Wellspring of Chaos (11 page)

Kharl’s hope that he could somehow avoid the unpleasantness predicted by Wassyt was shattered when the cooperage door opened late on threeday. A hearty-faced blond man taller than Kharl walked inside. While he came into the cooperage alone, before the door shut Kharl could see the pair of burly personal guards in green and gray station themselves outside, one on each side of the cooperage door.

Warrl looked to his father.

“You can go upstairs and see how Sanyle’s coming with supper,” Kharl said. His words were far closer to a command than a mere suggestion. The cooper set the drawing knife down on the bench.

“Yes, Da.” Warrl slipped away.

“Now… cooper, you’ll be having the boy think that I’m a demon of some sort,” called the man who’d entered.

“Not a demon, Fyngel, just a tariff farmer to be treated with respect.”

Fyngel laughed. “You put it better than most, cooper. You don’t think different. You just speak nicer.”

As Kharl watched, Fyngel surveyed the cooperage, walking to one side and counting the billets of oak set in the racks, then surveying those barrels on display in the window. “Good-looking barrels you got there, cooper. First-rate, I’d say.”

“I do the best I can.”

Fyngel checked the workbenches, and the forge and the hearth, as well as the fire pots, then the loading door and the barrels stacked beside the door. He came back and studied the planer. “Doin‘ well, it looks like.”

“It’s the slowest harvest in many years,” Kharl pointed out.

“That’s what everyone says when the tariff farmer shows. Every har-vesttime is the slowest.” Fyngel laughed once more, producing a ledgerlike book that he set down and opened on the finishing bench.

Kharl waited.

“Best you come here and take a look, cooper. Book hasn’t been updated in some years,” the tariff farmer said. “Lord West told us we had to go out and check all the crafters, make sure that everything was down right.”

Kharl walked to the finishing bench. Fyngel reeked of grease and a sweet rose scent.

“Now, you got a forge here. Book doesn’t show that.”

“It’s only a half forge. A farrier could use it, but a smith wouldn’t be able to do all that he needed on it, and the hearth space isn’t big enough.”

“Forge is a forge, so far as tariffs go. That’s another five golds.” The tariff farmer made a note with his grease markstick.

Kharl held his tongue. His total tariffs due the previous winter had only been three golds, and he’d had trouble raising the coin. Three golds didn’t sound that large, not until you had to count out three hundred coppers—and that was roughly Kharl’s margin on 150 barrels—or twice that many barrels on arrangements like the one he’d been forced into with Aryl.

“Then you got racks for your lumber. Those aren’t in the book. Say another gold for that.” Fyngel smiled as he wrote a few more numbers, but the expression was anything but friendly.

“The racks were there when the cooperage was first built,” Kharl said. “That was in my grandsire’s time.”

“That may be, cooper, but they’re not in the book. Looks like your sire got a good deal. The rear loading door isn’t in the book, either. So that’ll add another three to your tariff.“

Kharl waited.

After making a last notation, Fyngel looked up. “Twelve golds. Be due the first eightday of winter, same as always.” With another less-than-friendly smile, he closed the book. “Lord West also says that any tariffs paid after the second eightday of winter, I have to charge another gold for each eightday they’re late.”

Kharl just nodded.

“We’ll be seeing you and your golds in a season, cooper.” Fyngel smiled a last time before turning and walking out.

Kharl walked toward the door, watching as the tariff farmer rejoined his guards, men bigger than Fyngel himself, and the three walked eastward along the lane. Kharl stood just inside the door, trying to unclench his fists.

Tyrbel appeared outside his scriptorium and walked slowly to the cooperage, stepping inside. He looked at Kharl. “You look less than pleased.”

“Did he visit you?”

“Before you,” Tyrbel announced. “I pleaded with him about my expenses in repairing the display window. He was not moved.”

“So he upped your tariffs, too?”

“Twice what they were last year,” admitted the scrivener. “And you?”

“Mine are four times last year’s.”

“If you pay it, next year, it will be double that. If you survive that long.”

“You’re cheerful,” Kharl said dourly.

“I see what I see. Do you think otherwise?”

“No.”

“I wrote to some I know in Hemmen and Vizyn. I told you that.”

“Vizyn…” mused Kharl. “Would the Austrans let in a Nordlan?”

“A cooper who was mistreated by one of the Lords of the Quadrant?

I would think so.“ Tyrbel nodded. ”I have not heard back, but the scrivener I know there is called Taleas.“

“Taleas in Vizyn.” Then Kharl laughed, ruefully. “As if I could even get there. Golds for passage, and then what? Throw myself upon the town, begging that I’m a good cooper?“

“You could sell the cooperage here.”

“For what? A handful of coppers? Everyone would know, and Mal-lamet might bid a gold, if that, and I’d still owe the tariff.”

