Wellspring of Chaos (3 page)

From the angle of the light slanting through the front windows of the cooperage, Kharl could tell it was getting on to late afternoon. He checked the brass spigot he’d set into the first barrel. He’d augured the hole almost perfectly, so that he only needed the slightest bit of cordage between the wood and the brass flange and pipe. The second one was almost as good. He could start sealing the inside of the barrels in the morning. He didn’t like doing barrels that required sealing, but Yualt had insisted on only the lightest of toasting and sealant afterward, saying that even the tightest grained oak would absorb some aspect of the contents and thus change them. Since Kharl was neither alchemist nor apothecary, and since the alchemist had refused to tell Kharl what he was putting in the fancy barrel, there wasn’t much the cooper could say—especially since Yualt was paying a premium that Kharl needed.

He checked the first barrel before him a last time, running his fingers slowly over the inside of the finely finished staves, nodding in satisfaction, before carrying it over to the finishing bench against the south rear wall. Then he returned to the turning bench and did the same with the second. The heads for both barrels were also laid out— single round sections, rather than sections of quartersawn wood doweled in place.

With a smile, he eased over to the quarter barrel that held sealant.

The smile vanished, and he looked up. “Arthal!”

There was no answer, not that he expected one. After a moment, he walked to the steps and climbed up, and peered into the main room, where Charee was seated at her sewing table, working on the embroidery that she did for Fyona, the seamstress fancied by most of the consorts of the wealthier merchants.

“Where’s Arthal?” Kharl asked his consort.

“He said you were finished with him, and he had to meet some friends.”

Kharl pursed his lips tightly for a long moment. “I said he was free if he’d done everything. He did today. But he didn’t yesterday, and he didn’t tell me. I’m out of sealant, and he was supposed to get two buckets from Hyesal. He said he’d taken care of it, and he didn’t, and that means… oh… never mind…” The cooper started to close the door, then turned back to Charee. “If anyone should come by, I’ll be back shortly. I’m going over to Hyesal’s to get the sealant Arthal didn’t. I’ll leave the door open so you can hear if anyone comes in. Or if Warrl gets back from his lessons.”

“Don’t be angry, Kharl. Arthal’s still young.”

“He’s near-on double-eight, and I don’t like being misled.” Kharl snorted, then headed down the steps. “I should have asked him direct… have to ask ‘em every little thing… thinks he’s so bright…” he muttered to himself as he crossed the shop.

Kharl left by the front door. Outside, on Crafters’ Lane, he heard a low rumble and glanced up. Clouds were massing over the Eastern Ocean to the west of the harbor, and the wind had finally shifted from out of the east to the west, bringing with it an actual hint of rain, not just soggy air, and the chance that the long-overdue and welcome late-summer rains would finally arrive.

He glanced at Tyrbel’s small display window, which held several books, including a red leather-bound Book of Godly Prayer—a work that Tyrbel had done on his own as an offering to his faith. Kharl shook his head, thinking about the one-god believers. How could anyone believe that everything from the Great Western Ocean and beyond the Heavens to the Rational Stars could have been created by one god? Or that the same god knew everything everywhere, down to the smallest beetle? Or more important, from Kharl’s viewpoint, that such a god cared equally for all men, women, and children? Given what he saw on the streets of Brysta, Kharl didn’t put much faith in such a god.

He laughed to himself at the last thought. He didn’t put any faith at all in such a god. Tyrbel did. With a rueful smile, he kept walking.

Two blocks down toward the harbor, he came to the upper market square, although most of the peddlers and vendors had already packed up their wares and left. A one-handed beggar was seated on the low stone wall that surrounded the near-empty square. Topped with redstone with rounded edges, the wall was a good place for sitting and resting.

“A copper, ser, just a copper for a poor fellow.” The bearded beggar, in a tattered gray tunic and trousers, held his cap upside down, lifting it toward Kharl.

The cooper ignored him and kept walking. “Just a copper, ser. Just a copper…”

Another thirty cubits down Crafters’ Lane, also seated on the wall, was a young woman, with short-cropped dark hair and wearing a tan tunic and trousers. Her skin was pale, but unblemished. Her boots were sturdy and brown, and beside her was a canvas pack, against which rested a shimmering black staff. She was small enough that her boots did not touch the cobblestones beneath the wall.

