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almost less than the cost of the oak and iron.
    Warrl had long since gone to his lessons, and Charee had left with her stitchery for Fyona, and Jenevra had drifted into a dozing sleep by the time Kharl had finished turning the shooks into rough staves. He checked the hollowing knife and began to work on smoothing and fine-shaping the staves. He’d finished the staves for one barrel and was working on the second, when he saw Charee coming back into the shop.
    His consort slipped up to him, and said in a whisper, “Kharl… you’ve got to get her out of here.”
    “Her name’s Jenevra.”
    “I don’t care what her name is,” Charee replied. “Fyona told me that Mallamet was going to put a complaint before the Crafters’ Council that you’re using the blackstaffer’s magic on your barrels.”
    “That’s stupid. The poor girl can’t even see straight yet. Mallamet’s a poor excuse for a cooper who just wants to cause me trouble.”
    “That well may be… but if the Council decides you’re using order-magery in support of a craft…”
    “How about tomorrow morning?” Kharl said quietly. “You could walk her down to Father Jorum’s, and she could rest there for the day.” If Jenevra weren’t much better in the morning, perhaps he could persuade Charee to let her stay another day. He didn’t want to think about what might happen after that day.
    “Why not now?”
    “She can’t even sit up for long without getting dizzy.”
    “First thing tomorrow,” Charee said. “I’ll make sure Father Jorum will be around, but I won’t let him know why. But it will be first thing in the morning.”
    “After breakfast,” Kharl said.
    “After breakfast, but no later.” Charee headed for the stairs, carrying another bundle of fabric and thread.
    Kharl looked at the dozing blackstaffer, then slowly lifted the hollowing knife once more.
     
     
    VII
     
    In the early afternoon, somewhat to Kharl’s surprise, a lanky man ambled into the cooperage, an unpleasant odor clinging to him, for all of his neat and clean appearance, although his leather trousers bore stains that had clearly resisted all efforts at fullering. His heavy boots thudded on the floor.
    Kharl set down the drawing knife and went to meet him.
    “You Kharl?”
    “That I am. How might I help you?”
    “I’m looking for slack cooperage that’s close to tight. Heard you were the best at that.” The man gestured at the range of barrels on display. “Those look to be tight.”
    “They are, but I’ve just finished a few slack barrels out of red oak. They’re here in the back.”
    “Be pleased to see them.”
    The two men walked to the back of the cooperage, past Arthal, who was slowly, as always, hollowing a red oak stave, and Jenevra, who was almost invisible against the wall and had drifted back into sleep.
    “Good slack work… you see?” Kharl gestured to the red oak barrel, open-topped, but otherwise completed.
    “Might I handle it?”
    Kharl nodded.
    The other man inspected the barrel carefully, paying particular attention to the joints and the iron hoops. Finally, he straightened. “How much?”
    “A silver a barrel.”
    “Mallamet sells them for eight coppers.”
    “He does. They’re not as tight.”
    “For ten, nine silvers,” offered the man.
    “Nine and five coppers,” countered Kharl.
    “Nine and four,” offered the other.
    “Done.”
    “You have three here, I see. When could you have the other seven?”
    “I have eight ready now. The others are on the other side.”
    “Better yet. Five now, and five in two eightdays? I’ll pay you six silvers and four now, and the rest when I pick up the others.”
    “That would be good.” Kharl paused. “I must apologize, ser, but since we have not done business before…”
    The man laughed. “We have not. I had thought you might have guessed. I’m Werwal.”
    “The renderer? I have heard of you.”
    “And I you. That is why I am here.” Werwal counted out the coins.