Modesitt, L.E. - Recluce 12 - Wellspring of Chaos

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Scanned by JASC

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e.g. from .5 to .95 or if major revisions, to v. 1.0/2.0 etc.

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--------------------------------------------

Book Information:

Genre: Fantasy

Author: L.E. Modesitt

Name: Wellspring of Chaos

Series: Saga of Recluse, Book 12

======================

Wellspring of Chaos

Book 12 of the Saga of Recluse

by L.E. Modesitt

Jvharl stood at the front window of his shop, looking westward for a

moment at the wedge of twilight sky visible between the slate roofs of

the buildings on the far side of the narrow Crafters' Lane. A single lamp

was visible through the middle window of Gharan's quarters, above the

weaver's shop. Next door, at Hamyl's, both the lower floor and the

rooms above were dark. That wasn't surprising, Kharl told himself,

since Hamyl's consort had taken the children to her parents' holding to

help with the early-midsummer gathering. That had left the potter free

to indulge himself at the Tankard, and the lane peaceful, since Kharl's

neighbor, the scrivener Tyrbel, was a widower and kept a quiet

establishment.

Lowering his eyes, the cooper glanced at the five barrels in his display,

all tight cooperage from the best white oak, ranging from the hogshead

to the standard barrel and down to the quarter barrel and the

fine-finished fifth barrel with the brass spigot, used by anyone who

wanted to store and dispense expensive liquids, mostly spirits. Then he

barred the front door and closed the shutters behind the lead-glassed

panes that his grandsire had installed before Kharl had been born. At

that time, glass windows had been considered particularly foolish for a

cooper, unlike a goldsmith or an artisan-or even a weaver or a potter-

who had to display work to attract buyers. Times had changed, and

most shops along the lane had come to display their wares behind

windows.

“A barrel's a barrel. So's a hogshead. People buy barrels because they

need barrels.” Kharl smiled as he recalled the acerbic words of his

grandmother, who had never let his grandsire forget what she regarded

as the foolishness of the glass.

Foolishness? Kharl didn't think so. He still got orders from passersby

who otherwise hadn't thought about barrels. Not many, never more

than one an eightday, and sometimes only a few a season. Over time,

though, the windows had paid for themselves.

He picked up the lamp and walked toward the rear of the shop, past

the high racks that held the billets he would form into staves. Most of

the billets were oak, white for the tight cooperage and red for slack.

There were also some billets of tight-grained black oak, and a few of

chestnut. He passed the workbench and the tool rack, with every tool

in place. On

the left side of the rear wall was the small forge where he sized and

shaped the hoops for tight cooperage. Beside the forge on the brick

flooring was the fire pot and, beside it, the steaming ring. The faintest

smell of ashes and charcoal drifted toward Kharl from the banked

coals of the forge.

Just short of the rear wall, and the door to the loading dock, the cooper

stopped and looked at the fifteen white oak barrels waiting there. Each

was identical to the next, with the iron bands, set just so, and the

smooth finish, with a medium toasting on the inside. Korlan was

supposed to pick them up in the morning-pick them up and pay the

balance due. The vintner had taken the first fifteen barrels an eightday

earlier. Kharl only hoped that the vintner did not come up with some

excuse, as he had the summer before, waiting almost two eightdays

before showing up, but, then, that was the problem in dealing with

someone who lived more than ten kays to the south of Brysta.

Kharl half smiled, then nodded, and turned, the carry-lamp in hand, to

head up the stairs.

“… silvers and coppers are not for me, but a pretty girl whose charms

are free…”

He frowned. Had he heard singing in the alley? The Tankard was four

doors toward the harbor, but seldom did roisterers come wandering

down the alley, even early in the evening. Kharl cocked his head.

“… for when there's no lamps to see, any woman's as fair as fair can

be…”

“No… let go of me!”

The woman's voice-no, it was a girl's voice-was familiar, but Kharl

could not place it. He moved to the far side of the loading dock and

swept up the cudgel in his left hand, then, leaving the lamp behind,

eased the door open.

“Let me go!”

“… mean you no harm, little woman.” A raucous laugh followed. “We'll

even pay you for what you give others for free…”

“Let go! Let… mmmpphhh…” The girl's words were choked off.

Kharl closed the door behind him so that he would not be silhouetted

by the light from the lamp. He glanced toward the Tankard, but saw no

one. He looked back to the north. There, less than a rod away,

perhaps less than ten cubits, in the fading light and the dimness of the

alley, were three figures that Kharl could barely make out. Two men

held the girl, a thin figure with dark ringlets over a green summer

blouse. The hair and the blouse belonged to Sanyle, the youngest of

Tyrbel's daughters.

