Wellspring of Chaos (29 page)

Once through the Straits of Esalia and past Summerdock, where the Seastag did not port, Hagen brought the ship onto a course to the northwest for most of the day. In late afternoon, as Kharl took a break from working on a replacement for a top gaff that had splintered, and stood near the bow, he checked the position of the sun. Then he glanced to starboard, where he could just make out the thin line of darkness that was land. From what he could tell, the ship was headed back eastward. A glass or so earlier, Kharl had felt that the ship had begun to pitch more than earlier in the day, and ahead, the swells were deeper.

He glanced up. Rhylla was standing just forward of the paddle wheels. Kharl walked toward the third mate.

“Ser?”

“Carpenter. How are you coming with that gaff?”

“Be done later this afternoon.” Kharl gestured toward the distant shore. “Thought we were headed to Hamor.”

“We are. The captain heard that the Suntasan went aground night before last, broke her back on the reefs of Cape Feer. So we’re headed to Biehl first. He didn’t tell anyone, not even the officers, until we were clear of Dellash.“

Kharl cocked his head. “Are we trying to get to pick up a cargo that the Suntasan would have taken?”

“It’s cargo—fine china. Captain thinks we can take their cartage. No one else knows yet.” Rhylla paused. “Some skippers know that the Suntasan went aground, and there might be some that know Captain Ceagir was the regular shipper for the china folk, but the ones who know that don’t seem to be in this part of the Eastern Ocean. Captain thought it was worth a try.”

“China’s worth that much?”

“This is very special china, for the emperor’s household. There are almost always special shipments in late fall, and they have to get to Swartheld before the turn of the year. That’s what the captain said. We might even get a bonus if it works out.”

“There any pirates around here?” Kharl’s tone was dry, not quite ironic. “I’d heard of Delapran pirates.”

“Most of them were killed or hanged.” Rhylla laughed. “The rest… not in these waters, this time of year. Pirates would be east of Biehl, looking for better pickings. Besides, there wouldn’t be many buyers for stolen china marked for the Emperor of Hamor. Pirates like goods that can’t be traced. Most thieves do.”

Kharl nodded. That was true of other malefactors, even lordly ones. Egen certainly tried to keep his deeds hidden. “Better get below and back to work.”

In the late afternoon of threeday, Kharl stood just aft of the bowsprit, looking out at the town of Biehl, wondering if he should go ashore and try to find a decent place to eat. After a time, anything tasted better than ship fare, although not too many eightdays earlier, he would not have felt that way. He smiled at that thought.

Age hung over Biehl, so much so that the carpenter wondered if it had ever been new. The stone edges of the single pier were rounded, as if every sharp corner had been worn away by time and water. Seaward from the pier was another set of gray columns and dark stones barely covered by harbor waters, the remnants of another pier. The one pier that held the Seastag jutted out into the River Behla, a narrow river that, from the marshy grass that choked both shores farther inland, had once been far larger.

Across the stone causeway that doubled as harbor wall and access road to the pier was a short row of structures—their lower levels plastered and painted a pale blue. Both plaster and paint were worn away in places, exposing the old yellow brick beneath. The upper levels of those buildings were of weathered planks buried beneath layers of paint.

A much-painted but faded sign bearing the crossed candles of a chandlery was set above the sagging porch of the building just across from the foot of the pier where the Seastr.g was tied. To the left of the chandlery was a cooperage, its frontage less than half that of what Kharl’s had been in Brysta. A third building bore no sign at all.

Kharl turned, trying to make out the ruins that Furwyl claimed lay on the eastern side of the river, but he could see little above the marsh grass except irregular patches of trees. The mixed odors of dead fish, mud, and salt water swirled around Kharl in the late-afternoon breeze that gusted off the blue-black water north beyond the harbor. Whitecaps topped the choppy harbor waves.

