L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

He looked down at the empty flask on the side of the bench.

“Da?” asked Warrl, whose eyes had been as much on the front window as on the shakes he was hollowing.

“We’re almost out of sharpening oil,” Kharl said. “I need to get some, and it will help to stretch my legs. You can watch the shop, and then you can take some time to eat when I get back.”

“I can do that.”

“Good. I don’t plan to be long.”

Kharl brushed off his garments, then, with a nod at his son, picked up the leather flask and hurried out of the cooperage into a bright sunny day, one more like midsummer than early harvest. He dodged around a well-dressed man who was studying the books in Tyrbel’s window and continued down Crafters’ Lane.

Less than a block farther west, Kharl saw Dhulat-the cabinetmaker whose shop was on the corner of Fourth Cross and Cargo. The cooper started to lift his hand in greeting to the older man, but as he did Dhulat abruptly looked down and crossed the lane, clearly not wanting to meet Kharl.

For a moment, Kharl almost stopped walking. People in Brysta were usually friendly, and he’d even bought a chest from Dhulat several years back, a modest piece to be sure, but the cabinetmaker had seemed pleased enough to sell it. So why was the cabinetmaker avoiding Kharl? Were Egen and his brothers telling everyone about Kharl, warning them not to buy from him?

As he kept walking Kharl glanced around, but he saw none of the Watch nearby, just a few crafters, some women shopping, and a laundress with her wash in a tall basket on her head. The day was hot, hotter than it had been in more than an eightday, and he blotted his forehead as he continued along the lane.

He reached Hyesal’s shop without any other incidents, passing a few crafters or assistants that he knew, and trading nods, but no words. He stepped into the apothecary shop, with its faintly acrid odor.

The angular Hyesal was behind the counter, watching as Kharl approached. He said nothing until Kharl set the empty flask on the counter. “Can’t say I’m surprised to see you, Kharl. You always did have more backbone than sense.”

“I just need a bit of that sharpening oil.” Kharl gestured to the flask.

“You need to have your head sharpened, and that doesn’t take oil. Stupidity is the wellspring of chaos.” Hyesal picked up the flask. “I’ll get your oil.” Without another word, he slipped into the back room.

His head sharpened? Kharl grimaced. Hyesal had never been known for his unwillingness to call a clipped coin, no matter who had tendered it.

The apothecary returned shortly and set the flask back on the counter. “One copper. Same as always.”

Kharl handed over the coin. “You’re sharper than I am, Hyesal. That’s why you’re the apothecary. What good would sharpening my head do?”

“Might point you out of Brysta while you still have it. Your head, that is.”

“You think-”

“Does a bull have horns? Does a winter sea storm? You wager against either, and you lose. Always. You make good barrels. Make them someplace else.” He shook his head. “I’ve said my piece. More than my piece. Do as you please.” The apothecary turned and left Kharl standing there.

Slowly, the cooper picked up the flask and headed for the door. As he stepped out of the apothecary shop and turned eastward, away from the harbor and back toward the cooperage, Kharl could feel eyes on his back-or so he thought. The feeling didn’t go away. So, just opposite the square, Kharl stopped to look at the torque on display in the goldsmith’s window. He wasn’t that interested in it, even as artistry, but he wanted to see if someone happened to be following him-or if he were imagining it. After a moment, he turned slowly, letting his eyes travel back along the lane.

A single figure in the dark blue and black of the Watch stood waiting a half a block back toward the harbor. The squarish Watchman made no secret of his interest in Kharl, and his eyes met Kharl’s as the cooper continued to scan the square, looking past the Watchman.

Kharl nodded, as if to himself, then crossed the lane to the square, his eyes falling on the section of wall where he’d first seen Jenevra. He shook his head.

“Ser! A copper for a poor lad? A copper!” A small figure in gray appeared and went to his knees in front of the cooper, totally abject. The bright eyes belied the position.

Kharl fumbled for a copper. He owed Jekat for Werwal’s business.

“Pisser Egen’s after you,” whispered Jekat. “Tellin’ everyone to order from you isn’t a good thing.” He raised his voice. “A copper, ser? Just a copper.”

Kharl fumbled out two coppers. “Why?”

“You made him look stupid…you and the scrivener…Scrivener’s got friends in high places…you don’t…”

“Here’s your copper.” Kharl extended two.

“Thank you, ser!” exclaimed the urchin loudly, adding in a lower voice, “More ’n one of his bullies watching you. You’re supposed to see one, not the other…”

“Thank you,” murmured Kharl.

“Do what we can…” murmured Jekat, before scampering away.

Kharl resumed his progress back to the shop, wondering what he could do. He knew no one outside of Brysta and the surrounding area-and there was Warrl to consider. For the moment, he could pay Sanyle to cook and help, but what would he do elsewhere? How would he get there?

The flask in his hand felt like a weight.

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 harvesttime is the slowest.” Fyngel laughed once more, producing a ledger-like 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.”