L. E. Modesitt - Recluce 12 - Wellspring of Chaos.pdf

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Book Information :
Genre: Fantasy
Author: L.E. Modesitt
Name: Wellspring of Chaos
Series: Saga of Recluse, Book 12
======================
Wellspring of Chaos
Book 12 of the Saga of Recluse
by L.E. Modesitt
 
I
Jvharl stood at the front window of his shop, looking westward for a
moment at the wedge of twilight sky visible between the slate roofs of
the buildings on the far side of the narrow Crafters' Lane. A single lamp
was visible through the middle window of Gharan's quarters, above the
weaver's shop. Next door, at Hamyl's, both the lower floor and the
rooms above were dark. That wasn't surprising, Kharl told himself,
since Hamyl's consort had taken the children to her parents' holding to
help with the early-midsummer gathering. That had left the potter free
to indulge himself at the Tankard, and the lane peaceful, since Kharl's
neighbor, the scrivener Tyrbel, was a widower and kept a quiet
establishment.
Lowering his eyes, the cooper glanced at the five barrels in his display,
all tight cooperage from the best white oak, ranging from the hogshead
to the standard barrel and down to the quarter barrel and the
fine-finished fifth barrel with the brass spigot, used by anyone who
wanted to store and dispense expensive liquids, mostly spirits. Then he
barred the front door and closed the shutters behind the lead-glassed
panes that his grandsire had installed before Kharl had been born. At
that time, glass windows had been considered particularly foolish for a
cooper, unlike a goldsmith or an artisan-or even a weaver or a potter-
who had to display work to attract buyers. Times had changed, and
most shops along the lane had come to display their wares behind
windows.
“A barrel's a barrel. So's a hogshead. People buy barrels because they
need barrels.” Kharl smiled as he recalled the acerbic words of his
grandmother, who had never let his grandsire forget what she regarded
as the foolishness of the glass.
Foolishness? Kharl didn't think so. He still got orders from passersby
who otherwise hadn't thought about barrels. Not many, never more
than one an eightday, and sometimes only a few a season. Over time,
though, the windows had paid for themselves.
 
He picked up the lamp and walked toward the rear of the shop, past
the high racks that held the billets he would form into staves. Most of
the billets were oak, white for the tight cooperage and red for slack.
There were also some billets of tight-grained black oak, and a few of
chestnut. He passed the workbench and the tool rack, with every tool
in place. On
the left side of the rear wall was the small forge where he sized and
shaped the hoops for tight cooperage. Beside the forge on the brick
flooring was the fire pot and, beside it, the steaming ring. The faintest
smell of ashes and charcoal drifted toward Kharl from the banked
coals of the forge.
Just short of the rear wall, and the door to the loading dock, the cooper
stopped and looked at the fifteen white oak barrels waiting there. Each
was identical to the next, with the iron bands, set just so, and the
smooth finish, with a medium toasting on the inside. Korlan was
supposed to pick them up in the morning-pick them up and pay the
balance due. The vintner had taken the first fifteen barrels an eightday
earlier. Kharl only hoped that the vintner did not come up with some
excuse, as he had the summer before, waiting almost two eightdays
before showing up, but, then, that was the problem in dealing with
someone who lived more than ten kays to the south of Brysta.
Kharl half smiled, then nodded, and turned, the carry-lamp in hand, to
head up the stairs.
“… silvers and coppers are not for me, but a pretty girl whose charms
are free…”
He frowned. Had he heard singing in the alley? The Tankard was four
doors toward the harbor, but seldom did roisterers come wandering
down the alley, even early in the evening. Kharl cocked his head.
“… for when there's no lamps to see, any woman's as fair as fair can
be…”
 
“No… let go of me!”
The woman's voice-no, it was a girl's voice-was familiar, but Kharl
could not place it. He moved to the far side of the loading dock and
swept up the cudgel in his left hand, then, leaving the lamp behind,
eased the door open.
“Let me go!”
“… mean you no harm, little woman.” A raucous laugh followed. “We'll
even pay you for what you give others for free…”
“Let go! Let… mmmpphhh…” The girl's words were choked off.
Kharl closed the door behind him so that he would not be silhouetted
by the light from the lamp. He glanced toward the Tankard, but saw no
one. He looked back to the north. There, less than a rod away,
perhaps less than ten cubits, in the fading light and the dimness of the
alley, were three figures that Kharl could barely make out. Two men
held the girl, a thin figure with dark ringlets over a green summer
blouse. The hair and the blouse belonged to Sanyle, the youngest of
Tyrbel's daughters.
One of the men had Sanyle's arms cruelly twisted behind her, and the
other had his hand on her shoulder, pulling the summer blouse down.
Both men were laughing.
Kharl took three quick steps, then two more, bringing the cudgel up.
The nearer man, the one who had started to rip away Sanyle's blouse,
turned. A blade hissed from the scabbard at his belt.
Kharl took another step and struck the blade and the man's hand with
the cudgel before the man had finished turning toward the cooper. The
shortsword dropped on the cobblestones of the alley with a muffled
clank .
 
“Ah… swine-slime… misbegotten…” The youth jumped back,
cradling his hand. The dark blue velvet of his tunic was almost lost in
the dimness.
The second man let go of Sanyle, and his right hand darted toward
the hilt of his blade.
“Don't…” growled the cooper. “ 'Less you want a broken arm. Just let
her go, and back away and head back where you came from. Have fun
with your own or those you pay.”
As soon as the man had released her, Sanyle slipped away into the
shadows. There was a glint on the heavy brass key she held, and then
the rear door of the structure beside the cooperage opened, and
quickly shut.
“You can't do this.” The taller young man, who was still half a head
shorter than the cooper, kept his hand on the hilt of his blade, but did
not draw it. “You don't know who you're talking to…”
“Doesn't matter,” growled the cooper. “Don't force girls barely old
enough to know the difference 'tween boys and men.”
“They're all the same.”
Kharl raised the cudgel slightly. “Back off, little man, 'less you never
want to use that arm again.”
The shorter youth scooped up the fallen blade with his left hand and
backed away. After a moment, the taller one followed.
Kharl stood watching until the two were out of sight, and until the alley
was quiet once more. Then he turned and reentered the cooperage,
wondering from what merchants' houses had come the overdressed and
spoiled youths. With a snort, he set down the heavy cudgel and barred
the door.
 

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