To the northwest of the pier, well beyond the harbor and the dwellings, was a small bluff less than twenty cubits higher than the water of the harbor. At the top of the bluff was a long pile of stones, from which grew bushes and occasional trees. Kharl thought that the stones might have once been a fort guarding the harbor, but it was clear that it had been generations since the fort had been used—if indeed it had been a fort at all.

“Feels like it’s dying, doesn’t it?” asked Ghart, from behind Kharl.

“The town? It does,” Kharl replied. “Did we get that china?”

“Captain says we got the china consignment, and that we’ve even got space for some clay.”

“Clay?”

“Biehl clay is the best in Candar, maybe anywhere in the world. Has been so long as anyone can remember. We can stow it just above the bilges, replace some of the ballast, and sell it in Hamor.

Be loading tomorrow, setting out early the next morning.“

“Somehow… hadn’t thought you could make coins on clay.” Kharl laughed.

“You can make coins on just about anything, if you buy it cheap enough,” Ghart pointed out. “Captain’s always telling us that it matters more what price you buy at than what price you sell. You buy low enough, and you can sell anywhere at a profit. Even in Swartheld, with all the world trying to undercut you.”

“That’s if the quality’s good,” Kharl said.

Ghart grinned. “He says that, too.”

Someone cleared his throat, and Kharl turned.

“I’m headed ashore,” Tarkyn said to Kharl. “Need some ale, and anything besides ship fare. Want to join me?”

“I’d like that.” Kharl had no in-port deck watch until midday the next day, and he liked the thought of eating with Tarkyn, rather than alone. “They take our coins here?”

“Folks here will take any land’s coins, with pleasure.” Tarkyn gestured. “Coming?”

“If my coin’s good, I’m with you.”

“Have a good time, carpenters,” Ghart called, as the two headed down the gangway.

Tarkyn snorted. “Never have a good time, not one that doesn’t cost more than you’d want to pay, or more than that, but there’s always a chance for good fare.”

“Or better than ship fare,” Kharl pointed out.

“Not hard to do better ‘n that.”

Kharl followed Tarkyn’s lead as the older man turned left on the causeway, and the two walked south toward the main part of the ancient town.

“Haven’t been in Biehl in years.” Tarkyn glanced at the chandlery. “Looks about the same, shabbier maybe. But it’d be hard to get much shabbier. There’s a better tavern down here, past the old square and across the way. Used to be, anyway.”

Kharl followed the older carpenter down two long blocks, past warehouses, some boarded shut and others with doors that sagged on their hinges. Nothing they passed could have been built in Kharl’s lifetime, and he wondered if some of them had even seen paint or stain in that time.

Three blocks away from the harbor, the two men reached a square of sorts, an area once paved with smooth granite, but close to half of the paving stones had been replaced with bricks or cobblestones or, in some places, with clay. In the center was an obelisk, and unlike the stones of the town, it was sharp-edged, a crisp stone monument at odds with the decay that surrounded it.

Kharl could sense that the stone had been reinforced with order, order forced into and through the very essence of the granite, an ancient order. “What’s that? Do you know?”

“Locals told me it’s as old as Biehl, maybe older, to some ancient emperor of Cyador. Maybe he came from here. Lots of old and strange things in Candar, especially in the west.” Tarkyn shrugged. “We go down that street there.”

The street to which Tarkyn pointed looked to hold structures merely old, as opposed to ancient, and most had been maintained. The Crown was a narrow building, less than twenty cubits wide, sandwiched between a felter’s and an unmarked structure that might have been a boardinghouse, or something less reputable.

A rotund woman in blue met them just inside the door. “The two of you?”

It took Kharl a moment to understand her words.

Tarkyn had no such difficulty and replied immediately. “Two, for supper.”

Despite the narrowness of the place—and Kharl wasn’t sure what to call it, because it was neither cafe nor tavern—it was deep enough to hold a good ten tables in the public room. Most of the tables were taken, and the woman seated them at a smaller table along the wall.

