The Magic of Recluce (29 page)

“Where could I find him?”

“He has a place in the jewelers' street, across the market square.” The crafter looked over at the youth and the young man, then back at me.

“Is this a hard time for woodcrafting?”

“Not wonderful. Not terrible. I'm no Sardit, but sometimes we come close.”

I managed to nod without dropping my jaw.

“You ever seen his work, young fellow?”

“Yes. I once saw a chest he made—black oak.”

Perlot pursed his lips. “Why do you need a job?”

“I left home young. I didn't like my apprenticeship. My uncle said I was too unsettled. So I headed for Freetown. Then, what happened there forced me to leave…rather suddenly.”

“It forced more than a few people to leave.” His voice was dry. “Well…I wish you well. Try Destrin, but I'd advise you against using my name. That's your choice, of course.”

Before I had even reached the door, the crafter was back among the finishes.

Gairloch remained in the stable while I sought out Destrin, heading toward the jewelers' street and following the sketchy directions provided by Perlot.

The structure itself, faced in dark-red brick and sharing common walls on both sides with more recently-painted houses, bore only a small sign above the shop door:
Woodwork
.

The house had two doors—one which covered a stairway up to the second-floor quarters, and an open doorway on the street level leading into the woodshop.

The wide shutters on the lone woodshop window were open though a trace askew on their hinges, as if the pins were worn down and had not been replaced in years. The blue paint on the window casement and upon the shutters themselves had faded nearly to gray, where it had not peeled away to reveal a battered and faded red oak beneath. From what I could tell, there was a small attached structure in the back that might have once housed horses. Certainly the other houses in the area had such small stables.

I stepped inside the open doorway and stood at the edge of the workroom.

While the workroom wasn't a disaster, the little signs of chaos were everywhere—the careless racking of the saws, the sawdust in the chalk drawers, and the cloudiness of the oil used with the grindstone.

“Yes?” A dark-haired man—slightly stooped shoulders, thin-faced, and wearing a clean if worn leather apron over dark trousers—glared at me.

“I'm looking for Destrin.”

“I'm Destrin.” His voice was thin.

“My name is Lerris. I understand you might be interested in having some help.”

“Hmmmmmmmm…”

“I'd be willing to work on a junior journeyman basis.”

“I don't know…”

Shaking my head, I let my skepticism show through as I looked over the incipient chaos, saying nothing.

Destrin stood by a half-finished tavern bench, backless. The seat was in place, and he had drilled the holes for the pole legs. At a glance, I could tell it was made from three different kinds of wood—scraps or castoffs, probably. Not quite a crude piece, but definitely not up to the quality or the array of the tools, nor to the size of the workroom or the house or the merchant's neighborhood.

“Well,” he demanded in a thin and testy voice, “can you do this kind of work?”

“Yes.” I didn't feel like elaborating.

“How can you show me?”

I glanced around. The bins were empty, except for scraps. “I'll make something, and you can judge for yourself. All it will cost is some scraps and the use of your tools.”

“They're good tools. How can I be sure you know how to handle them?” His thin voice degenerated into more of a whine. “Acccuuu…ufffff…ufff…” His hand touched the workbench to steady himself, but his eyes stayed on me.

“Watch me. Or work on your bench while I show you.”

“Hhmmmmphmm.”

I took that for agreement and began to rummage around. In the end, I found a piece of red oak with some twisted grains at one end that could be turned to an elaborate breadboard, and some smaller plank-ends of white oak that would make a small box, perhaps for needles.

That turned out to be the easy part. None of the small saws or smaller straight planes had been sharpened in years, and the peg plane was clogged with sawdust and chips in a way that indicated it had been forced. So I cleaned it first, then oiled it and sharpened it. I managed to do the same with the other planes, but the small saws were beyond my ability, except to clean them.

Destrin kept looking at me as I cleaned and sharpened the tools, and then as I cleaned off the second bench, re-racking all the odds and ends into the old cabinets that seemed to have a place for everything.

Only after I had done that, and I realized it was well after noon, did I lay out the wood pieces for the box.

