“Is this part of Recluce called Nylan, or is it just the harbor?” Kharl asked Reisl, who was the closest of the winch crew to him.
“Who knows?” Reisl shrugged.
The bosun looked at Kharl. “The southern tip of Recluce is called Southpoint. The port here is Nylan, named after some old hero. He was a smith, I think. Anyway, we’ve been coming north past the point ’fore coming inshore. That’s ’cause the harbor’s on the west side, north of the southern tip. Pretty big port, more than a half score piers for deep-ocean traders, a few more for coasters from Candar and fishing vessels. Most of the time, it’s crowded.”
“They got girls there?” asked the fresh-faced Wylat.
“The tavern maids are prettier here than anyplace you’ll ever be. And all you can do is look.” Bemyr laughed.
“Don’t believe that,” came a voice from the other side of the winch crew.
“You better believe it. This is the place that flattened Fairven some fifty-sixty years back. They got more mages here in Nylan than in the whole rest of the world. You see all that black stone out there? They got ships that move faster than the fastest war-steamers out of Hamor, and half the time you can’t see ’em. They got patrollers on every street. You won’t lose any coin to brigands there, and you’ll get fair measure for your coin. But you can’t buy a woman for all the golds the captain’s got.”
“You can’t?”
As the Seastag eased past the inner end of the breakwaters, Kharl’s attention drifted from the comments about women to the harbor and the city to the north of it. Outside of a few blocks immediately north of the harbor, the city was built on a long sloping hill, an almost symmetrical ridge that was more than two kays from the harbor to the crest and nearly twice that wide. The dwellings and the buildings he could see were constructed of a blackish stone, with dark roofs, and the streets were wide and straight.
“Anywhere you can buy a good woman…a woman, anyway,” another crew member said.
“Except on board,” cracked the third mate from across the deck.
“Can’t buy women in Nylan,” stated Bemyr. “Better not try, either. Now…once in a while, one’ll take a liking to a sailor…and that’s something. Only knew of two fellows that happened to…” Bemyr broke off. “Enough of that. They’ve already got the wagons moving down the pier. They move cargo fast here.”
“Lines out!” ordered Furwyl. “Tighten up forward! Bring her in!”
The Seastag’s paddle wheel slowed to a stop.
“Double up!” ordered Furwyl. “Bosun!”
Bemyr put his whistle to his mouth and blew two shrill blasts. “Before long, cargo hatch’ll be off. Winch crew in place! Step lively, now!”
Kharl took his place and waited.
XLII
For the next two days, Kharl labored as a deckhand, shifting cargo, moving pallets. Not until midafternoon of the third day was he granted shore leave, along with Tarkyn and half the rigging crew. He had managed, with some difficulty, to wash his once-better outfit clean, but a close look would have revealed muted stains in the tunic. He also had the staff, which he felt he needed to return, although he wasn’t quite sure where to take it, only that it had come from Recluce, and he thought Jenevra had mentioned Nylan.
He stood on the section of the deck behind the gangway, in that ill-defined area that was called the quarterdeck, along with the others going on shore leave, sunlight and shadows from the masts and rigging falling across them.
“Don’t be too long, or too late,” Bemyr told those going on shore leave. “You don’t need a friend with you, not here, but be careful. Captain says we sail just after dawn. That’s when the winds turn and blow out of the northeast.”
Kharl stepped back and let the younger men surge down the gangway.
As the cooper waited, the captain appeared, looking at the staff. “I’d forgotten that. Where did you get it?”
“It belongs here. I need to return it.”
“That’s probably a very good idea. Enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, ser,” Kharl said politely, but Hagen had already stepped away.
Kharl looked around as he walked down the gangway onto the pier. All the piers were of dressed stone, and the stonework was simple but flawless, the joins between stones as tight as those of his best barrels, and with only the thinnest lines of mortar.
The pier itself was almost clear of wagons, except for one last one holding barrels, probably of provisions. Kharl walked past it, then stopped at the end of the pier and looked up the long, inclined hillside that held most of the city. Even though it was well past harvest, everything seemed either black or green. The streets and even the one alley he could see to his left were all paved in a dark gray stone that was almost black. The late-afternoon light glinting off it made it look gray, but as he looked closer, he could see that it was indeed black. In fact, he hadn’t realized just how black, and how pervasive the black stone truly was. All of the buildings, all of the dwellings, were of the same black stone, and the roofs of the buildings and dwellings were of a stone that looked like split black slate.
There were trees, tall and green, and open areas of grass, also green at a time of year when most grass in Nordla was brown. The buildings and dwellings were set in their own greenery, and placed much farther apart than in Brysta, spreading the city out and giving a feeling of spaciousness.
Kharl looked at the open area, a rectangular paved square, separating the piers from the warehouses and buildings, then picked the widest-looking boulevard and walked toward it, his staff in hand. He stopped at the corner where it intersected the square and walked toward a man in a black-and-tan uniform, a patroller, from what Bemyr had said. “Could you help me? I’m looking for the Brethren.”
“All of Nylan’s got Brethren. Any ones special?” The man’s accent was so clipped it took Kharl several moments to piece together what the fellow had actually said.
“The ones…the place that sends people to other lands…”
“Where they train the dangergelders, you mean? Up the hill, almost three kays, and there’s a building on the left, with a green triangle on a stone marker outside. That’s the place. Only one with the green triangle.”
“Thank you.”
The patroller nodded in response.
As he continued uphill, Kharl noted something else. Almost all the buildings were but one story, and most of those near the harbor looked newish, certainly not more than a generation old, and some more recently constructed than that. Yet the port had a feeling of being much older.
He had walked no more than a block when he realized that several passersby and others in the street had taken a quick glance at him and the staff, and looked away. No one said anything, but they definitely looked at him strangely. Because of his clothing, not that of a typical sailor? Or the staff? Or both?
He was breathing harder by the time he reached his destination, nearly a glass later. The structure was more than just a building. From what he could tell, looking over the low stone wall at the green grass and neatly trimmed hedges and well-kept flowers, he was looking at an estate.
Finally, he stepped through the two black stone pillars that served as gateposts, although there was no actual gate, and made his way to the covered porch and the doorway beyond. After a momentary hesitation, he rapped on the door.
Shortly, the door opened, and a young woman stood there. She wore gray all over, except for a shimmering black scarf and a silver pin on the collar of her tunic. The pin was a lightning bolt crossed with a staff. “Might I help you?” Again, the accent was strange, but understandable.
“I hope so,” Kharl said. “This staff…it’s not mine…I didn’t know what to do with it.”
For the first time, the woman, who had been studying the cooper intently enough to make Kharl uneasy, actually looked at the staff. She frowned, briefly. “If you would come in, I think you should see Magister Trelyn.” She held the black oak door open wider.