Wellspring of Chaos

XXVII

Kharl woke with the gray light of dawn, and the crowing of a rooster that he could have done without. Every muscle ached, even muscles he hadn’t known he had.

The moment he moved, Jekat’s blond head peered out of the tattered hanging masking the cubbyhole. “We need to get some grub.”

“You have a plan for that?”

“You got coins, we can try the lower market, except everyone’s looking for you. Even be some Watch down there.”

“Got some smelly rags?”

“Most ’round here smell…” Jekat grinned. “I grabbed stuff last night. Got a really old cloak. You leave behind the undertunic and tunic. See if it’ll do.”

Kharl didn’t want to leave the clothes and the pack and staff, but neither would have matched the beggarly image. But he’d need to tie the pouch with the silvers around his leg, fasten it somehow to the inside of his thigh. While Jekat rummaged through the corner of the cubbyhole, he made the switch, but left the undertunic on, at least until he had something to wear. It was getting later in harvest, and mornings were chill. He probably should have pulled out the winter jacket for a cover to sleep under, but he’d been so tired he hadn’t even thought of it.

Then, after he took care of other necessities well down the wall in the place suggested by Jekat, he returned and donned the ragged hooded cloak that half concealed his face.

The urchin-in patched and shapeless gray-looked up from under a ragged thatch of curly hair, more sandy than true blond. “Let me go over the wall and look around first…”

That bothered Kharl, but he couldn’t say why. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

Jekat scrambled up the wall nimbly, vanishing silently over the top.

Kharl listened.

Then he heard a scuffling, and a single sharp cry, followed by low words.

“Been layin’ for you, beggar boy…seen you comin’ and goin’. You got coin hidden in there, and you’re gonna share it all with us…”

“Mmmmhph…”

“Hold him…goin’ over. Oh…now, what do we have here.” A laugh followed. “This is going to be fun…real fun…Geehm…you take a look-see what’s there.”

On the far side of the wall that was only a cubit more than head high, Kharl slowly took hold of the staff, far too long to be really useful in the narrow space between the walls, and probably beyond, but the staff was all he had, and he certainly owed Jekat. He stepped back, waiting.

A lean man in a grimy brown tunic and dark gray trousers, with boots bound together with strips of leather, scrambled down over the wall, a stubby knife shimmering in his right hand. Even before the man could register Kharl’s presence, the cooper drove the end of the staff into the other’s gut with all the force he could manage.

“Uuufff…”

“You all right, Geehm?” came from the other side of the wall.

Before the intruder could reply, Kharl brought the staff back and jabbed at the man’s knife hand because there was no room to do anything but jab, even with his grip halfway down the smooth black wood.

“Aeeii…” The knife dropped from the attacker’s hand, although Kharl hadn’t struck that hard.

Kharl shifted his grip on the warm wood.

“Not going to be easy…not now, you bastard…” The intruder bent down.

Kharl could sense…something, and almost without thinking he slammed the staff into the other’s shoulder. A second knife went flying against the wall. Kharl brought the staff up, then down, in an awkward sideways blow, but one hard enough to drop the man, because he pitched forward, clearly unconscious the way he sprawled.

Kharl half vaulted over the fallen figure and leaned the staff against the end and corner of the walls as he scrambled up to the top of the wall, then reached down and grabbed the staff. As he turned he could see a smaller man holding Jekat and a third man, somewhat larger, moving to meet him even as Kharl dropped down into the end of the ancient serviceway.

“Oh…so you had someone guarding your loot,” hissed the man holding Jekat. “Get him, Brot.”

Brot lumbered forward, a long knife in each hand.

The serviceway was wider than the space of Jekat’s hideaway, and that allowed Kharl to shift his hands inside the middle iron bands, so that he could use the staff properly. He hadn’t used one in years, although his father had taught him the basics years before, when he’d still been a boy, since staffs or cudgels were the only weapons permitted to artisans and crafters.

Still, it seemed like the staff had a mind of its own, because Kharl could almost sense what the bigger man was about to do, and within moments one of the knives was on the dirt-covered stones, and one of Brot’s wrists hung almost limply. Yet the man charged Kharl again.

Kharl struck once more, then again, and there was a sickening crack, and Brot clutched his arm and shoulder, then sank to the stones.

“Demon…” the smaller man started to thrust Jekat away, but his eyes went wide, then he crumpled, blood welling across the gray cloth that covered his guts. He started to moan.

Jekat bent, then straightened.

Kharl could see the redness across the fallen man’s neck. The moans had stopped.

“Go away!” Jekat snapped at Brot. “Far away!”

