The cooperage was no longer boarded up, as it had been the last time he had seen it, and the paint on the sign that proclaimed MALLAMET, COOPER looked faded, although it could not have been much older than a year. A year? Just a year? So much had happened, since Charee … since Arthal had left … and Warrl had gone off with his aunt. For a long moment, Kharl just looked.
Then he straightened and studied the cooperage. The windows were dusty on the outside, and Kharl could see that sawdust clung to panes on the inside. Sawdust? A good cooper didn’t create that much sawdust. Either Mallamet wasn’t that good, or he hadn’t cleaned in a long time. From what Kharl knew of Mallamet, both were doubtless true. The door was open, inviting a breeze that had not appeared.
Kharl kept walking, slowly, until he came to the scriptorium. Heavy iron shutters were drawn back from the inside of the small display window, shutters that had not been there before. The display area held several books on pale blue wool, but not, of course, Tyrbel’s masterpiece, the red leather-bound Book of Godly Prayer-a work that Tyrbel had done as an offering to his faith. That had been destroyed in the oil fire Kharl had fought that fateful morning.
The sign on the scriptorium had changed as well. While it had once borne Tyrbel’s name, now it now announced one Dasult as a scrivener. Kharl had never heard of Dasult. He wondered what had happened to Sanyle. Did he dare risk asking? If he had not heard of Dasult, scrivener, it was unlikely that the scrivener would recognize him.
“Just wait here at the door,” Kharl told Demyst.
“Ser … that’d be dangerous.”
“There’s no one inside but the scrivener, and you’ll be out here in case anyone else comes along. Keep your eye on that patroller. He’s been following us.”
“Thought so,” murmured the undercaptain. “You sure about inside?”
Kharl nodded, then opened the door and stepped into the scriptorium, ready to use his sight shield to vanish, if need be.
A young man, more like Erdyl’s age, stepped forward. Kharl thought he had seen him, recently, but he could not say where.
“Ser … could I be of service to you?”
“It is possible,” Kharl replied. “It would not be quite …” He paused. “You’re Dasult?”
“Yes, ser.”
“I have not been in Brysta in some time, and I recalled that there was a scrivener here, but he was much older. Your father, perhaps?”
Dasult shook his head. “No, ser. That was Tyrbel. He was a most noted scrivener, but he was murdered, I’m told, on the street outside. I purchased the building from his daughter. She wished to leave Brysta.”
“Hmmm … sad when those sort of things happen. I suppose she went off elsewhere in Nordla or to somewhere in Candar.”
“Vizyn in Austra, I believe. She said she was going to help an older scrivener, a friend of her father’s.”
Kharl nodded. If Sanyle had reached Taleas, then she was in good hands. For the moment, he could only hope that she had. “I saw her once. She seemed a most sweet child.”
“My consort said she was, and that she had suffered much.”
“How do you find business?”
“It is improving. I have been accepted as a recorder at the Hall of Justice, and that has helped.”
That was where Kharl had seen him, that very morning, but he had not connected the man to the scriptorium. “How do you find working there?”
“It is most exacting, but it pays well. Are you certain I could not interest you in one of these? Here is an illustrated rendition of Tales of Cyad. And here, I have the verses of Lenchret, a near-perfect copy of the one in Lord West’s private library.”
“You must have been privileged indeed to copy that.”
“No, kind ser. Lord West wanted a copy, and allowed me to make a second in return for my charging but half what I told him.”
“He got a bargain.”
Dasult laughed. “In silvers, he did, but I always wanted that book, and I made a second copy for myself, as well as this fair copy. I hope not to lose too much.”
“He must have quite a library.”
“He does indeed, but I fear many of the volumes have not been read in years.”
“That is often the case. How did you find him?”
“He was charming, but … preoccupied. I could not help but notice that he and his eldest had many visitors, even at the beginning of summer, when I was finishing the copying.”
“Lords must deal with envoys and trade, and lancers, and all manner of people, I would wager. Even in summer. I’d wager, though, that you saw none from Recluce.”
“No, I did not. They were never announced, but many were clad as are Hamorians, and more than a few were in uniforms I had not seen before.”
“There are several Hamorian merchanters in the harbor, and there was a Nordlan trader an eightday or so ago.”
“The Hamorians laughed at my work.” Dasult stiffened. “They claimed to have built a machine that can make hundreds of copies of a book. Of what use is that? There are not that many people who would buy so many.” He forced a smile. “Did you see The Art of Healing?″
Kharl ignored the sales effort. “Perhaps the Hamorians did not understand the craft that goes into creating a book the way you do?”
“They do not. Books, especially those such as the verses of Lenchret, they should be read and treasured. What about The History of the Ancients? It is rare, but I can let you have it for a mere gold.″
Kharl smiled. “It is not a bad book, but what would I do with two?”
Dasult’s eyes widened, then he laughed. “I cannot sell you what you already have.”
“I am not buying today,″ Kharl said,”but I may be back.″
As he left, Kharl wondered if he could have discovered more. Possibly, but he was not a spy, and he didn’t think he could have learned more without making Dasult wary. He also doubted that what else he could have learned would have added much.
“Did you see any interesting books?” asked Demyst, as Kharl rejoined him.
“He had one that I’ve been reading. He wanted to sell it to me for a mere gold.”
“A gold?”
“Some books are costly.″
Kharl did not glance at the Tankard, the tavern whose doors had not yet opened, as he passed. He did study quietly the shops and narrow dwellings as he headed downhill, passing a white-haired laundress with her wash in a tall basket on her head, then a teamster with an empty wagon headed uphill. Behind them, the Watch patroller followed.
The two continued down Crafters’ Lane. Less than a block farther west, Kharl saw Dhulat’s cabinetry shop. He’d bought a modest chest from the crafter years before, but, like most folk, Dhulat had turned away from Kharl once Egen had put out the word that he was after the cooper.
Another two blocks toward the harbor, and they reached the upper market square. With the heat, few of the peddlers and vendors remained, and the low stone wall that surrounded the near-empty square was vacant. Topped with redstone with rounded edges, the wall was a good place for sitting and resting, and there had always been a beggar or two there. Today, there were none.
Past the square another hundred cubits or so was Hyesal’s apothecary shop, clearly marked with the crossed pestles above the door. But the door was boarded shut.
Kharl wondered if the apothecary had died, or had fallen victim to Egen and the Watch.
He kept walking, turning southward at the next corner, so as to head back in the direction of the envoy’s residence. For the moment, he had seen enough.
LXVII
Halfway through the early-evening meal, Kharl cleared his throat, then waited.
“We’re going to the White Pony tonight,” he finally announced. “Right after we eat.”
“Sounds like a tavern or an inn, ser,” offered Demyst.
“A tavern, mostly, and it’s not all that good. Cevor and Alynar will come with us.”