librarian at the front desk, the snake-thin man peering over pretentiously small spectacles. He was the post-noon clerk, and they weren’t on good terms. The clerk welcomed him as he would any other visitor.
“Good afternoon. Please make sure to keep the noise down.”
He tried to respond with words, but only a faint hiss seeped out, spittle flying randomly. He held up the battered book, and when the librarian recognised its state, Mother herself seemed to rain down her godly magnificence. The clerk would punish this sacrilege.
“How dare you disrespect―”
“Leave him alone. Can you not see that the child is in a state?”
The librarian snapped his head to the interventionist. He stretched himself to his full height, but was quick to recede. He was evidently subservient to the new arrival. Then again, in this place, everyone was. “I was about to suggest that he should not be permitted entry in that state, but―”
“That’s not what I mean, idiot. He’s been beaten up.”
The new voice materialised next to him, closely followed by a body. And it was a strange gangly body with odd protrusions in any place it was possible. He was Bulge, the head librarian, and he was a friend; if friend was the right term. In fact, he was the only near-friend if truth be told, so he should grab that label even if he doubted its truth. But sometimes Bulge had a strange look in his eyes, and in fact, it was similar to what he’d seen in Brin that morning. It didn’t bear thinking about.
But Bulge would never act forcefully, and that was the difference. He trusted his only friend. Not that he had much choice.
Bulge laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and challenged the junior librarian with his gaze. The other man peered defiantly over those pathetic spectacles, trapped into silence by the natural order of authority. Bulge was king here. But then the clerk found a valid route of attack.
“Look at the state of this book.”
“It is a copy, fool. Anyone worth their scholarship should see that straight off. I do not let Jossie leave with anything of value because, unfortunately for the poor pup, this is a frequent occurrence.”
The junior librarian was resisting his reprimand. “He looks like he deserves it to me.”
For a moment, Bulge’s mouth formed a hard ‘O’, but nothing came out except his tongue, which just seemed to loll. The head librarian scratched at the bloated curve of the stomach – how the name was earned – and promptly turned and marched down the hall, beckoning him to follow. The desk clerk was left sneering after them, albeit with a submissive veneer.
It was a great building, the library; simple and solidly built. So much of Triosec was temporary, rushed, and infected with premature decay. But the library was a shining exception. A box of a building, it was lined with regiment after regiment of polished wooden shelves, each heaving with books; scrolls; parchments; leather wallets; tomes; journals; rolled maps; and just about everything in-between. Well-oiled roller-steps lived in each aisle, and between the ranks of literature, fine reading seats were placed with precision. They were often vacant.
There was also a gallery about the higher part of the library, which housed some of the finer collections, and this was now where he sat whilst Bulge tended to his wounds. It was testament to the frequency of the beatings that Bulge moved with a practised hand and barely a question. He was not trained in healing, but he was experienced nonetheless. They had been here many times before.
“Was it the Animals again?”
Bulge didn’t like to call them the Farmyard Friends when their acts were so ghastly. But there was no point on insisting on the name in any case, even if it would offer small satisfaction to hear someone else use it. He nodded quietly.
“You must tell your father.”
He wanted to reply that his father didn’t even notice that he was home unless he got under people’s feet. He wanted to say that his father was more likely to join Beef in the beatings, and that he was better off limiting himself to the attentions of the juveniles. He wanted to eloquently lay down the reality of his life, but that was unfortunately not what came out of his mouth.
“Ny-oh goo—” His power over language had been beaten from him.
“What about your brothers?”
That was depressing. What Bulge was suggesting as remedial action, was actually a contributing element. He almost gagged at the memory of his brother’s meek and fetid appearance. Bulge looked straight at him, and he knew the librarian understood. It remained unsaid between them.
Noise disturbed them, which was probably good. Best to avoid awkward questions. He looked to a gallery even higher than where he and Bulge were sat. He had never seen that place anything but silent, but stood there now was a man. He was a magnificent looking man, a man of authority, and his identity was obvious. That was the Royal Gallery, and that man was therefore the King of Delfinia.
