“Or better than ship fare,” Kharl pointed out.
“Not hard to do better ’n that.”
Kharl followed Tarkyn’s lead as the older man turned left on the causeway, and the two walked south toward the main part of the ancient town.
“Haven’t been in Biehl in years.” Tarkyn glanced at the chandlery. “Looks about the same, shabbier maybe. But it’d be hard to get much shabbier. There’s a better tavern down here, past the old square and across the way. Used to be, anyway.”
Kharl followed the older carpenter down two long blocks, past warehouses, some boarded shut and others with doors that sagged on their hinges. Nothing they passed could have been built in Kharl’s lifetime, and he wondered if some of them had even seen paint or stain in that time.
Three blocks away from the harbor, the two men reached a square of sorts, an area once paved with smooth granite, but close to half of the paving stones had been replaced with bricks or cobblestones or, in some places, with clay. In the center was an obelisk, and unlike the stones of the town, it was sharp-edged, a crisp stone monument at odds with the decay that surrounded it.
Kharl could sense that the stone had been reinforced with order, order forced into and through the very essence of the granite, an ancient order. “What’s that? Do you know?”
“Locals told me it’s as old as Biehl, maybe older, to some ancient emperor of Cyador. Maybe he came from here. Lots of old and strange things in Candar, especially in the west.” Tarkyn shrugged. “We go down that street there.”
The street to which Tarkyn pointed looked to hold structures merely old, as opposed to ancient, and most had been maintained. The Crown was a narrow building, less than twenty cubits wide, sandwiched between a felter’s and an unmarked structure that might have been a boardinghouse, or something less reputable.
A rotund woman in blue met them just inside the door. “The two of you?”
It took Kharl a moment to understand her words.
Tarkyn had no such difficulty and replied immediately. “Two, for supper.”
Despite the narrowness of the place-and Kharl wasn’t sure what to call it, because it was neither café nor tavern-it was deep enough to hold a good ten tables in the public room. Most of the tables were taken, and the woman seated them at a smaller table along the wall.
“Hope it’s as good as last time,” said Tarkyn.
“When was last time?”
“Maybe ten…eleven years back.” The older carpenter smiled. “Things don’t change so much here.”
A younger woman appeared. She looked to the older carpenter.
“A good dark ale,” Tarkyn said.
“Lager. Pale ale if you don’t have it,” added Kharl.
The woman nodded, then said, “Tonight we have poached sea trout, fresh caught, with pasneti noodles. We also have boar steak with fried apples and baked golden yams. We also have net noodles with the fish stew, and chops with fried potatoes. Everything is five coppers.”
“The chops, not overdone,” replied Tarkyn.
“The boar steak,” Kharl added, glad he had brought a silver or two with his coppers.
“Thank you.” With a smile, the woman stepped away from them and turned toward the rear of the public room, presumably toward a kitchen.
“Good food costs more.” Tarkyn stretched and took a deep breath. “True anywhere you go.”
“You must know the good places to eat in every port.”
“Some don’t have any.” Tarkyn glanced up.
The server returned with two tall crystal mugs, setting the dark one before the older man, and the lighter brew before Kharl. “Three coppers, each, sers.”
Kharl extended four. He thought Tarkyn did as well. She smiled and slipped away.
In the momentary silence, Kharl caught some words from the nearest table.
“…haven’t seen them before…”
“…sailors from that ship just ported…”
“…not sailors…must be officers, mates…”
Kharl found it strange to be considered an officer, even a subofficer.
“You got a feel for wood, don’t you?” Tarkyn took a long pull of the dark ale. “Ah…tastes good. Nothing better ’n good dark ale.”
Kharl thought the dark brews chewy, much preferring pale ale or lager. “Guess I’ve always had a feel for woods. Liked to work with white or black oak best. Red oak…just didn’t feel the same.”
“What about spruce…pine?”
“Depends on the tree.”
“Doesn’t everything?” Tarkyn laughed. “No tree’s the same as another, no animal, no person, no ship…”
“Is that why you’ve stayed on the Seastag?”
“Couldn’t find a better captain, not anywhere. Be a good lord, too, were he minded. Top carpenter, that’s as good as I’ll do. So…the ship matters most.” Tarkyn paused as the server slid a large light blue platter in front of him. Another one went before Kharl.
Kharl set out a silver, as did the older man.
In a moment, there were two stacks of five coppers, one before each man, although the coppers were of differing sizes and thicknesses.
After just a few bites, Kharl decided that the boar steak was one of the better meals he’d had, perhaps the best since the one he’d had in Lydiar, and the fried apples were perfect, just between crisp and chewy, without being heavy.
“You’re enjoying the grub?”
“Very much.”
“Thought you would. You should have been a ship’s carpenter from the first. Might even have made it out of the fo’c’s’le early on.”
“Have you always been a ship’s carpenter?”
“Me? No. Started out as a cabinetmaker’s apprentice in Kaerloch-little place not too far from Bruel. Didn’t like all the detailing, the fussiness. Finally ran away after a couple of years. Worked as a sawboy in a mill. Didn’t care much for that, either…” Tarkyn took another pull of the dark ale.
Kharl was content to eat and listen.
LXI
The voyage from Biehl to Hamor was long-two and a half eightdays. Kharl kept busy at whatever tasks were set before him. Some of that was internal work on bulkheads and decks, anywhere that water had managed to damage wood. He even repaired one of the cover panels on the port paddle wheel. When he was not working, sleeping, or eating, he was reading or-far less often-trying to exercise his still-limited order-skills. By the time the western coast of Hamor was in sight as a low dark line off the starboard bow, Kharl had read through every page of The Basis of Order. He could not say that he understood everything he had read.
He hadn’t attempted to turn any more cold iron into black iron. He had tried using the ideas in the book to speed the healing of several minor cuts and scrapes he had received, and they did seem to heal more quickly, but whether that was because of his efforts, he still wasn’t certain. The only thing that had been certain is that the healing had not been instantaneous-and the book had said that it wasn’t supposed to be.
Within the last few days of the voyage, the air had grown warmer, and damper, and the heavy long-sleeved gray carpenter’s shirt had gotten uncomfortably warm. That had forced Kharl to purchase a short-sleeved gray shirt from the ship’s slop chest at more than he’d wished to spend, but the shirt was well-made and far more comfortable than the heavier winter shirt.
As the Seastag continued southeast, the coastline of Hamor resolved itself into a line of whitish cliffs that rose to the south over calm and light blue waters. A good three kays seaward from those waters was a line of foaming water where waves broke over a reef.
Kharl stood at the bow on the starboard side. East of the Seastag but farther out to sea, a dark-hulled vessel without rigging steamed westward. As it drew nearer, Kharl could see the white metallic finish of gun turrets, two long guns to a turret, two turrets forward, and one aft.
“That’s a Hamorian light cruiser,” offered Hagen from behind Kharl. “Newer class. Three turrets. Older ones just have two, one fore and one aft.”