L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

Kharl understood that. He just hadn’t thought that powerful lords and landholders would behave in the same fashion as crafters, although, upon reflection, he could see there wasn’t any reason why they wouldn’t.

“You had thought lords might speak up?” asked Lyras.

“I had considered it, but not for long.”

“They speak out for the truth less than crafters, for they have more to lose, and little to gain from the truth. That’s why no one trusts them, and they trust each other even less.”

“It’s a wonder that anyone speaks the truth,” Kharl said.

“And when they do, examine their words closely.” Lyras stood. “It’s getting close to sunset, and you’d best be heading back. The parts of Valmurl north of the refit yards aren’t the best in full night, even with your sight.”

How did Lyras know about his night sight? Or was that something that even minor mages had? Kharl stood and set the empty mug on a side table. “Thank you. Might I come back when I’ve had a chance to consider what you’ve said?”

“I’d not be stopping you.” Lyras opened the cottage door for Kharl.

“Until then.” Kharl nodded as he left the stoop.

He walked quickly down the path to the road, then turned southward, trying to sort out everything he had heard over the afternoon. He certainly wanted to try out some of the exercises and tests Lyras had suggested, if only to see what he might be able to do.

And he had promised Hagen to pass on what he had learned, little as it seemed.

The next morning was sunny, but the air felt damper, and Kharl could see clouds just above the horizon to the northeast. Since he had promised to report to Hagen on what he had learned from Lyras, Kharl found the captain even before he went to the shed to work with Tarkyn.

Hagen listened as Kharl reported on what Lyras had said. When Kharl had finished, Hagen tilted his head, not quite nodding, then tugged on his earlobe. “Lord Estloch had told me about the personal guards, but I don’t think he wanted to believe Ilteron had hired so many. As for Malcor, that I can believe. He comes from the old line.”

Kharl didn’t know anything about the old line and decided not to ask. “And no one, not one lord or factor, said a word?”

“Oh, doubtless they’re all telling each other now that they knew it all along and that they each had told Lord Estloch in confidence, but that for reasons of his own, Lord Estloch chose not to act. By sunset, every one of them will believe it.”

Kharl thought he understood better why Hagen preferred the sea to the Great House in Valmurl.

“You aren’t that surprised, now, are you?” asked Hagen.

“No, ser. I’d have to say that I’d hoped for better, but I didn’t expect it.”

Hagen smiled, sadly. “That’s a good precept. Hope and work for better, but don’t expect it. Are you going to see Lyras again?”

“I’d thought to, ser, but not for a while. Wouldn’t do any good right now.” Kharl wasn’t sure that another visit would help, not until he’d had a chance to try out some of what the mage had suggested, at least. He also wondered about the mysterious references to the staff.

“That’s probably for the best. When you do, let me know if you find out anything else.”

“Yes, ser. I’ll be heading back to the shed now.”

Hagen just nodded, his thoughts clearly turning elsewhere.

Kharl was the first in the shed. He’d fired up the old stove and was setting up the lathe when Tarkyn arrived, closing the door behind him.

“So…what’d you find out from Lyras?” asked Tarkyn. “Didn’t want to ask last night, not till you talked to the captain and not with other ears around.”

“Ilteron has some white mages, and it’s likely that someone named Malcor killed Lord Estloch.”

“Malcor…name’s familiar. Don’t know why.”

“I’d never heard of him, but the captain had. Said he was out of the old line.”

“Oh…him. His father was the out-of-consort son of Lord Estloch’s uncle. The uncle had but daughters, and couldn’t pass on the title. That’s how Estloch got it.”

Kharl thought he understood, not that it made sense to him. A son was a son; a daughter was a daughter. Both were children. For a moment, the images of Arthal and Warrl flashed to mind, and he swallowed, wishing that he could have done more for them…somehow. But there wasn’t much else that he could do. Not at the moment.

“Anything else? That you can say?”

“There wasn’t much else. Lyras talked about why the Emperor of Hamor didn’t send his best white wizards to Austra.”

“That’s trouble.”

“And Ilteron has more personal guards than anyone knew. That was about it.”

“Wager that’s more than most folks knew. Captain pleased?”

“He seemed to know most of it, except for Malcor. He’s worried about something.”

“’Course he’s worried. He’s trying to advise a lord who’s barely more than a boy, and that lord’s going to be attacked by his brother who’s being supported by the Emperor of Hamor…I’d worry, too.”

So would Kharl. Left unspoken was the understanding that Hagen was so closely linked to Estloch and Ghrant that if Ilteron triumphed, Hagen would lose his ships or even his life if he didn’t flee Austra.

“You about ready with that lathe?” asked Tarkyn.

Furwyl had added another project for the carpenters-a second weapons locker beside the ladder to the poop deck-and he’d said Hagen wanted it finished in the next few days.

“Second weapons locker, along with everything else,” Kharl said, half to himself, as he made the final adjustments to the lathe settings. “That’s not good…”

“These days, not much is,” countered Tarkyn.

Kharl couldn’t say much to that.

By the end of the day, when he left the carpenter shed, Kharl still had questions swirling through his head. The clouds had moved in from the northeast by midafternoon, and a fine cold rain filtered out of a dark gray sky.

He’d really been too busy to think in any depth about what Lyras had said, but the questions hadn’t gone away. Although Kharl had not tried it, not having a forge that he could use while not being watched, he thought, just from his earlier efforts with iron, that he might be able to forge something like black iron. What he would use it for was another question. He clearly had no feel for what lay deep beneath the earth, although he could sense life and patterns within perhaps a cubit of the surface.

Kharl moved quickly from the shed to the bunkhouse. He was headed for the mess and common room when he recalled the kettle test suggested by Lyras. With a half smile, he made his way to the door of the kitchen area and slipped inside. As he had hoped, there was a kettle on the huge and antique iron stove.

Kharl stared at the kettle. While, with his senses, he could feel the swirl of order and chaos in the steam that poured from the spout, he could not seem to move it. He thought he could stop the steam, because when he concentrated on touching the bits of order and chaos, the steam cloud did not change shape, but he did not try that for long, since that was all he seemed able to do and since he didn’t want anyone noticing. As far as moving the steam, light as it might be, he could not. While he didn’t know how, even in a general way, he doubted that was the problem.

“What you looking at, carpenter?” asked Yilyt, the ship’s cook. “Watching us cook isn’t gonna get you fed earlier.”

“I wondered what you were fixing.”

“Got some kalfin-good white fish-hard to come by. Be frying that up…”

Kharl nodded. To him most fish tasted the same. “Thank you.” He slipped out and went to the washhouse adjoining the bunkhouse. The only water was cold-ice-cold-and washing was a trial, but Kharl had always preferred being as clean as he could reasonably be.