The Death of Chaos

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  While he looked at them, I added some water to the moisture pot and the glue pot, then brushed a trace of sawdust off the desk chair.

  “I had not thought commissioning a simple chest to be so complex.”

  “Simple chests aren’t. You want a chest with all the drawers the same size, and you can have it-but you waste space, and there’s nothing particularly special about it.”

  “I don’t need a work of art, Master Lerris, just a chest.”

  “Fine.” I sketched out a simple twelve-drawer chest. “What about this?”

  “That’s too squat.”

  I gave him a fifteen-drawer one, thinner and taller.

  “I don’t know…”

  I laughed. “You say you just want a chest, but when I give you a plain chest, you don’t like it.”

  “I can’t afford a work of art, young master.”

  “Part of the cost is wood. It’s less costly to work in softer woods and use a harder varnish. Of course, softer woods will get dented more quickly.”

  “Are you trying to sell me the most expensive chest possible?”

  I shook my head. “You misunderstand. A more expensive piece from a good craftsman will be a better piece. You know that. You want the best you can get, but you fear the cost.”

  He nodded. “Indeed I do.”

  I took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s start with what you would really like. I’ll tell you about what it will cost…”

  “About?”

  “I’ll give you a firm price once we work out what you want. The amount of turning and carving can change the cost of the same-sized chest a great deal. So can any metalwork or ornamentation.”

  “Then… proceed.”

  I must have used nearly ten sheets of sketch paper, more than a few coppers’ worth, before we agreed on a basic design-a variation on the original sketch with the larger drawers on the outside, except that I put in a single shelf in the center of the upper part-for balance and display.

  In the end, we did agree.

  “Eight golds… the golden oak, and at least three coats of the hard varnish, and this design. No cracked wood, mind you.”

  “No cracked wood-and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to take it,” I added.

  “Do you tell all your customers that?”

  “Yes.”

  Durrik shook his head. “The confidence of youth…”

  I didn’t know as it was confidence. I thought my work was good enough to sell to someone else-but even if it weren’t I wasn’t about to force customers to purchase woodwork they didn’t like. They wouldn’t feel good, and neither would I. “I would not force anyone to buy…”

  “I hope you will always feel that way.” He smiled, almost sadly, before asking, “When might the chest be ready?”

  I had to think for a moment. “It might be four eight-days or a season. I don’t have enough oak, and that means seasoning so it will not split.”

  “I would hope not more than a season.” He pulled his cloak around him and turned toward the door. “So would I.” My voice was dry. “Good day, Master Lerris.”

  “Good day.”

  I finally did manage to pull out the plans for Antona’s desk and start on the sketch for the bracing-unlike Uncle Sardit, I had to sketch some things out. Then, maybe he did when he was younger, too.

  Kilbon arrived on a thin and bony brown mare right before midday. The sound of strange hoofs brought me to the shop door, but not any sooner than his mare brought Rissa to the kitchen door.

  Kilbon’s face was as thin as the mare’s, but he smiled when he saw Rissa, and inclined his head to me. “Master Lerris?”

  “Kilbon. I appreciate your help. I’m working on getting an apprentice, but since I don’t have one…” I shrugged. “Good help is, mayhap, hard to find.”

  “Especially if the master wants a bright lad who can also sense the woods with more than clumsy hands,” added Rissa.

  “Ah, Rissa, lass, were I Master Lerris, that I’d want, too. I can’t use a lad who can’t find and bend the rushes without breaking them.”

  Rissa looked from Kilbon to me and back again. Kilbon, thin as he was, had a wiry strength, and we had the desk and chair in the wagon in no time. It took me longer to pad them and cover them with the oiled canvas. I even remembered my staff.

  I offered Kilbon two coppers, but he shook his head.

  “Rather trade a favor for a favor…”

  I smiled. “Fair’s fair.”

  “… and some warm food from the lass.” He winked at me and smiled fondly at Rissa, putting his arm around her shoulders.

  She actually smiled back at the basketmaker.

