The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [132]
“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 Dorman’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…cuffff…” He reached out a hand to steady himself. His face paled.
I leaned toward him. “Are you all right?