“Father…” A light voice came from the now-open door at the back of the shop, a second staircase to the quarters. “I didn't know anyone was here.” The girl was golden-haired, thin like her father, and petite, although definitely feminine in shape and demeanor. Her voice was thin like his, but not whiny, just thin, or tired. Her face was not quite elfin, with a short but straight nose a touch too long to be called cute, and her eyes were a brown-flecked green. She wore a faded blue apron over calf-length brown trousers and an equally faded yellow shirt. Her feet were in sandals.

“I didn't mean to surprise you. My name is Lerris,” I told her.

She looked from her father to me and back again.

“I'm trying to persuade your father to take me on as a journeyman.”

“Hmmmmphhmmm,” noted Destrin. He coughed again.

I wondered if that were his way of avoiding commenting on anything. Again, I said nothing as I finished measuring the wood scraps.

“Would you like to join us for some dinner?” she asked. “It's only soup with some fruit and biscuits.”

Destrin glared at his daughter.

“Neither one of you knows me. I appreciate the offer, but, until I finish something of value for Destrin…” As I spoke I could see the woodcrafter relax.

“Let me bring you something to drink and some fruit at least.”

“I wouldn't object to that, mistress, but I need to keep working.”

She looked down, then retreated up the stairs.

As usual, everything took longer than it should. I had to readjust the wood vise, including a minor repair of the fastening on the bottom plate, and the sawing took longer because the blades weren't as sharp as Uncle Sardit's.

In fact, though I only took a few minutes to gulp down the sliced soft apples she set out along with a battered blue clay mug, it was nearly supper time before I finished gluing the last joins together. The whole time, Destrin had “hmmphed” along with the bench, barely finishing his by the time I put the little white oak box into the setting clamps.

It didn't take very long to groove a rectangle on the top and chalk out a simple four-point star, then carve and chisel out the shallow design.

The box was good and workmanlike, not exquisite, but better than much of what I had seen.

“You know woods and tools,” Destrin said grudgingly.

“It's nice,” observed his daughter.

“Better than nice, Deirdre. Fetch a silver or two in the market.” He almost smiled.

I shrugged, not wanting to correct the older man. I didn't know Fenard, but I doubted that the box would fetch more than a half silver. “Are you interested in a journeyman?”

“Can't pay much.”

“I don't ask for anything up front. You get half of what I can make and sell. I pay two coppers an eight-day for room, and another two for food, but if I clean out the old stable I can put my pony there.”

Destrin's head jerked up at the mention of the pony. “Where are you from, fellow?”

“Up the North Coast. I went to Freetown, but I had to leave. There was no work after the black ones closed down the port.”

“You could afford a horse?” asked Deirdre.

“Hardly,” I laughed. “He's a shaggy mountain pony, and he doesn't eat too much.”

“Another two pennies for the stable.”

“Two pennies, but only if I don't make you a half-silver an eight-day.”

Destrin reflected, but not for long. “All right. And you sleep here in the shop. There's a small room in the corner.”

That was all I wanted, for the moment. I needed some funds, some time to think and to read
The Basis of Order
, and somewhere to stable Gairloch.

“You have supper with us upstairs,” added the craft-master. He looked around the shop.

I understood. “After I clean up a little.”

He nodded.

Destrin was getting a good deal, but he wasn't likely to ask the questions that the other crafters like Perlot might.

In the end, I didn't eat with them, instead persuading Destrin to let me get Gairloch and work on the stable.

Unlike the shop, the stable had simply been closed. Destrin had clearly never had enough extra wood to use it for storage, and it didn't take long with the old broom I found to make one of the two stalls suitable for Gairloch, at least for the night. Finding time to get him exercise might be a greater problem, but that worry would have to wait.

D
ESTRIN HAD SO
many problems that it was hard to know where to begin, and that didn't even count Deirdre. Some of them were easy enough to correct, just given a little time and effort, like reorganizing the shop back to its original and functional pattern.

