L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

“Get Gharan. I won’t be a moment.”

After a long look at the cooper, Amyla stepped back, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Gharan appeared instantly. “Kharl…” He looked down the alley, then back at the cooper.

“There’s no one out here. Not now. You’ve stood up for me, and you’ve been honest,” Kharl said. “I’m leaving Brysta, but I have a favor to ask-not for me.”

Gharan looked from Kharl to Jeka, quizzically.

“Jekat isn’t Jekat, exactly. She’s Jeka, and an orphan. She’s also a good weaver.” Kharl fumbled at the pouch around his neck and under his undertunic, then handed three silvers to Gharan. “I’ll pay you to try her as a helper or an apprentice for two eightdays. You like what she does, then you keep her on. You don’t, at least try to find her a place.”

Gharan looked to Jeka again. “Where are you from?”

“Sagana.”

“Why didn’t you stay there?”

“I couldn’t. Hunat had three sons and a daughter, and the tariff farmer took everything when Ma died, wanted to indenture me to a pleasure house.”

Gharan winced, then looked at Kharl. “Two eightdays’ trial. There is a chance.”

“Say she’s a distant cousin.” Kharl turned to Jeka. “You stay here now. You don’t need anything back there.” He handed her two silvers. “These are for decent clothes for you.” He straightened. “I’d better go.”

He stepped back, leaving Jeka standing there with Gharan, then ducked back along the alley, almost at a run, before anyone could say anything. He did not slow down until he was several blocks away. He forced himself not to look back.

He reached the pier where the Seastag was docked just after sunset. He stopped to study the area around the ship, but saw no Watchmen. He slipped off the ragged cloak and rolled it up, slipping it next to an unused bollard, then straightened up and walked toward the Austran vessel.

The crewman at the top of the gangway watched as Kharl approached.

The cooper stopped at the foot of gangway. “I’m Kharl. Captain Hagen is expecting me…” He wasn’t sure what else to say.

“He told me. You’re to come aboard and wait here on the quarterdeck.”

Kharl walked up the gangway and stepped down onto the deck planks, although he saw nothing that resembled a quarterdeck.

The sailor on watch looked strangely at the ironbound staff.

Kharl did not offer to explain.

The sailor took a tin whistle and piped something. Shortly, Hagen appeared with a muscular and blocky man who looked to be about Kharl’s age.

Hagen smiled as he saw Kharl. “You look somewhat better than this afternoon.” He turned to the other man. “Furwyl…we’re payin’ a debt and getting some help. Kharl here’s a cooper. Lost his consort and his family, then his cooperage to the tariff farmer. Done a lot of good work for us in the past. Working his way to Austra, as assistant to the carpenter. Doesn’t do rigging, but anything else you need him for.”

Furwyl smiled. “He’s a mite big to put up there.”

“Furwyl is first mate, number two,” Hagen said to Kharl. “You answer him and any of the other mates, like they were me. Mates are the ones with the vests, or the jackets with the stripes on the sleeves.”

“Yes, ser.”

“I’ll need a moment more with Kharl, Furwyl. Then you can get him squared away in the fo’c’s’le and take him down to the carpenter. I already told Tarkyn.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Oh, Furwyl…I think we’d better change the shore leave while we’re here. It’s too late for tonight, but from now on, I want the crew to go in pairs. Anyone who leaves alone, or returns alone, loses a silver. There’s something going on. There’s a renegade wizard loose-killed a white mage, one serving Lord West’s youngest son. We don’t want anyone tied up with that.”

“The crew won’t like that.”

“Better that than no leave. We don’t want to lose crew, and they don’t want to end up dead or left here, either.”

“Yes, ser.” Furwyl stepped away, moving toward the bow along the pierside railing.

Hagen turned his attention on Kharl. “I made a quick trip to your cooperage. Someone else is there. He said he bought it at a tariff auction because you abandoned it. Why?”

“To stay alive,” Kharl replied. “I stopped Lord West’s son from forcing himself on my neighbor’s daughter, and he had my Charee killed. He had the tariff farmer raise my levy to twelve golds, and had an assassin kill my neighbor because he testified for me before the justicers…”

Hagen winced. “I thought it might be something like that. You stay on board and out of sight when the port inspectors are around.”

“I can do that.”

“And you do whatever you’re told by the mates, by Tarkyn-he’s the carpenter-or by me.”

“Yes, ser.”

Hagen beckoned. “Furwyl…you can take him now.”

As Kharl followed the first mate, Furwyl looked at the cooper. “You’ve made some of our hogsheads and barrels?”

“Yes, ser. Some of them.”

“Wouldn’t hurt Tarkyn to have some help. It’s been a rough fall. In here.” Furwyl gestured to the open hatchway on the starboard side, leading into the forecastle.

Kharl had to duck as he entered the passageway, dimly lit by a single lamp in a bulkhead bracket. A closed hatch was on the right, an open hatch straight ahead.

Furwyl gestured to the closed hatch. “Women’s crew quarters. Off-limits at all times. You’ll be in the main section forward. Even have an extra bunk or so.”

Most of the bunk spaces were empty, except for three. In two, the sailors were sleeping. The third sailor looked at the mate and Kharl.

“Kharl’s the assistant to the carpenter,” Furwyl explained.

The sailor nodded and rolled over.

The bunk spaces were about four cubits long, two high, and two deep, set against the hull. Each was painted white, and there was a thin mattress with a single blanket on each. Between each set of bunks were two open spaces with nets.

The mate pointed to the last bunk on the port side. “That one’ll be yours. Your gear goes in the bin at the foot of your bunk. Have to lash that staff away down in the carpenter shop.”

The bin was certainly large enough to hold Kharl’s pack, but as he looked around the triangular space, he could see why the staff would not fit anywhere. He stepped forward and put his pack in the bin, then tied the net in place.

Furwyl turned, expecting Kharl to follow. The cooper did, back outside, then into the passageway on the starboard side, and down a ladder one level, and forward into a narrow space where a sailor in gray sat on a stool carving something out of what looked to be a white bone. He looked up, but did not rise.

“Tarkyn,” the first mate said, “this is Kharl. The captain said he’d told you.”

“Didn’t ask me, ser. Told me.” The carpenter was a good decade older than Kharl, grizzled, and white-haired, and he wore a gray shirt, not either tunic or undertunic, and matching gray trousers. He surveyed Kharl. “Least he’s no youngster.”

Furwyl nodded to Kharl. “I’ll leave you two.” He looked to Tarkyn. “Captain said you could store his staff here. It won’t fit in the fo’c’s’le. Hope he doesn’t need it, but we will be sailing offshore of Renklaar.”

“We’ll find a place.”

Furwyl left.

Tarkyn looked at the staff. “You from Recluce?”

“No. The staff came from a blackstaffer. It’s useful in strange places.”

“You can rack it there.” Tarkyn pointed at the overhead wood bin that stretched aft.

Kharl eased the staff into the long wood bin on one side, carefully rearranging two timbers so that it fit snugly.