Wellspring of Chaos

XIV

Two mornings later, Kharl donned just an undertunic-a soft and old one-above his heavy brown boots and trousers and made his way down to the cooperage. He slowly walked around the shop. The coals in the forge, banked so many days ago, had long since turned to ashes, and the hearth was covered in a fine film of ash powder around the fire pot. There was a film of dust over everything.

He walked toward the wall where the apprentice’s pallet had been. It was gone, and someone had scrubbed the floor planks. He leaned over. Set on the bottom of the finishing bench were the black staff and Jenevra’s pack. He wondered why the staff had been left. Because no one wanted to touch it? Or had it just been overlooked and forgotten?

His fingers brushed the staff. For all that it had lain under the bench for more than an eightday, the wood still felt warm to his touch. So did the iron bands. He picked up the staff. He’d initially thought that it had merely been stained dark, or that it was black oak. When he studied it and held it, he could see that he’d been wrong. The staff was lorken, fine-grained, and almost as strong as iron, if far lighter. The bands on it, one near each end, and the other two equidistant between those at the ends, were also not plain iron, but mage-fired black iron, the black iron that could only be created in Recluce. Or so it was said.

“…a warrior’s staff…” He shook his head and leaned the staff against the wall. Then he stooped and picked up the canvas pack and set it on the finishing bench.

Had Jenevra left anything in it that might have allowed someone to contact family? Did she even have any? Slowly, he untied the thongs and opened the flaps, before looking inside. There were clean underclothes, and one spare set of trousers, and beneath that a soiled tunic and undertunic, and beneath them a leather-bound book and a pouch. In the pouch were clean rags and a bar of rose soap. That was all.

Kharl replaced everything in the pack, except for the book, which he placed on the corner of the finishing bench before walking toward the front of the shop. There, he deliberately unfastened the shutters and swung them back. After that, he unbarred the front door, opened it, and peered out. The day was cloudy, although the clouds were high and light gray, if thick. Rain would not arrive before afternoon, if at all. He glanced westward. Tyrbel’s glass had been repaired, and the window frames replaced and painted, but, without walking over to the window and peering through it, there was no way to tell if the scrivener had placed other books in the display window.

The cooper stepped back into his cooperage, counting the barrel shooks still in the high racks. He moved to the tool rack. Everything was there, except for his best drawing knife. He’d miss that, but he counted himself well off that nothing else seemed to be gone. He turned to the planer, as dusty as everything else.

There was the sound of boots on the steps, and Kharl looked to the stairs.

Arthal stood halfway down, with a canvas duffel slung over his right shoulder. He looked at his father without speaking.

“You might have told me,” Kharl said, mildly.

“What is there to say?” Arthal’s voice was flat.

“Where you’re going,” the cooper suggested.

“The Fleuryl had an opening for a carpenter’s apprentice. I took it. You already said that you wouldn’t stop me if there was a position.”

Kharl refrained from saying that he had been speaking of a position in Brysta. After what he had heard of the conversation between Sanyle and Arthal two nights before, he saw no point in arguing over his past words. He finally spoke. “I wish you well, son. I hope it turns out as you would like.”

“Could it turn out worse than staying here?” asked Arthal coldly, making his way to the bottom of the steps, then shifting the duffel to the other shoulder.

“It could, but, for your sake, I hope it doesn’t.” Kharl forced a faint smile. “You might remember that I was your age once. We all were.”

Arthal was silent, his eyes avoiding Kharl’s.

“You think I could have done more. You think that you could have done more had you been in my boots. I hope you never find yourself in them, not that way.”

“Da…I don’t want to say more.”

After a moment, Kharl nodded. “Then you’d better go. You’re welcome here anytime if you change your thoughts.”

Arthal walked silently to the door of the cooperage.

Kharl did not follow him.

Then the younger man stopped. “Good-bye, Da.” He turned without waiting for a response.

“Good-bye.” Kharl watched as the door closed. His vision blurred for a moment, and he lifted his arm to blot his eyes, ignoring the additional pain the motion caused. Neither boy was happy with him. Not happy? Both were filled with anger and bitterness directed at him, as if he alone had killed their mother.

Arthal was ready to waste his life at sea, and Warrl had bolted out early, saying he had to catch up on his lessons with Master Fonwyl, rather than stay anywhere near his father.

Kharl took a deep breath and walked to the racks where the shooks were stacked, slowly taking down enough for a single red oak slack barrel. Each motion hurt.

He’d have to take his time. That he knew. But what else could he do?

He’d laid out the shooks, set up the planer, and shaped four of the shooks into rough staves when the door to the cooperage opened, and Tyrbel walked in.

Kharl eased the shook he was working away from the planer and took his foot off the drive pedal. He set the shook on the bench and walked forward to meet the scrivener.

