by Mel Odom
“And you showed promise at being a lamplighter?”
“Yes.”
“It’s hard for a father to watch his son do something other than what he believes to be in his son’s best interests. This other work that you took on, does it have anything to do with the sketchpad that you keep?”
“Book,” Wick said. “It’s a book. And yes, that calling has everything to do with that book. In a way.”
“Are you any good at this other calling?”
Wick shook his head. “I am average. At the best I have ever been, I’ve only been average. I was even allowed into the field only because a good and kind man felt sorry for me.” Thinking on it now, the little librarian didn’t know if Grandmagister Ludaan’s decision could be considered a kindness or not.
“Average?”
Wick took a long breath and let it out. “Yes.”
“Little artist,” Brant said in a soft voice, “I’ve seen you working at your—your book while you were making notes regarding the mosaic, and I’ll tell you this: Nothing you can do in that calling is going to be average. There’s a passion in you that I’ve seldom seen in others.”
“Thank you,” Wick whispered. He doesn’t know, he told himself fiercely. Despite his kind words, Brant has no idea of what goes into being a Librarian at the Vault of All Known Knowledge. He doesn’t know the failure I’ve been.
“Let’s think of pleasanter things,” Brant suggested. “Like whether or not this piece of slate really hides some kind of death trap, which would be the best joke on all of us.” He smiled, then directed the candle’s flame toward the slate inside the wall again.
“It’s about the size of an elven or human door,” Wick said.
“I see no hinges or knob.” Brant pried at the edges of the slate. “And even should it open, where would it go? There’s hardly enough room in here for it to be more than laid over the top of the outside wall. That’s mortared together so that even that passage would not only be improbable but impossible.”
“Perhaps,” Wick said, “it was a door that was once considered then filled over.”
“Then why build the mosaic?” Brant asked. “And why construct the locking mechanism and the false wall that fell away when I turned the key?”
“I don’t know,” Wick admitted.
“No, little artist,” Brant said. “This door was meant to represent something. We just haven’t the inclination set in our minds that we might fathom what it is. But there is no doubt there was purpose here.”
“Brant.” Cobner’s voice came from outside.
Raising to his feet, the master thief crossed to the door. He blew out the candle, filling the crypt with darkness that left Wick terribly unsettled. “What is it?” Brant asked, peering through the black silk curtain.
“Tyrnen and I finished our searches of the graveyards you’d assigned me. So have Lago and Zalnar.”
Tyrnen and Zalnar, Wick had come to know, were twin dwarven pickpockets. The other four dwarves—Baldarn, Volsk, Rithilin, and Charnir—completed the band of thieves. They’d been together for years.
“The others are all here as well,” Cobner continued, “except for Hamual and Karick.” Karick was the other human of the group.
“Have you heard from them?” Brant asked.
“No.”
“Then we’ll go look for them,” the master thief declared. “They should have been back along the route I’d chosen for our group as you were.” He turned and handed the lummin juice candle to Wick. “I want you to stay here for a time. See if you can divine the secret to that mysterious door while I’m gone.”
Wick fretted about that as he accepted the candle. “Is it safe here?”
“Little artist,” Brant said with a humorless grin, “I’d guess that it’s as safe in this crypt as it is in all of Hanged Elf’s Point for any of us.”
“Oh,” Wick said.
“Cobner,” Brant said, “let’s you and I and Sonne take a quick look for those two and make sure they haven’t gone off and gotten into trouble they can’t handle. Wick, keep your attention focused on our current problem. You’ve shown good judgment. Use it now. I trust you.”
“Thank you,” Wick said. He listened to the brief discussion the master thief had with his two compatriots, then heard the sound of horses’ hooves going away from the crypt.
Lago pushed through the black silk curtain. “If you don’t mind, little artist, I’ll keep you company.”
“That’s fine,” Wick said. “Please make sure that the curtain is in place while I light this candle again.”