“Hope it’s as good as last time,” said Tarkyn.

“When was last time?”

“Maybe ten… eleven years back.” The older carpenter smiled. “Things don’t change so much here.”

A younger woman appeared. She looked to the older carpenter.

“A good dark ale,” Tarkyn said.

“Lager. Pale ale if you don’t have it,” added Kharl.

The woman nodded, then said, “Tonight we have poached sea trout, fresh caught, with pasneti noodles. We also have boar steak with fried apples and baked golden yams. We also have net noodles with the fish stew, and chops with fried potatoes. Everything is five coppers.”

“The chops, not overdone,” replied Tarkyn.

“The boar steak,” Kharl added, glad he had brought a silver or two with his coppers.

“Thank you.” With a smile, the woman stepped away from them and turned toward the rear of the public room, presumably toward a kitchen.

“Good food costs more.” Tarkyn stretched and took a deep breath. “True anywhere you go.”

“You must know the good places to eat in every port.”

“Some don’t have any.” Tarkyn glanced up.

The server returned with two tall crystal mugs, setting the dark one before the older man, and the lighter brew before Kharl. “Three coppers, each, sers.”

Kharl extended four. He thought Tarkyn did as well. She smiled and slipped away.

In the momentary silence, Kharl caught some words from the nearest table.

“… haven’t seen them before…”

“… sailors from that ship just ported…”

“… not sailors… must be officers, mates…”

Kharl found it strange to be considered an officer, even a subofficer.

“You got a feel for wood, don’t you?” Tarkyn took a long pull of the dark ale. “Ah… tastes good. Nothing better ‘n good dark ale.”

Kharl thought the dark brews chewy, much preferring pale ale or lager. “Guess I’ve always had a feel for woods. Liked to work with white or black oak best. Red oak… just didn’t feel the same.”

“What about spruce… pine?”

“Depends on the tree.”

“Doesn’t everything?” Tarkyn laughed. “No tree’s the same as another, no animal, no person, no ship…”

“Is that why you’ve stayed on the Seastag7”

“Couldn’t find a better captain, not anywhere. Be a good lord, too, were he minded. Top carpenter, that’s as good as I’ll do. So… the ship matters most.” Tarkyn paused as the server slid a large light blue platter in front of him. Another one went before Kharl.

Kharl set out a silver, as did the older man.

In a moment, there were two stacks of five coppers, one before each man, although the coppers were of differing sizes and thicknesses.

After just a few bites, Kharl decided that the boar steak was one of the better meals he’d had, perhaps the best since the one he’d had in Lydiar, and the fried apples were perfect, just between crisp and chewy, without being heavy.

“You’re enjoying the grub?”

“Very much.”

“Thought you would. You should have been a ship’s carpenter from the first. Might even have made it out of the fo’c‘s’le early on.”

“Have you always been a ship’s carpenter?”

“Me? No. Started out as a cabinetmaker’s apprentice in Kaerloch— little place not too far from Bruel. Didn’t like all the detailing, the fussi-ness. Finally ran away after a couple of years. Worked as a sawboy in a mill. Didn’t care much for that, either…” Tarkyn took another pull of the dark ale.

Kharl was content to eat and listen.

The voyage from Biehl to Hamor was long—two and a half eightdays. Kharl kept busy at whatever tasks were set before him. Some of that was internal work on bulkheads and decks, anywhere that water had managed to damage wood. He even repaired one of the cover panels on the port paddle wheel. When he was not working, sleeping, or eating, he was reading or—far less often—trying to exercise his still-limited order-skills. By the time the western coast of Hamor was in sight as a low dark line off the starboard bow, Kharl had read through every page of The Basis of Order. He could not say that he understood everything he had read.