“Kharl…I am so sorry…” began Tyrbel.

The cooper shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry about. Should have come over to thank you-for my life twice over. Without you and Sanyle, I’d not be here. I’m still not thinking as a man should…”

“You’ve lost your consort, and you’ve taken a flogging that would have killed a lesser man, my friend.” Tyrbel smiled warmly. “Perhaps because I work with words, I know their limits. I’ve seen your acts, and they are far more eloquent than any words. I did what I could.” The scrivener looked down. “I didn’t have any idea that…Justicer Reynol…I didn’t know he could do something that base…”

“Until I was in the gaol, neither did I.” Kharl cleared his throat. “The man with me…Kaj…he said that I’d hang. He said that Lord West needed to hang someone to keep Recluce from shelling Brysta.”

“Recluce is not that vindictive,” replied Tyrbel. “That was an excuse because you stood up to Egen.”

“Kaj said he was a pissprick.”

“I know. They hung Kaj yesterday. I had to be at the Hall for something else when it happened.”

“They hung him? For calling Captain Egen a name? For being drunk?”

“The charge was that he was a thief, that he’d stolen some of the coin he’d used at the Tankard, and that the other was counterfeit, and that he’d been found guilty four times before.”

“I don’t know,” Kharl said heavily. “He didn’t seem that type.”

“I doubt he was,” Tyrbel said. “Light! I wish that we had someone of character these days, someone who would take the Justicer’s Challenge and remove Reynol. He’s but a tool of young Egen.” Tyrbel laughed ruefully. “Of course, Lurtedd is a tool of Osten.”

“Justicer’s Challenge?” He’d heard of it, but would anyone dare? How did it work?

“Oh…it’s a way that a man learned in law and justice can challenge a justicer. But it’s seldom done, because, if he fails, he suffers the punishment of those five people whose cases he takes.”

“Oh.” After a moment of silence, Kharl added, “Arthal left this morning. He’s going to be a carpenter’s apprentice on some ship.”

“I’m sure that hurts. But, given the way he feels, it would be worse for him to stay here. Worse for him and much worse for you.”

“Did Sanyle tell you?”

“That the boys think it’s your fault? Yes…we won’t tell anyone else, but she needed to talk to someone.” Tyrbel paused. “It wasn’t your fault. A man has to be a man, or he’s nothing.”

Kharl nodded. “You spoke for me. Will that hurt you?”

“I would hope not.” The angular scrivener shrugged, then brushed back a lock of brown-and-silver hair. “But you risked your life for Sanyle. How could I not say the truth?”

“I am grateful. You were the only one.”

“Gharan would have. I asked him not to, unless something happened to me. He has small children. I also let it be known that there were many who saw that you could not have murdered the girl.”

“That way…?”

Tyrbel nodded. “But…that may not have been wise. I did not think that they would turn on Charee when they heard in open justice that you were innocent. They did not let anyone speak for her.”

“I tried.”

“They added extra lashes for that.” Tyrbel paused. “Egen was one of those who tried to force Sanyle, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. I didn’t know that until the Watch came. Kaj told me who he was. He told me-Captain Egen did-before they whipped me, that I should never question my betters. He said that he’d hang me if I ever did again.”

“He’s petty, and meaner than a mountain cat in heat, but he’s cunning. Never says anything where anyone can hear, and always has some reason in the law for what he does. You know that they gave Mallamet just ten lashes for false witness. The lashes barely broke the skin.”

“So they can say they treated everything fair.” Kharl snorted.

Tyrbel cleared his throat. “I know some scriveners in Hemmen and Vizyn. I wrote them to see if there might be a need for coopers there.”

“You think I should leave Brysta?”

Tyrbel shrugged. “I don’t know. But best you keep both eyes open. You end up in gaol again, for whatever reason, and you won’t walk out, except to the gallows.”

Kharl nodded slowly.

“You’ve got some time. Egen’s cunning. Anything happens to you soon, and people will talk, especially the crafters, and that would upset Lord West.” Tyrbel looked to the door. “I have to go.”

“Thank you. You have been a friend. A true friend.”

“You told me that was what neighbors were for.” The scrivener smiled. “Take your time in healing. You’ll need your strength.”

“I can pay Sanyle some,” Kharl said.

“She would like that, but you don’t have to.”

Kharl felt he did, but he only smiled. “You’ve both been good to us.”

After Tyrbel left, as Kharl walked back to the planer, he saw the leather-bound book on the edge of the finishing bench. Perhaps he should look at it in the evening. He couldn’t afford enough ale to take his mind off Charee, and he still needed to write Merayni…if he could only find the words.

Maybe puzzling through the book would help, one way or another. He needed something.