He instinctively tensed and puckered his arse. That reflex would never leave him. The King shook his head subtly and turned his eyes away, only to pull them back, mild disgust in their set. Beside the King was a young man of Jossie’s age, but the gulf between them was inconceivable. The King’s companion was everything he was not, and the other’s satisfaction with this was clear in the smile. That was the Prince of Delfinia, and the prince was looking upon the scum. That was amusing in a way, that the entire span of social class was represented in this small space. He wanted to smile just a bit, but equally, he didn’t want to offend his king. Or his prince. He had nothing to thank them for, but he wasn’t an idiot.
“Aye, the King is in today. Pain in the crotch that is for all involved. Keeps us from our damned jobs.”
He was shocked at this attitude, but Bulge just shrugged and stared at the monarch. It was a stand-off of sorts, a challenge between the magnificent ruler and the man they called Bulge for all the wrong reasons. Even Bulge’s loose-sack robes couldn’t hide his ridiculous shape. It was no contest really.
But the librarian didn’t care, and that was awesome. He liked Bulge, but in that moment he utterly adored him, thinking of him in the same shade as he considered Delfin herself. And she was the greatest revolutionary of them all. Bulge was the father he’d never had, and the librarian would even stand up to the King on his behalf. The monarch turned from the balustrade, turning his back on them. This time he did smile, only to regret the use of those muscles. The prince smirked and then turned to follow his father into the hidden luxury of the Royal Gallery, but there had been something else in those eyes too. It was fleeting, but it was also powerful. He would remember that look.
“Whass he doon he-e.” Not exactly eloquent, but Bulge seemed to understand.
“Planning war. That’s all he ever does.”
“Wa-urr ‘gainsht oo?”
“The Mandari. Always the Mandari.”
It had been a stupid question really. But then he scrunched up his face and furrowed his brow. War, in a place of books? That didn’t make sense.
“Oh it makes perfect sense, young Jossie.” Had Bulge just read his face? “Conflict is as much about the thinking as it is about the doing, and what better place to think than here. Silence is an idea’s best friend.”
That resonated. He had always loved the silence. It was a time when he could be entirely himself, and perhaps he was even slightly smart with it; ideas flowering that others might not find. He was certainly passionate to know things, and he didn’t like to consider that there were limits to his quiet reflection. But war? Here? War was such a potent concept that it didn’t seem like it should have a place in this sanctuary of reflection. But Bulge wouldn’t lie. What would be the point?
As the oil passed over a particularly deep gash, he winced, and wished he could expand his smarts into the real world. If only he could teach himself to fight. He looked longingly to the Royal Gallery, and turned to Bulge with a question. He didn’t get a chance to speak before Bulge cut in.
�
��I thought you’d never ask. Come with me.”
And he did. As he flicked through the books, it was almost as if he could feel the bruises easing.
________
Two years passed. Two long years of study; repetition; exercise; study; practise; failure; practise; study; and moderate success. His learning of all else had petered to nothing, the occasional foray into his favoured archives. Only Delfin herself renewed his attentions. But his passion was unquenchable, and the military arts were a way to focus that passion. He was consuming all he could in order to ultimately avoid the beatings. Could this really work? If there was a chance, then it must be worth it. It had to be worth it.
He consumed the theory with burning greed, and absorbed the texts with a startling capacity. At first, everything he read had been new, and with it came stumbling difficulty. But the more he read, the more the pieces fitted together. It was like a great and bloody puzzle, and he was good at puzzles.
But still the beatings continued. He would not reveal his learning until success was assured. It was a challenging mantra to stick to.
Solo practical exercises were easily fulfilled in the cavernous and often empty library. Realistic practise with others was, unfortunately, harder to come by. After all, Bulge was hardly a suitable sparring partner. And that was the worst of it; the fact that for all the academic and
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