As Kharl neared her, he took in the blackstaffer, then nodded politely. She looked up. “Good day to you, ser.” Her brown eyes smiled with her mouth.

“And you as well,” Kharl replied, almost in spite of himself. But her expression had been warm and friendly on a cloudy afternoon, and not asking for anything. He found himself smiling as he left the square behind and made his way the last hundred cubits to Hyesal’s apothecary shop, clearly marked with the crossed pestles above the door.

Kharl entered and stepped up to the long counter, time-aged golden oak, on which were arrayed various health tinctures. He looked around the small front room, but didn’t see the apothecary. “Hyesal?” There was no answer. “Hyesal!”

“Just a moment!” came the querulous reply. “If you’re someone I know, just wait. If you’re someone I don’t, you can take that chance, too.” Kharl grinned and stood there, waiting, his eyes going over the bottles lined up at the back of the counter, taking in the labels—Morning
Tonic, Digestive Tincture, Rheumatism Salve ...

The small but angular apothecary appeared behind the counter, as if by magery. “Well, Kharl… what is it that won’t wait but a moment?”

“Sealant, the one you make for the good barrels. Arthal was supposed to come by—”

“Never did. I would have had it waiting here for you.”

“Do you have any ready?”

“I can’t say as I do, Kharl, and it’s not something I can slop together while you stand there. ‘Sides, it’s got to stand overnight.”

Kharl could feel his anger rising, but Hyesal hadn’t created the problem. Arthal had. So he held his tongue.

“Tell you what. After I finish this tincture, I’ll get to work on it, and you can pick it up first thing in the morning.”

“I’d appreciate that. I would. I’ve been working on these fancy fifth-barrels for Yualt… Arthal… he told me he’d come by…”

“And you never forgot anything when you were young and starstruck over some lass?”

“He doesn’t have enough brains to be starstruck at the moment.” Kharl snorted.

Hyesal laughed. “Be ready in the morning.” The apothecary turned and left Kharl standing at the counter.

With a shrug, the cooper stepped back and left the shop. In most cities, he would have gotten sealant from an alchemist, but not in Brysta, not that it mattered to Kharl so long as the sealant worked. What worked, that was what mattered, not which craft produced it.

Outside, he could smell the dampness of the rain that had already begun to fall on the ocean beyond the breakwaters, and he lengthened his stride as he hurried back up the gentle incline of Crafters’ Lane toward the square and his own shop.

The blackstaffer and the beggar had left the square, but a small figure in gray accosted Kharl as he passed the empty stone sitting wall. “Master Kharl! How be the best cooper in Brysta?”

“Jekat… how’s the most flattering urchin in Brysta?”

“Not bad, Master Kharl. ‘Course a copper or two’d help.” A grin crossed the towhead’s grimy face.

“Coppers always help.” The cooper grinned. “You know anyone who needs barrels?”

“I heard the renderer—Werwal—he’s going to be needing some barrels ‘fore long. I told Sikal—that’s his man—he ought to see you. Werwal won’t talk to me, but Sikal will.”

Kharl slipped a copper from his purse. “Take this, you worthless urchin.” He couldn’t help smiling.

“Thank you, ser, and I’ll not be telling no one ‘bout your kindness.” Jekat skipped away across the square.

Kharl was less than half a block from the shop when the rain began to fall—fat drops that splattered against everything. He began to hurry, but the shoulders of his gray tunic were black with water by the time he dashed into the shop.

“Is that you, Kharl?” called Charee from up the stairs.

“Sure as life.” Kharl raised his voice to make sure Charee could hear him above the heavy rain pelting down on the roof. “Almost made it back before it started raining. Arthal never ordered the sealant. Won’t be ready before tomorrow. Where’s Warrl?”

“I sent him to Fyona’s with the embroidery. He came in right after you left.“

Kharl stopped by the workbench, then turned as Arthal ran inside, his tunic and trousers darkened with rain. Arthal stopped as he saw his father. “I’m not too happy with you, young fellow.”

“You’re never happy with me, Da.” Arthal did not meet Kharl’s eyes. “You told me, yesterday, that you’d taken care of all the chores. I just got back from Hyesal’s, and you never ordered the sealant. You told me you’d done that.”

