Wellspring of Chaos (4 page)

When Kharl came down to the shop early the next morning, he found that Charee had been there earlier, and that the blackstaffer was propped into a sitting position, sipping hot cider, the coverlet across her legs and midsection. The bruise on her cheek, one he hadn’t noticed before, had begun to show a yellowish shade along with the purple.

“How are you doing, young woman?”

“My name is Jenevra. You are… Kharl?”

“That’s right. Kharl.”

“I am better, but I am still seeing two of you at times. My head still aches.”

“You’ll need to rest for a time, I think.”

“I did not need this,” Jenevra said. “I should have been more careful.”

With that, Kharl silently agreed, as he readjusted the blade on the planer. Then he tested the foot pedal, and moved the carry-cart with the red oak shooks next to the planer where he could easily reach the shooks. He glanced toward the stairs, but neither Warrl nor Arthal had yet appeared. He snorted quietly to himself.

Jenevra watched, without saying a word, just occasionally sipping the cooling cider.

“Why do you blackstaffers come to Brysta?” Kharl asked, moving back to the planer.

“Many go to Candar and some to Hamor. A few go to Austra,” she replied. “We must go somewhere.”

Kharl didn’t understand that at all, and his face must have shown it, even to Jenevra’s blurred vision.

“If we do not accept the tenets of order, as set forth in the book of order, and judged by the Council, and by the Institute, then we must undertake a dangergeld—that’s a trip away from Recluce to learn who we are and where we should fit in the world.”

“Fancy way of throwing you out if you don’t agree, sounds like to me,” Kharl replied. “Don’t go along, and out you go.”

“Sometimes it is, and sometimes people return with greater understanding.”

“I’d wager not many return.”

For a time, Jenevra was silent. Finally, she spoke. “That may be true. There are always those in any town or city who do not fit in. Is it not kinder to allow them a chance, rather than executing or enslaving them?”

“They might not fit anywhere, and they may end up being killed elsewhere. People anywhere don’t much care for those who are different.”

“You don’t think much of people, do you?” she asked gently.

“I know what I see. For every kind act, there’s one or more not so kind. People talk kindness. Don’t always act that way.”

“I suppose kindness and unkindness must balance, like order and chaos.”

“You don’t sound so certain about that,” Kharl said.

“I’m too young to be certain.”

Kharl laughed. “Most young-‘uns are certain. Only when we get older that we see that naught’s as sure as we thought.”

Jenevra’s eyes moved to the right, looking past Kharl.

He nodded to her and turned to see Arthal almost tiptoeing down the steps. “Arthal! I was wondering when you’d be coming down. You can take the hollowing knife and smooth the inner side of the staves on the ones I’ve already shaped.”

“Ah… I’d thought I’d… well… Derket was saying that they might be looking for a carpenter’s apprentice at the ship works. It pays a half silver an eightday.”

“You think you’d find that work more pleasing than being a mere cooper?”

“Da… the shop’s good for but one of us, and Warrl’s better at it already than I am.” Arthal did not quite meet his father’s gaze.

Kharl waited for a moment, then nodded. “Mayhap you ought to go see, then.”

“You’ll let me?”

“Arthal, I can’t make you be a cooper. Go and see.”

The young man looked at Kharl, then said, “They might not want me.”

“You won’t know that, will you, ‘less you ask.”

“No, ser.”

“Then go and ask. But when you’re done, come on back here, unless they offer you a position right then.”

“Yes, ser.” Arthal nodded and was gone almost before his words died away.

“You don’t think they’ll take him, do you?” asked Jenevra.

“I don’t know. Know it’s harder to get a position than he thinks, but he’s got more skill than he wants to admit.” Kharl picked up the first of the red oak shooks, hoping that someone else would come in before long with an order for more barrels. Senstad had ordered twenty barrels for harvesttime, and that was good, except it would be four to six eightdays before Kharl could collect. Korlan had asked for another thirty, but, again, not until the end of harvest, and that was a good five eightdays away. Kharl would have to start soon, but he didn’t have enough of the seasoned oak billets for all of them, and that meant more golds to Vetrad—as Vetrad had told Arthal.

Aryl had been in the shop three times, talking about barrels for his apples, but he’d wanted them for almost less than the cost of the oak and iron.

