“Which first, master Fasse?” asked Rinfur.
“The heavy ones, of course, for the big racks on the wall. Would I put light planks there? The very thought of it!”
“Just two planks,” Rinfur said to Cerryl, “there not being much room to work with.”
Cerryl nodded and walked his way back along the planks as Rinfur slid them gently out of the wagon. The two carried the set inside through a narrow door that opened out. The cabinetry shop was small, no more than a dozen and a half cubits square, and half of that was taken with racks for wood. The youth’s nose itched with the faintest trace of sawdust, and he wished he could scratch it, but carrying the wood took both hands. He sniffed instead, and his nose itched even more.
“Gentle, gentle with that oak. Not a scar, not a scratch. The whites, they can sense if but a bruise there be.” Fasse scurried around Rinfur and Cerryl as they carried in the wider planks. “On the first rack there, the one padded with the rags. Do be gentle.”
The two eased the planks onto the padded rack, then walked back to the wagon for another load. Cerryl rubbed his nose. What was it about sawdust?
The sun was touching the tops of the shops to the west by the time, following Fasse’s directions, they had unloaded and stored all the white oak.
Rinfur stretched. “We need to stable the horses. We can leave the wagon in the courtyard,” Rinfur explained.
“The stable by the inn?” Cerryl glanced around the courtyard that barely held the wagon.
“Aye. If you sweep out the wagon and cover it. .”
“I can do that.”
“Master Fasse?” called Rinfur.
“Yes, teamster?”
“A broom, perhaps, so that Cerryl can clean up the wagon and the courtyard while I stable the horses?”
“There be an old one here somewhere.”
By the time Fasse had reappeared with a ragged-edged straw broom bound in cloth strips, Rinfur had long since departed with the team.
“The dust and scraps. . in the pail in the corner. Piddling chunks, too. Don’t be leaving any signs of sawdust or dirt. The patrol won’t be having that.”
“Yes, ser.” The patrol? Cerryl merely nodded as he wondered. Patrols inside the city? For what? Then he wanted to shake his head. If the courtyard had to be spotless, why was Fasse so reluctant to come up with a broom?
By the time Rinfur returned, Cerryl had finished sweeping the courtyard and was pushing the wagon, a span at a time, into the corner where it blocked neither the shop door nor access to the alley itself. The teamster added his shoulder to Cerryl’s efforts, and they eased the wagon into place. Cerryl covered the wagon with the canvas and reclaimed his pack.
By then, Fasse had reappeared and stood in the doorway. “Not much to offer you this eve,” he suggested, not looking toward either of the two from Hrisbarg.
“Whatever you have, master crafter, that will serve fine,” answered Rinfur with a smile. “We’re just poor mill workers.”
“Ah. . yes. . let me check with the consort.” Fasse turned and went through the door and vanished down a narrow hall.
“Always does that,” said Rinfur. “He has to feed us, but he never wants to admit it. Folks from Kyphros, they say, be like that.”
His pack half-dangling from his shoulder, Cerryl stifled a yawn. It had been a long day, a very long day.
“Not that we be having much this eve, saving a mutton stew that be mostly carrots and onions, but you be welcome,” said Fasse, reappearing suddenly.
“Thank you, master crafter,” offered Cerryl.
“Thank you,” added Rinfur.
Fasse gestured toward the door, and the two entered. The door closed behind the three with a snick of the latch.
“All the way to the end, and the door on the right,” Fasse suggested.
Cerryl followed Rinfur down the narrow corridor and stepped through the door from the gloom into a surprisingly bright room, the walls a spotless white plaster, the floor a polished golden oak.
The odor of stew filled the room, coming from the stew pot that sat on the oblong waist-high black metal structure that Cerryl realized, after a moment, must be a stove. A scuttle of coal sat beside the stove, which was set in an alcove with windows on each side. The windows and shutters were open wide. Cerryl nodded almost to himself, sensing the flow of chaos-tinged heat from the hot stove out the window on the right side.
“This be my consort, Weylenya.” Fasse jerked his head toward the gray-haired, round-faced woman in brown who stood before the stove, then gestured to the benches flanking the trestle table. There was a place set on each side and at each end. Backed stools faced the ends of the tables.
“I am honored to meet you,” Cerryl said after an awkward moment.
“Good it be to see you, again, lady,” added Rinfur.
“A poor stew it be, but filling.” Weylenya inclined her head. “Company we had not expected.”
After waiting his turn to use the washstand in the corner, Cerryl stood back until Rinfur picked the bench where he would sit. Then Cerryl stood behind the bench on the other side.
“Sit,” said Weylenya with a laugh, carrying the stew pot toward the table. As the men sat, she ladled stew into the four brown earthenware bowls. “Bread be coming.”
Soon, the aroma of dark bread mixed with that of the stew as Weylenya set a wicker basket in the center of the polished walnut table.
“Brew in the gray pitcher, watered wine in the brown,” Fasse explained.
Following Rinfur’s example, Cerryl poured the amber beer from the gray pitcher into a brown mug with a chipped handle. With a chunk of the brown bread in one hand, he sipped the beer. Despite the slight bitterness, he enjoyed the taste.
“Good brew,” affirmed Rinfur. “Always have a good brew here.”
“Get it from Herlot out in Weevett. Keep it in the coldest corner of the shop. The woods help, but I don’t know why.” Fasse took a swallow from his own mug. Weylenya drank the watered wine between small bites of bread and stew.
Cerryl found himself looking down at an empty bowl.
“Growing lad, I see.” The crafter’s consort stood and returned with the stew pot, refilling both the teamster’s bowl and Cerryl’s.
“Thank you.” Cerryl offered a grateful smile with the words.
“A polite young fellow you are.” Fasse nodded. “Polite indeed. Why you be coming to Fairhaven, young fellow? Aim to make your fortune?” Fasse laughed. “Seen lots of young fellows. Either want to pile up the coins or become mages. One or the other.”
Cerryl finished chewing a mouthful of the hot bread. “I have to learn to become a scrivener.”
“What? No coins?” asked the cabinet maker. “No great dreams?”
Cerryl forced a gentle smile but said nothing.
“Know your letters?”
“Yes, ser.”
“Knowing your letters, and not having dreams, you might yet make a good scrivener.” Fasse shook his head. “Too many folk these days, wanting to be rich or powerful. Not like the old times, when a man took pride in his work. That was when the work counted, not the coins.”
A half smile crossed Weylenya’s lips, as if she had heard the words more than a few times before.
“Now. . the young ’uns, they want the coins afore the first join is set, afore the barrel holds water, afore the. . ah, what’s the use? An old crafter railing ’gainst a world that doesn’t know where it’s going, doesn’t recall where it came from.” The crafter lifted his mug and drained it, then looked at Rinfur. “You be sleeping in the loft, the two of you. You know where, teamster.”
“Yes, master crafter.”
Cerryl finished his stew and the last corner of the dark bread, trying not to yawn while he ate. The day had been long, and his buttocks were sore.
Yet, even after he straggled up the short ladder to the loft and the narrow pallet alone, not caring that Rinfur had said he was taking a walk, he could not sleep, tired as he was. Though he lay on the narrow pallet, thinner and harder than the one at Dylert’s, his eyes remained open, resting on the thick beams of the workroom ceiling.