Wellspring of Chaos

XXIII

Oneday came, and went, and no one walked in the door, and Kharl finished the red oak slack barrels for Aryl. Twoday came…and went, and so did threeday and fourday. Kharl continued to work, planing, drawing, fitting, firing, toasting…And not a single buyer, or even anyone who might buy, came into the cooperage.

On fiveday morning, Kharl just looked blankly at the planer and the white oak shooks stacked on the carry-cart. Almost five days, and he’d talked to no one except Sanyle, when she had brought him his midday dinner. At night, he’d tried to read The Basis of Order, but the words drifted by and around him, their meaning not reaching him, as though he were a desert isle in the middle of the ocean, unable to drink the water surrounding him.

In less than half a season, he’d gone from being a successful cooper with a good consort and two sons to a man who’d lost both his consort and his sons, and who would soon lose his cooperage, if not more, unless matters changed much for the better. And he saw no way to make that change.

He stepped away from the planer and absently brushed the thin strips of wood off his tunic and out of his beard, a beard that needed trimming.

He walked slowly to the display window, looking out and watching Crafters’ Lane for a time, noting the man in a grayish blue tunic standing on the corner. Over the past few days, he’d seen the same man, more than a few times. Was he one of the Watchmen who were keeping an eye on Kharl?

Why did anyone care? Was Egen that vindictive? Because he’d been thwarted of his pleasure with Sanyle? And because a mere cooper had dared to stand up to the son of a lord? Kharl hadn’t even known who Egen was when all that had happened.

After a time, Kharl walked back to the planer. He still had more than a few staves to shape for the barrels already ordered. His eyes dropped to the cudgel that he’d taken to keeping close by him. Then he began to pump the foot pedal.