The big man Kharl had wounded staggered to his feet, arms dangling limply, and lumbered out of the serviceway, not even looking back, not saying a word despite what had to be great pain.

“What…?” Kharl blurted.

“Brot’s a no-mind. He lost it to a wizard years back. Did whatever his brother asked.” Jekat gestured to the dead man on the stones, then looked up. “The other one?”

“Knocked him out.”

“Let me look.” Jekat scrambled to the top of the lower section of wall between the tanner’s wall and the renderer’s wall. He peered over, then looked back down at Kharl. “Think you killed him. He’s not moving at all.”

“I didn’t hit him that hard,” Kharl said.

Jekat dropped back down to the pavement, eyes on the staff Kharl still held. “That’s a black staff. Must be something about it.”

Kharl had wondered, but he’d scarcely had time to think about it. He looked at the staff once more. It had certainly been well made, and of lorken and black iron…but that shouldn’t have given it any special powers.

“Anyway…we need to get rid of these two.”

Kharl looked at Jekat, taking in the shapeless gray clothes, the raggedly cut hair, the smooth skin, carefully smudged with grime. He’d never bothered to look closely before. Who studied urchins? A lot of things made much more sense.

“Maybe you’d better go…”

“What is your name?” he asked. “Jekai, Jekati?”

“Jeka. Easy enough to add a ‘t.’”

“Where do you want me to go?” Kharl asked. “You know I don’t know the alleys and serviceways.”

“You stay, nothing changes.” Her voice was wary.

“Do you really think I’d force anything?” he asked. “Besides, that was why you helped me, wasn’t it? You must have seen something.”

Jeka nodded. “Saw you save the scrivener’s girl. Heard about the blackstaffer. Some men’d save one. I don’t know any who’d risk for two. Leastwise, I never saw any.” A brief smile crossed her face. “Three, I guess, now.” The smile vanished. “Nothin’ changes.”

“Nothing,” Kharl promised.

“We still got to get rid of him and the other,” Jeka pointed out.

“After dark,” Kharl suggested. “Lift this one over the wall for now. When it’s dark, I’ll drag them out and over a street or two. Leave ’em in the shadows. Try that now, and someone would see. Watch won’t come here, will they?”

“Haven’t ever.”

“Do you think they told anyone else?”

“No. That kind’d want to keep the loot to themselves.”

As he lifted the dead man’s body and pushed it up over the wall, Kharl hoped so.

He turned to Jeka. “Might as well go.”

She nodded. “Leave the staff…and bend over. Shuffle. Uncomb your beard.”

Kharl couldn’t exactly uncomb his beard, but he tried to make it look less groomed. In a few days, the way it grew, it would look disreputable enough. He didn’t like leaving the staff, but she was right. It was too good for a beggar, far too good. He eased it back over the wall, then shuffled after Jeka out onto Copper Road.

“Should I beg?” muttered Kharl.

“You don’t, and some’ll be looking at you funny, ’less you want to twitch and mumble, something like that.”

“A copper, just a copper…copper, please…” Kharl mumbled.

“Whine more,” suggested Jeka under her breath.

“A copper…just one…hungry…please…”

“Better,” she said. “Now…you got a few more coppers?”

Kharl handed over three, trying to keep stooped over and shuffling. He was finding that holding that position was hard work.

The lower market was in the open space on the north side of the harbor, below First Cross, a flat area that had once held warehouses before they’d been swept away by the great flood and storm in Kharl’s grandsire’s time. The odors of ripe-and rotten-fruit mixed with the smell of fish and freshly lighted charcoal on small braziers, and with other less obvious odors.

As they drew nearer, Jeka motioned. “You squat over there…by that post. Beggars not supposed to be in the market.”

The post was half of a rotting bollard that lay on its side twenty cubits from the first cart, and Kharl sat down cross-legged, the rags covering his trousers and boots.

Jeka slipped away.

The cooper began to beg. “…copper…just a copper…” He tensed as he saw two men in Watch uniforms strolling down Copper Road toward the market, but for him to move would call more attention than remaining huddled by the decayed bollard. Instead, he dropped his voice into a mumble, careful to keep his face down and partly shielded by the ragged hood.

Surprisingly, the two Watchmen ignored him, as if he did not exist, and stood less than fifteen cubits away, their eyes on the mélange of carts, goods spread on ground cloths, and even on the counters of portable stalls.

“…what about that business with the silversmith…”

“…sort of thing that reeks of Egen and his lavender…”

“…who could say…no traces…”

“…never any traces…deadly little sneak…”

The taller man laughed. “…fine…when he’s with you…needs you…but better wear plate on your back…dealing with him…rather be down here…”

“…safer than in the Justicers’ Halls. That’s certain…”

After a silence, one of two Watchmen asked, “…you seen the new one at Bardo’s?”

