L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

He glanced up. Rhylla was standing just forward of the paddle wheels. Kharl walked toward the third mate.

“Ser?”

“Carpenter. How are you coming with that gaff?”

“Be done later this afternoon.” Kharl gestured toward the distant shore. “Thought we were headed to Hamor.”

“We are. The captain heard that the Suntasan went aground night before last, broke her back on the reefs of Cape Feer. So we’re headed to Biehl first. He didn’t tell anyone, not even the officers, until we were clear of Dellash.”

Kharl cocked his head. “Are we trying to get to pick up a cargo that the Suntasan would have taken?”

“It’s cargo-fine china. Captain thinks we can take their cartage. No one else knows yet.” Rhylla paused. “Some skippers know that the Suntasan went aground, and there might be some that know Captain Ceagir was the regular shipper for the china folk, but the ones who know that don’t seem to be in this part of the Eastern Ocean. Captain thought it was worth a try.”

“China’s worth that much?”

“This is very special china, for the emperor’s household. There are almost always special shipments in late fall, and they have to get to Swartheld before the turn of the year. That’s what the captain said. We might even get a bonus if it works out.”

“There any pirates around here?” Kharl’s tone was dry, not quite ironic. “I’d heard of Delapran pirates.”

“Most of them were killed or hanged.” Rhylla laughed. “The rest…not in these waters, this time of year. Pirates would be east of Biehl, looking for better pickings. Besides, there wouldn’t be many buyers for stolen china marked for the Emperor of Hamor. Pirates like goods that can’t be traced. Most thieves do.”

Kharl nodded. That was true of other malefactors, even lordly ones. Egen certainly tried to keep his deeds hidden. “Better get below and back to work.”

In the late afternoon of threeday, Kharl stood just aft of the bowsprit, looking out at the town of Biehl, wondering if he should go ashore and try to find a decent place to eat. After a time, anything tasted better than ship fare, although not too many eightdays earlier, he would not have felt that way. He smiled at that thought.

Age hung over Biehl, so much so that the carpenter wondered if it had ever been new. The stone edges of the single pier were rounded, as if every sharp corner had been worn away by time and water. Seaward from the pier was another set of gray columns and dark stones barely covered by harbor waters, the remnants of another pier. The one pier that held the Seastag jutted out into the River Behla, a narrow river that, from the marshy grass that choked both shores farther inland, had once been far larger.

Across the stone causeway that doubled as harbor wall and access road to the pier was a short row of structures-their lower levels plastered and painted a pale blue. Both plaster and paint were worn away in places, exposing the old yellow brick beneath. The upper levels of those buildings were of weathered planks buried beneath layers of paint.

A much-painted but faded sign bearing the crossed candles of a chandlery was set above the sagging porch of the building just across from the foot of the pier where the Seastag was tied. To the left of the chandlery was a cooperage, its frontage less than half that of what Kharl’s had been in Brysta. A third building bore no sign at all.

Kharl turned, trying to make out the ruins that Furwyl claimed lay on the eastern side of the river, but he could see little above the marsh grass except irregular patches of trees. The mixed odors of dead fish, mud, and salt water swirled around Kharl in the late-afternoon breeze that gusted off the blue-black water north beyond the harbor. Whitecaps topped the choppy harbor waves.

To the northwest of the pier, well beyond the harbor and the dwellings, was a small bluff less than twenty cubits higher than the water of the harbor. At the top of the bluff was a long pile of stones, from which grew bushes and occasional trees. Kharl thought that the stones might have once been a fort guarding the harbor, but it was clear that it had been generations since the fort had been used-if indeed it had been a fort at all.

“Feels like it’s dying, doesn’t it?” asked Ghart, from behind Kharl.

“The town? It does,” Kharl replied. “Did we get that china?”

“Captain says we got the china consignment, and that we’ve even got space for some clay.”

“Clay?”

“Biehl clay is the best in Candar, maybe anywhere in the world. Has been so long as anyone can remember. We can stow it just above the bilges, replace some of the ballast, and sell it in Hamor. Be loading tomorrow, setting out early the next morning.”

“Somehow…hadn’t thought you could make coins on clay.” Kharl laughed.

“You can make coins on just about anything, if you buy it cheap enough,” Ghart pointed out. “Captain’s always telling us that it matters more what price you buy at than what price you sell. You buy low enough, and you can sell anywhere at a profit. Even in Swartheld, with all the world trying to undercut you.”

“That’s if the quality’s good,” Kharl said.

Ghart grinned. “He says that, too.”

Someone cleared his throat, and Kharl turned.

“I’m headed ashore,” Tarkyn said to Kharl. “Need some ale, and anything besides ship fare. Want to join me?”

“I’d like that.” Kharl had no in-port deck watch until midday the next day, and he liked the thought of eating with Tarkyn, rather than alone. “They take our coins here?”

“Folks here will take any land’s coins, with pleasure.” Tarkyn gestured. “Coming?”

“If my coin’s good, I’m with you.”

“Have a good time, carpenters,” Ghart called, as the two headed down the gangway.

Tarkyn snorted. “Never have a good time, not one that doesn’t cost more than you’d want to pay, or more than that, but there’s always a chance for good fare.”

“Or better than ship fare,” Kharl pointed out.

“Not hard to do better ’n that.”

Kharl followed Tarkyn’s lead as the older man turned left on the causeway, and the two walked south toward the main part of the ancient town.

“Haven’t been in Biehl in years.” Tarkyn glanced at the chandlery. “Looks about the same, shabbier maybe. But it’d be hard to get much shabbier. There’s a better tavern down here, past the old square and across the way. Used to be, anyway.”

Kharl followed the older carpenter down two long blocks, past warehouses, some boarded shut and others with doors that sagged on their hinges. Nothing they passed could have been built in Kharl’s lifetime, and he wondered if some of them had even seen paint or stain in that time.

Three blocks away from the harbor, the two men reached a square of sorts, an area once paved with smooth granite, but close to half of the paving stones had been replaced with bricks or cobblestones or, in some places, with clay. In the center was an obelisk, and unlike the stones of the town, it was sharp-edged, a crisp stone monument at odds with the decay that surrounded it.

Kharl could sense that the stone had been reinforced with order, order forced into and through the very essence of the granite, an ancient order. “What’s that? Do you know?”

“Locals told me it’s as old as Biehl, maybe older, to some ancient emperor of Cyador. Maybe he came from here. Lots of old and strange things in Candar, especially in the west.” Tarkyn shrugged. “We go down that street there.”

The street to which Tarkyn pointed looked to hold structures merely old, as opposed to ancient, and most had been maintained. The Crown was a narrow building, less than twenty cubits wide, sandwiched between a felter’s and an unmarked structure that might have been a boardinghouse, or something less reputable.