  “You sure you won’t be needing me on the trip?”

  “Enjoy the warm food from the lass,” I suggested.

  “Master Lerris…” Rissa actually blushed.

  I flicked the reins and ignored the muffled whuff from the black mare. The wind continued to blow cold out of the northwest, and it felt as if I were in the Westhorns themselves even before I drove the wagon into Kyphrien.

  A guard outside the autarch’s palace waved to me as I passed, and I waved back without recognizing him. There were getting to be far more people who knew me that I didn’t know than the other way around.

  Wertel had his house and hauling business northwest of Kyphrien on the road to Meltosia. As I guided my small wagon up the hard-packed drive, a blue-sided hauler’s wagon easily twice the size of mine rumbled by. The driver tipped his hat. The blue side panel bore a picture of two horses and a wagon, more of a black outline really-with the name “Werfel” underneath.

  The white-walled structure sat on a very low rise, just enough to ensure good drainage really, and formed a square around a central court. Two sides of the square were for the dwelling, and two for the stables and wagon-barns. The hauling sides opened outward, while the dwelling sides opened onto the courtyard.

  There were no guards around-unlike Hensil’s establishment-but a broad-shouldered hauler who looked as though he could have eaten most of Hensil’s guards for breakfast without taking a breath directed me.

  “Looking for Master Werfel? He’s in the office, round the corner.”

  I flicked the reins, gently, not wanting the wagon to jerk, and guided the horse around to the south side of the building. By the time I had set the brake and gotten down, Werfel was standing by the heavy, iron-banded front door.

  “Master Lerris… you’d deliver to a hauler?”

  “Why not? I’d have to come out to tell you it was ready.”

  Werfel laughed and turned to the big hauler who had followed me. “That’s a good crafter, not willing to waste his time.”

  Then he gestured and the big hauler and another man walked into his office and carried out a flat table, setting it outside the door. They lifted the desk out of the wagon as easily as if it were a saw or a basket of potatoes, and the desk wasn’t light. That oak was solid.

  They carried it into the office and set it down about four cubits out from the wall, right in front of the iron-barred door. Werfel followed them, and I brought the chair in and set it down.

  The haulers nodded to me, and left us in the office, a white-plastered room perhaps ten cubits deep and fifteen in width. The single window, though nearly two cubits wide and three tall, was protected with heavy iron grillwork on the outside. The desk dominated the room, as I realized Werfel must have intended, although the hauler himself would have dominated any room. He was a head taller than me, all lean muscle.

  Werfel said nothing, but he had a fixed frown on his face as he studied the desk. He ran his fingers along the beveled front edge. Then he kneeled down and glanced up underneath at the joins from beneath.

  He opened each drawer, and ran each of the three back and forth several times. Then he took out each in turn and examined the back and inside. After that he sat in the chair, forward and backward and on the edge. Finally, he straightened. “There’s only one problem…”


  I tried not to swallow, and I didn’t know whether to brain Werfel or not.

  “You haven’t put a maker’s mark anywhere.” I hadn’t even thought about a maker’s mark. Sardit had marked his better pieces, but Destrin certainly had not. Then again, who cared about the maker of cheap tavern benches? “I hadn’t thought about it. Each piece I do is unique.” Werfel laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I was just giving you a hard time. To me, it doesn’t make a difference. You might think about it, though.”

  He opened the iron-barred door behind the desk and disappeared for a moment before returning with a leather purse. “It fits well, I think, Master Lerris. Don’t you?” I smiled. “I think so, but I may not be the best one to ask.”

  “Who else could I ask?”

  He had a point there. Good crafters and traders are harder on themselves than most others.

  He counted out the golds-ten of them-and laid two silvers beside them. “There. The silvers aren’t much-but times haven’t been what I’d hoped for. But I will praise the piece to others.” He gave me a wry look. “Although I think it can speak for itself.”

  “Troubles?” I asked, feeling uncomfortable with the praise, and wanting to change the subject. My work still wasn’t as good as Uncle Sardit’s. “Hamorian traders?”

