Wellspring of Chaos

XIII

Kharl woke abruptly, at the sound of voices beyond the closed bedchamber door. From the light coming through the windows, and the damp warmth, it seemed to be late afternoon or early evening. Slowly, he managed to stand, even though every movement hurt, even after three days when he’d done little except eat and sleep. He made his way to the door, putting his hand on the latch-lever. Then he stopped as the words in the main room began to make sense.

“…he’d never understand…”

“…sees more than you think…” Kharl thought the voice was Sanyle’s, but it was hard to tell because she was speaking much less loudly than Arthal.

“…never done except what he wanted…never listened to any of us. He should have listened to Ma…he should have…” Arthal’s voice was loud and angry.

“…done more than you’ve seen, Arthal…”

“…you’re just sweet on him…Ma not even gone an eightday…”

“…who would cook and take care of him? You? You can’t fire the stove or boil water.”

“…can, too…”

“…not that I’ve seen…”

“Why should I…after what he did…hasn’t even written Aunt Merayni…”

Kharl winced at that. He should write Merayni, or even take a day to go visit his consort’s sister. The thought was painful, because Merayni would blame him. She had a tongue far sharper than Charee’s had ever been.

The words died away.

Kharl coughed, then rattled the latch-lever before easing the door open. He stepped through the doorway, then stopped. The two who had been arguing were Arthal and Sanyle. Tyrbel’s youngest daughter, more than two years older than Arthal, was slim and dark-haired, but with overlarge eyes and a nose slightly larger and sharper than her face merited.

“Da…?” began Arthal, looking toward Kharl.

“It hurts,” Kharl admitted. “But lying around isn’t going to keep the cooperage going, or bring in coins.”

“I suppose not,” Arthal replied.

“Doing too much too soon won’t help much either,” suggested Sanyle. “Why don’t you sit down at the table? Supper’s almost ready.”

“Where’s Warrl?”

“He was checking the door bars down below,” Sanyle said. “He should be back here any moment.” She turned back toward the stove.

Kharl eased his way into the chair where he usually sat, but he had to sit on the edge so that his shoulders wouldn’t touch the wooden spokes. He glanced toward the stove, where Sanyle was standing and where Charee had so often stood. For a moment, his eyes clouded, and he could not even see. His lips tightened. Charee had been right about Jenevra bringing trouble. Charee had been right about many things. But what was he supposed to have done? Let the blackstaffer die?

The door from the shop swung open, then closed with a thud.

“Everything’s barred up, and I closed the shutters, too,” Warrl announced even before he stepped into the main room.

“Thank you,” Kharl said.

“Da…you’re up.”

“After a fashion,” Kharl admitted. “I’m slow. Probably be a few days before I can do much in the shop.” Or anywhere else, he suspected.

“You going to keep on with the shop?” asked Warrl.

“I’m a cooper. What else would I do?”

“Without Ma…?”

“It will be hard,” Kharl admitted.

Sanyle carried the stewpot to the table, setting it on the old wooden trivet.

Kharl just looked at the pot, but his eyes blurred, and he couldn’t really see. After a moment, he said, “Sanyle…best…you serve…”

“It’s the best I could do…and the bread’s a little too crisp…”

“Be…fine…” Kharl choked.

“Father sent over some ale. Said it would help you. It’s in your mug.”

“You…thank him…” Kharl reached gratefully for the mug and the ale it held. The ale might help. It might.