Wellspring of Chaos (25 page)

Abruptly, staff in one hand, Kharl swung himself over the railing and clambered down one of the ropes left hanging by the pirates. When he was just slightly higher than the aft deck of the pirate vessel, he twisted his body and jumped. Even as close as the two vessels were, he barely cleared the railing and landed heavily on the deck.

The two pirates remaining were surprised enough that Kharl had a chance to get the staff into position before the first charged.

Kharl parried the slash by the pirate, and the cutlass clanked against the black iron band. The blade shattered, and Kharl reversed the staff into a wicked riposte into the man’s guts, then, as the pirate staggered, finished him off with a blow to the side of his head.

The cooper barely managed to get the staff back and balanced in time to ward off the attack of the second helm guard, who was using two shortswords, one in each hand.

Kharl let the other attack, using a balanced two-handed grip on the longer staff to block or deflect the other’s slashing attacks, giving a little space, and watching.

Then, after the pirate made a particularly vicious cut that left him slightly unbalanced, Kharl slammed the staff into the other’s knee with enough force that something crunched, and the pirate sprawled sideways on the deck. Kharl brained him, then turned to the helmsman.

The helmsman released the helm and grabbed for the cutlass at his belt. His hand closed on the hilt just as one of the iron bands ot Kharl’s staff crashed into his temple.

As Kharl surveyed the deck, he could see that there was no one near him, and forward on the pirate ship, no one had even looked aft. With a cold smile Kharl strode forward, toward the handful of pirates, along the railing, clearly wanting to board the Seastag.

The first two went down, one right after the other, without anyone noticing.

The third turned. “They’re behind us!” He got his blade, more of a rapier than a cutlass, up and into a rough guard position. Kharl slammed the blade aside and brought the staff up from below, doubling the man over, and finishing him off with a reverse.

Then… there were pirates all around Kharl, and the most he could do was try to weave a defense.

He stepped back, still creating a blur of blackness, when a taller man, taller even than Kharl, lunged forward with a huge broadsword. Because of the force of the cut—that missed—the big man was off-balance for a moment, and Kharl struck.

A shocked expression froze on the pirate’s face, and he brought the broadsword around in a last desperate swinging lunge.

Kharl managed to get the strength from somewhere to parry, but he slipped on a deck wet with blood and salt, and the flat side of the blade crashed into his chest, then slammed down into his foot. With a last effort, Kharl brought up the end of the staff straight into the pirate’s throat. Kharl could feel something give, and some of the pressure on his leg abate. He tried to lever the staff upward, but it was caught under the body of the fallen pirate.

Then something struck him from behind, and wave of red blackness crashed over him.

A reddish dark haze swam around Kharl, and much as he attempted to grope his way through it, it merely thickened. When he tried to rest, it seemed to constrict around him, like an iron band across his chest and ribs, with an agonizing pain so sharp that he felt he could hardly breathe. He wanted to move, but neither his arms nor his legs would budge, and his head was a mass of flame.

In time—how long it had been, he had no idea—the haze thinned, and an image swam into his view, except that it was a pair of images. Kharl squinted, and the two images resolved into one, that of a single face, one he thought he should recognize, but did not.

“You’ll be all right, cooper. You’re acting like you’re still fighting. You don’t have to keep fighting. Try to loosen those muscles.”

“Pirates…?” Kharl mumbled, his mouth so dry that the single word was a croak.

“You need to drink. Open your mouth.”

Kharl did. The coolness was welcome. His tongue was swollen, and swallowing was difficult.

“Pirates?” he asked again.

“Most of ‘em are dead. We brought in their ships. Not bad prizes. Worrak isn’t prime, but the captain figures that, even after replacing the engine, be a goodly prize share for everyone. That’s for you, too.”

Kharl didn’t care about that. He just knew his leg hurt, especially his foot—and his chest.

“Hurts… a bit…”

“Your ribs are cracked… bruised, and there’s that right foot. It’s going to hurt for a while, but you’ll walk fine. Your boots won’t be so cramped on that side. That last pirate blade took the two smallest toes, but… wound came up clean. Healing good. Worried about you. Been a couple of days now.”

“Hit my head.”

“Big lump, but nothing’s broken and no soft spots there. Local healer says you’ll be fine. He’s looked at all of you.”

