In fact, though I only took a few minutes to gulp down the sliced soft apples she set out along with a battered blue clay mug, it was nearly supper time before I finished gluing the last joins together. The whole time, Destrin had “hmmphed” along with the bench, barely finishing his by the time I put the little white oak box into the setting clamps.
It didn’t take very long to groove a rectangle on the top and chalk out a simple four-point star, then carve and chisel out the shallow design.
The box was good and workmanlike, not exquisite, but better than much of what I had seen. “You know woods and tools,” Destrin said grudgingly. “It’s nice,” observed his daughter.
“Better than nice, Deirdre. Fetch a silver or two in the market.” He almost smiled.
I shrugged, not wanting to correct the older man. I didn’t know Fenard, but I doubted that the box would fetch more than a half silver. “Are you interested in a journeyman?”
“Can’t pay much.”
“I don’t ask for anything up front. You get half of what I can make and sell. I pay two coppers an eight-day for room, and another two for food, but if I clean out the old stable I can put my pony there.”
Destrin’s head jerked up at the mention of the pony. “Where are you from, fellow?”
“Up the North Coast. I went to Freetown, but I had to leave. There was no work after the black ones closed down the port.”
“You could afford a horse?” asked Deirdre. “Hardly,” I laughed. “He’s a shaggy mountain pony, and he doesn’t eat too much.”
“Another two pennies for the stable.”
“Two pennies, but only if I don’t make you a half-silver an eight-day.” Destrin reflected, but not for long. “All right. And you sleep here in the shop. There’s a small room in the corner.”
That was all I wanted, for the moment. I needed some funds, some time to think and to read The Basis of Order, and somewhere to stable Gairloch.
“You have supper with us upstairs,” added the craft-master. He looked around the shop.
I understood. “After I clean up a little.”
He nodded.
Destrin was getting a good deal, but he wasn’t likely to ask the questions that the other crafters like Perlot might.
In the end, I didn’t eat with them, instead persuading Destrin to let me get Gairloch and work on the stable.
Unlike the shop, the stable had simply been closed. Destrin had clearly never had enough extra wood to use it for storage, and it didn’t take long with the old broom I found to make one of the two stalls suitable for Gairloch, at least for the night. Finding time to get him exercise might be a greater problem, but that worry would have to wait.
XL
DESTRIN HAD so many problems that it was hard to know where to begin, and that didn’t even count Deirdre. Some of them were easy enough to correct, just given a little time and effort, like reorganizing the shop back to its original and functional pattern.
Some took my own funds, because Destrin didn’t see any use in them, like having the small saws sharpened by a good tinker. For Destrin there wasn’t any use. He knew he couldn’t produce small work-not good enough to sell in the market. But I could, and I needed to sell things to avoid spending myself out of the last few golds I had.
Even though Deirdre looked longingly at the little white-oak box I had made to show that I knew woods and woodworking, Destrin agreed that I should sell it on the following eight-day’s-end market.
I didn’t intend to sell only one box. That meant going to the mills to find woods, preferably scraps.
The first miller, Nurgke, was blunt. “Scraps? Not even for sale, not to you or to Destrin. The scraps go to Perlot or Jirrle. They’re my best customers, and they need them for their apprentices.” He had silver hair and hard brown eyes, arms like tree-trunks, and an open if unsmiling, face.
Nurgke’s mill had two big .saws, run by waterwheels from a diversion of the Gallos River. In spite of his bluntness, his mill conveyed a sense of order. Even the stones in the mill-race were set precisely, and the grease for the waterwheels was set in measured dollops for application by his apprentices.
“Impressive,” I told him as I surveyed his operation. “You prize order highly.”
“I praise profits, woodman. Order brings profits.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “Who else might have wood scraps or mill ends for sale?”
