Wellspring of Chaos (2 page)

“I wouldn’t know if they’re proper wizards.” Kharl tilted his mug to get the last drop of ale. “I’m a cooper, not a wizard or a lord. That’s their business. Mine’s barrels. Solid barrels.”

“Terrible stuff, magery.” Charee sniffed again. “As bad as thieves and brigands, if you ask me.”

“I’m sure there are good mages and bad ones. There are good lords and bad ones, good coopers and bad ones.”

“No such thing as a good mage, if you ask me. Lord West can have them all. Be better if he hung ‘em.”

“That’s what lords are for. Deal with raiders, and invaders, and brigands, and mages. Rather be a cooper.”

Warrl yawned. So did Arthal.

“You two can take the bowls to the wash table,” Charee said.

“Wish we had a sister, like Aubret does,” mumbled Warrl. “Do all the dishes.”

“You don’t have a sister,” Charee said. “Two of you are enough.”

“… always say that…” murmured Arthal.

“Did you say something?” asked Kharl.

“No, ser.”

“I didn’t think so.” Kharl pushed back his chair and walked to the window, letting the cool evening air flow around him. He hoped that Korlan would pick up the barrels in the morning.

Right after his early breakfast, Kharl took the broom and stepped outside the front of the cooperage to sweep the stones of the narrow sidewalk. Warrl was supposed to have done it, but the boy was already laying out the white oak shooks that Kharl would be jointing for the hogshead ordered by Captain Hagen for the Seastag. It was less trouble for Kharl to sweep than to rail at Warrl, and at least the boy was already working, unlike his older brother. Since the cooper didn’t want to be caught out front if Korlan drove his wagon up to the loading door in the rear, Kharl swept quickly.

Every few moments, Kharl stopped briefly to listen, although he doubted that the vintner would arrive before midmorning, but with Korlan, one could never tell. The air already felt hot and damp. He glanced to the east, at the barrel set on the stone slab between the cooperage and Derdan’s woolen shop, the barrel filled with damp sand for use against fires. The water barrel was more toward the harbor, past Tyrbel’s scriptorium.

He began to sweep again, trying not to sneeze. As gently as he moved the broom, dust still rose from the stones, dust from a long and dry summer. With the prevailing easterlies, Brysta was hot and damp, but seldom had much rain until late summer. So the air was moist, and the streets were dusty. Finally, he lifted the broom and turned to reenter the cooperage.

“Ahhh…”

Kharl looked up.

Tyrbel stood there, with a small smudge of ink on his jaw. “Kharl… just wanted to… last night… Sanyle.” The angular scrivener did not met the cooper’s eyes. “… asked her to deliver some fancy cards up the hill. They must have followed her back.”

“Just fortunate to be back by the loading dock. Might not have heard otherwise.”

 “Some would have heard, and done nothing,” Tyrbel replied. “I owe you thanks and more.”

“You don’t owe me. Neighbors don’t look out for neighbors… who will?” Kharl smiled. “She’s a good girl.”

“Best of them all,” Tyrbel agreed. “Do you know who they were?” Kharl shook his head, still listening for Korlan’s team and wagon. “No. Wore velvets and blades. Looked like some merchant’s spoiled brats. Had too much to drink and didn’t care who they hurt.”

“Sanyle said they drew against you.”

“Had my cudgel. Worked better.” Kharl laughed brusquely.

“I hope they were very drunk and didn’t know exactly where they were,” offered Tyrbel. “Merchants’ sons… well, some of them don’t forget. Sometimes wealth is the wellspring of chaos.”

“It was dark,” Kharl replied, glancing toward the inside of his shop.

“I won’t keep you.”

“I’m waiting for Korlan, and I don’t want him to load his barrels without leaving what’s in his purse.”

Tyrbel laughed. “I understand. It took me four eightdays to collect from him for making a copy of Emyl’s Tales.” The scrivener paused. “But I did want to thank you. Neighbors or not, most wouldn’t put themselves out.”

“Been my daughter, I’d have wanted someone to put themselves out,” Kharl said. “She’s always been thoughtful to us.”

“She is.” Tyrbel smiled. “That she is.” After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I must be going. I have to go to the Quadrant Hall.”

“Copying some records?”

“Exactly. I can’t really say who or why, you understand?”

Kharl didn’t and never had, but he nodded anyway.

“Thank you, my friend,” said Tyrbel as he turned.

Kharl lifted the broom and headed back into the shop.

Warrl looked up. “The shooks are here, Da, and there are two extra, like you said.”

Except for the two of them, the cooperage was empty.

“Good.” Kharl looked around. “Arthal?”

