The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [2]
After a while, Uncle Sardit even nodded once or twice when reviewing my cards. But the frowns and questions were always more frequent. And as soon as I thought I understood something well enough to avoid his questions, he would task me with learning some other obscure discipline of woodworking. If it weren’t the trees, it was their bark. If it weren’t their bark, it was the recommended cutting times and sawmill techniques. If it weren’t one type of wood, it was what types you could match in inlays, what differences in grain widths meant. Some of it made sense, but a lot seemed designed to make woodworking as complicated as possible.
“Complicated? Of course it’s complicated. Perfection is always complicated. Do you want your work to last? Or do you want it to fall apart at the first touch of chaos?”
“But we don’t even have any white magicians in Recluce.”
“We don’t? Are you sure about that?”
There wasn’t much I could say to that. Practicing magicians, at least the white ones who used chaos, were strongly discouraged by the masters. And what the masters discouraged generally stayed discouraged, although there seemed to be only a few masters for all the towns in Recluce.
I guess my old teacher, Magister Kerwin, actually was a master, although we didn’t usually think of magisters as masters. They were both part of the same order. Magisters were those who actually taught.
So…I kept studying woods, trees, and tools, and after nearly a year began to make a few simple items.
“Breadboards?”
“Someone has to make them. And they should be made right. You can do it well enough to keep chaos at bay, and you can select from any of my designs or try one of your own. If you do your own, let’s go over it together before you begin cutting.”
I did one of my own—simple, but with an octagonal shape.
“Simple, but nice, Lerris. You may actually have a future as a wood crafter.”
From breadboards, I went to other simple items—outdoor benches for a café, a set of plain bookcases for the school. Nothing with carving, although I had begun to do carving for my own furniture, and Uncle Sardit had even admitted that the wooden armchair I had built for my quarters would not have been out of place in most homes.
“Most homes. Not quite clean enough, and a few rough spots with the spoke-joining angles, but, on the whole, a credible effort.”
That was about the most I ever got in praise from Uncle Sardit.
But I was still bored, even as I continued to learn.
II
“LERRIS!” THE TONE in Uncle Sardit’s voice told me enough. Whatever I had done—I did not wish to know.
I finished washing the sawdust from my face. As usual, I got water all over the stone, but the sun had already warmed the slate facing, and the water would dry soon enough, even if my aunt would be down with a frayed towel to polish the stone within moments of my return to the shop.
“Lerris!”
Aunt Elisabet always kept the washstones polished, the kettles sparkling, and the graystone floors spotless. Why it should have surprised me I do not know, since my father and, indeed, every other holder in my home town of Wandernaught, exhibited the same fastidiousness. My father and his sister were both the householders, while Mother and Uncle Sardit were the artisans. That was common enough, or so I thought.
“Lerris! Young…man,…get…yourself…back…here…now!”
I definitely did not want to return to the carpentry, but there was no escape.
“Coming, Uncle Sardit.”
He stood at the doorway, a frown on his face. The frown was common, but the yelling had not been. My guts twisted. What could I have done?
“Come here.”
He thrust a wide-fingered hand at the inlaid tabletop on the workbench.
“Look at that. Closely.” His voice was so low it rumbled.
I looked, but obviously did not see what he wanted me to see.
“Do you see that?”
I shook my head. “See what?”
“Look at the clamps.”