Warrl had long since gone to his lessons, and Charee had left with her stitchery for Fyona, and Jenevra had drifted into a dozing sleep by the time Kharl had finished turning the shooks into rough staves. He checked the hollowing knife and began to work on smoothing and fine-shaping the staves. He’d finished the staves for one barrel and was working on the second, when he saw Charee coming back into the shop.

His consort slipped up to him, and said in a whisper, “Kharl… you’ve got to get her out of here.”

“Her name’s Jenevra.”

“I don’t care what her name is,” Charee replied. “Fyona told me that Mallamet was going to put a complaint before the Crafters’ Council that you’re using the blackstaffer’s magic on your barrels.”

“That’s stupid. The poor girl can’t even see straight yet. Mallamet’s a poor excuse for a cooper who just wants to cause me trouble.”

“That well may be… but if the Council decides you’re using order-magery in support of a craft…”

“How about tomorrow morning?” Kharl said quietly. “You could walk her down to Father Jorum’s, and she could rest there for the day.” If Jenevra weren’t much better in the morning, perhaps he could persuade Charee to let her stay another day. He didn’t want to think about what might happen after that day.

“Why not now?”

“She can’t even sit up for long without getting dizzy.”

“First thing tomorrow,” Charee said. “I’ll make sure Father Jorum will be around, but I won’t let him know why. But it will be first thing in the morning.”

“After breakfast,” Kharl said.

“After breakfast, but no later.” Charee headed for the stairs, carrying another bundle of fabric and thread.

Kharl looked at the dozing blackstaffer, then slowly lifted the hollowing knife once more.

In the early afternoon, somewhat to Kharl’s surprise, a lanky man ambled into the cooperage, an unpleasant odor clinging to him, for all of his neat and clean appearance, although his leather trousers bore stains that had clearly resisted all efforts at fullering. His heavy boots thudded on the floor.

Kharl set down the drawing knife and went to meet him.

“You Kharl?”

“That I am. How might I help you?”

“I’m looking for slack cooperage that’s close to tight. Heard you were the best at that.” The man gestured at the range of barrels on display. “Those look to be tight.”

“They are, but I’ve just finished a few slack barrels out of red oak. They’re here in the back.”

“Be pleased to see them.”

The two men walked to the back of the cooperage, past Arthal, who was slowly, as always, hollowing a red oak stave, and Jenevra, who was almost invisible against the wall and had drifted back into sleep.

“Good slack work… you see?” Kharl gestured to the red oak barrel, open-topped, but otherwise completed.

“Might I handle it?”

Kharl nodded.

The other man inspected the barrel carefully, paying particular attention to the joints and the iron hoops. Finally, he straightened. “How much?”

“A silver a barrel.”

“Mallamet sells them for eight coppers.”

“He does. They’re not as tight.”

“For ten, nine silvers,” offered the man.

“Nine and five coppers,” countered Kharl.

“Nine and four,” offered the other.

“Done.”

“You have three here, I see. When could you have the other seven?”

“I have eight ready now. The others are on the other side.”

“Better yet. Five now, and five in two eightdays? I’ll pay you six silvers and four now, and the rest when I pick up the others.”

“That would be good.” Kharl paused. “I must apologize, ser, but since we have not done business before…”

The man laughed. “We have not. I had thought you might have guessed. I’m Werwal.”

“The renderer? I have heard of you.”

“And I you. That is why I am here.” Werwal counted out the coins. “My wagon will be here shortly for the five barrels.”

“They’ll be ready.”

With a smile, Werwal bowed slightly and left.

Kharl was smiling as well. The copper he’d given Jekat had been well spent, even if that had not been his intention. He’d have to remember to slip another to the cheerful urchin. Jekat had probably given him more business than his own sons.

The cooper shook his head, sadly, and headed back toward the staves he’d been fine-drawing.

Arthal coughed. “Da… he smelled.”

“That’s not surprising. He’s a renderer.”

“Shouldn’t let him in…”

“He bought ten barrels, Arthal. He can’t help the smell. That’s what he does. Someone has to do it.”

“Stinks…”

Arthal’s mutter was so low that Kharl decided to ignore it as he went back to work. If he corrected Arthal on every word his son said, these days, he reflected, he’d do little enough coopering and Arthal would get even more angry than he always seemed to be.

By late afternoon, Werwal’s man Sikal had arrived with a small— and smelly—wagon and collected the barrels, and Arthal had gone with Charee to the market square. Kharl was getting the forge ready to set some hoops when the door to the cooperage opened.