“I’m coming.” The lanky dark-haired youth slumped as he made his way down the stairs from above. “I’m coming.” He paused on the fourth step and rocked back and forth, until the step squeaked.

“So is year-end,” suggested Kharl, “and it well might get here before you.” He waited until his older son reached the workbench before continuing. “Smythal promised he would have the iron blanks for the hogshead last night. I need you to pick them up. Tell him I’ll stop by with the coins later today.”

“Yes, ser. What if he wants the coins now?”

“He won’t. But if he does, then come get me.”

Kharl watched for a moment as Arthal left, not quite slouching, but not exactly hastening, either. Then he turned. During Kharl’s conversation with Arthal, Warrl had laid out the hollowing knife and the round shave. The younger boy stood at the end of the main workbench.

“Have you sharpened the hollowing knife? And the planer blade?” Kharl looked at Warrl.

“I sharpened the blade the day before yesterday, Da…” The redhead looked down, not meeting his father’s eyes.

“That was the day before yesterday. Today, we have heavy oak to joint.”

“Yes, ser.”

Warrl’s tone was so resigned that Kharl had trouble not smiling in response before he replied, “The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be done, and then you can head off to Master Fonwyl’s.”

“Yes, ser.” The younger boy’s tone was even more resigned.

Kharl was not amused at Warrl’s lack of enthusiasm about his tutor and his lessons, not with the coppers they were costing Kharl.

First thing on fiveday, Kharl had opened the loading door and left it ajar, waiting as he was for a teamster he’d hired to cart the finished hogshead standing just inside the door down to the Seastag. Kharl had tried to complete the cask earlier, but he’d had to wait for Smythal to finish the iron blanks that Kharl forged into hoops, and that had meant sending Arthal twice.

The Austran trader wasn’t due to cast off until tomorrow, on sixday, but Kharl found himself glancing at the large cask and loading door again and again as he continued to plane and joint the small black oak staves for the set of fancy fifth-barrels for Yualt. He’d already commissioned the brass spigots, and he’d have to pay a silver to Cupret before eightday.

Arthal was at the other workbench, rough-shaping red oak shooks into proper staves for flour barrels, not that Kharl had any orders, but because he always had some from Wassyt, the miller, come harvest. That was good, because, fast as he made coins, it seemed as though he had to spend them almost as swiftly.

Hot damp air seeped into the shop as always in summer in Brysta. Kharl hoped it wouldn’t be too long before the winds changed, and Nordla got some rain, but the easterlies had lasted longer this summer.

The cooper blotted his forehead with the back of his forearm before pausing and readjusting the plane.

“Ge-ha!”

At the teamster’s call and the crack of a whip, Kharl set aside the plane. “Arthal! The teamster’s here. I’ll need you to help load the hogshead.”

“Yes, ser.” Arthal straightened.

The two walked back to the loading door. Kharl opened the door wide. From there Kharl watched as the teamster brought the wagon and team to a halt. Kharl knew many of the teamsters, but not the burly and bearded young man on the wagon seat. Not that he’d had a choice. A crafter put in a request at the teamsters’ hall and took what he got.

He stepped into the alley. “I’m Kharl, the cooper with the hogshead for the ocean pier.”

“Morat.” The teamster spat out onto the alley, the side of the wagon away from Kharl. “Be two coppers down to the pier—and two back if it comes to that.”

Kharl showed four coppers. “But not until we’re at the pier.”

“And you tie the hogshead in place, and I check it. We don’t move till I think it’s secure.”

“I expected that.”

The brawny teamster lowered the rear wagon gate, and Kharl and Arthal lifted the hogshead and eased it into the wagon. While Kharl lashed the cask—equivalent to three barrels—in place in the wagon bed, Morat closed the rear gate.

Arthal watched both men.

Kharl tied the last knot and looked at his eldest. “Close the loading door and watch the shop until I get back. Keep working on those staves.”

“Yes, ser,” replied Arthal.

With a nod to his son, the cooper looked to the teamster. “Cask’s in place.” Kharl climbed up into the wagon seat, waiting for Morat to finish checking the lashings.

After a moment, the teamster vaulted into his seat and released the wagon brake. “We’ll be going.” He flicked the leads to his team. The wagon rolled forward, slowly.

After Morat had the wagon and team clear of the alley behind the cooperage and onto Fifth Cross, he kept the team on the crossing street until they reached Cargo Road. There he turned westward toward the harbor. “First ocean pier, you said.”

“The Seastag—Austran deep water.”