Nurgke pulled at his long chin, then frowned. “Well… Yuril doesn’t have any arrangements, but he does mostly firs, stuff for poles and fences, farm uses, not much in the way of hardwoods. Then there’s Teller… but he’s almost under indenture to the prefect. You might try Brettel. He used to mill for Dorman.” He saw my blank look and explained. “Dorman was Destrin’s father. Best cabinetmaker in Candar. Some said he was as good as Sardit in Recluce, maybe better.” The mill-master shook his head. “Destrin’s a good man, been through a lot, but he doesn’t have the touch.” He looked at me. “Brettel might help you, but don’t sell him a song. He never forgets.”
With Nurgke’s admonition fresh on my mind, I rode Gairloch back around the perimeter road of Fenard, the wide and cleared granite-paved way just inside the fifteen-cubit-high stone walls, until I got to the north gate and the north road leading out to Brettel’s mill.
The wind whipped around us, and the light dimmed as the clouds darkened. By the time we reached the mill, light crisp flakes were falling upon the frozen ground, leaving a lacy finish over the fields of stubble behind the wooden rail fences.
I had to wait for Brettel, who was wrestling with the replacement of a saw.
So I studied his mill. Like Nurgke’s, his radiated order, but with an older and longer-standing sense of presence. His mill-race was also perfectly stoned and mortared, but some of the stones had been replaced. The stream dammed for his high pond had to be the one that joined the Gallos River on the east side of Fenard.
The lumber and timber storage warehouse radiated an age greater than the stone walls of Fenard, yet there was no debris and the roof timbers were more recent and carefully varnished.
The warehouse was chill-no fires or hearths with that much lumber around, but I wondered how much timber and how many planks split because of the changes in heat and cold.
“You? Who are you, and what do you want?” Brettel, like a broad and bandy-legged dwarf, stood shorter than to my shoulder, and his voice was a clear tenor. For all the abruptness of his words, the tone was pleasant.
“I’m a new journeyman for Destrin, the woodworker. My name is Lerris.”
“Destrin? What are you running from, young fellow?”
I grinned. I’m not, at least not exactly. I worked for my uncle, but he said I was too unsettled and told me to see the world and to come back when I could settle down.“ I shrugged. ”You can’t see much of the world when you run out of coppers. So I agreed to work for Destrin as a journeyman. He supplies tools and lodging and gets a large share of what I produce.“
The mill-master looked me over. “No sign of chaos. The worst you could be would be an honest scoundrel, and that’s the least of Destrin’s problems. What do you want from me? My best-cut timbers without paying a copper?” I shook my head. “I’m not that ambitious. I prefer smaller pieces for now. Scraps and mill ends, if you can spare any.”
Brettel pursed his lips.
“I can pay a little,” I offered, not wanting to seem too eager, but not wanting to appear as a beggar, either.
He shook his head with a rueful grin. “I don’t know what you are, but you’re neither a thief nor of chaos, and anything would help Destrin, I think.” Then he fixed his eyes on mine. “But leave his daughter alone. She’s my god-daughter, and while his pride won’t let me foster her, she’ll have an honest man of Fenard for a husband.” The last words were like light iron, and I stepped back.
“I didn’t know…”
He laughed, and the laugh was deeper, not at all like the tenor of his voice. “You wouldn�
�t. I wouldn’t say anything, except you’re good-looking, probably talented, and will leave her sooner or later. There are plenty of others… now, about the scraps…”
I waited, trying not to hold my breath.
“Follow me. You can take anything you want from the burn bin, but don’t leave a mess. The mill ends are in the other bin. Those we sell. You get out what you want into a pile, then either Arta-he’s the” skinny fellow with red hair-or I will talk about how many coppers it’s worth.“
In the end, I gathered one bag full of red and white oak scraps, enough to do three or four small boxes, and enough mill ends for three coppers to do a breadboard or two and a small chair.
Brettel watched as I carefully packed the woods into the old basket I had taken from Destrin’s stable.
“Good luck, young fellow. You seem to know woods.”
“Thank you. What I do with them is what counts.”
