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.
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?