Ordermaster

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Neither spoke until they had left the drive of the envoy’s residence.

  “I’m sorry, ser. The young lord wasn’t thinking.”

  “You were right. He wasn’t thinking. I had a word with him.”

  “I thought so, the way he looked when you left the library.”

  Had Kharl been that hard on Erdyl? Or was the young man too sensitive?

  “Never make a lancer officer,” Demyst went on. “Frets too much about what others think. That stuff about what other envoys do. Had Lord Ghrant wanted someone who did what other envoys did, it’d not be you, begging your pardon, ser.”

  Kharl burst into laughter. “You’re so right.” He was also beginning to see more clearly why Hagen thought Demyst would be helpful to Kharl and not necessarily that good a senior lancer officer. A properly deferential officer would never have put a boot on Erdyl’s shins.

  “He’ll learn,” the undercaptain went on. “Not like he’s stupid or anything. Just hasn’t seen enough.”

  Kharl wondered if he himself had.

  Before that long, Mantar stopped the coach at the head of Crafters’ Lane. “You sure you don’t want me to meet you somewhere, ser?”

  “No. I need the walk, even in this heat.” He also needed a better feel for what was happening in Brysta. It almost didn’t feel like the same city he had left. That could reflect the changes in him, but he didn’t think so, not with what Erdyl and others had said.

  Kharl stepped out, at the intersection of Fifth Cross and Crafters’ Lane. He stood almost directly in front of the shop of Zabyl, the tinsmith, and he turned to take in the small leaded-glass windows, but, clean as the glass was, the display space was empty, as it had always been. Zabyl had never displayed any of his work.

  “Tinsmith doesn’t show anything,” said Demyst. “Must be good, or real cautious.”

  “Probably both.” Kharl could smell the odor of hot metal, despite the closed front door. He also had the feeling he was being watched. Slowly, he turned as if surveying the shops. A young Watch patroller in his crisp maroon-and-blue uniform on the opposite corner made no secret of his observations.

  Kharl smiled politely before turning and walking past Zabyl’s to the adjoining shop. There, Kharl stopped to study the bolts of woolen cloth shown in the square window. One was a muted plaid of blues and greens. Kharl frowned. The cloth looked more like something that Gharan might have woven. Was the weaver doing so well that he could sell in his own shop, and place cloth in Derdan’s small factorage as well? Even with the cotton from Hamor? Beside it was a bolt of black wool, clearly from Reduce, along with another of white. Had the white come from Austra? From his neighbor, Arynal, who had boasted of his fabled white wool? Kharl shook his head. That, he doubted.

  He studied the window again, then leaned forward and looked down, then up. Derdan had added brackets to hold bars behind the heavy shutters.

  “Not bad wool,” offered the undercaptain. “Black has to be from Reduce. Wouldn’t be surprised if it cost a good silver a half yard.”

  “It costs a half gold a yard.” At least it used to. Kharl regretted saying that much, but the words had popped out because he had once asked, when he had been thinking that it would have made a warm and stylish coat for Charee.

  “That’s right. You’d know. You were on a merchanter. Everything from Reduce costs a lot.”

  “It does.” Even the knowledge, Kharl reflected. He turned away from the woolen factor’s and looked across the lane, taking in the two shops, side by side there, that of Hamyl the potter on the left, and Gharan’s weaving shop on the right. Gharan had never used a window to display his work, just a sample board at eye height beside the doorway.

  Kharl wanted to see Gharan-and Jeka, he had to admit. But with the patroller watching so closely, and after Erdyl had visited just the day before, he wasn’t sure that was wise. Still...

  He stood there for a long moment, before finally deciding against it, then wondering if he were being too foolishly cautious.

  Absently, as he used his handkerchief to blot his forehead, before turning to head toward the cooperage, he noted the barrel of sand to the left of Derdan’s window. It was the same barrel of sand he’d used to put out the fire in Tyrbel’s scriptorium on the day that his whole life had finally changed.