Some took my own funds, because Destrin didn't see any use in them, like having the small saws sharpened by a good tinker. For Destrin there wasn't any use. He knew he couldn't produce small work—not good enough to sell in the market. But I could, and I needed to sell things to avoid spending myself out of the last few golds I had.

Even though Deirdre looked longingly at the little white-oak box I had made to show that I knew woods and wood-working, Destrin agreed that I should sell it on the following eight-day's-end market.

I didn't intend to sell only one box. That meant going to the mills to find woods, preferably scraps.

The first miller, Nurgke, was blunt. “Scraps? Not even for sale, not to you
or
to Destrin. The scraps go to Perlot or Jirrle. They're my best customers, and they need them for their apprentices.” He had silver hair and hard brown eyes, arms like tree-trunks, and an open if unsmiling, face.

Nurgke's mill had two big saws, run by waterwheels from a diversion of the Gallos River. In spite of his bluntness, his mill conveyed a sense of order. Even the stones in the millrace were set precisely, and the grease for the waterwheels was set in measured dollops for application by his apprentices.

“Impressive,” I told him as I surveyed his operation. “You prize order highly.”

“I praise profits, woodman. Order brings profits.”

I couldn't argue with that. “Who else might have wood scraps or mill ends for sale?”

Nurgke pulled at his long chin, then frowned. “Well…Yuril doesn't have any arrangements, but he does mostly firs, stuff for poles and fences, farm uses, not much in the way of hardwoods. Then there's Teller…but he's almost under indenture to the prefect. You might try Brettel. He used to mill for Dorman.” He saw my blank look and explained. “Dorman was Destrin's father. Best cabinetmaker in Candar. Some said he was as good as Sardit in Recluce, maybe better.” The mill-master shook his head. “Destrin's a good man, been through a lot, but he doesn't have the touch.” He looked at me. “Brettel might help you, but don't sell him a song. He never forgets.”

With Nurgke's admonition fresh on my mind, I rode Gairloch back around the perimeter road of Fenard, the wide and cleared granite-paved way just inside the fifteen-cubit-high stone walls, until I got to the north gate and the north road leading out to Brettel's mill.

The wind whipped around us, and the light dimmed as the clouds darkened. By the time we reached the mill, light crisp flakes were falling upon the frozen ground, leaving a lacy finish over the fields of stubble behind the wooden rail fences.

I had to wait for Brettel, who was wrestling with the replacement of a saw.

So I studied his mill. Like Nurgke's, his radiated order, but with an older and longer-standing sense of presence. His millrace was also perfectly stoned and mortared, but some of the stones had been replaced. The stream dammed for his high pond had to be the one that joined the Gallos River on the east side of Fenard.

The lumber and timber storage warehouse radiated an age greater than the stone walls of Fenard, yet there was no debris and the roof timbers were more recent and carefully varnished.

The warehouse was chill—no fires or hearths with that much lumber around, but I wondered how much timber and how many planks split because of the changes in heat and cold.

“You? Who are you, and what do you want?” Brettel, like a broad and bandy-legged dwarf, stood shorter than to my shoulder, and his voice was a clear tenor. For all the abruptness of his words, the tone was pleasant.

“I'm a new journeyman for Destrin, the woodworker. My name is Lerris.”

“Destrin? What are you running from, young fellow?”

I grinned. “I'm not, at least not exactly. I worked for my uncle, but he said I was too unsettled and told me to see the world and to come back when I could settle down.” I shrugged. “You can't see much of the world when you run out of coppers. So I agreed to work for Destrin as a journeyman. He supplies tools and lodging and gets a large share of what I produce.”

The mill-master looked me over. “No sign of chaos. The worst you could be would be an honest scoundrel, and that's the least of Destrin's problems. What do you want from me? My best-cut timbers without paying a copper?”

I shook my head. “I'm not that ambitious. I prefer smaller pieces for now. Scraps and mill ends, if you can spare any.”

Brettel pursed his lips.

“I can pay a little,” I offered, not wanting to seem too eager, but not wanting to appear as a beggar, either.