Tyrbel shook his head. “They cannot collect from a man who does not live in Nordla.”

“I don’t run.”

“My friend… if you do not run, you had best find twelve golds in a season.” Tyrbel paused. “I will write others I know as well. It cannot hurt.“

“Thank you.” Kharl doubted it would help, but he wasn’t about to say that to one of the few men who had stood up for him against Egen and Lord West.

“Good evening.” Tyrbel nodded, then turned and slipped out the door.

After Tyrbel left, it was late enough that Kharl did not feel like working longer. Slowly, deliberately, he barred the doors, including the loading door, and closed and locked the shutters. Then he started up the steps to the upper level. He stopped at the door, slightly ajar, when he heard Warrl’s voice.

“… tariff farmers?”

“… collect tariffs for Lord West… best not to cross them,” replied Sanyle.

“Da… he didn’t do anything… he just stood there…”

“Were you watching? Did he not tell you to come up here?”

“… just watched from the door… no one could see… but he just stood there.“

“What would you have him do? Fyngel has his own armsmen, and he has the warrant to send anyone who opposes him to prison.”

“But Da… he can’t pay… all those golds…”

“You want him to fight the tariff farmer, get thrown into prison, flogged again, and still owe the tariffs while he’s too hurt to work?” asked Sanyle.

“… you’re just like Da… always telling me why I can’t do things… miss Ma… she wasn’t like that…”

That had been one of Charee’s faults, Kharl knew, one he’d indulged. She’d never wanted to point out limits. He banged on the door. “Supper ready, yet?”

“Almost,” called back Sanyle.

“I’ll wash up.”

When Kharl made his way into the main room, Warrl looked up from where he sat on a stool beside the serving table, but the boy did not speak.

“Just sit down, and I’ll have the dumplings out in a moment,” Sanyle said.

As Kharl passed the single easy chair, his eyes dropped to the book lying there—The Basis of Order. He had not read much of it, just skipped through it. He was a cooper, not a youth, and not an order-master. What good would learning more about order do him? It certainly wouldn’t pay his tariffs. But then, it didn’t look like coopering would, either.

The remainder of the eightday passed without another buyer even entering the cooperage, and eightday itself dawned bright. Because so few shopped or purchased anything on the second end-day Kharl did not open the cooperage doors, although he often worked. The present eightday was no exception, since he did not have all the barrels he needed for Korlan, or for Wassyt and Aryl. With the increased tariff he would owe to Fyngel at the first of winter, every copper counted more than ever.

While Kharl ran the shooks through the planer, Warrl was laying out more of the white oak billets, now that Kharl had scraped together enough to pay Vetrad the balance owed for the seasoned oak, which had finally been delivered the day before.

A thumping came from somewhere, barely audible above the noise of the planer.

“There’s someone at the door,” Warrl called.

“We’re not open,” Kharl pointed out.

Warrl peered through the shutters. “It’s Aunt Merayni and Uncle Dowsyl.”

With a feeling of dread about what was to come, Kharl stepped back from the planer and set the half-finished stave on the bench, then walked to the doorway and unbarred the door. He held it open until the man and the woman standing on the sidewalk stones stepped inside. He closed the door, but did not replace the bar.

“How long before you were going to tell us, Kharl?” snapped Merayni, a tall and broad woman only a fraction of a head shorter than the cooper, wearing a brown tunic and trousers. She stepped past Kharl and into the cooperage.

Dowsyl was only slightly taller than Merayni, but broader. His sleeveless tunic and half-sleeved undertunic showed arms that were heavily muscled. He said nothing as he followed his consort.

“Shortly,” Kharl replied. “I’ve tried…” He closed the door.

“Tried? I never got a word from you. How about never? It takes a message from my nephew for me to find out that my sister is dead, that one nephew has fled Nordla, and that you have angered every important person in the Quadrant.”

“You seem to know more than I do,” Kharl replied.

Dowsyl cleared his throat, then spoke into the silence that followed. “Charee is dead. Arthal is gone. You will lose the cooperage before winter. This is what Warrl wrote. Is that all true?”

“Charee… Arthal… those are true,” Kharl admitted.

“How do you plan to care for Warrl?” asked Merayni.

“We’ve managed. We will manage.”

“Managed? For the sake of a woman you didn’t even know, you got my sister killed. Is that how you’ll manage?” asked Merayni.

Kharl looked to Warrl. The youth had edged toward Merayni. Kharl just looked. Finally, he spoke. “We have managed. Warrl is my son. He is fed and taught and cared for.”

“For how long?” questioned Merayni.

The cooper didn’t have an answer, not one that would have been truthful.

“Warrl’s coming to the holding with us, Kharl.” Merayni’s voice softened. “It’s better that way. You must know it is.”