  The cooperage was no longer boarded up, as it had been the last time he had seen it, and the paint on the sign that proclaimed MALLAMET, COOPER looked faded, although it could not have been much older than a year. A year? Just a year? So much had happened, since Charee .. . since Arthal had left... and Warrl had gone off with his aunt. For a long moment, Kharl just looked.

  Then he straightened and studied the cooperage. The windows were dusty on the outside, and Kharl could see that sawdust clung to panes on the inside. Sawdust? A good cooper didn’t create that much sawdust. Either Mallamet wasn’t that good, or he hadn’t cleaned in a long time. From what Kharl knew of Mallamet, both were doubtless true. The door was open, inviting a breeze that had not appeared.

  Kharl kept walking, slowly, until he came to the scriptorium. Heavy iron shutters were drawn back from the inside of the small display window, shutters that had not been there before. The display area held several books on pale blue wool, but not, of course, Tyrbel’s masterpiece, the red leather-bound Book of Godly Prayer-a work that Tyrbel had done as an offering to his faith. That had been destroyed in the oil fire Kharl had fought that fateful morning.

  The sign on the scriptorium had changed as well. While it had once borne Tyrbel’s name, now it now announced one Dasult as a scrivener. Kharl had never heard of Dasult. He wondered what had happened to Sanyle. Did he dare risk asking? If he had not heard of Dasult, scrivener, it was unlikely that the scrivener would recognize him.

  “Just wait here at the door,” Kharl told Demyst.

  “Ser ... that’d be dangerous.”

  “There’s no one inside but the scrivener, and you’ll be out here in case anyone else comes along. Keep your eye on that patroller. He’s been following us.” “Thought so,” murmured the undercaptain. “You sure about inside?”

  Kharl nodded, then opened the door and stepped into the scriptorium, ready to use his sight shield to vanish, if need be.

  A young man, more like Erdyl’s age, stepped forward. Kharl thought he had seen him, recently, but he could not say where. “Ser .. . could I be of service to you?”

  “It is possible,” Kharl replied. “It would not be quite ...” He paused. “You’re Dasult?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I have not been in Brysta in some time, and I recalled that there was a scrivener here, but he was much older. Your father, perhaps?”

  Dasult shook his head. “No, ser. That was Tyrbel. He was a most noted scrivener, but he was murdered, I’m told, on the street outside. I purchased the building from his daughter. She wished to leave Brysta.”

  “Hmmm ... sad when those sort of things happen. I suppose she went off elsewhere in Nordla or to somewhere in Candar.”

  “Vizyn in Austra, I believe. She said she was going to help an older scrivener, a friend of her father’s.”

  Kharl nodded. If Sanyle had reached Taleas, then she was in good hands. For the moment, he could only hope that she had. “I saw her once. She seemed a most sweet child.”

  “My consort said she was, and that she had suffered much.” “How do you find business?”

  “It is improving. I have been accepted as a recorder at the Hall of Justice, and that has helped.”

  That was where Kharl had seen him, that very morning, but he had not connected the man to the scriptorium. “How do you find working there?”

  “It is most exacting, but it pays well. Are you certain I could not interest you in one of these? Here is an illustrated rendition of Tales of Cyad. And here, I have the verses of Lenchret, a near-perfect copy of the one in Lord West’s private library.”

  “You must have been privileged indeed to copy that.”

  “N
o, kind ser. Lord West wanted a copy, and allowed me to make a second in return for my charging but half what I told him.”

  “He got a bargain.”

  Dasult laughed. “In silvers, he did, but I always wanted that book, and I made a second copy for myself, as well as this fair copy. I hope not to lose too much.”

  “He must have quite a library.”

  “He does indeed, but I fear many of the volumes have not been read in years.”

  “That is often the case. How did you find him?”

  “He was charming, but.. . preoccupied. I could not help but notice that he and his eldest had many visitors, even at the beginning of summer, when I was finishing the copying.”

  “Lords must deal with envoys and trade, and lancers, and all manner of people, I would wager. Even in summer. I’d wager, though, that you saw none from Reduce.”

  “No, I did not. They were never announced, but many were clad as are Hamorians, and more than a few were in uniforms I had not seen before.”