  “No. Not yet. Poor harvests. Do a lot with cabbage, fruit, potatoes, and the olives, especially the olives.”

  “You said ‘not yet.’ That sounds like you expect problems with the Hamorian traders.”

  “Not the traders themselves, Lerris, but what follows them. They’ve got cheap cloth, made with those power looms, and pretty soon they own the dry-goods business. Then come cheap tools and cheaper glassware and pottery. Pretty soon, they start their own hauling businesses, and their own mills and you name it.” He snorted. “Saw it happen in Austra, and south Nordla. It’s happening now in Delapra.”

  “What happens if the Duke, or whoever, won’t let them?”

  “Tariffs, taxes-that sort of thing?” He snorted. “They still find a way.”

  I nodded.

  “Then they start bringing in their troops and ships. Figure that’s what’s happening in Freetown. Colaris can’t stand up to Hydlen, nor to the Viscount. Hamor will support him, but only if he lets their stuff in. Won’t be long before they own him.” He smiled grimly. “Not that there’s much a hauler and a woodcrafter can do. Could be hard on your consort, ‘fore long, though.”

  “It could be.” Anything ended up being hard on Krystal- or me-or both of us these days.

  “Glad it’s not me.” He looked toward the door.

  I took the coins, and the hint, and bowed. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you. Fine desk. Always wanted one like this. Might as well enjoy it while I can.”

  He sat and enjoyed the desk while I walked out and reclaimed the wagon. I checked to see if the staff was handy, but it was right where I left it and where I could reach it instantly.

  While I didn’t need the staff on the trip home, I had the feeling it might be necessary sooner than I wished.

  LII

  THE NEXT MORNING, after Krystal left for Kyphrien, I trudged out to the stable. After feeding and grooming Gairloch and the wagon mare, I set up a sandbag on a long rope from a rafter and began a few exercises with the staff. Then I worked on hitting the bag as it was swinging.

  Before long I was panting, but I kept at it until I overreached. The staff hit the stall wall and snapped back against my weak thigh. I went down in the straw, trying not to moan. When the stars cleared, I checked my leg with my order senses, but I hadn’t broken anything. I would have a huge bruise.

  Whufff… ufff… That was Gairloch’s reaction as I limped out of the stable and closed the door. He’d wanted out, but I was in no shape to ride at that point.

  I limped back toward the shop, but Rissa was sweeping things out the kitchen door. “You go out to the stable, and you limp back. You do too much too soon. You and the commander, unless you slow your steps, you will not live to see thirty summers, or to see children look up to you.”

  “If I slow my steps, Rissa, I won’t live to see next fall.”

  “You must run and limp from the stable to the house-that will help you live longer?”

  Put that way, she had a point, and I had to grin.

  “You… you do much, and you craft wonderful things, but will those things you make love you?”

  “Rissa…”

  She gave a last brush with the broom and closed the kitchen door, getting in the last word by saying nothing.

  After I refilled the moisture pot and reracked a saw, I pulled out the sketches for Durrik’s spice chest. Then I worked a while on translating the sketches into a working plan-figuring out the bracing and the support, and how to do it with the same woods. If I could avoid it, I wouldn’t put lighter or cheaper wood anywhere in the piece, even inside where few see it. Some crafters can work out those kinds of details in their head, but I couldn’t-not for a new design anyway, and I hadn’t been crafting long enough to have seen all types of work.

  Once I had that mostly figured out and the throbbing in my thigh had subsided into a more normal bruise, I saddled Gairloch. I needed to ride in on the western road to see Faslik about the woods I’d need for Durrik’s chest and Antona’s desk. Somehow, what with my injuries, the death of Faslik’s sister, that desk kept getting put off.

  Depending on what Faslik had and what it cost, I might have to rework the plans for one or both of the pieces.

  A winter wren chirped once as I turned into the hard-packed damp clay road leading uphill to the mill, then flitted into the regrowing trees on the south side of the drive.

