew two… you got the stern line.”

Once the lines were around the bollards, the paddle wheels slowed to a halt. Kharl was the last man in the first crew as they reeled in the line, walking the ship into the pier and snug against the fenders.

“Double up, and make those lines tight!” ordered Furwyl from the front of the poop deck.

The shrillness of the bosun’s whistle cut through the low voices of the deckhands.

“Deck crew to the foremast!” called Bemyr.

Kharl followed the others, standing at the rear of the group.

“No unloading tonight. We got in too late, and their crews are already off,” Bemyr added. “No shore leave until tomorrow. Not until we’ve off-loaded. We’ll start early.”

A series of groans swept across the deck crew.

“No duties tonight, except sentries on the lines and gangway,” Bemyr added.

Kharl waited as most of the others in the deck gang slipped away.

“Didn’t bother you, did it?” asked Reisl. “Why not?”

“I don’t have anyone to see, and little coin to spend.” That was true enough, although Kharl also had little desire, not after Charee’s death.

“And you’re not interested in women?”

“Not in those likely to be interested in me right now,” Kharl replied wryly.

Reisl laughed. “Tell you’ve been around.”

Not as much as he should have been, Kharl reflected.

The second day in Lydiar, Bemyr put Kharl in the first shore leave section. The cooper stepped off the gangway in late afternoon, under a clear sky, although a chill fall wind blew out of the northeast off the Great North Bay. Bemyr had admonished the entire leave section to be back by midnight—when the curfew bell rang.

Once more, Kharl waited and let the others pour off the ship and along the pier toward lower Lydiar, past the Sligan merchanter tied on the opposite side of the pier and inshore of the Seastag. Then, wearing his heavier tunic, he stepped off, with a nod to the quarterdeck watch. He took deliberate steps along the pier. He had decided against taking the staff into Lydiar. There was little sense in being identified as a blackstaffer from Recluce, and he hoped to avoid areas of the town where he might need the staff—or any weapon.

The timbers of the pier were thick enough, but the wood was grayish, with barely a trace of brown remaining, showing that it had been years since the pier had been built or substantially repaired. Even from looking at Lydiar from the ship, Kharl had gained the impression that most of Lydiar could have used some repair. As he walked off the end of the pier and onto the first waterfront street, Kharl studied the warehouses facing the harbor. One was clearly vacant, with the doors and windows removed. Another had the windows on the upper level boarded up. None looked to have been recently stained or painted.

Kharl turned uphill, passing a chandlery less than fifty rods up the street from the piers. The narrow porch was bowed, and the roof above the porch sagged. The shutters were peeling, and the small windows were splattered with salt and grime. Kharl kept walking, past a tavern— the Red Keg—where he’d seen several of the deck crew enter. Just beyond the tavern was a fuller’s, but so dingy that Kharl wouldn’t have wanted anything cleaned there.

Two youths glanced from the alley across the street at Kharl, taking in his size, then disappearing into the shadows. Kharl snorted and kept walking, his eyes and senses alert, but he neither sensed nor saw the youths returning.

The street was paved with a combination of older granite blocks and newer red sandstone replacements. At the end of the block on which the tavern sat, the main street crossed a narrow lane before curving to the right and ascending more steeply past narrow two-story dwellings with sharply pitched roofs. Kharl kept walking, until he reached the top of the hill—and found that he hadn’t climbed a hill at all, but more of a gentle bluff, because to the west the land neither rose nor fell that much. Perhaps half a kay west was an ancient stone wall that looked to mark the western edge of the city.

On Kharl’s right, the area that comprised the edge of the hill or bluff was open ground, rocky, and intermittently grassy, a strip perhaps ten rods in width that ran from the edge of the avenue to where the bluff steepened, then dropped downhill to the meaner dwellings on the hillside below. To his left, were modest dwellings, although several with more pretension had low hedges to separate their grounds from the street.