  “There are several Hamorian merchanters in the harbor, and there was a Nordlan trader an eightday or so ago.”

  “The Hamorians laughed at my work.” Dasult stiffened. “They claimed to have built a machine that can make hundreds of copies of a book. Of what use is that? There are not that many people who would buy so many.” He forced a smile. “Did you see The Art of Healing?”

  Kharl ignored the sales effort. “Perhaps the Hamorians did not understand the craft that goes into creating a book the way you do?”

  “They do not. Books, especially those such as the verses of Lenchret, they should be read and treasured. What about The History of the Ancients? It is rare, but I can let you have it for a mere gold.”

  Kharl smiled. “It is not a bad book, but what would I do with two?”

  Dasult’s eyes widened, then he laughed. “I cannot sell you what you already have.”

  “I am not buying today,” Kharl said, “but I may be back.”

  As he left, Kharl wondered if he could have discovered more. Possibly, but he was not a spy, and he didn’t think he could have learned more without making Dasult wary. He also doubted that what else he could have learned would have added much.

  “Did you see any interesting books?” asked Demyst, as Kharl rejoined him.

  “He had one that I’ve been reading. He wanted to sell it to me for a mere gold.”

  “A gold?”

  “Some books are costly.”

  Kharl did not glance at the Tankard, the tavern whose doors had not yet opened, as he passed. He did study quietly the shops and narrow dwellings as he headed downhill, passing a white-haired laundress with her wash in a tall basket on her head, then a teamster with an empty wagon headed uphill. Behind them, the Watch patroller followed.

  The two continued down Crafters’ Lane. Less than a block farther west, Kharl saw Dhulat’s cabinetry shop. He’d bought a modest chest from the crafter years before, but, like most folk, Dhulat had turned away from Kharl once Egen had put out the word that he was after the cooper.

  Another two blocks toward the harbor, and they reached the upper market square. With the heat, few of the peddlers and vendors remained, and the low stone wall that surrounded the near-empty square was vacant. Topped with redstone with rounded edges, the wall was a good place for sitting and resting, and there had always been a beggar or two there. Today, there were none.

  Past the square another hundred cubits or so was Hyesal’s apothecary shop, clearly marked with the crossed pestles above the door. But the door was boarded shut.

  Kharl wondered if the apothecary had died, or had fallen victim to Egen and the Watch.

  He kept walking, turning southward at the next corner, so as to head back in the direction of the envoy’s residence. For the moment, he had seen enough.

  LXVII

  Halfway through the early-evening meal, Kharl cleared his throat, then waited.

  “We’re going to the White Pony tonight,” he finally announced. “Right after we eat.”

  “Sounds like a tavern or an inn, ser,” offered Demyst.

  “A tavern, mostly, and it’s not all that good. Cevor and Alynar will come with us.”

  Demyst nodded. Puzzlement warred with curiosity on Erdyl’s face.

  “I’d like to hear what people are saying.” Kharl paused. “We’ll walk, and I’ll need to find or borrow an old tunic. I will wear the truncheon.”

  “You forgot this afternoon,” Demyst pointed out.

  “You had your blade,” Kharl countered.

  “Best one of us did, ser.”

  “That’s true.” Kharl smiled and went back to finishing his cutlet.

  Less than a glass later, the five walked toward the open door of the White Pony. Kharl mopped his brow with his sleeve. The sun had been down for over a glass, but the evening was still too warm for his liking, and harvest was a good three eightdays away, although some fruits were appearing in the market, according to Khelaya.

  “Five of you ...” said the red-faced man who greeted them. “You’ll not be making trouble, now?”

  “We’re looking for a cool ale,” Kharl said. “It’s hot out.”

  “That it is. Best you take the round table off the wall there.”

  Kharl led the way. A third of the tables were empty. Most of those in the White Pony were men, and most of those were men older than Kharl, men with leather faces, rough-cut beards. There were a few women, but all three of those were graying or white-haired, and they were with older men. So were the handful or so of younger men.

