L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

“Won’t learn how to be a mage from reading,” suggested Tarkyn, looking up from the scrimshaw.

“I know. But I look for hints and ideas, and then I try to see what I might be able to do.”

“Any luck?”

“I found the weak hull planks,” Kharl pointed out.

“I’m glad of that. Wouldn’t have wanted to swim my way to shore. Too much work.”

“You can swim?” asked Kharl.

“Used to be able to. Was a sawboy, and fell into the millstream. Owner’s son pulled me out, then taught me something about swimming. Claimed it was easier than training a new sawboy every few eightdays. Really not all that hard. Just keep your arms in the water and move ’em slow.”

“That’s all?”

Tarkyn laid down the scrimshaw. “Look. You’re floating in the water. You lift your arms out of the water and thrash, and two things happen. There’s more weight up over you, and that pushes you down. And…your arms aren’t doing anything to keep you afloat.” The older carpenter snorted. “Everything’s like that. Do it slow and easy, and you get in less trouble. Flap and thrash…doesn’t work. You see an eagle flying-wings move slow-like.”

Kharl nodded. “You’re right. Just hadn’t thought of it in that way.” He could swim, but no one had taught him that way.

“Most times, you discover something,” replied Tarkyn, “you haven’t found anything new at all, just looked at the same thing differently. It’s like you see it for the first time all over again.” He picked up the scrimshaw and studied it. “Then…life’s like that, if you really live it.”

Life’s like that…if you really live it -the words seemed to echo, to resonate through Kharl. Had that been his problem all along, that he’d never really looked at life? But did anyone? Really? Unless something happened and he was forced to reconsider everything that he thought he had held dear?

He looked down, blankly, at the open book.

On sixday, after he and Tarkyn had completed another round of minor repairs, and when the duty day in port was done, Kharl decided to take shore leave. Hagen had still not returned to the ship, and Ghart had merely admonished Kharl not to stay too long.

Kharl left the Seastag about a glass before sunset and walked in the empty pier toward the avenue along the stone wall that marked the edge of the harbor. Unlike Valmurl or Swartheld, there were no guards or patrollers on the pier or the avenue that fronted the harbor. He walked alone, and that was how he often felt, for as a carpenter and a subofficer, he was neither an officer on the Seastag , nor exactly a crewman.

The second street to the right off the harbor avenue was wider, almost a boulevard, and Kharl turned onto it, walking to the northwest, past a cobbler’s, then a cloth factor’s, where all manner of colored linen and cotton fabrics were displayed. The pavement itself was of oblong limestone blocks, and with raised sidewalks on each side of the street proper, but the boulevard was nearly deserted. At the first cross street, he looked to his left, and saw a group of men in the black and green of the Austran lancers. Two men in gray cloaks looked at the lancers from the small porch of a silversmith’s.

“…do more good if they were out north…”

“…don’t seem to care what’s good for Austra…”

“…who does, these days?”

One glanced at Kharl, then the other, and they stepped back inside the shop.

Halfway up the next block, Kharl stopped under a green awning, turning and peering through the open, arched doorway. With the high-arched ceilings and the tables, it looked like a tavern or a café, but out of the close to twenty tables, only two were taken-one by four officers in green and black, and one by two white-haired men.

An older woman appeared, wearing a brown apron over a tan shirt and trousers. “Yes?”

“I wondered if you were open?”

“We are.”

“Everything is so deserted. I wasn’t sure.”

“We’re open.” The gray-haired woman turned with a sigh and, walking with a limp to one side of the public area, seated Kharl at a table under a wall arch.

“What will you have? Lager and dark ale, and some redberry-that’s all we have.”

“Lager. What about food?”

“Fowl with groundnuts and sauce or zatana.”

“I’ll have the fowl.”

After she limped away, Kharl studied the table, a wood he’d not seen, light like white oak but with irregulars swirls in the grain, dark lines intertwined with brilliant gold ones.

“Lager.” The server set the tall green mug on the table. “Three coppers.”

Kharl handed her four.

“Thank you.” She paused. “You off the ship?”

“Yes.”

“They say your captain is waiting, in case he needs to take the lady and the heirs to Nordla or Candar.”

“He’s waiting, but I don’t think that’s the reason. He hasn’t said.” Kharl offered a smile he hoped didn’t look too forced.

“Those in charge never do.” With a sound halfway between a sniff and a snort, she turned, then stopped. “Be a bit for the fowl.”

“That’s fine.”

After the woman retreated, Kharl took a swallow of the lager-cool, but not cold, and more welcome than he had thought it would be. He glanced around the public room, taking in the arches on each side and the paintings hung on the flat wall surface between the arches. The one directly across from him showed an old-style, full-rigged ship under full sail, with a spit of land on the right side-presumably leaving Dykaru. The one farther away, across the room and to his left, showed a black-haired man lifting a large mug and smiling. The background was that of the same public room where Kharl sat, subtly different, looking perhaps newer.

Kharl took another swallow of the lager, thinking.

“Here you are, ser. That’ll be three.”

Kharl looked up, blankly, for a moment, his thoughts interrupted by the arrival of the fowl, accompanied by some type of yams and a basket of bread. Then, he handed over four coppers.

“Thanks be to you, ser.”

Kharl ate slowly, enjoying the combination of the mildly hot but creamy sauce, the piquant taste of the fowl, and the crunchiness of the toasted groundnuts. He wasn’t that fond of yams, but dipping them in the sauce helped that problem. As he ate, he listened to the four officers, using his order-senses to boost his hearing.

“…don’t understand why we’re getting pushed back…bastard lord’s only got forty companies of lancers…”

“…doesn’t count the wizards…can’t fight fireballs, and can’t use rifles or cannon.”

“…retreating too much…”

“…not for long. No place left to retreat…”

A laugh-bitter-followed. “Can’t get any farther south.”

“Ilteron’ll go for the keep.”

“Better hope so…”

One of the officers stood. “Time to get back.”

“…before we can’t…”

Kharl watched as the four left. With an attack taking place, he had to wonder what they were doing where they were. Or was that just another of Ghrant’s problems? He was beginning to understand-he thought-why Hagen had not stayed long as Ghrant’s arms-commander. But since the four were regulars, that did not say much for the Austran lancers and foot and their support of Ghrant.

He finished eating, more thoughts than he could have counted swirling through his mind, then rose and left.

Kharl had not taken ten steps away from the café or tavern before he heard a dull thump . He looked back and saw that the lamp by the door had been extinguished and the double doors closed-probably barred as well.

He picked up his pace on the empty boulevard although he heard no sounds. He’d walked almost two blocks when the low rumble of iron-rimmed wheels on the stone pavement echoed down the boulevard from behind him. The rumbling rapidly grew louder, and was accompanied by a low moaning. He slipped into the darker shadows of an alleyway, watching as the long and narrow wagon rolled toward him. Through the darkness, he could sense the chaos of wounds, and imminent death, and the wounded armsmen lying or sitting in the wagon.