He shook his head with a rueful grin. “I don't know what you are, but you're neither a thief nor of chaos, and anything would help Destrin, I think.” Then he fixed his eyes on mine. “But leave his daughter alone. She's my god-daughter, and while his pride won't let me foster her, she'll have an honest man of Fenard for a husband.” The last words were like light iron, and I stepped back.

“I didn't know…”

He laughed, and the laugh was deeper, not at all like the tenor of his voice. “You wouldn't. I wouldn't say anything, except you're good-looking, probably talented, and will leave her sooner or later. There are plenty of others…now, about the scraps…”

I waited, trying not to hold my breath.

“Follow me. You can take anything you want from the burn bin, but don't leave a mess. The mill ends are in the other bin. Those we sell. You get out what you want into a pile, then either Arta—he's the skinny fellow with red hair—or I will talk about how many coppers it's worth.”

In the end, I gathered one bag full of red and white oak scraps, enough to do three or four small boxes, and enough mill ends for three coppers to do a breadboard or two and a small chair.

Brettel watched as I carefully packed the woods into the old basket I had taken from Destrin's stable.

“Good luck, young fellow. You seem to know woods.”

“Thank you. What I do with them is what counts.”

He nodded and was gone, and I chucked the reins.

Wheeee…eeeee
.

“I know. I know. You don't like carrying wood. But if you want to stay dry and get fed, you're going to have to carry wood.”

Gairloch carried me out into the wind and the swirling snow that had covered not only the fields, but the perimeter road, with a light white blanket.

Destrin “hhhmmmmpphed” as I brought in the wood and stacked it in the unused bins on what had become my side of the workroom. He had a fire stoked in the side hearth and a ragged sweater on under his apron.

“What's that for, boy?”

“Some boxes, breadboards, and a small chair.”

“Do a good chair, and it will sell. Boxes don't do so well these days.”

“If they don't sell, I'll make other things in the future.”

Deirdre just watched until I began to measure. Then, as if the details bored her, she slipped through the back door and upstairs.

The hardest thing was not to hurry. Even though I knew nothing was going to happen immediately, I felt like every moment counted, that I should be working all the time, and I did work under the lamp some nights.

Destrin was wrong. I finished two boxes, and with the white oak one, took them to the market on eighth-day. Getting in cost me a copper, but I found a spot by the dry fountain, next to a flower seller, and set out the three boxes on a tan cloth I had borrowed from Deirdre.

The snow had half-melted, half blown away, but the wind still whipped in from the north, and less than a score of possible buyers wandered through the square.

“Those are nice, young fellow. Where are they from?” asked the rotund woman with the cut flowers.

“Here. I'm a new journeyman for Destrin, the woodworker.”

“You made those? You mean he actually has someone who can make things like old Dorman did?” She leaned down and studied the boxes. “Well…they're not as elegant as Dorman's…rather plain…but they look well-made.”

“May I see the one on the end?” interrupted another voice, that of a slender man in gray leathers.

I didn't like his narrow face or the cold look in his eyes, but I nodded as I handed him the red-oak box.

The man studied it minutely, looking at the joins, at the grain angles, and the fit of the top. Finally, he handed it back, almost with a disappointed look on his face. “Decent workmanship. Fair style.” He nodded curtly and stepped away.

“I guess that means you're all right, fellow.”

“Who was that?” I asked. “Some inspector for the local guild?”

“The prefect doesn't allow guilds. He says they just cause graft and corruption.”

“So who was he?”

“That's old Jirrle. He and Perlot and Dorman used to fight over who was the better crafter. Now he does the fine cabinets for the gentry, the big merchants, and the prefect.”

“Can I see that box in the middle? How much is it?” A woman in a shapeless gray overtunic that failed to conceal her bulk jabbed at the white oak box.

“A silver,” I responded.

“It's not worth more than a copper or two…”

In the end, I sold the white oak for six coppers, and the two others for five—just enough to leave me nothing after the cost of entering the market, the cost of the wood and paying Destrin's share, and my eight-day's lodging and board. That did leave the wood for the chair paid for, but the lack of profit wasn't the most promising of starts.