  Kharl and those with him had barely taken the wall table when the murmurs began, mumblings that Kharl could hear through his order-senses, despite the louder conversation and bustle. Still, he had to concentrate.

  “... who they are?”

  “... who cares ... long as they got coins ...”

  “... big fellow .. . follow him ...”

  “... others .. . look like a clerk and three guards ...”

  “... more like meres ...”

  “. .. all those Hamorians pissprick Egen’s got wouldn’t like that...”

  “Careful... don’t know who’s listening ...”

  “Sides ... what could four meres do ...”

  “Fellows!” called an angular server, who had appeared at Demyst’s shoulder, “what you all want?” She brushed back a lock of short black hair, her eyes darting around the table before centering on Kharl.

  “Pale ale,” Kharl said, recalling that lager in most taverns was merely watered ale.

  “Lager’s a lot better. Doesn’t cost any more. Everything’s three coppers a mug. Wine’s five.”

  “... silver for bad wine?” murmured Erdyl.

  “Look, fellows ... times been hard ... especially in the south.”

  “Lager, then.” Kharl offered a smile.

  “Make that two,” added Demyst.

  “Four,” added Alynar.

  Erdyl shrugged helplessly. “Five.”

  “Any eats?” asked the server.

  “Got any dark bread?” replied Kharl.

  “Cost you. Rye’s one for a loaf, two for a basket. Dark’s two and four.”

  “Basket of dark,” Kharl said, showing a pair of silvers.

  “You got it. Five lagers and a basket of dark.”

  The lower murmurs continued.

  “... got coins .. .”

  “... all of ‘em got blades, and the two big ‘uns’d break you in half...”

  “... always that way ...”

  “. .. right it is ... why they got coins and you don’t...”

  The server returned with five brown crockery mugs, setting them quickly on the battered wooden tabletop, so deftly that despite her speed, not a drop slopped onto the wood. “Lagers.” Then she set down the basket of bread. “Be three silvers and four.”

  Kharl handed over four silvers, as well as two more coppers.

  “Thanks.” The broad smile was both warm and professional.


  Before she could step away, Kharl spoke. “There used to be armsmen in here all the time, didn’t there?”

  “Haven’t been any since spring. Say they all went south to get the brigands out of the hills. Said that was the reason we didn’t get no produce and stuff from there.” The server shrugged, tossing her head to flip the errant lock of black hair back. “Miss the coins. Don’t miss the rest of it.”

  “Looks slow, even for mideightday.”

  “Slow all the time now, except when the patrollers get off.” She glanced toward the door.

  “They’re as bad as the armsmen?” suggested Kharl.

  The server just shook her head. “Check on you fellows later.” She moved to another table, where three white-haired men and a woman sat. “Need a refill, gramps?”

  “Hain’t finished what I got, Selda.”

  “Way you’re drinkin’, gramps, you never will...”

  Kharl smiled.

  “She didn’t want to talk about the patrollers,” observed Erdyl.

  “Seemed that way,” added Demyst.

  Kharl said nothing, but studied the lager with his order-senses. There was no obvious chaos in it. He took a sip. He’d had better. He’d seldom had worse. After a second sip, he broke off a chunk of the bread and chewed off some. Warm, crusty, and flavorful, it was far better than the lager. He hated to think what the ale tasted like. He held the mug as though he would continue to sip, but concentrated on hearing what was being said at the other tables.

  “... sent Gorot home last fiveday ... said wasn’t enough work for two ...”

  “... Melanya . .. thinks her Fradol’s got eyes for Jaela ...”

  “... knocks her up and looks elsewhere ... Ought to knock him up...”

  “She’d come home then, and your coppers’d be flowing then ...”

  “... have children ... always keep paying ... they never notice ... good times and bad ...”

  “... seen better times ...” *

  “Haven’t we all?” i

  Kharl had been slowly studying the servers as they passed, but he hadn’t seen Enelya, from whom Kharl and Jeka had wheedled, begged, and bought food. The long-faced blond server handing the tables in the far corner was familiar-but he couldn’t recall her name. He gestured to her, holding up a silver.