“From Hamor, they say…”

“Frigging amazing…”

“Uh-oh…”

The two hurried toward a stall where the counter had been knocked down and a wizened woman held a thin youth in blue.

“Tried to steal my silks, he did!”

The youth saw the two in Watch blue, and tried to bolt. He almost broke free before one of the Watch coshed him with his truncheon.

“Hsst…”

Kharl turned his head.

Jeka beckoned. “Need to get you clear ’fore those two head this way.”

Kharl didn’t argue, but mock-struggled to his feet and hobble-shuffled after Jeka.

“I got some bread and dried figs, and a wedge of hard cheese. Watch’ll come up Cargo Road. Be a good thing to be gone. We can fill the flask at the fountain on Second Cross.”

Kharl hadn’t seen the flask, but Jeka could have concealed that and more in the shapeless garments. She had, in fact.

They kept to the side of the road, making their way back along the alleyway off Copper Road up to Second Cross. The fountain there was for horses, but there was only one spavined cart mare drinking from the stone trough under the fountain. Without direction from Jeka, Kharl eased into the morning shadows and settled down into a heap against the brick wall across the street.

A tradesman walking swiftly by glanced toward Kharl.

“A copper…just a copper…”

“Go work for it, fellow. No time for lazy beggars.”

“…worked hard, ser…can’t now…”

“…all say that…” With a snort, the tradesman walked on by.

From somewhere else a copper clattered on the stones. Kharl swept it in, almost feeling guilty.

Jeka waited until the ashman led the limping mare away, then rinsed the flask and filled it.

Kharl made his hobbling and stooped way northward along Second Cross, then downhill, following the alley to First Cross, keeping Jeka at a distance until they passed the last wall of the slateyard, where she made her way to a pile of stones above the ancient breakwater and settled onto a wide and flat stone.

Kharl took the stone across from her. His eyes surveyed the harbor and the piers to the south. There were but five oceangoing vessels tied up, and none bore the twin square-rigged masts of the Seastag, not that he’d expected the vessel to return to Brysta so soon.

“Looking for that ship?” asked Jeka, extending a chunk of bread and a section of the hard cheese.

“It’s not there. Won’t be for two or three eightdays, at least. Maybe longer. Good view of the harbor from here.”

“We can see anyone coming from here. Can’t really see us, not with the slateyard wall.”

“Why did you come here from Sagana?” he asked after a mouthful of bread and cheese.

“What else could I do? My da died when his mule bolted and the harness broke, metal buckle slashed his neck. Ma found him in the field. Strong woman, she was. She farmed the plot and sheared the flock from the time I could recall. Me and Sis, we spun and wove. Got to be pretty good. Fever got Ma and Sis, three years back. Tariff farmer, he claimed the place owed tariffs, loom and all. He said he was goin’ to indenture me to Gelhal-ran the same sort of place as Bardo’s, ’cept worse. I took the coins and ran. I’m small…been passing for a beggar boy. Figured I’d have to leave soon. People notice when you don’t grow.” Jeka stopped to eat, then passed the water flask to Kharl.

“Thank you.”

“What happened to your boys?” Jeka asked. “Saw ’em, and then they were gone.”

“Arthal…he signed on a ship as a carpenter’s apprentice, and Charee’s sister took Warrl. Couldn’t fight that. Knew, I guess, I was going to lose the cooperage.”

“’Fore that business with Vexon?”

“Vexon?”

“Fellow you killed with the cudgel. He’s an assassin. He was till you killed him, anyway. Lotsa folk be pleased you did him in. They say he worked for Egen.”

“Thought so,” Kharl mumbled.

“Why’d you say you’d lose the place?”

“Tariff farmer-Fyngel. Twice-doubled my tariff. Said he’d been ordered to by Lord West. Egen, I figure. No way I’d be able to raise twelve golds by the turn of winter.”

“Twelve…golds?”

Kharl nodded.

“Like a fortune. Egen musta wanted to hurt you bad,” said Jeka. “Don’t know which is worse, lord or tariff farmer.”

“Lord,” suggested Kharl. “Tariff farmers do as they’re told. May be greedy, but that’s what the lords want.”

“Justicers aren’t much better.”

“Not from what I’ve seen,” Kharl agreed. “My father, he said they were better in the old times, when Lord West’s grandsire was lord.”

“Can’t go back. Past doesn’t come again.”

“No.” Kharl swallowed, a lump in his throat at the words, sitting on stone rubble on the ruined northern side of the harbor, realizing again all that he’d lost. “It doesn’t.”