He nodded and was gone, and I chucked the reins.
Wheeee… eeeee.
“I know. I know. You don’t like carrying wood. But if you want to stay dry and get fed, you’re going to have to carry wood.”
Gairloch carried me out into the wind and the swirling snow that had covered not only the fields, but the perimeter road, with a light white blanket.
Destrin “hhhmmmmpphed” as I brought in the wood and stacked it in the unused bins on what had become my side of the workroom. He had a fire stoked in the side hearth and a ragged sweater on under his apron. “What’s that for, boy?”
“Some boxes, breadboards, and a small chair.”
“Do a good chair, and it will sell. Boxes don’t do so well these days.”
“If they don’t sell, I’ll make other things in the future.” Deirdre just watched until I began to measure. Then, as if the details bored her, she slipped through the back door and upstairs.
The hardest thing was not to hurry. Even though I knew nothing was going to happen immediately, I felt like every moment counted, that I should be working all the time, and I did work under the lamp some nights.
Destrin was wrong. I finished two boxes, and with the white oak one, took them to the market on eighth-day. Getting in cost me a copper, but I found a spot by the dry fountain, next to a flower seller, and set out the three boxes on a tan cloth I had borrowed from Deirdre.
The snow had half-melted, half blown away, but the wind still whipped in from the north, and less than a score of possible buyers wandered through the square.
“Those are nice, young fellow. Where are they from?” asked the rotund woman with the cut flowers.
“Here. I’m a new journeyman for Destrin, the woodworker.”
“You made those? You mean he actually has someone who can make things like old Dorman did?” She leaned down and studied the boxes. “Well… they’re not as elegant as Dor-man’s… rather plain… but they look well-made.”
“May I see the one on the end?” interrupted another voice, that of a slender man in gray leathers.
I didn’t like his narrow face or the cold look in his eyes, but I nodded as I handed him the red-oak box.
The man studied it minutely, looking at the joins, at the grain angles, and the fit of the top. Finally, he handed it back, almost with a disappointed look on his face. “Decent workmanship. Fair style.” He nodded curtly and stepped away.
“I guess that means you’re all right, fellow.”
“Who was that?” I asked. “Some inspector for the local guild?”
“The prefect doesn’t allow guilds. He says they just cause graft and corruption.”
“So who was he?”
“That’s old Jirrle. He and Perlot and Dorman used to fight over who was the better crafter. Now he does the fine cabinets for the gentry, the big merchants, and the prefect.”
“Can I see that box in the middle? How much is it?” A woman in a shapeless gray overtunic that failed to conceal her bulk jabbed at the white oak box.
“A silver,” I responded.
“It’s not worth more than a copper or two…”
In the end, I sold the white oak for six coppers, and the two others for five-just enough to leave me nothing after the cost of entering the market, the cost of the wood and paying Destrin’s share, and my eight-day’s lodging and board. That did leave the wood for the chair paid for, but the lack of profit wasn’t the most promising of starts.
XLI
OVER THE NEXT few eight-days, my cash flow improved, and I stopped going to the market, instead displaying my products on the stage in Destrin’s window. With winter full upon Fenard, mostly demonstrated with howling winds, and occasional light snows, being able to sell without either paying the market fee or shivering on the cold stones of the square was a definite improvement. The first chair brought three silvers, although I ended up having to buy a finish varnish for it and putting a satin sanded gloss on it.
Destrin “hummphhedd” and moaned, but finally gave in when I insisted that his cut came after deducting the expenses for materials, since I was the one buying them. Deirdre still watched occasionally as I worked, and Brettel still let me have the small scraps free. Even the larger mill ends cost but a few coppers.
Gairloch liked every opportunity to leave the confined stall, and that was another problem. Stalls had to be cleaned, something I had forgotten. Cleaning the sawdust and scraps from the shop, with the fragrance of cut wood, was almost a pleasure compared to wielding a shovel and slop bucket. Sometimes I even had to wash parts of the planking-and my hands turned red from the freezing water and coarse soap-but something inside me wouldn’t let me not keep either the stall or shop spotless.