Once the wagon passed the square at Third Cross, Kharl could see the piers, because Cargo Road sloped downward just enough so that the harbor of Brysta could be seen spread out to the west. All the piers were to the north of the River Westlich, except for the stubby ferry pier. The ferry served those who wanted to cross to the peninsula road that ran south-southeast along the western side of the river. There, the marshes farther north and west, bordered by rock escarpments, had prevented much settlement on the southern part of the harbor. To the north of the piers was the flatland for the lower market and the slateyard.

Kharl checked the fair weather banner on the pole on the outer breakwater—a green oval against a white background. There were no clouds in the western sky, but Lord West’s wizards used their glasses to scree well beyond mere sight to determine which banner flew.

There were only eight vessels spread across the three oceangoing piers and the two coastal wharfs, illustrating that late summer was the slowest time in the fair weather months. Closer to harvest and all through the fall, almost every berth on every pier would be taken, and in good times, merchanters would even anchor out beyond the breakwaters.

Lord West had but a handful of warships, iron-hulled steamers with but two single-gun turrets. Brysta’s real defenses were the two forts facing each other at the entrance to the harbor—the south fort at the end of one breakwater, and the north fort at the end of the other. Twin chains lay on the stones of the channel between them. Each chain was attached to a modified capstan so that the chains could be raised to deny access to the harbor.

Once every four eightdays, the chains were raised briefly and inspected, and one of Lord West’s wizards renewed the order-spell on them. Kharl knew that well. For a year he had served as an assistant to the cooper at the south fort, and had been pressed into the work gang that turned the capstan.

The first ocean pier was empty—except for the Seastag, two-masted, like a brig, but with side paddle wheels. The Austran ensign drooped from the jackstaff in the heavy still air that blanketed the harbor. Several wagons were lined up and unloading barrels and crates, and the work gang was using a crane to swing lengths of timbers from a stack on the pier to the midships hold.

The teamster eased the wagon past the timber pallets and brought it to a stop a rod or so past the gangway. “This is the best I can do.”

“That’s fine.” Kharl handed three coppers to the teamster. “It will only be a moment.”

Hagen was halfway down the gangway before Kharl finished unlashing the hogshead. The Austran captain had three sailors with him. “Cooper, your timing could not have been better.”

“I said today,” Kharl replied.

“So you did.” The master of the Seastag hopped up into the wagon bed and began to inspect the hogshead. Kharl waited.

Finally, Hagen jumped down and gestured to the three sailors—two men and a hard-faced woman as well muscled as the men. “Take the cask up and set it just aft of the mainmast for now.”

“Yes, ser.”

Kharl watched as the three eased the cask out of the wagon and carried it across the pier, past the timber being loaded, and up the gangway. Hagen watched as well, until the cask was on board the Seastag, before turning to the cooper. “You charge a bit more than the Austrans, but no one makes a better hogshead.” Hagen laughed and handed Kharl the three silvers, then added a pair of coppers. “Thank you, ser.” Kharl inclined his head. Behind them the teamster finished turning the wagon on the wide pier and headed back toward the city proper. He gave the slightest of waves to Kharl.

In return, Kharl nodded to the teamster.

“I’ll be thanking you, cooper,” said Hagen. “That I will. Next trip, it might be sand barrels.”

“Sand barrels?”

“Been reports of raiders out of Lydiar, and the Black Brethren have those rockets. A chaos-wizard’s teamed up with pirates out of a place called Renklaar. Water doesn’t always stop those chaos-flames. We’re fortunate only one pirate’s got a wizard.”

“How long before you come back this way?” asked Kharl.

“I’m only making a short voyage this time. Maybe half the ports in Candar before we return to Valmurl. Then, after an eightday there, we’ll be headed here on the long trip of the winter.” He laughed. “We’ll end up in Hamor, where it’s warm.”

The cooper nodded. “You thinking of oak for the sand barrels?”

“The only thing for a vessel. The only thing.” The graying Hagen tipped his battered cap to Kharl. “Be seeing you next trip, cooper.”

“I look forward to it, ser.”

Hagen nodded and turned.

Kharl walked past the timber, careful to avoid the empty sling coming down. Halfway back along the pier from the Seastag, he stopped as he noted—and recognized—the low vessel moored at the outboard end of the second pier, a ship entirely of shimmering black, without masts and with but one gun in a single forward turret. Two guards in the black of Recluce marines stood at the foot of the gangway.

The cooper studied the warship for a moment, then shook his head as he continued back along the pier for the kay-long walk back to the cooperage. He just hoped that no one had come by in his absence, but he wouldn’t have dared to send Arthal with the hogshead.

“Youth…” he muttered under his breath. “Not what they used to be. Paid attention to my da. They’d just as soon spit.”

He squared his shoulders and stretched out his stride. He could have paid the teamster for a return ride, but he had better uses for his coppers.