Kharl finally grasped that Rhylla, the third mate, was talking. He hoped his memory would improve. “Thank you.”

“You need to drink some more.”

So Kharl did, then drifted back into sleep, back into the reddish haze, except at times there were periods of black coolness.

He woke in dim light, either dawn or twilight, he thought, before realizing that all light was dim in sick bay or anywhere belowdecks. He only saw two other bunks, besides the one above him, and the two— those across from him—were occupied. He lay back on the narrow bunk, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the dull aching in the toes he no longer had, and wondering what would happen next. He could hear voices from the two men in the opposite bunks, whispering as they were.

“… thought he woke…”

“… back asleep…”

“… you’d be sleeping, too… what hit him. Tough old guy…” Kharl didn’t think of himself as old, but he must have seemed so to young seamen.

“… never saw anything like it… cleared off everyone on the one… looked like…”

“… Reisl said he used that staff and batted down arrows…” Kharl wanted to snort, but it would have taken too much effort. No one could do that.

“… saw him take out three pirates with that big staff… one hit it with a blade, and the blade shattered…”

“… blackstaffer…”

“… he’s not… used to be a cooper in Brysta… what the third said… did something to piss off the Lord…”

There was a laugh. “Got to like that… anyone with enough guts to piss off a lord… good man…” Kharl drifted back into sleep.

When he woke for the third time, the space was brighter, and the aching in his skull was only the faintest throbbing, although his foot didn’t feel that much better. He was alone in sick bay, and the other bunks had been stripped.

Still, he thought he ought to try to sit up, and he gingerly eased into a sitting position on the edge of the bunk. Knives jabbed through his ribs, and he could barely hold himself erect. Still… he wasn’t going to get better lying flat.

He slowly levered himself into a standing position, although he was as much leaning against the bulkhead as standing. He coughed, two or three times, and the sharp knives that went through his chest made him wonder if he would collapse right there. He just stood, hanging on until the coughing passed and he could breathe easier. Then he took one step, and another. He finally made it to the hatch, and looked out onto the main deck. It was midafternoon, and the ship was tied to a pier.

He stepped slowly out onto the deck, barefoot he realized, but he had no idea where his boots were, or if he could even bend over to put them on, or if they would fit. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he eased sideways until he reached the ladder to the forecastle deck, where he sat down.

“Cooper?”

Kharl looked up to see Furwyl standing there. “Yes, ser?”

“Third and the healer said it’d be a few more days…”

“… if I got up at all?”

Furwyl laughed. “They didn’t say that.”

“Not exactly. Figured… I’d better walk some. Rest some. Not worth spit… right now.”

“You know how you feel,” the first mate said carefully. “We’re leaving Worrak tomorrow.”

“Won’t be doing much carpentering… for a while,” Kharl replied.

“If you want to stay, you’ve got a berth, long as you want it.”

“I’d… like that.” Kharl forced a smile, one that he meant, even if he still hurt so much that he didn’t feel like smiling.

“Good. That’s settled.” Furwyl smiled. “Maybe you’d better lie down for a while… get up in a bit for supper.”

“Supper… sounds good.” Kharl realized he had no idea if he’d eaten, or what, or how often. He didn’t like the idea that he had no idea what had happened to him. He did appreciate the loyalty of the captain and the first. Slowly, he rose, and putting one foot in front of the other, gingerly, headed back to sick bay.

The Seastag waited two days more to leave Worrak, because the captain had been promised a cargo of brimstone for delivery to Dellash. Brimstone was a good cargo, provided it didn’t burn or get spilled, and Hagen had planned to port at Dellash anyway, according to Rhylla. Kharl didn’t complain about the delay because he appreciated being able to begin to walk on a steady deck. His damaged boot had been patched, but he felt unbalanced, even though he had lost just his littlest toes, rather than his largest.

By the evening before the Seastag’s departure, Kharl was walking with a slight limp, and the stabbing in his ribs had receded to a dull ache. He’d tried a little work with the lathe, but he could only manage it for a quarter of a glass before the pain in his ribs began to worsen. He stopped, but that was better than he had been doing.

After sitting on Tarkyn’s stool for a time, he made his way back onto the main deck. The sun was hanging above the low hills, just to the south of where the Fakla River entered the harbor. There was enough of a sea breeze to carry the harbor odors inshore and leave the deck with the clean scent of the Eastern Ocean, although the breeze was brisk enough that the deck would be chill once the sun set.