He did not know the man who stepped into the shop, but the cooper stopped pumping the bellows in the small forge and stepped forward past the planer. He skirted Jenevra, who looked up silently, and moved to the sharp-featured figure in the rich brown tunic.

“Might I help you, ser?” asked Kharl, trying to determine what sort of merchant the man might be.

“You might be Kharl, the cooper?” The man’s muddy brown eyes flicked up to the racks of billets, then toward the stairs in the rear, before settling on Kharl.

“That I am. And you might be?”

“Let us just say that I have an interest in barrels. Special barrels.” A faint smile appeared on the slender but muscular man’s lips.

Kharl smelled scent on the man, more than even a wealthy man should use. Lavender, he thought. “Large or small, slack or tight?”

“I was thinking of large slack barrels, for winter transport of seasonal game, and I understand such barrels could hold ice above the game, that would keep the game cold.”

“That’s possible, but only for an eightday in harvest. In winter, the ice would keep for a season, or longer.”

“I would be interested in a… large barrel.” The man gestured toward the hogshead in the window. “Could you make one a third smaller than the largest there?”

“That is possible.”

“Good.” The man in brown flashed a smile, then slipped around Kharl and studied the shop, moving toward the tool rack. His eyes took in the tools, implement by implement, then the forge and the open hearth that held the fire pot. His eyes passed over the blackstaffer on the pallet against the wall and returned to Kharl. “You have a well-laid-out cooperage.”

“Thank you. When would you like the hogshead?”

“I will have to think about that. When I return, we’ll talk about the details. I needed to know whether it was possible.” He bowed, then turned.

Kharl watched as the other left. He shook his head. For all his words, the man hadn’t felt like someone who bought barrels. The lavender scent suggested a bravo of some sort, but Kharl hadn’t the faintest idea why a bravo would find a cooperage of interest. It wasn’t as though Kharl had large stocks of coins stashed away.

“That man,” said Jenevra, “he was evil.”

“Is that something blackstaffers can tell?” Kharl asked.

“Not always,” she replied. “I wouldn’t be here if we could. But that one, he carries the white of chaos around him like a cloak.”

“He’s a white mage?”

“No. It’s not the same. His is the chaos of murder and destruction.”

Why would one such as that, if Jenevra were indeed correct, be visiting a cooper? He hadn’t even really looked at the blackstaffer, or at Kharl. “You think he’s an assassin? Or a thief?”

Jenevra shrugged, then winced. “He carries chaos. He could be an assassin or an armsman, or he could be an outland merchant who sails close to the wind. Or he could be a thief, or anything else. He is evil, whatever else he may be.”

“That’s not much help.” Kharl paused. “You speak well. You speak too well for a peasant’s daughter or for someone who works at hard labor.”

“I do? That may be because the Brethren want us prepared when we travel elsewhere.”

“The Brethren?”

“The Council of Recluce. They decide how we are prepared. That is, if your family can pay for the training.”

“Yours could,” Kharl said.

“It was difficult, but they did not wish me ill prepared.” She laughed, ironically, a hint of bitterness behind the words. “Much good it has done me—or them.”

“You were trained with the staff?”

“I was. Some are trained with blades, or axes, or other weapons for self-protection.”

“Are all women trained with the staff?”

“No. It is… what weapons are in accord with what we are.”

“In accord?” The woman’s words were more than a little puzzling. How could a weapon be in accord with a person?

“Every person grows—or comes to be ordered—in a certain fashion. Edged weapons make some uneasy with them. So a staff is better. It is not good to fight your weapon when you are trying to defend yourself.”

Although her explanation was strange, the last words made sense to Kharl. He certainly could not fight his tools if he wanted to make good barrels, and he had no trouble seeing that it could apply to weapons as well. While he would have liked to talk longer, talking would not help get the barrels done, and those needed doing so that, if other business arrived, he would still have the slack barrels for harvesttime.

Kharl nodded, then turned back to the forge. He still needed to finish shaping and riveting the hoops for the remaining oak barrels that Werwal had ordered and for the ones that Wassyt the miller would be wanting, sooner or later. If the harvest were really good, Rensan might even buy a few if Mallamet couldn’t supply them—which was certainly likely, since Mallamet was neither that good a cooper nor that productive. He was cheap, though, Kharl had to admit.

The cooper also hoped that Jenevra felt much better in the morning. If she did not… Kharl pushed that thought away. He had worries enough.