Kharl turned southeast, following the wide avenue at the edge of the bluff. Within twenty rods, the houses had become noticeably larger and grander, and constructed of solid gray granite, with grayish tile roofs. Each had a gray stone wall before it, slightly more than shoulder high, with iron grille fencing above the stonework. Behind each wall was an enclosed space, some with lawns, and others with formal gardens. The shutters on the grander dwellings were more freshly painted, and in such shades as blue, dark green, or maroon.

A carriage passed Kharl, followed by another, and a man on horseback, wearing a deep blue jacket. A small wagon rumbled down the granite-paved avenue, coming toward the cooper, but the driver scarcely glanced in Kharl’s direction. The housemaid on the side porch of one of the houses looked in Kharl’s direction, then quickly away.

After half a kay, the houses ended, suddenly, as did the avenue, although a side street led back westward, away from the bluff edge. Directly before Kharl was an unkempt mass of undergrowth extending a good fifty cubits. Beyond *hat was a mass of tumbled white stone. Kharl realized that he stood at the edge of the former hold of the Dukes of Lydiar.

Following a narrow path, Kharl made his way through the undergrowth. The bushes and twisted high grass ended, abruptly. Nothing grew past a point five cubits from Kharl’s boots until somewhere on the farther southern side of the ruins. He could sense why nothing grew there, for the rocky soil looked and felt dead. It did not look evil or menacing, but it was… empty. He could sense neither order nor chaos, just a feeling of great age. One of the white stones was a good five cubits long and half that in height and width. It had been cut, as if by a mighty knife, into two pieces, one twice the size of the other. Another stone still bore the imprint of a lightning bolt, black-etched into the white stone. Amid the larger stones were fragments of columns, and roof tiles, as if the entire structure had been smashed and the remnants tossed and stirred.

After a time, Kharl retraced his steps back to the avenue and followed the side street, then another avenue, making his way around the ruins, until he came to another street that led downward toward lower Lydiar.

Less than a hundred cubits down from the edge of the bluff, on the right-hand side of the street, behind a narrow garden surrounded by a knee-high wall, twin lamps beckoned from each side of the doorway of an establishment that billed itself as a cafe. Kharl paused and looked over the building, then stepped forward. It felt more orderly than any he had seen in Lydiar, and the mixed aromas of food smelled inviting, tinged with seasonings he did not recognize.

A menu was chalked on slate beside the door. It took him several moments to decipher the meanings, and the prices, before he opened the door and stepped inside. He could certainly use a meal other than shipboard cooking, even if the prices were higher than in more modest places.

A slender older woman greeted him. “We only serve ale and wine with meals.” Her voice was polite, level, and carried a tone of slight amusement.

“I was looking for a good meal, not for drinks.” He paused. “Brystan silver good here?”

“We take anyone’s coins, so long as they’re not clipped.” She turned, gesturing for him to follow her to a square table set beside a brick wall. There were two chairs, unpadded, but with arms. Kharl took the one that let him survey the rest of the cafe, a space no more than ten cubits wide and twenty long, with but eleven tables of various sizes. Only three of them were occupied, one with a couple, a second large circular table with a family of five around it, and a third with two men in the corner.

“You’re not local.”

“No. I’m a ship’s carpenter.”

“How’d you get up here?”

“I walked, past the large houses and the ruins…”

“Most sailors don’t get out of lower Lydiar.”

“I’m not most sailors,” he replied with a smile.

“Did you see the bill of fare outside? I can tell you what’s on it, if you’d like.”

“I think I got most of it,” Kharl replied, “except for the langostinos. What are they?”

“You’re definitely not most sailors.” The woman smiled. “They’re a Lydian lobster, with only one large claw. Very tasty.”

“Which is better—the langostinos or the burhka with the black mushrooms?”

The server cocked her head to the side. “That’s a hard one to answer. The burhka’s very spicy, very hot to the taste, but rich, and the mushrooms are at their peak. The langostinos are more delicate in taste, but very filling.”

“I’ll try the langostinos, and whatever ale or lager you think will go best with them.”

