The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [144]
Looking for cloth merchants was easier than speculating on the magic behind the Street of Harlots.
Even past the empty fountain, halfway across the paving stones of the square, past the potters’ stalls, past the split-wood baskets from the farms, past the red-and-gold patterned blankets displayed by a twisted little man, there were no colored banners nor cloth merchants.
Bostric shivered as we passed Mathilde, older but still blond, if plump, and bulging out of unwashed brown trousers and a tattered and open cloth coat. The flowers in her pots were already wilting within from the chaos contained in her blood. No evil there, just honest disorder.
For all Bostric’s shivers, I would have bedded a dozen Mathildes sooner than any of the ladies on the Street of Harlots. The deeper I looked at Fenard, the less I liked it. But would that have been true in any place where I stayed long enough to really look?
I didn’t know.
What I knew for certain was that the cloth merchants hadn’t arrived, and that I had no intentions of going anywhere near that narrow street again.
XLVIII
CLING.
“Wonder who it is?” mumbled Destrin.
I looked at Bostric. He stood there, plane in hand. I looked at him hard and he jumped, setting down the tool and hastening to the door.
Despite the late spring warmth in the air outside, Destrin had the window closed, a low fire in the hearth, and an old and raveled sweater on under his apron as he worked on yet another tavern bench.
The work was going well enough, but every time I patted myself on the back, it seemed like something like the stable flood occurred. Regular storms I couldn’t attribute to disorder or Antonin. Even after my experience an eight-day earlier in the Street of Harlots, I couldn’t blame the weather on Antonin, and that was the problem. How could I separate what belonged to Fenard from whatever the chaos-master was weaving?
The other problem was that there wasn’t all that much I knew how to do in working with order. Yes, I could provide support for Destrin, reinforce Bostric’s basic goodness, and help a few good souls resist the twists of chaos sent forth by whoever was sending them forth. But beyond that? I shook my head slowly.
“You all right, Lerris?” Destrin bent toward me.
“I’m fine.” And I was. Winter had departed, and I enjoyed the spring, watching Deirdre, and visiting the market. I just didn’t enjoy the heat in the shop.
Wiping my forehead, I studied the grain of the white oak, asking myself again why I had agreed to do a writing desk. Without Dorman’s faded plan book, I would have been in even bigger trouble. Even so, it took all of my concentration to visualize the desk, to mentally draw the pieces from where they lay buried in the wood, and try to fit them together.
That sort of mental exercise helped, not only in crafting, but somehow in beginning to understand more of The Basis of Order. I had read and re-read the slim volume, and half of it was still unclear. As was the desk for Dalta, Brettel’s daughter, the desk he wanted as a wedding gift. That made the third piece he had commissioned, far more than he needed to do even as a friend of Destrin’s. Dalta would have an entirely furnished house before long, and she wasn’t even betrothed!
“Here, ser.” Bostric handed a flat envelope to Destrin, then returned to smoothing the kitchen table we had roughed out together.
I knew I was forcing the red-haired youth, even more than Sardit had forced me, but how much time I had I didn’t know, certainly not enough, however long it might be, to carry him through a full apprenticeship. Already his touch was defter than that of Destrin, and while Deirdre was older than Bostric, a few years was not insurmountable, and he was kind enough at heart.
I repressed a sigh. How had I gotten into this mess?
“Lerris!”
I glanced up. Destrin had paled. “Accufff…accuu…” He grasped for the bench.
Bostric looked to me.
“Just