Lago bent to the task, replacing the stones Brant had chosen for the task.
A moment later, Wick had the candle lit once more and the fragrant scent of the burning lummin juice again filled the crypt.
“Well,” Lago said, gazing at the skeletons, “I guess these haven’t been much for conversation.”
“No,” Wick said, and a small smile touched his lips in spite of the fear that he felt. Where is Hamual? He worried briefly about the young human, but knew that Brant would do all that could be done. The little librarian turned his attention to the mystery of the wall and the door that wasn’t there.
“Is that a door?” Lago asked.
“I don’t know,” Wick answered.
“So, have we found any treasure yet?”
“No.” Wick placed the lummin-juice candle on the empty casket. The flickering light played over the recessed area in the wall. He pried and probed, but nothing more came to him. The slate wall refused to give up its secret.
He studied the bas-relief featuring the elven face. Taking his journal from his backpack, the little librarian turned to a blank page and took out a stick of charcoal. While working on the Keldian mosaic, he’d taken time to burn himself several sticks of charcoal as well as making a small pot of ink from sugar beets Lago had on hand. It was all very crude by Library standards, but his homemade tools had served him.
He placed the blank page over the bas-relief and rubbed the charcoal stick over it. The face took shape. Unfortunately, none of the journal pages were large enough to cover the whole face so he had to do sections at a time.
“What are you doing?” Lago asked.
“Taking rubbings of this face,” Wick answered.
“Why?”
“On the chance that I may be able to identify the face at some point.”
“Oh, and you plan on seeing the man who owns that face?” Lago asked, glancing at the skeletons. “I’m telling you now, Wick, he probably doesn’t look like he did for that picture.”
Wick ignored the statement and let the old dwarf have his fun.
“Want a bite of bread?” Lago asked.
The little librarian accepted the offer kindly. Finding himself constrained by his backpack, he shrugged out of it and set it down next to the one Brant had left. With careful effort, he finished capturing the elf’s face. Of course, he couldn’t help thinking, it’s not going to do any good if this man isn’t listed in one of the books at the Library or if this isn’t him at all. He closed the journal. Or if I never get back to the Library. He tried not to think about that. He was alive and he was free. After being in the slave pens with only the fate of certain death awaiting him in the arena of Hanged Elf’s Point, being alive and free was nothing to sneeze at.
He leaned back against the casket, thoughtfully chewing the nut bread Lago had baked at the thieves’ hideout in the Forest of Fangs and Shadows. Then he noticed a dulled glow streaming from Brant’s backpack. His breath caught in the back of his throat. Surely that means no good.
“Lago,” the little librarian croaked.
“Yes?” the old dwarf asked.
“Does Brant have anything in his backpack that would, um, glow?”
“No. Not that I’m aware of.”
Curious despite the fear thrilling through him, Wick finished the nut bread and hunkered down to examine the master thief’s backpack. He unfastened the strap holding it closed,
then opened the flap. Inside was a cheesecloth bag. The dulled red glow was sharper inside the backpack, and the little librarian noticed dulled green, blue, and white as well.
The Keldian mosaic! Wick knew in an instant that nothing else could cause those glowing colors. Hypnotized by the glowing colors, the little librarian reached into the backpack. A faint itching sensation washed over his skin as he took the cheesecloth bag out.
“What is that?” Lago asked.
“The mosaic.” Wick removed it from the cheesecloth bag. Exposed now, the gems glowed even more brightly. He held the mosaic in his hands, trembling a little with excitement. What does it mean? He shifted, turning toward Lago, and noticed that the glowing gems dimmed. He froze, suddenly afraid he’d broken something or a horrible event was about to occur.
“Why did they stop glowing so much?” Lago asked.
“I don’t know,” Wick assured the old dwarf. Slowly, he turned back the other way. Maybe I only knocked it out of adjustment, he thought, though he had no idea what had caused it to start glowing in the first place. As he continued turning, the gems glowed even more brightly.
