Wellspring of Chaos

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Kharl stood at the front window of his shop, looking westward for a moment at the wedge of twilight sky visible between the slate roofs of the buildings on the far side of the narrow Crafters’ Lane. A single lamp was visible through the middle window of Gharan’s quarters, above the weaver’s shop. Next door, at Hamyl’s, both the lower floor and the rooms above were dark. That wasn’t surprising, Kharl told himself, since Hamyl’s consort had taken the children to her parents’ holding to help with the early-midsummer gathering. That had left the potter free to indulge himself at the Tankard, and the lane peaceful, since Kharl’s neighbor, the scrivener Tyrbel, was a widower and kept a quiet establishment.

Lowering his eyes, the cooper glanced at the five barrels in his display, all tight cooperage from the best white oak, ranging from the hogshead to the standard barrel and down to the quarter barrel and the fine-finished fifth barrel with the brass spigot, used by anyone who wanted to store and dispense expensive liquids, mostly spirits. Then he barred the front door and closed the shutters behind the lead-glassed panes that his grandsire had installed before Kharl had been born. At that time, glass windows had been considered particularly foolish for a cooper, unlike a goldsmith or an artisan-or even a weaver or a potter-who had to display work to attract buyers. Times had changed, and most shops along the lane had come to display their wares behind windows.

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