As I worked more with the tools, and Dorman had left tools every bit as good as Uncle Sardit’s, my hands became nearly an extension of my thoughts, and I could almost feel how the grains and the strengths and lesions in the woods flowed together. Sometimes it wasn’t even boring, and I could begin to understand how and why Uncle Sardit looked at wood.
“What are you?” demanded Destrin as I stepped back from the parlor chair I had gotten a commission for. It wasn’t perfect, not to Uncle Sardit’s standards, but even he would have called it a good piece. I had deepened and widened the seat grooves, knowing who would use it, and the spools and braces were a shade heavier to bear the extra weight, yet the proportions did not show that extra strength. “Acufff… cufHf…” He reached out a hand to steady himself. His face paled.
I leaned toward him. “Are you all right?”
“… Be… all… right… just an instant…”
He wasn’t. Even when he straightened up and stopped coughing, he was pale. For the first time since I had come to Fenard, .1 reached out with my feelings beyond the woodworking to touch Destrin… and nearly recoiled from the impact. The threads of order within his body were faded, dying a fraction of a span at a time. Yet there was no chaos, no tinge of evil, just as though he were far older than he was, as if he were an ancient.
Almost without thinking, I lent him some internal order, a touch of strength.
“Who are you?” he repeated, as though his coughing attack had never occurred, but he edged closer to the hearth.
I wiped my forehead. “I’m Lerris.”
Destrin shook his head. “A master trained you, Lerris. I’m a poor excuse for a crafter, and I know it, but I can recognize quality and skill. Sometimes you look like Dorman when you touch the wood, or just let the plane graze an edge. You are in a different world. When you look at a piece of wood, you look like you see all the way through it.”
I did, but there wasn’t any reason to tell Destrin that. So I shrugged, and I was shrugging a lot in Fenard. “Like you, Destrin, I’m trying to make a living.”
“… accuffff… acuuu…” He waved me away.
This time, with what I had given him, he recovered quickly.
“Damned chill…” he mumbled. Then his eyes met mine, and, as if he recognized what I was, he shook his head. “What will I do when you leave?”
I looked back at the chair. Destrin had raised a real question. “You had this shop before I came,” I said firmly, but it was no answer, and we both knew it.
Outside, the wind whistled, shaking the front shutters and rattling the display window.
“Are you ready for supper, Papa?” Deirdre stood by the stairs, looking as petite and fragile as always, as if a good breeze would carry her away. Yet there was iron behind that seeming fragility, as I had discovered watching her negotiate with a merchant’s wife over some curtains she had provided.
“Good time to stop,” agreed the crafter.
While Deirdre served a barley soup, it was a hearty soup, and the biscuits were fresh. Young or fragile-looking, she could cook, and she always had a pleasant, if shy, smile.
That night, with my back against the brick of the wall and my feet up on the pallet that served as couch, bed, and study area, I eased out The Basis of Order. The cover was getting battered, perhaps because I had read through the slim volume at least twice.
Reading didn’t mean understanding, unfortunately. Some things were easy enough, like the business with the sheep had been. Or like helping strengthen Destrin’s body to fight the wasting disease. I could understand what the disease did to Destrin, but there was nothing I could do. Oh, Destrin looked better after my intervention, and I would do what I could, but slowly, slowly, he was dying.
Even the damned introduction to the book didn’t help: “Learning without understanding can but increase the frustration of the impatient…”
Or how about “… All things are not possible, even to the greatest…”?
Wonderful, just wonderful.
I closed the book and looked at nothing.
Too many questions kept nagging at me, even as I continued to force my way through the damnable Basis of Order. At times, I would sit there under the lamp, later than I should have been up, knowing that my eyes would burn the next day, struggling with the conflicts and the ambiguities.
The Magic of Recluce Page 31