  I tied Gairloch to the post by the millrace, then walked down toward the mill, glancing at the water as it churned in the narrow stone trough toward the undershot waterwheel.

  The moss-covered stones above the waterline in the millrace testified to how long the mill had been in Faslik’s family. The whine from within the stone walls of the mill testified to the continued operation of the sawmill, and that the miller, or someone, was present.

  I found Faslik at the blade, where a young man, broader across the shoulders than even Talryn, guided the logs toward the saw. Rather than bother him, I walked toward the racks where the planks and cut timbers were stacked, pausing to check the stocks. Of red and white oak and pine and fir there were plenty, but there was little lorken, less cherry, and no nut woods at all.

  Another broad-shouldered young man, with short brown hair, limped toward the rack of drying oaks, most of them small, barely a dozen spans in breadth. From their size, I guessed they would be cut for timbers, rather than planks. My own thigh still throbbed from the morning’s mishap with the staff, and I nodded sympathetically as he planted his weight on his good leg and levered down the uncut oak onto a handcart.

  When the whine of the blade stopped, I limped back toward Faslik. The younger man was cleaning the saw pit, and two other young men were stacking the planks. Faslik was walking back from the north door, presumably from closing the millrace.

  I couldn’t help sneezing with all the sawdust in the air.

  The millwright raised a hand in greeting. “Master Lerris, what sorts of woods you be wanting?”

  “Golden or white oak and cherry. Enough for an oak chest and a cherry desk.”

  “You looked over the racks?”

  I nodded.

  “Show me what you need, and we’ll see what we can do.”

  We walked down past the racks.

  “The wide cherry. Eight of those, and five of the narrow beams here.” We walked over to the oak. “Six of the planks, and six of the beams.”

  Faslik frowned and was silent for a moment before speaking. “For the cherry, I’d guess three golds…”

  “That’s a great deal for young cherry.”

  “Young cherry?”

  “The grains are wide-spaced…”

  Faslik frowned and spit into the clay floor. “For a
young fellow…”

  “I had good training.”

  “I can’t do less than two and a half.”

  “Two and a half, then.” As an outsider, I still didn’t like to press too much, and cherry was scarce. “And the oak?”

  “What would you say was fair?” Faslik smiled at me.

  I hated beginning the bargaining. I frowned. “The white oak, here, is fair, but you’ve got a lot of it, and not many people want it in the spring, when coins are short. Say eight silvers.” I was aiming for a gold.

  “Not a copper less than a gold and three.”

  I shrugged. “Nine silvers.”

  “A gold and two, and that means my family will have to eat maize bread.”

  “A gold, and that means my pony will have to graze at the roadside, for I won’t have enough coins to buy hay or grain.”

  “A gold and one, but only because you’ve been fair, and I want to keep selling to you.”

  I sighed, mostly for effect. “A gold and one.”

  Faslik took my hand. “Done.”

  “I’ll pick it up later today, if that’s all right. I didn’t bring the wagon with me.”

  He nodded.

  “Ma… maa… ster… ?” asked a voice.

  Beside me stood the young man with the clubfoot.

  “Yes?” I tried to make my voice gentle as I turned to him.

  “Don’t be bothering die mastercrafter, Wegel…” said Faslik gently.

  “It’s no bother.” I looked at the youth, more of an overgrown boy. “You had a question?”

  “Ab-bout… cra-cra-cra… fting… ser.” He looked down, then pulled a small figure from his tunic, a winged figure with a woman’s face and long flowing hair. “Do… do… you…” He stuttered and fell silent, then thrust the carving at me.

  “He’s always been like that, Master Lerris, a good lad, but not quite able to say what he means. He’s a good lad.”

  I took the carving and studied it, far better than anything I had been able to do. Every line matched the grain of the wood. My eyes almost burned, and I shook my head.

  “You did this?” I asked.

  Wegel nodded.

  “He’s a good lad,” said Faslik. “A good lad.”