One of the men had Sanyle's arms cruelly twisted behind her, and the

other had his hand on her shoulder, pulling the summer blouse down.

Both men were laughing.

Kharl took three quick steps, then two more, bringing the cudgel up.

The nearer man, the one who had started to rip away Sanyle's blouse,

turned. A blade hissed from the scabbard at his belt.

Kharl took another step and struck the blade and the man's hand with

the cudgel before the man had finished turning toward the cooper. The

shortsword dropped on the cobblestones of the alley with a muffled

clank.

“Ah… swine-slime… misbegotten…” The youth jumped back,

cradling his hand. The dark blue velvet of his tunic was almost lost in

the dimness.

The second man let go of Sanyle, and his right hand darted toward

the hilt of his blade.

“Don't…” growled the cooper. “ 'Less you want a broken arm. Just let

her go, and back away and head back where you came from. Have fun

with your own or those you pay.”

As soon as the man had released her, Sanyle slipped away into the

shadows. There was a glint on the heavy brass key she held, and then

the rear door of the structure beside the cooperage opened, and

quickly shut.

“You can't do this.” The taller young man, who was still half a head

shorter than the cooper, kept his hand on the hilt of his blade, but did

not draw it. “You don't know who you're talking to…”

“Doesn't matter,” growled the cooper. “Don't force girls barely old

enough to know the difference 'tween boys and men.”

“They're all the same.”

Kharl raised the cudgel slightly. “Back off, little man, 'less you never

want to use that arm again.”

The shorter youth scooped up the fallen blade with his left hand and

backed away. After a moment, the taller one followed.

Kharl stood watching until the two were out of sight, and until the alley

was quiet once more. Then he turned and reentered the cooperage,

wondering from what merchants' houses had come the overdressed and

spoiled youths. With a snort, he set down the heavy cudgel and barred

the door.

After reclaiming the lamp, he started up the steps to the quarters above

the cooperage. His boots thumped heavily on the wood, and the fourth

step creaked, as it had for years.

Charee stood just inside the door at the top of the stairs.

Shoulder-length black hair was bound back from her face, making it

seem even narrower than it was. Her green eyes were cool. “Your

supper's cold. Thought you were coming up sooner.”

“I was. Heard something out back. Wanted to make sure that it wasn't

someone trying to break in. Just a pair of youngsters thought they were

men, drinking too much for ones so young.” Kharl had no intention of

saying more about the would-be bravos. For all her virtues, Charee

lacked one-that of circumspection. The young men could scarcely have

picked out one crafter in gray from another, not unless Charee told the

entire lane. Because she well might have, while suggesting that Kharl

was being foolish, Kharl saw little point in calling attention to the

incident. Sanyle would doubtless tell her widower father, but the

scrivener was more than taciturn, as were his children.

“Won't you ever leave well enough alone, Kharl? Leave the roisterers

alone. Or if you must, call them to the attention of Lord West's Watch.

That's what he draws his tariffs for. You've got a consort and sons that

need you…”

. “My hard-won coins, leastwise.” Kharl shut the door to the stairs and

the shop below and walked toward the washroom on the right side of

the landing.

“Let's not be starting that again.”

Kharl forced a smile. “I won't, dearest. I need to wash up.” The pitcher

on the wash table was full, and the basin empty and clean, with a worn

but clean gray towel and a narrow bar of fat soap laid out on the left

side. He closed the washroom door and began to wash, enjoying the

faint rose scent that came from the petals in the soap. It took time to

get the sawdust off his face and hands and arms, and out of his dark

beard, short-cropped as it was.

When Kharl stepped into the main room, it was still warm from the

day, but the harbor breeze blowing through the open windows offered

a welcoming coolness, even if it did bear the scents of salt and fish and

caused the two wall lamps to flicker.

The cooper walked toward the round table where Arthal and Warrl

waited, their eyes following him, but not exactly looking at him.

“Did you finish your lessons?” Kharl's eyes fixed on Warrl, his younger

son, by three years.

“Yes, ser. I did.” After a moment, the younger boy asked, “How much

longer will I have to go to Master Fonwyl?”

“Until he says you can read and write well enough to pass the

craft-master's tests.” Kharl seated himself.

“I don't see why,” interrupted Arthal. “It's not as though we'll ever have

the golds to post the bond for mastercrafter.”

