L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

“I didn’t think so.” Kharl pushed back his chair and walked to the window, letting the cool evening air flow around him. He hoped that Korlan would pick up the barrels in the morning.

Right after his early breakfast, Kharl took the broom and stepped outside the front of the cooperage to sweep the stones of the narrow sidewalk. Warrl was supposed to have done it, but the boy was already laying out the white oak shooks that Kharl would be jointing for the hogshead ordered by Captain Hagen for the Seastag . It was less trouble for Kharl to sweep than to rail at Warrl, and at least the boy was already working, unlike his older brother. Since the cooper didn’t want to be caught out front if Korlan drove his wagon up to the loading door in the rear, Kharl swept quickly.

Every few moments, Kharl stopped briefly to listen, although he doubted that the vintner would arrive before midmorning, but with Korlan, one could never tell. The air already felt hot and damp. He glanced to the east, at the barrel set on the stone slab between the cooperage and Derdan’s woolen shop, the barrel filled with damp sand for use against fires. The water barrel was more toward the harbor, past Tyrbel’s scriptorium.

He began to sweep again, trying not to sneeze. As gently as he moved the broom, dust still rose from the stones, dust from a long and dry summer. With the prevailing easterlies, Brysta was hot and damp, but seldom had much rain until late summer. So the air was moist, and the streets were dusty. Finally, he lifted the broom and turned to reenter the cooperage.

“Ahhh…”

Kharl looked up.

Tyrbel stood there, with a small smudge of ink on his jaw. “Kharl…just wanted to…last night…Sanyle.” The angular scrivener did not met the cooper’s eyes. “…asked her to deliver some fancy cards up the hill. They must have followed her back.”

“Just fortunate to be back by the loading dock. Might not have heard otherwise.”

“Some would have heard, and done nothing,” Tyrbel replied. “I owe you thanks and more.”

“You don’t owe me. Neighbors don’t look out for neighbors…who will?” Kharl smiled. “She’s a good girl.”

“Best of them all,” Tyrbel agreed. “Do you know who they were?”

Kharl shook his head, still listening for Korlan’s team and wagon. “No. Wore velvets and blades. Looked like some merchant’s spoiled brats. Had too much to drink and didn’t care who they hurt.”

“Sanyle said they drew against you.”

“Had my cudgel. Worked better.” Kharl laughed brusquely.

“I hope they were very drunk and didn’t know exactly where they were,” offered Tyrbel. “Merchants’ sons…well, some of them don’t forget. Sometimes wealth is the wellspring of chaos.”

“It was dark,” Kharl replied, glancing toward the inside of his shop.

“I won’t keep you.”

“I’m waiting for Korlan, and I don’t want him to load his barrels without leaving what’s in his purse.”

Tyrbel laughed. “I understand. It took me four eightdays to collect from him for making a copy of Emyl’s Tales .” The scrivener paused. “But I did want to thank you. Neighbors or not, most wouldn’t put themselves out.”

“Been my daughter, I’d have wanted someone to put themselves out,” Kharl said. “She’s always been thoughtful to us.”

“She is.” Tyrbel smiled. “That she is.” After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I must be going. I have to go to the Quadrant Hall.”

“Copying some records?”

“Exactly. I can’t really say who or why, you understand?”

Kharl didn’t and never had, but he nodded anyway.

“Thank you, my friend,” said Tyrbel as he turned.

Kharl lifted the broom and headed back into the shop.

Warrl looked up. “The shooks are here, Da, and there are two extra, like you said.”

Except for the two of them, the cooperage was empty.

“Good.” Kharl looked around. “Arthal?”

“I’m coming.” The lanky dark-haired youth slumped as he made his way down the stairs from above. “I’m coming.” He paused on the fourth step and rocked back and forth, until the step squeaked.

“So is year-end,” suggested Kharl, “and it well might get here before you.” He waited until his older son reached the workbench before continuing. “Smythal promised he would have the iron blanks for the hogshead last night. I need you to pick them up. Tell him I’ll stop by with the coins later today.”

“Yes, ser. What if he wants the coins now?”

“He won’t. But if he does, then come get me.”

Kharl watched for a moment as Arthal left, not quite slouching, but not exactly hastening, either. Then he turned. During Kharl’s conversation with Arthal, Warrl had laid out the hollowing knife and the round shave. The younger boy stood at the end of the main workbench.

“Have you sharpened the hollowing knife? And the planer blade?” Kharl looked at Warrl.

“I sharpened the blade the day before yesterday, Da…” The redhead looked down, not meeting his father’s eyes.

“That was the day before yesterday. Today, we have heavy oak to joint.”

“Yes, ser.”

Warrl’s tone was so resigned that Kharl had trouble not smiling in response before he replied, “The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be done, and then you can head off to Master Fonwyl’s.”

“Yes, ser.” The younger boy’s tone was even more resigned.

Kharl was not amused at Warrl’s lack of enthusiasm about his tutor and his lessons, not with the coppers they were costing Kharl.

First thing on fiveday, Kharl had opened the loading door and left it ajar, waiting as he was for a teamster he’d hired to cart the finished hogshead standing just inside the door down to the Seastag . Kharl had tried to complete the cask earlier, but he’d had to wait for Smythal to finish the iron blanks that Kharl forged into hoops, and that had meant sending Arthal twice.

The Austran trader wasn’t due to cast off until tomorrow, on sixday, but Kharl found himself glancing at the large cask and loading door again and again as he continued to plane and joint the small black oak staves for the set of fancy fifth-barrels for Yualt. He’d already commissioned the brass spigots, and he’d have to pay a silver to Cupret before eightday.

Arthal was at the other workbench, rough-shaping red oak shooks into proper staves for flour barrels, not that Kharl had any orders, but because he always had some from Wassyt, the miller, come harvest. That was good, because, fast as he made coins, it seemed as though he had to spend them almost as swiftly.

Hot damp air seeped into the shop as always in summer in Brysta. Kharl hoped it wouldn’t be too long before the winds changed, and Nordla got some rain, but the easterlies had lasted longer this summer.

The cooper blotted his forehead with the back of his forearm before pausing and readjusting the plane.

“Ge-ha!”

At the teamster’s call and the crack of a whip, Kharl set aside the plane. “Arthal! The teamster’s here. I’ll need you to help load the hogshead.”

“Yes, ser.” Arthal straightened.

The two walked back to the loading door. Kharl opened the door wide. From there Kharl watched as the teamster brought the wagon and team to a halt. Kharl knew many of the teamsters, but not the burly and bearded young man on the wagon seat. Not that he’d had a choice. A crafter put in a request at the teamsters’ hall and took what he got.

He stepped into the alley. “I’m Kharl, the cooper with the hogshead for the ocean pier.”

“Morat.” The teamster spat out onto the alley, the side of the wagon away from Kharl. “Be two coppers down to the pier-and two back if it comes to that.”