“I said I’d do it. I was going down there—” Arthal stepped back. “When? Next end-day? Whenever it met your fancy?”

“It’s not like that.”

“How is it like?” asked Kharl. “I could have used the sealant today. It would have been ready today. You’re almost a double-eight, and I shouldn’t have to follow up on everything you do.”

“You said you wouldn’t finish those today.” Arthal’s voice was low. “That isn’t the blade’s edge, Arthal.” Kharl’s tone dropped into resignation. “You led me to believe that you’d ordered the sealant. That’s deception.”

Arthal did not answer. “Isn’t that deception?”

“Yes, ser. I’m sorry, ser.”

“You get a reputation for that, and no one will trust you to do anything. Don’t you understand that? A man’s worth is his reputation. Never forget that.”

“I said I was sorry, Da.”

Kharl held in a sigh. “Go on upstairs and see if your mother needs any help or any coal for the stove.”

Arthal trudged past his father and started up the stairs. “… worse than Father Jorum…”

The words were not supposed to reach Kharl.

“What did you say?” snapped the cooper.

“Nothing, ser. I was just telling myself that you and Father Jorum feel the same way.”

“That’s about the only thing we agree on,” Kharl snorted.

Once Arthal shut the door to the upstairs, Kharl walked back to the front window, looking out into the still-heavy rain. “Children,” he muttered to himself, “so sure of themselves… so stupid.”

Carrying two covered buckets of sealant, Kharl left Hyesal’s so early in the morning that few people were out on the lane. He had placed a broom in Arthal’s hands before he had departed the shop, and told his older son to sweep the stones before the shop clear of standing water and mud from the rain of the night before. He’d even remembered to make it clear to his son that Arthal was to sweep gently, so that mud and water did not splatter up on the glass of the display window.

Because of the weight of the sealant, Kharl stopped at the uphill side of the square to readjust his grip on the buckets. Early as it was, there were no stalls or carts or peddlers set up. After a moment’s respite, he hurried up Crafters’ Lane toward his shop. As he passed the short ser-viceway between Fourth Cross and Fifth, a narrow passage little more than four cubits wide, he slowed.

Had he heard someone? Was there someone lying in the shadows where he could not see? Moaning? In early morning? He shook his head and continued the last hundred cubits to the shop. But his thoughts drifted back—who could be in the serviceway?

Once he reached the shop, he noted that the stones outside the door had indeed been swept clean and were already dry—and that there was no mud on the bricks or glass of the display window. After opening the door, he entered the cooperage and lowered both buckets to the wooden floor.

Abruptly, he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him. On the lane, he headed back down toward the serviceway.

“… a fool… that’s what you are… stupid…” But despite his own words, he stepped into the darkness of the serviceway, checking carefully to make sure that no ruffians or cutpurses might be lingering. For a moment, he saw nothing. Then his eyes made out a bundle against the brick wall, a long bundle.

“… ooo…” An arm twitched.

Kharl glanced around, but the serviceway remained empty except for him and whoever lay near the wall. He bent down, and, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make out a slender figure—and the end of a smooth black staff. The figure was that of the young woman blackstaffer. Blood and mud splattered the tannish clothes, which had been partly ripped away from her for all too obvious purposes.

Kharl glanced around again, then took a deep breath, and bent down. He pulled her torn cloak back across her exposed body, then eased the nearly limp figure into his arms. Her back felt humped, but he realized that the lumpiness was her pack. He managed to grasp the staff, which, despite the cold damp stones and the mud, felt warm to his touch. Then he lurched to his feet and began to walk out of the serviceway.

Both Arthal and Charee were standing inside the open door to the shop as he carried the young woman through the doorway. Warrl stood farther back, his eyes darting from his father back to his mother.

“Aryl was here. He said he might—” Charee broke off her words. “What have you there?”

“A girl… young woman. She was attacked and beaten. I heard her moaning in the serviceway.” Kharl looked for somewhere to put her down. His eyes went to the stairs at the rear of the shop.

