Wellspring of Chaos

LXX

After leaving his pack and staff in the cabin on the Southshield, and paying a few coppers extra to be able to sleep on board that night, Kharl had turned around and walked back to the White Deer for an early supper. Behind him a crew of men used a short crane to swing lengths of planks from heavy wagons on the pier to the ship.

The clouds had not lifted, and the streets were hard, either with cold cobblestones, or clay frozen just as solid. A few stray flakes of snow fluttered down around Kharl, but they had stopped by the time he reached the inn.

A woman in a heavy gray tunic and trousers met Kharl as he entered the White Deer and stood in the archway to the public room. “Ale or food or both?”

“Both.”

“Got a small table at the side. Early enough you can have it to yourself.”

“Thank you.” Kharl followed her.

The public room of the inn was close, but warm, with heat oozing out from the hearth on one side of the room and the large iron stove on the other. There were close to a half score of tables, most of them long and narrow, but there were three smaller tables against the outside wall, and the server led Kharl to the one closest to the hearth, for which he was grateful. His feet were cold, almost numb.

“What do you have?”

“Not much choice tonight, fellow. Got fowl pie or stew. Three coppers, either way.”

“Which is better?”

“Most times, the fowl pie. I’d go for the stew tonight.”

“Then I will. Light ale?”

“Berk’s lager’s better. Two coppers either way.”

“I’ll try the lager.” Kharl flashed five coppers, and the server nodded and left.

Within moments, the woman had returned. “Lager. Be a bit for the stew.”

“That’s fine.” He handed her the two coppers, and then a third. With a smile, she was gone. He took a sip of the lager-not so good as many, but passable, and despite the cold outside he was thirsty. Something hot, like cider, would have been too cloying.

A group of men in sheepskin jackets entered the public room and took the long table nearest to Kharl without a word to anyone. When the server appeared, one of them just announced, “Hard jack for us all.”

Kharl took another sip of his ale, listening to the newcomers.

“…been a cold one this winter…a sow’s burden keeping the millrace ice-free…”

The cooper frowned. The mill he’d seen had been closed. Or were the men from a sawmill?

“…already broke one of the bars…”

“…coins though…and they’re hard enough to come by now…”

“…still cold as a lord’s heart…”

“…say that every winter…”

“Well, it’s cold every winter.”

Laughter welled up at the long table.

The server reappeared with a large bowl, a spoon, and a small loaf of rye bread, setting them before Kharl. He handed over four coppers and received another smile, a brief one as she hurried back to the kitchen. She reappeared in moments carrying a tray on which were five steaming mugs that she set down, one after the other, before the men at the long table.

“That’s a lass!”

Kharl took a small mouthful of the stew. It was thick, tasty, and only slightly overpeppered, and the vegetables actually had not been cooked to mush. The bread was still warm, if slightly dry. Still, it was the best meal he’d had in days. After several mouthfuls, he began to pick up on the conversation at the long table once more.

“…hear about what happened to Heyol’s cousin down in Gyran? The innkeeper…well, he was an innkeeper till they hung him…”

“…for what?”

“…for nothing…magistrate there strung him up for some law no one ever heard of…He never studied no books to be a magistrate…just got the job ’cause Lord Estloch liked him. Justice…what he thinks it is…”

“…better than they got in Elkyn…magistrate there hung a fellow for puttin’ lead in his wine…said it was poison…”

“…nothin’ anywhere that says that…”

“…just wanted wine to taste better…who could blame him for that?…hung him anyway.”

Kharl frowned. Tyrbel had told him something about that years back, about how powdered lead made wine taste better, but how too much of it was a poison that drove men mad if they drank it too much and too often.

“…who’s he to hang an innkeeper for some fool law no one ever heard of? Magistrates and justicers…just tools for the lords and them with coins…”

“…be good to have a justicer…understood people, not coins…”

Kharl had to wonder about that. From what he’d seen, most people didn’t want to be understood. They wanted to do what they wanted to do, whether or not others got hurt. He took another swallow of ale from the mug.

“…save that kinda dreams for hot nights in summer…”

“…hot nights…not gonna happen…not here, not there, not anywhere…”

Another burst of laughter rose from the table beside Kharl.

Before long, he would head back to the Southshield. There wasn’t anything else he wanted to do or anyone else to see in Vizyn. Of that he was certain.