“Cooper?” called a voice.

Kharl turned. Ghart, the second mate, stood several cubits aft.

“Yes, ser?”

“Captain and the first are on the poop. They’d like to see you.”

“I’ll be right there.” Kharl headed aft and went up the ladder, carefully and slowly. So long as he moved smoothly, the pain in his ribs wasn’t too bad.

Hagen and Furwyl stood waiting under the aft mast.

Kharl stopped several cubits short of the two officers. “Captain, ser, you asked for me?”

“That I did,” replied Hagen. “I’ve been thinking, Kharl. We’ve got a long voyage ahead. Tarkyn says you’re good, better than most ship’s carpenters. You saved us from losing everything. So, we’re going to pay you as the carpenter’s second.“ Hagen smiled. ”And you start wearing carpenters’ grays onboard. You won’t be doing deck work, but you’ll have to take in-port gangway watches once we get to Ruzor.“

“You use any sort of weapon besides that staff?” asked Furwyl.

“I’m not bad with a cudgel,” Kharl said.

“That might be a little handier on watch,” replied the first, with a laugh.

Hagen handed Kharl a small pouch. “That’s your pay for the last eightday.”

“Thank you, ser.” Kharl wasn’t quite sure what else to say.

The captain nodded, as if he did not wish to be thanked. “Ghart is in charge of in-port watches. He’ll be letting you know which sections you’ll stand.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Tarkyn’s rustled up two sets of grays for you,” added Furwyl. “Says they’ll fit you just fine. We can use another subofficer.”

“I’ll do my best, captain, ser.”

“You already have,” Hagen replied. “More than most. That’s why you’re crew, now, for so long as you want.”

“Yes, ser.”

Hagen nodded, as if to dismiss Kharl, and the cooper—carpenter’s second—stepped back and climbed down the ladder. He doubted that he really wanted to remain a ship’s carpenter, but if he couldn’t find a place where he could be a cooper, at least he’d have shelter and coin and something useful to do—and with woods, which he knew.

He stopped as pain shot through his ribs.

Most healers were black mages. He wondered if The Basis of Order had sections on healing, and if they might teach him something about how to speed his own healing. He might as well read through it and see. He certainly couldn’t work full-time as a carpenter. Not yet.

And, based on what he’d already experienced, the information—if he could understand it—might prove useful.

A-gainst strong blustering gusts that were nearly direct headwinds, it took the Seastag five days—with frequent tacking and the use of the engine—after leaving Worrak to make port in Ruzor. Kharl was glad for the respite, because every time the ship had rolled or pitched heavily, and he had been caught off guard, his ribs had reminded him that they had not yet healed. He thought that the efforts he had made to cultivate a sense of balance within himself had helped speed the healing, but that could have been wishful thinking.

Whatever the reason, there were times—brief moments—when they did not ache, and those seemed more frequent with each day. Even so, he was glad that the Seastag had ported, even if Hagen had said that they would be in Ruzor but two days.

Kharl had two in-port watches, but one was that afternoon, and the second the following morning. Ghart had given him an easy watch schedule, clearly in deference to his injuries, but Kharl had no doubts that his duties in other ports would include night and midwatches. He had been down in the carpenter shop since after breakfast, using the tools to tighten the grip on the cudgel he’d taken from the weapons locker, and was headed back up to replace it.

He stopped halfway up the ladder from the carpenter shop as he heard voices from the main deck, as if two people were standing right outside the hatch.

“… most fortunate to have captured the pirates… understand you have a cargo of two hundred stone of brimstone…”

“… already have a binding contract for the brimstone… sell it here… and Synadar wouldn’t give me a copper were I broke and legless…”

“… understand that, but the Prefect is willing to pay a third more than your contract price… would free cargo space…”

“Why is the Prefect of Gallos so interested in my cargo of brimstone?” asked Hagen.

“The Prefect is having trouble with the province of Kyphros… the Prince of Analeria is always claiming another part of Gallos… The prince has no mages, and gunpowder is useful.”

