L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

“You’re going to have to move today-” Kharl began.

“Charee told me when she brought me breakfast and my clothes. She repaired them. She’s very good with a needle.” Jenevra smiled wanly for a moment before the expression faded. “I’m much better. Your consort does not like my being here.”

Kharl didn’t reply.

“It is clear. She thinks I will hurt your business. If I stayed, I probably would. No one likes having blackstaffers around. They told us that, but I did not believe it then.”

“In a few moments,” Kharl finally said, unable to refute her words, “we’re going to take you out to Father Jorum’s-”

“One of the one-god priests? He will not be that pleased.”

“They preach kindness to all-”

“Except to those from Recluce.”

“I have never heard him say anything against Recluce,” Kharl protested, although he seldom accompanied Charee to the end-day services.

“What is not said-”

Both Jenevra and Kharl looked up at the sharp crack ing sound, followed by the tinkling clank of glass falling on stone. His eyes darted toward the front window of his shop, but all the leaded glass panes were in place.

He frowned.

A muffled low boom rumbled past him, shaking the walls. One of the shooks left on the workbench fell to the floor with a flat, slapping sound.

Jenevra started to rise, then put her hand down to steady herself. Her face paled even more, until it was sheet-white.

“Stay put!” commanded Kharl. “You’re still weak.”

“Fire! Fire at the scrivener’s!”

“Fire!” The second voice was that of Tyrbel.

Kharl looked at Jenevra. “You just stay there, unless the fire spreads here, and then you get out as fast as you can.”

“Yes, master cooper.”

Kharl didn’t argue that he wasn’t a master cooper, because he’d never had enough golds to pay the Crafters’ Guild. He didn’t have time to explain as he rushed out of the cooperage. Outside and to the west a line of men had formed up, passing buckets from the fire barrel some forty cubits farther west from the door of Tyrbel’s scriptorium. Kharl could see that there weren’t enough buckets, not to stop the fierce flames darting from the broken glass of Tyrbel’s display window. From the jagged-edged hole in the display window, along with the flames, came lines of thick black smoke, oily-smelling smoke.

A tall man-Gharan-threw the first bucket of water on the flames, and was rewarded with a hissing-and very little diminution of flame.

Kharl looked for the nearest sand barrel, before belatedly realizing that it was at the front of his own cooperage, except on the east side, next to Derdan’s. He dashed for it and pulled off the cover, fumbling for the scoop bucket inside. As quickly as he could, he filled the bucket with the damp sand, then ran back toward the display window of the scriptorium.

Gharan was about to throw another bucket of water, and Kharl waited, then followed with the sand. This time, the flames from the bottom of the display area, where the books were burning fiercely, actually subsided. Kharl hurried back to the sand barrel.

Between the flames and the men running to and fro, and the urgency of combating the fire, Kharl didn’t know how many trips he had made before the display area was merely scorched and blackened wood, with water and sand oozing everywhere. Most of the leaded-glass panes in Tyrbel’s display window had been broken, and shards of glass littered the stones of the narrow sidewalk. The volumes that had been on display were charred scraps.

The odor of charcoal and soot was strong, but Kharl could still smell, if faintly, another acrid scent. He just stood for a moment, breathing hard, his eyes watering as he looked at the ruined front of the scriptorium.

Gharan looked at the cooper. “Good thinking with the sand.”

“Had to try something. Water wasn’t working very well.”

The weaver nodded.

Behind him so did Hamyl the potter.

Tyrbel moved toward Kharl. His face was ashen. “Someone set it. They broke the glass.” The scrivener shook his head slowly. “Ten golds’ worth of work…gone. You know, I was going to give the one- The Book of Godly Prayer -I was going to give it to Father Jorum. I’d promised it to him.”

“I know,” Kharl replied. “You told me.” He paused. “It…the fire…smelled like oils. That’s why I went for the sand.”

“Why would anyone…why?” Tyrbel sounded both puzzled and defeated. “I’m just a scrivener. I don’t understand…”

“Give way for the Watch! Way for the Watch!” The call came from farther down Crafters’ Lane, toward the harbor.

“Trust the Watch to show up after honest men have already put out the fire,” groused Gharan from behind the cooper and the scrivener. “Where were they when the fire started? Why bother now?”

“It didn’t just start,” Tyrbel repeated himself. “Someone set it, but why? Who would do such a terrible thing?”

“Someone who didn’t like the documents you were copying for trials before the justicers?” suggested Kharl.

“But…why would anyone…that’s not personal. Lord West likes my work, old as he’s getting. Any scrivener would do the same for whoever-”

“Way for the Watch!”

Kharl glanced toward the approaching armsmen, eight of them, with a young-faced captain, scarcely more than a boy, or so he looked to Kharl. They were less than thirty cubits away. The cooper wondered why there were so many for a fire, and how the officer had gathered that number so quickly.

“No!” screamed a woman.

Kharl looked away from the oncoming Watch. He recognized the voice, if belatedly. It was Charee’s voice.

Charee came running out of the cooperage, blood smeared across her blouse. “She’s dead. She’s dead!” Her voice broke with the words.

“Who’s dead?” blurted Gharan from behind Kharl and Tyrbel.

“She is…the blackstaffer…someone cut her throat.”

“Jenevra? She’d dead?” Kharl said stupidly. “But she was fine.”

“She’s dead,” Charee said. “Her throat’s cut.” She looked at Kharl. “I told you she’d be trouble. I told you. I told you.”

“She was barely more than a girl. She hadn’t done anything,” Kharl protested. “Why…how…?”

“I knew. But no…you had to do things the way you always do.”

“Silence!”

Kharl turned from Charee to see that the armsmen of the Watch were but a few cubits from the group in front of the cooperage and scriptorium. After several moments, the words and murmurs died away.

“You! In the gray!”

Kharl could feel his stomach tightening as he saw the young captain of the Watch-the same young swell who had been pawing Sanyle-and possibly one of those who had attacked and beaten Jenevra. The captain jabbed his finger at Kharl. “You!”

“Yes, ser?”

“You own this cooperage?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Take him away. He killed the girl inside.” Behind the captain’s voice was a hint of something, something almost like satisfaction, Kharl thought.

Three armsmen moved out from behind the captain and toward Kharl, each with a long truncheon at the ready.

“No! I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill anyone.” Kharl stepped back.

“That’s what they all say.” The captain made a motion.

Kharl took another step backward. “You’ve got the wrong person. I was out here fighting the fire. Everyone here knows that.”

“A convenient diversion, no doubt.” The young captain smiled. “You and all your friends down here need to learn some respect for the law, and for those who rule Brysta.”

“I didn’t do it,” Kharl protested.

“Take him,” snapped the captain, still smiling.