Charee’s eyes went to the section of shimmering black staff that extended beyond the figure Kharl held. She stepped back. “She’s one of those. She’s one of those blackstaffers from Recluce. I won’t have her in my house.“

Kharl repressed a sigh and bit back a retort. “Then pull out that apprentice’s pallet by the rear bench. You don’t have to have her upstairs.”

“Why… how could you?”

“I was supposed to leave her there, where she could have been attacked again or killed? Or died from the rain and cold?”

Charee sighed. “No. Suppose you couldn’t do that.” There was only the slightest hint of emphasis on the word you.

“Isn’t Father Jorum always saying that his god wants us to help strangers and those who cannot help themselves?“ asked Kharl.

Arthal and Warrl exchanged quick glances.

“Put her on the pallet,” Charee said. “I’ll get a blanket to put under her head and some damp cloths to clean away the blood.”

Kharl waited as his consort pulled out the apprentice’s pallet, which had not been used in years, and wiped it off with a cloth. Then he eased the woman—little more than a girl, he thought, and certainly slender and light as one—onto the pallet. Then he put the staff against the wall.

The cloak slipped slightly.

Charee’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh…”

“I said she’d been attacked. She might need a dry cover of some sort.”

“That’d be best. I’ll be back in a moment. Warrl, you come with me!” Charee drew herself up and headed for the stairs, bustling up them in a way that conveyed offended dignity. Warrl followed.

“Ohhhh…” The young woman’s eyes opened for a moment, then closed.

Arthal looked closely at the uncovered woman’s exposed thigh, then away, almost guiltily, Kharl thought.

“What do you know about this?” Kharl partly lifted the woman and eased the pack off her shoulders, lowering her as gently as he could. Then he placed the pack next to the wall beside the black staff.

“Do you know who did it?” He straightened and looked at Arthal.

“No, ser.”

Kharl continued to stare at his son.

“Some of the fellows, the ones who work in the carpentry shop on the piers, they were saying that she was really good-looking, and they’d like to get her alone… but that was all I heard.”

“They said a lot more, but nothing about hurting her?” pressed Kharl. “Or did they—”

“No, ser. They didn’t say anything like that. In fact, Derket said that she could be real dangerous. He once saw a woman from Recluce with a staff take down three of Lord North’s guards…”

Kharl had the feeling Arthal was telling the truth, and some of the tenseness he felt lessened.

Charee reappeared, carrying warm cloths and a thin brown coverlet. “You two… Don’t you have some fancy barrels to finish, Kharl?”

The cooper nodded and stepped back. “You can bring those buckets over to the finishing bench, Arthal.”

“Yes, Da.”

After leaving the injured girl to Charee’s ministrations, Kharl turned to his workbench. There, he thinned, then stirred the sealant gently before he began to apply it to the black oak fifth-barrels. He could hear Charee murmuring.

“… don’t care much… blackstaffers… sending women… shouldn’t come to this… Now… just take it easy, dear…”

“Where…?”

“You’re safe now. You’re at the cooper’s. Kharl found you in the ser-viceway… You’d been hurt… just rest.” Charee looked across the shop at Kharl. “I’ll be getting her some water.”

Kharl decided against mentioning ale, not when they were short themselves. “I’m not going anywhere.”

As Charee headed up the steps once more, Arthal cleared his throat.

“Ah… Da?”

“Oh… Arthal. You can get out some more shooks—the red oak ones—and you’ll have to use the ladder because they’re in the upper front section of the racks. I’ll need you to sharpen the knives, the shave, and the blade in the planer. After I put one coat on the fine fifth-barrels, then we’ll work on those shooks while the barrels are drying.”

Charee reappeared with a chipped mug. She went to the prostrate woman and held the water to her lips. “Just a few sips at first. That’s it…“

Kharl took out the finish brush and dipped it into the sealant, deftly but slowly coating the interior of the barrel, something he would not have done for a vintner’s barrel, but how and whether a barrel needed sealing depended on what the final use was, and when an alchemist like Yualt wanted a sealed black oak barrel with spigots, Kharl provided the best he could, even if he had no exact idea what Yualt intended to store in it.

He’d almost finished the first barrel when Charee stepped up to his shoulder, and whispered, “She’s asleep. Got a knot on the back of her head. She’s still seeing two instead of one. Say you should keep ‘em awake, but I couldn’t.”

