L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

“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 Mallamet 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?”