L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

“Those that did not and will not are likely not to be trusted. They avoid your work because it embodies order.”

Kharl frowned, considering what the magister had said. It was true that those who bought his work and kept buying it over the years were those he knew were honest and trustworthy. He’d never looked at it that way, though. Was that why he had been having more and more trouble selling his barrels? Because there were fewer and fewer trustworthy souls in Brysta?

“It’s a most disconcerting thought, is it not?” asked the magister. “That those who cannot be trusted do not trust those who produce truly ordered work.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way before.”

“If you wish to survive and prosper, you will need to think more along those lines,” suggested Trelyn. “You will become more aligned with order, and unless your thoughts become equally attuned, your troubles will continue.”

“My thoughts…”

“Thoughts always precede action, yours or the thoughts of another. If you attune yourself to order, you will find that life will be more rewarding.”

“Not easier, though?”

“No,” admitted the magister. “Life is seldom easy for those who embody order, although it would seem it should be. But then, what seems is not always what is.”

“Why me?”

The magister smiled, warmly, then shrugged. “That I do not know. I do know that those who work with wood often understand order better, as do smiths. You do some of each, and that may be part of the answer. It may be that you are a cooper because that feels right to you.”

Kharl’s lips quirked. “What do you suggest?”

“Look beyond what you think you see. Learn new things. Reconsider old knowledge. Trust what you feel.” Trelyn paused, then drew a book from his tunic. “This might also help.”

Kharl took the book, opened the cover, then smiled and handed it back. “I did keep her book. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I thought you might have, but I wanted to make sure you had a copy. You may have to read it several times-or more. It sometimes helps to skip through it and read those passages that make the most sense at the moment. Dorrin wrote it most logically, but most of us are not that logical.”

Somehow, those words relaxed Kharl. “Thank you.” He glanced toward the door.

“Also,” added Trelyn, “you can find those who understand order everywhere, not just on Recluce. In time, you might be one that others turn to.”

“I’ve been having trouble just surviving.” Kharl paused, and added, “Until an eightday ago, anyway.”

“That was when you left your old life, I would guess, although sometimes the effects last for a long time. We often create part of our trouble by not wanting to accept who and what we are. You should try to understand yourself, as well as the world.” Trelyn smiled again. “Those are really all I can offer in terms of words of wisdom, and I’m not certain that they work for everyone. I do hope they help you.” Trelyn moved toward the door.

“Thank you.” Kharl followed the magister.

“When you discover yourself, truly, you can return here, if you so wish,” Trelyn added, as Kharl stepped through the door and out into the fall sunlight.

“Don’t know as I’d want to, then,” Kharl replied.

“That is often the way. For it, the world is a better place. Our hopes go with you.”

As Kharl walked back down the wide and straight stone street, through a city far cleaner and better-smelling than Brysta, he pondered the magister’s words, especially those about people not wanting to accept who they were. Hadn’t he always accepted he would be a cooper? The magister had told him bluntly that he was more than that-but had not said what he was, only that Kharl had to discover it, and that it would be hard. Hard? Kharl laughed to himself. He’d already discovered that.

Kharl looked up, sensing something. On the other side of the street were two figures in black, one man and one woman. Both wore silver insignia on their collars, one that looked like a cog crossed with a staff. Like the magister, they held the unseen blackness, if not so deeply or warmly.

The man glanced sharply at Kharl, but the woman leaned toward him and whispered something. Then she looked to Kharl and smiled, saying, “Order always be with you.”

What could he say back? After a moment, he replied with the only thing that came to mind, “And with you.”

The two both nodded and continued onward, past Kharl and up the hill.

Kharl wondered why the woman had gone out of her way to offer the strange greeting, and what she had said to her companion.

Rather than going straight back to the Seastag, Kharl looked for somewhere to eat. He still had silvers left, and a handful of coppers, and after the ship’s food, he wanted a good meal, perhaps the first one in a season.

The first inn-the Copper Kettle-he approached, while looking neat enough, and smelling clean enough, did not appeal to him, for reasons he could not have explained. He walked westward along a slightly narrower street, although one still broad by the standards of Brysta, and stopped abruptly at a smaller place, more like a tavern really. He went inside. The public room was not large, holding fewer than ten tables, with only two occupied, but that wasn’t exactly unexpected in late afternoon.

A tall woman, broad, but not fat, wearing a dark green shirt and trousers with a spotless white apron, smiled at him. “Any table that’s free.”

Kharl moved toward a table in a corner, one that was bright from the late-afternoon light slanting through the unshuttered windows, but not painfully so. He leaned the staff into the corner, trying to keep it out of the way, and settled into the armless chair that allowed him to survey the room. In one way, there was nothing at all remarkable-nine round tables and chairs, wooden floors, white-plastered walls, bronze lamps in brackets on the walls. In another, it was all astounding. The tables were well crafted of red oak, covered in a hard finish, and they were clean. The same was true of the chairs. The floors were of wide golden oak planks, also finished with a smooth sort of varnish, Kharl judged, and without a speck of dirt or dust on them. The windows had glass, and the glass had been kept spotless. He’d never seen what might have been called a common eatery so clean.

“Do you know what you want?” asked the white-haired woman who had greeted him. Her eyes flickered to the staff, then back to Kharl.

“I don’t even know what you have,” he admitted.

“Not everything we usually do. Let’s see. White fish or red fish, battered and fried. Always have a fish chowder. Also, we’ve got a quarter fowl, and chops. Chops might be a bit tough. All comes with mashed potatoes and fried pearapples, except the chowder, of course. Just bread. Fish is two coppers, fowl and chops three. Ale or wine is two, redberry one.”

“What’s the best?”

“Today…the white fish.”

“I’ll try it, with an ale.” Kharl fumbled in his belt wallet.

“Pay when I bring the ale.” She smiled and slipped away.

Kharl just watched her go, admiring her grace, even though he knew she was years older than he was.

She returned with the ale almost immediately, and Kharl placed the silver on the table. “Need some change.”

“Where are you headed?” she asked as she deftly swept up the silver, then looked strangely at the Brystan coin, then at Kharl, before shrugging. “Silver’s silver.”

“It is,” Kharl agreed. “Some things don’t change. Lydiar, I think.”

“Better there than Hamor.” She smiled politely. “Do you know when you leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You’ll have good weather.” With another smile she was gone.