“His troubles don’t matter to me,” replied Hagen. “All a trader’s got is his reputation. I sell out a cargo and a buyer, I lose that buyer, and anyone he tells…”

“It’s not wise to anger…”

“It’s not wise for you to anger him.” Hagen laughed. “The Prefect doesn’t have more than twoscore lancers here in Ruzor. The pier’s stone and long. You send ‘em down that pier, and I’ll cut the lines and be off. Then I’ll tell every trader to steer clear. Ruzor’s the Prefect’s only port, and he’s got no fleet.”

“… you’re a hard man, captain. Someday, you’ll regret that.”

“Regret what? Being honest? Being fair?”

There was a long silence.

“… tariffs are twenty golds on the cotton, the Brystan apples, and the tin ingots.”

“That’s twice what they were last year,” Hagen pointed out, his voice indifferent.

“That’s what they are.”

“They are what they are, and I’ll report them to the buyers.”

“… seeing as you didn’t know…”

“Whatever they are… we report them. And you’ll give me a receipt for that amount.”

“Eleven golds.” The words were nearly spit out.

“We’re always happy to pay what is levied by the lord of the land,” Hagen said cheerfully. “We want everyone to know what we paid and to whom.”

The voices faded as steps on the deck above indicated that the two men had moved away from the forecastle hatch above. Kharl waited several moments before climbing up, then going out on the main deck. He stopped for a moment and looked to the east and north. Ruzor sat on the east side of the Phroan River, underneath the cliffs serving as the western ramparts against the high desert that extended westward from the Little Easthorns. It was an old port town, and despite being located on the northeast edge of a large natural bay, had but a single long stone pier for oceangoing vessels. Farther seaward was a long stone breakwater, with a squarish gray stone tower fortress at its terminus. Under a clear sky and a sun that shed little heat, the Seastag was tied between the set of bollards farthest out into the harbor.

Kharl headed for the watch locker, where he replaced the cudgel and secured the locker. Turning slowly, he watched as Hagen handed a leather bag to a bearded and bulky man wearing a dark blue winter jacket, its collar trimmed with golden fur. The bearded man took the pouch, bowed slightly, and walked down the gangway with stiff and jerky steps. His steps lengthened once he was on the pier, but they were still abrupt and forced.

Kharl eased toward Ghart, who had the in-port deck watch until noon.

“… not a happy man, ser,” the second said to Hagen.

“That kind never is. There won’t be any shore leave, but tell the crew we’ll make that up in Southport. I’m going below. Have to tell the engineer to keep some coals hot in the firebox.”

“Yes, ser.”

As Hagen neared the carpenter second, he nodded.

“Ser.” Kharl returned the nod.

“How are those ribs?”

“Better every day.”

“Good to hear that.” Hagen stepped past Kharl and across the deck, before heading through the hatch to his cabin.

“Ser.” Kharl addressed Ghart, who remained beside the end of the gangway. “I fixed the grip on the cudgel and replaced it in the weapons locker.” He handed over the heavy bronze key.

“That’s good. No shore leave, and that’ll mean your watches will be quiet. ‘Less that customs’ weasel gets the local lancers riled up.”

“Was that who the captain was talking to when I came topside? He didn’t look pleased.”

“He wasn’t. Tried to inflate the tariff, pocket the difference. Weasel. Surprised you couldn’t smell him from across the deck.” Ghart shook his head. “The Prefect rules Kyphros with folk like that, and he won’t be keeping it long.”

“I don’t know,” mused Kharl. “You’d think so, but…”

“Could be,” replied Ghart. “Folks are always fearing change.” He glanced back along the pier, but the customs enumerator had disappeared.

“They’re always afraid change will make things worse.” Kharl chuckled ruefully. “For most folks, it does.”

“You’re saying that things never change,” Ghart said. “ ‘Cause the worse they get, the more folk fear they’ll get even worse.”

“Until they know they can’t get worse…”

“You’re a cheerful sort today, carpenter.”

Kharl offered a rueful smile. “Experience.”

“Don’t think I want to know. Seen enough I’d rather not see again.” Ghart turned to look at the long wagon being driven down the pier toward the Seastag. “Need to get the off-loading crew. Looks like the cotton factor.”

Kharl slipped away to the railing near the bow. From there, he looked over the old town once more, taking in the ancient gray stone buildings and those newer dwellings, few as they were, with white plaster walls farther westward on the narrow bluff.

Ghart’s words echoed through his thoughts, and Kharl wondered just what it might take to get people to want to change a poor ruler, or if they feared change so much that no ruler would ever be changed except by death or conquest.