“The lager’s better; the red ale would overpower them.”

Kharl smiled. “Thank you.”

She left the table and slipped through a narrow archway, returning almost immediately with a large glass mug, filled to the top with a pale liquid, which she set on the table. “I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will.” Kharl took a sip, wondering, but after swallowing that small amount, found himself nodding. The lager was excellent, with a smooth bite that wasn’t in the slightest bitter. He had the feeling that he might regret the evening, if only because he clearly couldn’t afford to eat and drink such fare often—if ever again.

He put that thought behind him as he took another sip of the lager and looked toward the doorway, where a tall man had appeared. The hostess greeted him, and the two exchanged words that Kharl strained to hear, “…we’ll be full in a bit…”

“… don’t look that crowded…”

“… have a number of people coming in within the glass…”

“… couldn’t fit us in?”

“… sorry, but it just isn’t possible. The chef had promised…” The tall man scowled, then turned and left. There was… something… about the man, but he departed so suddenly that Kharl couldn’t exactly figure out what it might have been.

Kharl took a slightly larger swallow of the lager, enjoying the taste, and the warmth of the cafe, feeling more relaxed than he had in days.

Before long, or so it seemed, the server returned with a large platter, on which were the langostinos, steamed in their shells, with a dark brown rice, and a butter cream sauce, and a small, crusty, freshly baked loaf of white bread. “There you are.”

“It looks and smells good. Should I pay now?” Kharl asked apologetically.

“You can pay when you leave. That’s our way. If you honestly don’t like the food, you don’t pay.“

“You’re very trusting.” She laughed. “We’re not trusting at all.” Kharl understood, abruptly. “The man at the door?”

“He wouldn’t have been happy here, and it wouldn’t have been good for him or us. Can I get you anything else?“

“No. This looks like more than enough.”

“Let me know if you need anything.” She slipped away from Kharl and moved to the table with the family.

For a moment, Kharl just reflected. Somehow, the woman knew who could be trusted and who would enjoy the place, and just didn’t let others in. Her remark about not being trusting at all suggested that there were other defenses, but he didn’t see any. With a shrug, he began to eat.

He ate every morsel, and finished the lager down to the last drop.

“You liked it, I see.” The server smiled broadly as she appeared at his table.

“The best meal I’ve eaten in years,” Kharl confessed.

“Thank you. I’ll tell Hasif. He likes it when people appreciate his cooking.” The woman smiled. “You’re welcome here anytime.”

“Thank you.” Kharl put a silver and a copper on the table. “I enjoyed it. Greatly.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Kharl rose and made his way from the cafe, still smiling. The meal and the lager had cost eight coppers and, with the three coppers he left for the server, had been almost twice what he’d paid in Recluce, and he’d thought that high. Then, he had to admit, what he’d just eaten was without a doubt the best food he’d ever put in his mouth.

He walked from the cafe and out into the darkness, although it seemed more like twilight to him, for some reason. He turned and noted the sign on the far side for the first time—Travelers’ Rest Inn and Cafe. A peaceful place, he decided, and very ordered and restful. As he walked downhill through the dark streets of lower Lydiar, he kept his eyes and ears open, but he’d either picked a good street, or brigands and thieves had decided the night was not for them.

About half the shore leave section had returned when Kharl finally made his way back aboard the Seastag. He was undressing and folding his tunic when Argan walked slowly through the hatch, clearly trying to control each step. An overpowering floral scent clung to him, almost sickening to Kharl.

“Where’d you go?” asked Argan.

“Walked around, got something to eat, walked back.”

“No girls? No ale?”

“Lager and no girls,” Kharl replied with a smile. “Half’s better than none,” mumbled Argan, turning toward his own bunk.

Kharl smiled faintly. Those kinds of girls he didn’t need. For some reason, the images of Sanyle—and then of Jekat, or Jeka—crossed his mind. He shook his head. He was too old for them, but he hoped they were doing well.

He slipped into his bunk and into sleep.