Wellspring of Chaos

XXI

Kharl’s hope that he could somehow avoid the unpleasantness predicted by Wassyt was shattered when the cooperage door opened late on threeday. A hearty-faced blond man taller than Kharl walked inside. While he came into the cooperage alone, before the door shut Kharl could see the pair of burly personal guards in green and gray station themselves outside, one on each side of the cooperage door.

Warrl looked to his father.

“You can go upstairs and see how Sanyle’s coming with supper,” Kharl said. His words were far closer to a command than a mere suggestion. The cooper set the drawing knife down on the bench.

“Yes, Da.” Warrl slipped away.

“Now…cooper, you’ll be having the boy think that I’m a demon of some sort,” called the man who’d entered.

“Not a demon, Fyngel, just a tariff farmer to be treated with respect.”

Fyngel laughed. “You put it better than most, cooper. You don’t think different. You just speak nicer.”

As Kharl watched, Fyngel surveyed the cooperage, walking to one side and counting the billets of oak set in the racks, then surveying those barrels on display in the window. “Good-looking barrels you got there, cooper. First-rate, I’d say.”

“I do the best I can.”

Fyngel checked the workbenches, and the forge and the hearth, as well as the fire pots, then the loading door and the barrels stacked beside the door. He came back and studied the planer. “Doin’ well, it looks like.”

“It’s the slowest harvest in many years,” Kharl pointed out.

“That’s what everyone says when the tariff farmer shows. Every harvesttime is the slowest.” Fyngel laughed once more, producing a ledger-like book that he set down and opened on the finishing bench.

Kharl waited.

“Best you come here and take a look, cooper. Book hasn’t been updated in some years,” the tariff farmer said. “Lord West told us we had to go out and check all the crafters, make sure that everything was down right.”

Kharl walked to the finishing bench. Fyngel reeked of grease and a sweet rose scent.

“Now, you got a forge here. Book doesn’t show that.”

“It’s only a half forge. A farrier could use it, but a smith wouldn’t be able to do all that he needed on it, and the hearth space isn’t big enough.”

“Forge is a forge, so far as tariffs go. That’s another five golds.” The tariff farmer made a note with his grease markstick.

Kharl held his tongue. His total tariffs due the previous winter had only been three golds, and he’d had trouble raising the coin. Three golds didn’t sound that large, not until you had to count out three hundred coppers-and that was roughly Kharl’s margin on 150 barrels-or twice that many barrels on arrangements like the one he’d been forced into with Aryl.

“Then you got racks for your lumber. Those aren’t in the book. Say another gold for that.” Fyngel smiled as he wrote a few more numbers, but the expression was anything but friendly.

“The racks were there when the cooperage was first built,” Kharl said. “That was in my grandsire’s time.”

“That may be, cooper, but they’re not in the book. Looks like your sire got a good deal. The rear loading door isn’t in the book, either. So that’ll add another three to your tariff.”

Kharl waited.

After making a last notation, Fyngel looked up. “Twelve golds. Be due the first eightday of winter, same as always.” With another less-than-friendly smile, he closed the book. “Lord West also says that any tariffs paid after the second eightday of winter, I have to charge another gold for each eightday they’re late.”

Kharl just nodded.

“We’ll be seeing you and your golds in a season, cooper.” Fyngel smiled a last time before turning and walking out.

Kharl walked toward the door, watching as the tariff farmer rejoined his guards, men bigger than Fyngel himself, and the three walked eastward along the lane. Kharl stood just inside the door, trying to unclench his fists.

Tyrbel appeared outside his scriptorium and walked slowly to the cooperage, stepping inside. He looked at Kharl. “You look less than pleased.”

“Did he visit you?”

“Before you,” Tyrbel announced. “I pleaded with him about my expenses in repairing the display window. He was not moved.”

“So he upped your tariffs, too?”

“Twice what they were last year,” admitted the scrivener. “And you?”

“Mine are four times last year’s.”

“If you pay it, next year, it will be double that. If you survive that long.”

“You’re cheerful,” Kharl said dourly.

“I see what I see. Do you think otherwise?”

“No.”

“I wrote to some I know in Hemmen and Vizyn. I told you that.”

“Vizyn…” mused Kharl. “Would the Austrans let in a Nordlan?”

“A cooper who was mistreated by one of the Lords of the Quadrant? I would think so.” Tyrbel nodded. “I have not heard back, but the scrivener I know there is called Taleas.”

“Taleas in Vizyn.” Then Kharl laughed, ruefully. “As if I could even get there. Golds for passage, and then what? Throw myself upon the town, begging that I’m a good cooper?”

“You could sell the cooperage here.”

“For what? A handful of coppers? Everyone would know, and Mallamet might bid a gold, if that, and I’d still owe the tariff.”

Tyrbel shook his head. “They cannot collect from a man who does not live in Nordla.”

“I don’t run.”

“My friend…if you do not run, you had best find twelve golds in a season.” Tyrbel paused. “I will write others I know as well. It cannot hurt.”

“Thank you.” Kharl doubted it would help, but he wasn’t about to say that to one of the few men who had stood up for him against Egen and Lord West.

“Good evening.” Tyrbel nodded, then turned and slipped out the door.

After Tyrbel left, it was late enough that Kharl did not feel like working longer. Slowly, deliberately, he barred the doors, including the loading door, and closed and locked the shutters. Then he started up the steps to the upper level. He stopped at the door, slightly ajar, when he heard Warrl’s voice.

“…tariff farmers?”

“…collect tariffs for Lord West…best not to cross them,” replied Sanyle.

“Da…he didn’t do anything…he just stood there…”

“Were you watching? Did he not tell you to come up here?”

“…just watched from the door…no one could see…but he just stood there.”

“What would you have him do? Fyngel has his own armsmen, and he has the warrant to send anyone who opposes him to prison.”

“But Da…he can’t pay…all those golds…”

“You want him to fight the tariff farmer, get thrown into prison, flogged again, and still owe the tariffs while he’s too hurt to work?” asked Sanyle.

“…you’re just like Da…always telling me why I can’t do things…miss Ma…she wasn’t like that…”

That had been one of Charee’s faults, Kharl knew, one he’d indulged. She’d never wanted to point out limits. He banged on the door. “Supper ready, yet?”

“Almost,” called back Sanyle.

“I’ll wash up.”

When Kharl made his way into the main room, Warrl looked up from where he sat on a stool beside the serving table, but the boy did not speak.

“Just sit down, and I’ll have the dumplings out in a moment,” Sanyle said.

As Kharl passed the single easy chair, his eyes dropped to the book lying there-The Basis of Order. He had not read much of it, just skipped through it. He was a cooper, not a youth, and not an order-master. What good would learning more about order do him? It certainly wouldn’t pay his tariffs. But then, it didn’t look like coopering would, either.