Wellspring of Chaos

LIII

Against strong blustering gusts that were nearly direct headwinds, it took the Seastag five days-with frequent tacking and the use of the engine-after leaving Worrak to make port in Ruzor. Kharl was glad for the respite, because every time the ship had rolled or pitched heavily, and he had been caught off guard, his ribs had reminded him that they had not yet healed. He thought that the efforts he had made to cultivate a sense of balance within himself had helped speed the healing, but that could have been wishful thinking.

Whatever the reason, there were times-brief moments-when they did not ache, and those seemed more frequent with each day. Even so, he was glad that the Seastag had ported, even if Hagen had said that they would be in Ruzor but two days.

Kharl had two in-port watches, but one was that afternoon, and the second the following morning. Ghart had given him an easy watch schedule, clearly in deference to his injuries, but Kharl had no doubts that his duties in other ports would include night and midwatches. He had been down in the carpenter shop since after breakfast, using the tools to tighten the grip on the cudgel he’d taken from the weapons locker, and was headed back up to replace it.

He stopped halfway up the ladder from the carpenter shop as he heard voices from the main deck, as if two people were standing right outside the hatch.

“…most fortunate to have captured the pirates…understand you have a cargo of two hundred stone of brimstone…”

“…already have a binding contract for the brimstone…sell it here…and Synadar wouldn’t give me a copper were I broke and legless…”

“…understand that, but the Prefect is willing to pay a third more than your contract price…would free cargo space…”

“Why is the Prefect of Gallos so interested in my cargo of brimstone?” asked Hagen.

“The Prefect is having trouble with the province of Kyphros…the Prince of Analeria is always claiming another part of Gallos…The prince has no mages, and gunpowder is useful.”

“His troubles don’t matter to me,” replied Hagen. “All a trader’s got is his reputation. I sell out a cargo and a buyer, I lose that buyer, and anyone he tells…”

“It’s not wise to anger…”

“It’s not wise for you to anger him.” Hagen laughed. “The Prefect doesn’t have more than twoscore lancers here in Ruzor. The pier’s stone and long. You send ’em down that pier, and I’ll cut the lines and be off. Then I’ll tell every trader to steer clear. Ruzor’s the Prefect’s only port, and he’s got no fleet.”

“…you’re a hard man, captain. Someday, you’ll regret that.”

“Regret what? Being honest? Being fair?”

There was a long silence.

“…tariffs are twenty golds on the cotton, the Brystan apples, and the tin ingots.”

“That’s twice what they were last year,” Hagen pointed out, his voice indifferent.

“That’s what they are.”

“They are what they are, and I’ll report them to the buyers.”

“…seeing as you didn’t know…”

“Whatever they are…we report them. And you’ll give me a receipt for that amount.”

“Eleven golds.” The words were nearly spit out.

“We’re always happy to pay what is levied by the lord of the land,” Hagen said cheerfully. “We want everyone to know what we paid and to whom.”

The voices faded as steps on the deck above indicated that the two men had moved away from the forecastle hatch above. Kharl waited several moments before climbing up, then going out on the main deck. He stopped for a moment and looked to the east and north. Ruzor sat on the east side of the Phroan River, underneath the cliffs serving as the western ramparts against the high desert that extended westward from the Little Easthorns. It was an old port town, and despite being located on the northeast edge of a large natural bay, had but a single long stone pier for oceangoing vessels. Farther seaward was a long stone breakwater, with a squarish gray stone tower fortress at its terminus. Under a clear sky and a sun that shed little heat, the Seastag was tied between the set of bollards farthest out into the harbor.

Kharl headed for the watch locker, where he replaced the cudgel and secured the locker. Turning slowly, he watched as Hagen handed a leather bag to a bearded and bulky man wearing a dark blue winter jacket, its collar trimmed with golden fur. The bearded man took the pouch, bowed slightly, and walked down the gangway with stiff and jerky steps. His steps lengthened once he was on the pier, but they were still abrupt and forced.

Kharl eased toward Ghart, who had the in-port deck watch until noon.

“…not a happy man, ser,” the second said to Hagen.

“That kind never is. There won’t be any shore leave, but tell the crew we’ll make that up in Southport. I’m going below. Have to tell the engineer to keep some coals hot in the firebox.”

“Yes, ser.”

As Hagen neared the carpenter second, he nodded.

“Ser.” Kharl returned the nod.

“How are those ribs?”

“Better every day.”

“Good to hear that.” Hagen stepped past Kharl and across the deck, before heading through the hatch to his cabin.

“Ser.” Kharl addressed Ghart, who remained beside the end of the gangway. “I fixed the grip on the cudgel and replaced it in the weapons locker.” He handed over the heavy bronze key.

“That’s good. No shore leave, and that’ll mean your watches will be quiet. ’Less that customs’ weasel gets the local lancers riled up.”

“Was that who the captain was talking to when I came topside? He didn’t look pleased.”

“He wasn’t. Tried to inflate the tariff, pocket the difference. Weasel. Surprised you couldn’t smell him from across the deck.” Ghart shook his head. “The Prefect rules Kyphros with folk like that, and he won’t be keeping it long.”

“I don’t know,” mused Kharl. “You’d think so, but…”

“Could be,” replied Ghart. “Folks are always fearing change.” He glanced back along the pier, but the customs enumerator had disappeared.

“They’re always afraid change will make things worse.” Kharl chuckled ruefully. “For most folks, it does.”

“You’re saying that things never change,” Ghart said. “’Cause the worse they get, the more folk fear they’ll get even worse.”

“Until they know they can’t get worse…”

“You’re a cheerful sort today, carpenter.”

Kharl offered a rueful smile. “Experience.”

“Don’t think I want to know. Seen enough I’d rather not see again.” Ghart turned to look at the long wagon being driven down the pier toward the Seastag. “Need to get the off-loading crew. Looks like the cotton factor.”

Kharl slipped away to the railing near the bow. From there, he looked over the old town once more, taking in the ancient gray stone buildings and those newer dwellings, few as they were, with white plaster walls farther westward on the narrow bluff.

Ghart’s words echoed through his thoughts, and Kharl wondered just what it might take to get people to want to change a poor ruler, or if they feared change so much that no ruler would ever be changed except by death or conquest.