He hadn’t attempted to turn any more cold iron into black iron. He had tried using the ideas in the book to speed the healing of several minor cuts and scrapes he had received, and they did seem to heal more quickly, but whether that was because of his efforts, he still wasn’t certain. The only thing that had been certain is that the healing had not been instantaneous—and the book had said that it wasn’t supposed to be.

Within the last few days of the voyage, the air had grown warmer and damper, and the heavy long-sleeved gray carpenter’s shirt had gotten uncomfortably warm. That had forced Kharl to purchase a short-sleeved gray shirt from the ship’s slop chest at more than he’d wished to spend, but the shirt was well-made and far more comfortable than the heavier winter shirt.

As the Seastag continued southeast, the coastline of Hamor resolved itself into a line of whitish cliffs that rose to the south over calm and light blue waters. A good three kays seaward from those waters was a line of foaming water where waves broke over a reef.

Kharl stood at the bow on the starboard side. East of the Seastag but farther out to sea, a dark-hulled vessel without rigging steamed westward. As it drew nearer, Kharl could see the white metallic finish of gun turrets, two long guns to a turret, two turrets forward, and one aft.

“That’s a Hamorian light cruiser,” offered Hagen from behind Kharl. “Newer class. Three turrets. Older ones just have two, one fore and one aft.”

Kharl could sense worry behind the captain’s words. “Do they attack merchanters?”

“Not that I know of. But the emperor’s been building up his fleet— all with bigger guns.”

“Never saw a ship like that. Lord West has two ships with single turrets fore and aft.” Lord West might have had more, for all Kharl knew, but he’d seen two.

“No one else has ships with that kind of power, except Recluce, and no one knows exactly what the black mages have.” Hagen snorted. “No one else has the ability to mine and forge that much metal. They say the ironworks at Luba produce half the world’s iron. The whole city is a forge, and you can walk anywhere, anytime, in the light of the furnaces. I don’t know as I believe all that—but that’s where all the engines and plates for the Hamorian fleet come from.” He glanced to the south, nodding. “They do everything big in Hamor.”

Kharl followed the captain’s gaze. At the point of a peninsula abeam of the ship was a tall stone tower with a shimmering dome. Kharl studied the tower.

“That’s the northwest light tower,” offered Hagen. “At night, there’s a beam of light that sweeps across the waters. More wrecks than you can count on the Heartbreak Reef there.”

“Even with the light?”

“There’s fog and storms… and sometimes at night brigands will light fires farther west and use canvas to mimic the light. Hamorian fleet patrols the waters, but they can’t get inshore, not with the reefs. Sometimes they turn their guns on the ship-breakers. They’ve been known to a few. Turned a lot of rock into gravel in the process.“

Kharl pondered that. Guns that could fire four kays over the reefs and hit the shore?

Hagen cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t be taking that staff ashore, not in Swartheld. Folk here don’t take kindly to Recluce. Never have. One place that doesn’t fear the blacks. Don’t think Recluce even sends black-staffers here any longer.”

“Do you know why?” asked Kharl.

“Something way back… the mage who founded Recluce… they say he destroyed a Hamorian war fleet with weather magery, except for a few ships that he refitted into his own fleet… and that he refused to pay the emperor a single copper…”

“A single mage went out and attacked the Hamorian fleet?”

“Doubtful mind you’ve got, cooper.” Hagen laughed. “Wasn’t like that. They and the white mages of Fairven were trying to squash Recluce before it got started. This mage—Creslin, that was his name—destroyed the invasion fleet. Emperors don’t like that.”

“That must have happened a long time ago, and they’re still upset?”

“No one in Hamor ever forgets anything,” the captain replied dryly. “They don’t learn much new, but they don’t forget. That’s why some captains aren’t welcome here. Tread lightly onshore.” Hagen laughed again and turned back toward the poop deck.

Kharl looked back toward the stone tower and the white cliffs. Were most people like that, never forgetting, and holding hard to hatred for generations, so long that most of the rest of the world had long since forgotten the cause?