“Look!” Lago said.
Wick glanced up and saw the reflection of the gems in the slate door shape inside the wall. Acting on a hunch, the little librarian moved toward the slate. Before he knew what was happening, the mosaic broke back into the individual gems. They hovered in midair like fireflies, then shot toward the slate.
The gems embedded in the slate with plink-plink-plinking sounds. They formed a series of looping designs that glowed star-bright, eclipsing the light from the lummin-juice candle.
I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, Wick couldn’t help thinking. The gem whorls were so hypnotically entrancing that the fear that dawned within him was a distant thing.
In the next moment, the gems exploded in a bright flash of multicolored fire!
Oh no! Wick thought frantically. What have I done? Brant is going to kill me! Or maybe he’ll just have Cobner do it when no one is looking! The little librarian blinked his eyes rapidly, amazed at all the spots that remained in his vision.
Volsk, the dwarven thief who spent most of his time with Cobner, whipped aside the black silk sheet and strode into the crypt room with his battle-axe in his fist. He cursed graphically, embarrassing Wick. “What is going on in here?” the dwarf asked. “Those lights could have been seen by the goblinkin patrol in the street in front of the graveyard. And you liked to have scared me out of ten years of my life, which I can ill afford to lose.”
“I didn’t do it,” Wick said. “It was the mosaic.” He pointed at the slate wall where the gems had lodged. “It was—” He blinked in consternation, his vision returning enough so that he saw the slate was no longer there as well.
In fact, nothing appeared to be there at all. Emptiness yawned out where once there had been a wall.
For an instant, Wick thought that the gems had somehow blown out the back wall of the crypt. Then he realized the view he saw was of a long, winding staircase that led away from him. It certainly wasn’t the graveyard that should have been lying in back of the crypt.
“Magic,” Volsk said hoarsely. He warded himself against evil, his free hand moving quickly while he raised the battle-axe with the other.
In disbelief, Wick peered down into the winding staircase. That certainly isn’t part of the crypt. Tentatively, he bent down and picked up a small rock from the floor, thinking that maybe the winding staircase was only an illusion, somehow produced by the explosion of bright light. Maybe the gems are even still embedded in the slate. He hoped that was true. He could pry them out of the slate and, although it would take long hours of hard work, he could reassemble them. He tossed the rock at the opening in the wall, hoping that it would only bounce off and the illusion would be broken.
Instead, the rock bounced down the winding staircase, quickly disappearing.
Wick listened to the klunk-klunk-klunking for a long moment, then heard nothing at all. He blinked. Everything in him cried out for him to run and get out of the crypt. Only bad things could happen from this.
Instead, as if drawn by some arcane power, the little librarian seized the lummin-juice candle in one hand and walked toward the doorway that couldn’t exist—yet did. Fearfully, he thrust his hand into the doorway.
The candlelight spilled down the long spiral of narrow stone steps.
Wick noted the masonry of the walls that made up the staircase. They’d been carefully fitted, expertly mortared.
“What is it?” Lago whispered hoarsely. The old man held his war hammer in front of him.
“A staircase,” Wick replied.
“I can see that. Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know.” A dim shape on the wall caught Wick’s eye. He recognized it as a torch in a sconce—and it was just out of reach. Summoning his courage, drawn by curiosity that surely had to be a throwback to earlier dweller days before such deadly interests had been bred out of the race—or, at least, providentially removed for the most part—he set a shaking foot on the first stair step. He paused only long enough to grab his backpack, not wanting to be separated from his journal.
The little librarian was really amazed that the step held. He stretched up and took the torch from the sconce. The oiled head caught flame easily. The bright yellow light carved a long hollow from the spiral stairway’s throat.
“What are you doing?” Lago demanded.
“Seeing where these stairs lead,” Wick answered. “They can’t start without going somewhere.”
“That’s what you think,” Lago replied. “They came from nowhere. It could well be that’s exactly where they lead.”