“We can only do what we can,” Kharl pointed out.

“Beasts…” muttered Charee. “She shouldn’t be going around like that, but… no excuse to knock around anyone that way.”

“After I finish the barrels, I’ll send Arthal off to tell the Watch.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Kharl. The Watch can do nothing. There

was a scrap of velvet in her hand. Who wears velvet? You think they’ll find anyone? And then all of Brysta will know you’ve been harboring a blackstaffer. You think that will help business?“

Kharl knew she was right. “What color velvet?”

“Doesn’t matter.” After a moment, Charee added, “Dark blue, almost black.”

“I won’t tell the Watch.”

“See that you don’t, and I’ll be telling Arthal and Warrl to say nothing. The sooner she’s well and out of here, the happier I’ll be.”

Kharl already knew that. The fact that Charee didn’t want to say anything was another indication of how worried his consort was.

After Charee went back upstairs to work on the piecework for Fyona, Kharl motioned to Arthal.

“Yes, Da?” Arthal stepped away from the stacked shooks. “I got down enough for two barrels, and finished sharpening the planer blade and clamped it back in place.”

Kharl didn’t point out that Arthal had been done for some time. “You need to run some errands. Smythal, first. We need the iron blanks for four flour barrels.”

“He’ll want something.”

Kharl took five coppers from his purse and handed them to Arthal. “Then go out to the mill and see what the timber looks like. Don’t talk to Vetrad, just see if his racks, especially the oak racks, are full or empty. And make sure that the billets in our section have been turned. If he asks what you want, say that you were checking the billets, then beg some scrap oak and tell him you need it for detailing practice.”

Arthal nodded.

“Before you go, your mother wants a word with you.”

The youth frowned.

“She told me she wanted to talk to you. Now, go, and don’t dawdle, but your mother first.”

“Yes, ser.”

After Arthal went upstairs, then came down and left, Kharl finished sealing the first barrel, then the second. As he wiped the brush as clean as he could, then dipped it into the small container of solvent, he became conscious that the blackstaffer had awakened and was looking at him.

He left the brush in the open solvent jar and turned.

“What are you doing?” The words were fluent, but strangely accented.

Kharl glanced over to the pallet where the young woman lay, her head propped up slightly on an old blanket that Charee must have provided. “I’m finishing a fancy fifth-barrel.” He paused. “How are you feeling?”

“My head is splitting. It looks like there are two of you sometimes. Most of my body hurts. They weren’t gentle.”

Kharl looked around the shop, but, for the moment, no one else was there. “Do you know who they were?”

“I don’t know anyone here. I just arrived two days ago. I’d left the tavern, and there were two men. I’d never seen them. They wore… their clothes were fancier…”

“Dark velvet… mayhap?”

“Their tunics were well cut, and they both had blades. But… I was ready for them. I didn’t see the third one, and he hit me in the head with something… from behind…” She swallowed. “Thirsty…” She reached for the old chipped mug Charee had left. Her hands trembled as she lifted it and drank.

Kharl could see thin lines of wetness along her cheeks, but he said nothing.

After several small swallows, she set down the mug, using both hands, and lay back. Her eyes closed.

Kharl watched for a moment, then finished cleaning the brush. He moved to the workbench where he checked the settings on the planer. He watched the blackstaffer as he began to pump the foot pedal, but she did not stir, despite the whirring of the planer when he guided the first red oak shook into position to rough-shape it into a stave. He was halfway through the staves for the third flour barrel when he could see the young woman began to wake again, but she said nothing, and he continued to work.

He had almost finished another set of staves when Charee came down the steps with a chamber pot, looking long at Kharl. The cooper finished shaping the stave he was working on and stopped pumping the foot pedal. He stepped back and walked to the front of the shop, then outside.

Standing before the window, taking in the breeze from the harbor, he still couldn’t understand why the young swells had beaten the young woman so badly. Was it just because she had resisted their advances, or because she was a blackstaffer? He wondered if it had been the same pair that had tried to force themselves on young Sanyle. If it had been, they were truly a bad lot, and if it hadn’t been, there were all too many rotten young swells around. Kharl didn’t like either possibility, not that there was much he could do.