L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

There was a long silence.

“…tariffs are twenty golds on the cotton, the Brystan apples, and the tin ingots.”

“That’s twice what they were last year,” Hagen pointed out, his voice indifferent.

“That’s what they are.”

“They are what they are, and I’ll report them to the buyers.”

“…seeing as you didn’t know…”

“Whatever they are…we report them. And you’ll give me a receipt for that amount.”

“Eleven golds.” The words were nearly spit out.

“We’re always happy to pay what is levied by the lord of the land,” Hagen said cheerfully. “We want everyone to know what we paid and to whom.”

The voices faded as steps on the deck above indicated that the two men had moved away from the forecastle hatch above. Kharl waited several moments before climbing up, then going out on the main deck. He stopped for a moment and looked to the east and north. Ruzor sat on the east side of the Phroan River, underneath the cliffs serving as the western ramparts against the high desert that extended westward from the Little Easthorns. It was an old port town, and despite being located on the northeast edge of a large natural bay, had but a single long stone pier for oceangoing vessels. Farther seaward was a long stone breakwater, with a squarish gray stone tower fortress at its terminus. Under a clear sky and a sun that shed little heat, the Seastag was tied between the set of bollards farthest out into the harbor.

Kharl headed for the watch locker, where he replaced the cudgel and secured the locker. Turning slowly, he watched as Hagen handed a leather bag to a bearded and bulky man wearing a dark blue winter jacket, its collar trimmed with golden fur. The bearded man took the pouch, bowed slightly, and walked down the gangway with stiff and jerky steps. His steps lengthened once he was on the pier, but they were still abrupt and forced.

Kharl eased toward Ghart, who had the in-port deck watch until noon.

“…not a happy man, ser,” the second said to Hagen.

“That kind never is. There won’t be any shore leave, but tell the crew we’ll make that up in Southport. I’m going below. Have to tell the engineer to keep some coals hot in the firebox.”

“Yes, ser.”

As Hagen neared the carpenter second, he nodded.

“Ser.” Kharl returned the nod.

“How are those ribs?”

“Better every day.”

“Good to hear that.” Hagen stepped past Kharl and across the deck, before heading through the hatch to his cabin.

“Ser.” Kharl addressed Ghart, who remained beside the end of the gangway. “I fixed the grip on the cudgel and replaced it in the weapons locker.” He handed over the heavy bronze key.

“That’s good. No shore leave, and that’ll mean your watches will be quiet. ’Less that customs’ weasel gets the local lancers riled up.”

“Was that who the captain was talking to when I came topside? He didn’t look pleased.”

“He wasn’t. Tried to inflate the tariff, pocket the difference. Weasel. Surprised you couldn’t smell him from across the deck.” Ghart shook his head. “The Prefect rules Kyphros with folk like that, and he won’t be keeping it long.”

“I don’t know,” mused Kharl. “You’d think so, but…”

“Could be,” replied Ghart. “Folks are always fearing change.” He glanced back along the pier, but the customs enumerator had disappeared.

“They’re always afraid change will make things worse.” Kharl chuckled ruefully. “For most folks, it does.”

“You’re saying that things never change,” Ghart said. “’Cause the worse they get, the more folk fear they’ll get even worse.”

“Until they know they can’t get worse…”

“You’re a cheerful sort today, carpenter.”

Kharl offered a rueful smile. “Experience.”

“Don’t think I want to know. Seen enough I’d rather not see again.” Ghart turned to look at the long wagon being driven down the pier toward the Seastag . “Need to get the off-loading crew. Looks like the cotton factor.”

Kharl slipped away to the railing near the bow. From there, he looked over the old town once more, taking in the ancient gray stone buildings and those newer dwellings, few as they were, with white plaster walls farther westward on the narrow bluff.

Ghart’s words echoed through his thoughts, and Kharl wondered just what it might take to get people to want to change a poor ruler, or if they feared change so much that no ruler would ever be changed except by death or conquest.

Kharl looked down at the pier, and then out at Ruzor. A glass had passed since he had taken the deck watch, and the cotton factor’s wagons had come, been loaded, and departed. Two long and heavy wagons remained on the pier, and the deck crew was finishing the off-loading of tin ingots. Kharl walked slowly in a circle, around the quarterdeck-that ill-defined area on the main deck immediately inboard of the head of the gangway down to the pier.

The late-afternoon wind had picked up, and the sun had dropped behind the bluffs to the west of Ruzor so that the Seastag and the pier sat in shadow, chilled further by the wind out of the northeast. Glad that he had kept his winter jacket and was wearing it over the carpenters’ grays, Kharl stopped pacing and stood by the railing, looking down and across at the metal factor’s men placing the tin ingots in the second wagon. The only movements on the pier were those of the loaders, and the only ones Kharl could see on the Seastag were the winch crew, although he knew some of the deckhands were down in the hold loading the heavy canvas slings.

“Last ingots!” came the call from the hold.

“Last load,” Furwyl relayed from where he stood on the forward section of the poop.

The metal factor, a solid figure in a heavy brown work jacket, raised his arm in acknowledgment. The heavy sling rose out of the hold and then swung out to the pier and down onto the stone beside the wagon. The cotton had been loaded directly into the wagons, but the ingots were not. Was that because they were so much heavier that the wrong placement on the wagon could bend or snap an axle? By the time the dock loaders had placed the last ingots on the wagon, the boom was secured in its stowed position and the deck crew was folding up the sling and replacing the hatch cover.

“Winch and deck crew, you can knock off.” Bemyr’s voice cut through the afternoon.

“For what?” mumbled someone. “Nowhere to go.”

“You heard the captain. No shore leave here. More shore leave in Southport. It’s warmer there, anyway.”

“Yeah…”

“…except the women…”

“You couldn’t get a woman here, either, Sonlat.”

“…and the ale’s flat…flat as the women…”

“Men aren’t any better,” cracked one of the women riggers.

A series of laughs followed as the men and the two muscular women drifted into smaller groups.

Kharl turned his attention back to the now-empty pier, a long stretch of gray stone, tinged with pink in some places and the green of algae in others. The only other vessel at the pier was an old fishing schooner. The sunlight falling on the harbor waters to the south and east of the Seastag suggested that sunset was still a glass or so away.

“Quiet so far, carpenter?” asked Furwyl, easing up to the quarterdeck.

“Yes, ser.”

“I’ll be checking the manifests with the captain. Let us know if you see anything strange.”

“Yes, ser.”

As the first crossed the deck, Kharl glanced at the cudgel set against the railing forward of the gangway, then back to the pier. He looked farther west, toward the town. Was that someone on the harbor road? He scanned the pier and harbor, but his eyes kept going back to the road, and before too long he could see a rider moving at a quick trot toward the squarish heavy-timbered building that held the portmaster and the customs enumerator. The traveler neared the port building and tied his mount outside.