“Stay or follow me,” Wick tried to say bravely, and hoped that the dwarves followed him. The thought of descending into the darkness below alone and basically unarmed—he did have the small knife at his waist, of course—made his stomach churn.
“What if that wall seals up behind you?” Volsk asked.
“It won’t.” Wick hoped that he wasn’t lying to them or himself. Still, it stood to reason that the magic doorway had to lead somewhere. But there is the fact that the staircase may have been waiting for someone in particular. He almost stopped when that thought hit him. But he really liked less the idea of explaining to Brant what had become of his fortune in gems. Maybe the gems would never return. The thought of Cobner and his sharp axe kept the little librarian moving when fear would have otherwise paralyzed him.
“Hold up, Wick,” Lago called. “I’m coming with you.”
Only a little ahead, Wick found another torch in a sconce. He reached up and lit it with the torch he carried. “There’s a light, Lago.”
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it.”
The shadows ahead of Wick suddenly shifted as the old dwarf plucked the torch from the sconce and trailed after him.
“Hold up,” Volsk muttered angrily. “I’ll get the others.”
Although good sense told him he should wait on the other dwarves because they were trained fighters while he was only a Third Level Librarian, Wick found he had no choice but to keep going. He vaguely wondered about Brant’s mission to find Hamual, but his thoughts centered more on what waited at the other end of the staircase.
The chill wind pursuing them from the crypt and the graveyard beyond finally dwindled away. The air filling the staircase became steadily warmer as they descended. The torchlight suddenly opened onto a room.
Wick paused on the final step and held the torch higher so the glow would better fill the room. Shelves filled the room, and wine bottles filled the shelves.
“Oogley Moogley,” Lago gasped over the little librarian’s shoulder. “A wine cellar! You’ve done went and found a wizard’s wine cellar, little artist!”
Staring out at the shelves and the dust-covered bottles, Wick assumed that it had to be true. “But it’s insane that a wizard would create some kind of magic doorway leading to his wine cellar.”
“Ah,
boy,” Lago growled, pushing past him, “you’ve got a lot of learning to do about connoisseurs of fine spirits. Why, if you get men together who knows great grape squeezings from run-of-the-mill bottles of near-to-vinegar, you’d have yourself a fine education.” The old dwarf scurried over to the wine shelves and selected a bottle. He bit the cork and pulled it from the bottleneck, then spat out the cork and took a healthy swig. He turned and offered the bottle to Wick. “Have yourself a pull.”
Feeling slightly stunned, Wick took the bottle.
Lago moved down the wine racks, searching avariciously for another bottle. He wasn’t long in making a choice, then biting out that cork as well.
In a daze, Wick moved around the room. Although the means of getting to the room were magical without doubt, the room seemed to be nothing more than a wine cellar. He sipped the wine cautiously. It had a nice bouquet and a good, sweet taste. He couldn’t immediately identify what it had been pressed from.
A couple moments later, Volsk descended the magic stairway with the other dwarves. They quickly joined Lago in celebrating their good fortune. Their torches flooded the room, stripping away most of the shadows but leaving others hunkered down between the wine racks.
Wick wandered through the large room. It doesn’t make sense for a wizard to create a magic doorway that only leads to a wine cellar. Not from a crypt! And this place looks as though the owner just stepped out. The little librarian paused at that thought. Which means that he might step back in at any time.
He recalled stories of wizards he’d read in Hralbomm’s Wing. Mostly, all the taletellers had agreed that wizards and mages in general didn’t care to involve themselves in the affairs of common people—unless it was to some benefit of the wizard. They wove their own weaves. But some of those tales told of a wizard’s special places. They also told of the wizard’s revenge when he’d returned there to find plunderers within his walls. None of those stories had ended in a particularly pleasant fashion. Unless the reader was a fan of wizards, Wick amended.
The little librarian considered putting the wine bottle back on a shelf, then thought better of that. Facing wizards, he decided, was much better with a little wine.