“What about the cooperage?” asked Kharl, knowing his words were futile, but feeling that he had to say something. “Someday, it will be his, but not if he doesn’t learn to be a cooper.”

“You promise that? How many orders for barrels did you get in the last eightdays?”

“I’m to deliver thirty barrels to Korlan, thirty to Wassyt, and twenty to Aryl, all in the next two eightdays.“ Kharl gestured to the stacks of unfinished shooks and semifinished staves.

“Did any of them order any more?” demanded Merayni. “They only need barrels just before and during harvest.”

“Kharl…” Merayni paused, then spoke slowly. “We may live a day away from Brysta, but we know people, and we’ve asked around. No one will order more from you. They’re too afraid of Lord West and his tariff farmers. You won’t be able to pay your tariffs, and you’ll lose the cooperage. In a few eightdays…”

“Enough… enough…” Kharl looked at Warrl. “So you wrote your aunt?”

“I had to, Da… I had to. You didn’t.” Warrl met his father’s gaze without flinching. “I know you tried… I saw… but you didn’t.” Kharl turned to Merayni, but did not speak. Neither did she.

“I tried to save a woman… she was little more than a girl. She wasn’t much older than your Dowlan, Merayni. She’d been beaten and abused. She would have died. I was supposed to let her die?”

“She was a blackstaffer from Recluce. You know how people feel about them. Nothing good could possibly come from trying to save her. What good did it do? She died anyway.”

“I was supposed to know that?”

“Sometimes, Kharl… you have to think of your own. That’s always been your problem. You have too big a heart, and people take advantage of you. Charee knew that. We all know that. But this time, when you didn’t think of your own, everyone suffered. Charee’s dead. Arthal’s on a ship somewhere—”

“The Fleuryl,” Kharl interjected.

“You’re going to lose everything you ever worked for,” Merayni continued implacably, “and Warrl has to choose between leaving his father and becoming a beggar or an orphan. That’s all because you wouldn’t think first of your consort and your family.” She looked to Warrl. “You can do whatever you will, but I am not letting my sister’s son suffer any more because of your stubbornness.”

Warrl looked helplessly at his father, even as he moved up beside his aunt. “I… didn’t want to write… but… you… someone had to tell Auntie…”

“Someone had to,” Kharl said heavily. “I was wrong not to write. I should have written. Do you…“ He stopped. Whatever he said would make no difference. No difference at all. He could fight… but for what? Keeping his son for another season before he lost everything? And if he didn’t… well, then, he could always make his way out to their holding and orchards and prove them wrong.

His eyes went to Warrl. “You’d better get your things. Take anything you want.” He turned and walked to the back of the shop, opposite the forge.

“Da…”

Kharl did not turn.

Behind him, there were whispers, then footsteps on the stairs.

Dowsyl walked back to the forge. “Kharl?”

“What?”

“You get through this, and Warrl would come back. He’s lost his mother. He’s worried, and he’s scared. He needs to be someplace safe.”

“I can see that.”

“Can you?”

“He and Merayni have made it clear.” Kharl paused, then looked squarely at Dowsyl. “I’ll get through it.”

“If you do, you’re welcome. Even if you don’t, you’re welcome. Place could hold you and Warrl.”

“Thank you.”

“Glad it wasn’t me found that blackstaffer,” Dowsyl said. “Can’t make a right choice in a spot like that.”

“Dowsyl!” called Merayni. “I need some help here.”

The grower nodded to Kharl. “I meant it.”

“Thank you,” Kharl said again.

Dowsyl turned and made his way up the steps.

Some time passed. Kharl didn’t know how much. He heard footsteps coming down the steps. He didn’t look.

“Da… please don’t be angry at me…”

Kharl turned. He looked at the thin, tear-streaked face of his son. “We all have to do what we think is right. I did what I thought was right. You did what you thought was right. I’m angry, but I’m not angry at you for that. I hope you understand someday.”

“Da…‘

Kharl stepped forward and put his arms around Warrl. “It’s all right. It is.“

“Come… see me… please…”

“As I can, son… as I can…” Kharl stepped back.

“Are you ready, Warrl?” asked Merayni.

“Yes, Auntie.” Warrl stepped back.

“You can come to see Warrl anytime you want, Kharl,” Merayni said. “Anytime…”

Kharl just nodded.

“Until then,” she added.

Kharl just watched as the trio left the cooperage, carrying three large bundles.

The shop door shut. For a time Kharl just looked at the closed door.

Then, he stepped away from the cold forge, back toward the planer.

His eyes fell to the black staff, still where he had left it under the bench. He bent down and pulled it out. Once more, the wood felt warm, comfortable, in his hands. After studying the staff for a long moment, he leaned it against the wall. He still had barrels to do… if he ever wanted to pay the tariffs.