Wellspring of Chaos

XIX

On fourday, dark gray clouds, wind, and heavy showers buffeted Brysta, and no one came to the cooperage. Fiveday dawned cloudy, but without rain. No one came into the shop through the morning. Finally, in midafternoon, with the sun promising to burn away the clouds, Wassyt lumbered into the cooperage. The miller was a good half head taller than Kharl, one of few men in Brysta who clearly overtopped the cooper. Wassyt was also considerably broader, his girth cinched in by a tight leather vest. Although he was a good ten years older than Kharl, his hair remained the same light brown that it had been since when Kharl had met him as a youth, and it still fell across the left side of his forehead.

“Good afternoon,” Kharl offered.

“Same to you, Kharl.” Wassyt glanced toward Warrl, who was rough-hollowing some white oak staves.

“Warrl, you can take some time outside,” Kharl suggested.

Warrl nodded, set down the hollowing knife, and left, quietly.

Wassyt stopped short of the fire pot, where Kharl had been checking the coals before toasting one of the white oak barrels for Korlan, and began to speak. “You know I’d never put anyone else’s barrels against yours.”

“I’d like to believe that they’re that good.” Kharl managed to keep his expression pleasant, although he knew what would follow would not be something he wanted to hear.

“They’re the best,” the miller replied. “Not a cooper in Nordla’s any better. Maybe a few as good on the eastern shore, but not around here.”

Kharl waited for what had to come.

“Wanted you to know that.” The miller pushed back the lank brown hair, then blotted his forehead. “I told everyone I’d already ordered my harvest barrels from you, and paid for ’em, the half that goes first. Said I’d ordered thirty.”

“I’ll have them ready in two eightdays,” Kharl said.

“Three’s fine. Harvest’s a bit late.” Wassyt laid out a gold and five silvers, right on the bench. “You got this even before…the trouble.”

“That’s the way it is,” Kharl agreed.

“I heard Lord West is short of coin,” the miller said. “That’s what Sorkan was telling me.”

“Hard to believe that a lord would be short of coin.”

“You know, the tariff assessments be coming out, right after harvest,” Wassyt observed. “Maybe even quicker. Lord West’s middle son is reviewing the assessments. That’s what Fyngel told me. You know Fyngel-he’s the tariff farmer for our section?”

“He’s mine, too.”

“You’ll probably be seein’ him afore long, Kharl. Might not want to. I didn’t, light knows.”

“You think he’s close to Lord West’s son?”

“Don’t know as close. I’d say Fyngel’s very respectful, do whatever young Lord Egen suggests. Fyngel, he’s not quite a friend, but he’s not so bad as some tariff farmers. Well, he was telling me that Lord West’s worried about the Austrans. Seems like they’re thinking of getting friendly with the Emperor of Hamor, and using that to look across the gulf.”

“I’ve heard talk about that,” Kharl said cautiously.

“So the Lords of the Quadrant need to build more ships, and ships take coins.” Wassyt spread his beefy hands. “Coins come from us, specially millwrights, crafters, and artisans. Fyngel was given a list. A special-like list. Told that those crafters and artisans had paid too little in tariffs for too long.”

“I gather that a certain cooperage might be on that list?”

“Aye. It might.” Wassyt cleared his throat. “So might others, and this was what Fyngel told me as he was talking to me about my new tariffs. He was saying that folks who bought casks and barrels from some coopers, well, they just might have their tariffs doubled twice over.”

“That’s an interesting tale,” Kharl said, trying to keep his voice level.

“Then, right after Fyngel left the mill, couldn’t say that it was more than a glass, if that, Overcaptain Vielam-that’s Lord West’s middle son-he came a-riding up to my door…”

Kharl had feared that what Wassyt would say wouldn’t be good, but Wassyt’s words were far worse than he’d expected.

“…told me that I milled the best of anyone in the western quadrant, and that he’d be pleased to keep having the lord’s grains milled, but that his sire had decided that…well, that if I put it in certain barrels…”

“My barrels?”

“In certain barrels, they’d have to find another miller,” Wassyt concluded.

“That would make it hard on you and your family.”

“That’s when I told the overcaptain that I heard him, but asked him for some care, seeing as I’d already half paid for thirty barrels of that kind, and surely he could understand that, seeing how close it is to harvest. Well…he hemmed, and tilted his head, but he said that he could see that, and so long as I’d order no more, he’d overlook it this one time, and he’d make sure that my tariffs didn’t rise like those would who hadn’t supported his sire.” Wassyt shrugged his overlarge shoulders. “And there you have it.”

“I thank you for what you did and could do,” Kharl said. “There isn’t more that you could, and those thirty barrels will be the best you could wish for.”

“I’d be wishing I could do more, Master Kharl…”

“I’ve felt and seen what happens to those who cross Lord West and his sons. I’d not wish that on anyone.”

“Thought you might understand.”

“I do.”

“Well…best I be going for now. Just wanted to see things square.”

“Thank you.”

The miller took several steps toward the door, before stopping and looking back at Kharl. “Got a cousin in Jelenn. He’s a cooper. Better than Mallamet, not so good as you. He’s been thinkin’ of coming south. If you ever think of lettin’ the place go…I’d be staking him.”

“Until…the trouble…I wouldn’t have thought about it,” Kharl said. “It’s still hard.”

“Understand.” Wassyt shifted his weight. “All right if I send a teamster three eightdays from now?”

“That’d be fine.”

After the miller left, Kharl just stared at the bench and the coins lying there. He couldn’t blame the miller, not when the tariffs were laid by Lord West. And unlike some, such as Aryl, Wassyt was trying to be fair and do the best he could in a difficult situation.

Kharl eased the coins into his belt wallet, then slowly turned to check the white oak barrel he was about to toast.

The cooperage door opened, and Warrl hurried back to the hearth area. “Da? Did the miller order some barrels?”

“Not exactly, Warrl. He’d already ordered them.”

“You didn’t-”

“After…everything…well…I wasn’t sure, but he’s stood by his words, and we’ll be making twenty more slack barrels-that’s in addition to the ones we’ve already got ready.”

“Thirty barrels…you don’t look so happy for all that.”

“I’m still worried, son,” Kharl confessed. “Outside of Aryl and Wassyt, it’s been a slow harvest season, and people don’t need near as many barrels in the late fall and in winter.”

“Sometimes they break them.”

“They don’t break many of mine,” Kharl pointed out.

“Then why don’t they buy more from you?”

“Mine cost a few coppers more, and people don’t think about how long a barrel will last. And some of them don’t need really good barrels.”

“Why don’t you make two kinds of barrels, then?”

“Because most people would buy the cheap ones, and then they’d complain that they weren’t as good as the others, and I’d have to make the good barrels for less to keep them buying from me.” And, because, he had to admit to himself, he hated the idea of making barrels that weren’t as well crafted as they should be.

“Oh…” Warrl didn’t sound convinced.

“You can get back to working on those staves.”

“Yes, Da.” Warrl stepped back toward the front of the cooperage. He picked up the hollowing knife, then stopped. He looked out the window for a long time.

Kharl watched his son, wondering what the youth was dreaming about…and whether there was really anything he could do about it.