L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

“Charee…Arthal…those are true,” Kharl admitted.

“How do you plan to care for Warrl?” asked Merayni.

“We’ve managed. We will manage.”

“Managed? For the sake of a woman you didn’t even know, you got my sister killed. Is that how you’ll manage?” asked Merayni.

Kharl looked to Warrl. The youth had edged toward Merayni. Kharl just looked. Finally, he spoke. “We have managed. Warrl is my son. He is fed and taught and cared for.”

“For how long?” questioned Merayni.

The cooper didn’t have an answer, not one that would have been truthful.

“Warrl’s coming to the holding with us, Kharl.” Merayni’s voice softened. “It’s better that way. You must know it is.”

“What about the cooperage?” asked Kharl, knowing his words were futile, but feeling that he had to say something. “Someday, it will be his, but not if he doesn’t learn to be a cooper.”

“You promise that? How many orders for barrels did you get in the last eightdays?”

“I’m to deliver thirty barrels to Korlan, thirty to Wassyt, and twenty to Aryl, all in the next two eightdays.” Kharl gestured to the stacks of unfinished shooks and semifinished staves.

“Did any of them order any more?” demanded Merayni.

“They only need barrels just before and during harvest.”

“Kharl…” Merayni paused, then spoke slowly. “We may live a day away from Brysta, but we know people, and we’ve asked around. No one will order more from you. They’re too afraid of Lord West and his tariff farmers. You won’t be able to pay your tariffs, and you’ll lose the cooperage. In a few eightdays…”

“Enough…enough…” Kharl looked at Warrl. “So you wrote your aunt?”

“I had to, Da…I had to. You didn’t.” Warrl met his father’s gaze without flinching. “I know you tried…I saw…but you didn’t.”

Kharl turned to Merayni, but did not speak.

Neither did she.

“I tried to save a woman…she was little more than a girl. She wasn’t much older than your Dowlan, Merayni. She’d been beaten and abused. She would have died. I was supposed to let her die?”

“She was a blackstaffer from Recluce. You know how people feel about them. Nothing good could possibly come from trying to save her. What good did it do? She died anyway.”

“I was supposed to know that?”

“Sometimes, Kharl…you have to think of your own. That’s always been your problem. You have too big a heart, and people take advantage of you. Charee knew that. We all know that. But this time, when you didn’t think of your own, everyone suffered. Charee’s dead. Arthal’s on a ship somewhere-”

“The Fleuryl ,” Kharl interjected.

“You’re going to lose everything you ever worked for,” Merayni continued implacably, “and Warrl has to choose between leaving his father and becoming a beggar or an orphan. That’s all because you wouldn’t think first of your consort and your family.” She looked to Warrl. “You can do whatever you will, but I am not letting my sister’s son suffer any more because of your stubbornness.”

Warrl looked helplessly at his father, even as he moved up beside his aunt. “I…didn’t want to write…but…you…someone had to tell Auntie…”

“Someone had to,” Kharl said heavily. “I was wrong not to write. I should have written. Do you…” He stopped. Whatever he said would make no difference. No difference at all. He could fight…but for what? Keeping his son for another season before he lost everything? And if he didn’t…well, then, he could always make his way out to their holding and orchards and prove them wrong.

His eyes went to Warrl. “You’d better get your things. Take anything you want.” He turned and walked to the back of the shop, opposite the forge.

“Da…”

Kharl did not turn.

Behind him, there were whispers, then footsteps on the stairs.

Dowsyl walked back to the forge. “Kharl?”

“What?”

“You get through this, and Warrl would come back. He’s lost his mother. He’s worried, and he’s scared. He needs to be someplace safe.”

“I can see that.”

“Can you?”

“He and Merayni have made it clear.” Kharl paused, then looked squarely at Dowsyl. “I’ll get through it.”

“If you do, you’re welcome. Even if you don’t, you’re welcome. Place could hold you and Warrl.”

“Thank you.”

“Glad it wasn’t me found that blackstaffer,” Dowsyl said. “Can’t make a right choice in a spot like that.”

“Dowsyl!” called Merayni. “I need some help here.”

The grower nodded to Kharl. “I meant it.”

“Thank you,” Kharl said again.

Dowsyl turned and made his way up the steps.

Some time passed. Kharl didn’t know how much. He heard footsteps coming down the steps. He didn’t look.

“Da…please don’t be angry at me…”

Kharl turned. He looked at the thin, tear-streaked face of his son. “We all have to do what we think is right. I did what I thought was right. You did what you thought was right. I’m angry, but I’m not angry at you for that. I hope you understand someday.”

“Da…”

Kharl stepped forward and put his arms around Warrl. “It’s all right. It is.”

“Come…see me…please…”

“As I can, son…as I can…” Kharl stepped back.

“Are you ready, Warrl?” asked Merayni.

“Yes, Auntie.” Warrl stepped back.

“You can come to see Warrl anytime you want, Kharl,” Merayni said. “Anytime…”

Kharl just nodded.

“Until then,” she added.

Kharl just watched as the trio left the cooperage, carrying three large bundles.

The shop door shut. For a time Kharl just looked at the closed door.

Then, he stepped away from the cold forge, back toward the planer.

His eyes fell to the black staff, still where he had left it under the bench. He bent down and pulled it out. Once more, the wood felt warm, comfortable, in his hands. After studying the staff for a long moment, he leaned it against the wall. He still had barrels to do…if he ever wanted to pay the tariffs.

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.