“Maybe so, and maybe not,” replied Kharl. “But if you get the chance,

I don't want you looking back and complaining that I didn't prepare

you. Reading and writing aren't something you can pick up easy-like

when

you're older.“

“But what use is it if you're not a mastercrafter or a merchant or a lord?

You scarce have a chance to read a broadsheet-”

“But I can, and once or twice it's saved me good coins. Enough.” Kharl

managed not to snap. “Let's enjoy supper.”

As if she had been waiting for them to stop, Charee lifted the heavy

cast-iron stewpot off the stove and carried it to the table. There, she set

it on the well-browned trivet in the center of the oval oak table that had

been one of the first pieces of actual furniture that Kharl had made after

he had taken over the cooperage.

His consort set the large basket of afternoon-baked bread on the table

and seated herself at the opposite end of the oval table from Kharl.

Kharl began to ladle the stew into the chipped brown crockery bowls

that had come from Charee's mother.

“Smells good,” offered Kharl.

“It does,” added Warrl.

“More summer squash and potatoes than meat,” murmured Arthal.

“It's tasty, and it's hot, and you didn't have to spend the day cooking

it,” Kharl pointed out. “If you'd rather not eat, you can leave the table

right now.“

“No, Da… I'm sorry, Ma.” Arthal's voice was barely apologetic.

Kharl didn't feel like calling his older son on his borderline rudeness,

not after a long day finishing the last of the barrels for Korlan, especially

when he knew that Arthal would just make some other comment.

“What was going on outside, Da?” asked Warrl.

''Tust some young fellows who'd had too much at the Tankard. Had

^ ale than sense, and didn't know it.“

“Will the Watch catch them?”

''They settled down,“ Kharl said, after taking a mouthful of the stew,

still Warm and peppery, despite Charee's comments about it getting

cold. ”Good stew.“ He broke oft a chunk of the crusty bread, then

dipped it into the stew before chewing off the dipped end. ”Good

bread.“

“They'd better settle down,” offered Arthal. “Lord West likes Brysta

peaceful.”

“The justicers worry inore about thieves and killers,” Kharl said, taking

a swallow of the warm ale, really only about half a mug for each of

them, but that had been #H that was left in the quarter barrel in the

cellar, and he couldn't afford any more-not until Korlan paid him for the

wine barrels.

“Cossal said they hung three brigands in the Justicers' Hall on

two-day,” added Warrl. “He was there.”

“They hung three men. That's true. They might even have been guilty.”

Kharl had his doubts that everyone hanged was as guilty as charged.

“Does it matter, if one brigand is strung up for something he didn't do?”

asked Charee. “Anyone they catch has done more than enough

anyway. Weren't for Lord West, we'd have thieves overrunning Brysta,

like in his sire's time.”

“That was a different time,” Kharl said. “Fairven had fallen. The more

powerful steam engines had exploded. Many trading ventures had

failed. People were starving, and white wizards were everywhere.”

“Better the whites than those blackstaffers from Reduce,” Charee

sniffed. “Them and their fine clothes, and their noses in the air. Think

they know everything. Father Jorum says that we're all equal in the eyes

of the Sovereign-”

Kharl wasn't about to get into debating the opinions of the priest of the

one-god believers. “I can't see as they harm anyone, but it's better that

they stay i*1 Reduce.'' He took another chunk of bread and wiped out

his empty b<?wl with it. ”Good dinner, dearest.“

“How would we kn^w? j^e lords won't touch 'em, not unless they're caught a

°*ng son^j^g right awful. Merayni, she listened to one of 'em, last v

^ter's e^^ y. wag^ ancj ^e was telling terrible tales. Terrible tales.”

“What kind of tales?” asked Kharl, in spite of himself. He had his

doubts about Charee's older sister Merayni, although Merayni was

certainly good-hearted, and she and her consort were more than

successful with the pearapple and peach orchard that Dowsyl had

inherited from his father. He paused. “Didn't know blackstaffers got so

far south as

Peachill or Eolya.“

“They get everywhere, Merayni was saying, and the tales he told!

Terrible, she said. About how a body can't even walk across some hills

in Candar without turnin' black and shriveling up and dyin' right there on

the spot.”

“That may be,” Kharl replied. “That's Candar, and not Nordla. Lord

West is lucky to have one or two wizards that he can count on. Rather

have him with wizards than some of the other Lords of the Quadrant.”

“This young blackstaffer, he said that the lord's wizards weren't proper

mages. 'A course, Father Jorum says all wizardry is evil.”

“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.

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