Wellspring of Chaos by L. E. Modesitt Jr. Read Free Book Online Page B

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