L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

A slender older woman greeted him. “We only serve ale and wine with meals.” Her voice was polite, level, and carried a tone of slight amusement.

“I was looking for a good meal, not for drinks.” He paused. “Brystan silver good here?”

“We take anyone’s coins, so long as they’re not clipped.” She turned, gesturing for him to follow her to a square table set beside a brick wall. There were two chairs, unpadded, but with arms. Kharl took the one that let him survey the rest of the café, a space no more than ten cubits wide and twenty long, with but eleven tables of various sizes. Only three of them were occupied, one with a couple, a second large circular table with a family of five around it, and a third with two men in the corner.

“You’re not local.”

“No. I’m a ship’s carpenter.”

“How’d you get up here?”

“I walked, past the large houses and the ruins…”

“Most sailors don’t get out of lower Lydiar.”

“I’m not most sailors,” he replied with a smile.

“Did you see the bill of fare outside? I can tell you what’s on it, if you’d like.”

“I think I got most of it,” Kharl replied, “except for the langostinos. What are they?”

“You’re definitely not most sailors.” The woman smiled. “They’re a Lydian lobster, with only one large claw. Very tasty.”

“Which is better-the langostinos or the burhka with the black mushrooms?”

The server cocked her head to the side. “That’s a hard one to answer. The burhka’s very spicy, very hot to the taste, but rich, and the mushrooms are at their peak. The langostinos are more delicate in taste, but very filling.”

“I’ll try the langostinos, and whatever ale or lager you think will go best with them.”

“The lager’s better; the red ale would overpower them.”

Kharl smiled. “Thank you.”

She left the table and slipped through a narrow archway, returning almost immediately with a large glass mug, filled to the top with a pale liquid, which she set on the table.

“I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will.” Kharl took a sip, wondering, but after swallowing that small amount, found himself nodding. The lager was excellent, with a smooth bite that wasn’t in the slightest bitter. He had the feeling that he might regret the evening, if only because he clearly couldn’t afford to eat and drink such fare often-if ever again.

He put that thought behind him as he took another sip of the lager and looked toward the doorway, where a tall man had appeared. The hostess greeted him, and the two exchanged words that Kharl strained to hear.

“…we’ll be full in a bit…”

“…don’t look that crowded…”

“…have a number of people coming in within the glass…”

“…couldn’t fit us in?”

“…sorry, but it just isn’t possible. The chef had promised…”

The tall man scowled, then turned and left. There was…something…about the man, but he departed so suddenly that Kharl couldn’t exactly figure out what it might have been.

Kharl took a slightly larger swallow of the lager, enjoying the taste, and the warmth of the café, feeling more relaxed than he had in days.

Before long, or so it seemed, the server returned with a large platter, on which were the langostinos, steamed in their shells, with a dark brown rice, and a butter cream sauce, and a small, crusty, freshly baked loaf of white bread.

“There you are.”

“It looks and smells good. Should I pay now?” Kharl asked apologetically.

“You can pay when you leave. That’s our way. If you honestly don’t like the food, you don’t pay.”

“You’re very trusting.”

She laughed. “We’re not trusting at all.”

Kharl understood, abruptly. “The man at the door?”

“He wouldn’t have been happy here, and it wouldn’t have been good for him or us. Can I get you anything else?”

“No. This looks like more than enough.”

“Let me know if you need anything.” She slipped away from Kharl and moved to the table with the family.

For a moment, Kharl just reflected. Somehow, the woman knew who could be trusted and who would enjoy the place, and just didn’t let others in. Her remark about not being trusting at all suggested that there were other defenses, but he didn’t see any. With a shrug, he began to eat.

He ate every morsel, and finished the lager down to the last drop.

“You liked it, I see.” The server smiled broadly as she appeared at his table.

“The best meal I’ve eaten in years,” Kharl confessed.

“Thank you. I’ll tell Hasif. He likes it when people appreciate his cooking.” The woman smiled. “You’re welcome here anytime.”

“Thank you.” Kharl put a silver and a copper on the table. “I enjoyed it. Greatly.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Kharl rose and made his way from the café, still smiling. The meal and the lager had cost eight coppers and, with the three coppers he left for the server, had been almost twice what he’d paid in Recluce, and he’d thought that high. Then, he had to admit, what he’d just eaten was without a doubt the best food he’d ever put in his mouth.

He walked from the café and out into the darkness, although it seemed more like twilight to him, for some reason. He turned and noted the sign on the far side for the first time-Travelers’ Rest Inn and Café. A peaceful place, he decided, and very ordered and restful. As he walked downhill through the dark streets of lower Lydiar, he kept his eyes and ears open, but he’d either picked a good street, or brigands and thieves had decided the night was not for them.

About half the shore leave section had returned when Kharl finally made his way back aboard the Seastag . He was undressing and folding his tunic when Argan walked slowly through the hatch, clearly trying to control each step. An overpowering floral scent clung to him, almost sickening to Kharl.

“Where’d you go?” asked Argan.

“Walked around, got something to eat, walked back.”

“No girls? No ale?”

“Lager and no girls,” Kharl replied with a smile.

“Half’s better than none,” mumbled Argan, turning toward his own bunk.

Kharl smiled faintly. Those kinds of girls he didn’t need. For some reason, the images of Sanyle-and then of Jekat, or Jeka-crossed his mind. He shook his head. He was too old for them, but he hoped they were doing well.

He slipped into his bunk and into sleep.

The next day Kharl was hard at work on deck duties, replacing weakened posts in the starboard quarter railing of the Seastag, before smoothing, then varnishing it. He had finished the job and been released for the day a glass before supper.

He’d thought about the ruins he’d seen the day before, with the massive stone blocks clearly split in two and left to weather for ages. It did not appear the site had ever been quarried for stones, but perhaps the abundance of timber to the north along the low hills lining the Great North Bay had made using wood more attractive. Certainly, except for the larger dwellings at the top of the bluff, almost all the dwellings and buildings in Lydiar were of wood, and most looked to be decades old, if not older. While he had not felt any of the whiteness he had with the wizard in Brysta, the dead feeling of the soil told him that some great wizardry had to have been involved. Nothing grew around the ruins still. That might have been the reason why no one had tried to quarry them. Perhaps in ages past people had tried and suffered, even died, but that was something about which Kharl could only guess.

Since he still had close to a glass before supper, he slipped The Basis of Order from his pack in his bin and carried it with him up onto the deck. He found a space beside the railing where the late and fading light from the setting sun illuminated the pages and began to read, not really trying to puzzle out each phrase, but just letting the words flow over and through him.