Bookburners: Season One Volume Two

by Max Gladstone

  “And when we did not die, and the Coptic Church refused to recognize our marriage, Arturo insisted on personally smoothing things over with the Patriarch.” Youssef sounded oddly bitter about this for a happily married man.

  Menchú shrugged again. “Still seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “And my wife is eternally grateful, and will now not even consider converting.”

  “She was never going to convert.”

  “She would have.”

  “You could always embrace Catholicism.”

  “We could both convert to Islam. We could allow our daughter to bleach her hair and dye it pink. We could do many things. That doesn’t mean that any of them are actually going to happen.”

  Menchú shrugged yet again. Youssef rolled his eyes. Perhaps it was just as well that the elevator chose that moment to arrive. The doors opened with a soft ding, and the team got their first look inside the fabled Library of Alexandria.

  Sal’s primary impression as she stepped out of the elevator was of overwhelming light. She knew from her ears’ reaction to the elevator ride that they must be deep underground, and she couldn’t see a window anywhere, yet the entire room was bathed in what felt like natural sunlight. Sal craned her neck, looking for the source. She caught a glimpse of bright latticework somewhere high above them, but before she could get a better look, Youssef hurried them forward.

  They passed row upon row of shelves, but unlike the Society’s Archives, these were further divided into square cubbyholes, each holding one or more tightly furled scrolls. Asanti watched the collection flow past their hurried steps with undisguised longing.

  Sal fell into step beside Menchú. “You really think he’s going to help us?”

  He nodded. “Of course. We’ve been friends for years.”

  Sal blinked. “How does he treat people he doesn’t like?” she asked.

  “I certainly don’t invite them inside the most extensive collection of ancient texts in the world,” said Youssef.

  Sal startled. She thought she had kept her voice low enough to avoid eavesdroppers. Still, if Youssef took offense at her question, he at least didn’t seem any more offended than he had been before.

  Presently, they passed through the stacks into a smaller corridor that led to Youssef’s private office, a cramped room with walls covered in children’s drawings, and a small icon of Saint Mark.

  “If the Greek civil or ecclesiastical authorities confront you as to your purpose in their country, I will deny that we have ever met,” said Youssef.

  “If the authorities give us any trouble, I’ll assume that you were the one who called them,” said Menchú.

  Youssef seated himself behind his gray steel desk and drew out a sheaf of bright white paper. Taking the top sheet off the stack, he removed a fountain pen from a stand beside his blotter and quickly wrote a few lines before turning the paper and pushing it across the desk toward the team.

  He pulled a second cap off the back of the pen, revealing a sharp point at the tip of a slender tube. “Prick your thumb and sign.”

  Menchú reached for the pen, but Grace put out a hand to stop him. “What are we signing?”

  “Your pledge that you will abide by the rules of the Oracle, and that you understand that this invitation can be revoked at any time.”

  Grace didn’t move. “We’re supposed to take your word for that?”

  “No,” said Asanti. “I read Greek. That’s what it says.” Stepping around Grace, Asanti took the pen from Youssef’s outstretched fingers. As she pricked her thumb, the blood from the wound was drawn into the pen through the tube. Asanti signed as though she wrote her name in blood every day.

  The rest of the team followed her example, Liam going last and most reluctantly.

  Youssef took his pen back, pricked his own finger, and signed his name at the bottom of the page. Then he capped both ends of the pen and returned it to its stand. After folding the invitation, he produced a lighter and sealing wax from another drawer. Sal flinched when, instead of using a signet ring or seal, he pressed his thumb directly into the hot wax before presenting the paper to Menchú.

  “This will allow you in to see the Pythia. However, if you want a prophecy, you’ll each need to bring a sacrifice.”

  “What kind of sacrifice?” asked Asanti.

  “Magic adheres to the laws of cause and effect, and works through the principles of correspondence. Reflection: like attracts like. Participation: links the practitioner to the ritual, and to the result. And sacrifice: because for something to be created, even by magic, something of equal value must be destroyed. There is no specific recipe, no ritual by rote, but the nature of what you choose to sacrifice will determine the direction, potency, and accuracy of the Pythia’s visions. I suggest you choose wisely.”

  “You have our blood already,” said Liam. “What more do you want?”

  “If what you sought could be summoned by a few drops of blood, I seriously doubt that you would have made this journey.”

  Menchú sighed. “Unfortunately, I fear you’re right.” He offered Youssef a small bow. “Thank you.”

  Youssef accepted this, and then said, in an unexpectedly conversational tone: “Do you have time to come to the house? I’m sure Catherine would very much like to see you.” Sal blinked.

  Menchú took this abrupt change in tone and topic in stride. “Unfortunately not. And with the trouble that’s been following us recently, I’m not sure that you’d want us in your home.”

  Youssef regarded Menchú with solemnity. “That is a debt you will have to settle with her, then.”

  “Please give her my regrets.”

  “Of course. I’ll see you out.”

  Sal’s first and last view of the pyramids was from the window of their plane as they sped north, back to Europe. Travel the world, meet exotic and unusual people . . . and try to save them from demons. Still, in contrast to the last two weeks, at least this trip had been free of zombies, locusts, and unexpected incendiaries. That was probably a good sign.

  2.

  Somewhere in Rome, some time later

  Sal groped for her phone buzzing by her ear, but by the time she could convince her fingers to listen to her brain, the call had already gone to voicemail. She blinked blearily at the display: six missed calls from the rest of the team. How had she slept through six calls? She hadn’t meant to sleep at all. She’d gone back to her apartment to grab a few things before meeting the others for an early morning flight to Athens. She must have been more tired than she thought. But in spite of her accidental nap, she still didn’t feel rested.

  Her phone was buzzing again. This time, Sal answered it.

  “Sal? Where the hell are you?” It was Menchú. She’d never heard him swear before. Not in English, anyway.

  Sal looked around. She was in the Archives. Except that didn’t make any sense. The last thing she remembered was going home. . . .

  “I’m . . .” Sal began.

  “We’ve been calling you. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  Belatedly, Sal checked the time. Their flight to Greece was due to depart in less than an hour.

  “Sal?” Menchú’s voice shifted from anger to concern. She had paused too long. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m . . .” Sal swallowed what she had been about to say. Now was not the time to confess that she was delusional with exhaustion. They were on a mission. She glanced over to her workspace. Her go bag was right where it should have been. A quick check showed it was packed with clean clothes, re-stocked and ready. When did I do that? “I’m on my way.”

  Sal grabbed her bag and sprinted up the iron stairs two at a time. It was early enough that Roman traffic would still be on the light side. If she got a taxi driver who was just the right kind of crazy, she might still make the flight.

  • • •

  Sal made it onto the plane seconds before the crew closed the door and slid into her seat beside Liam as they pushed away from th
e jet bridge.

  Menchú’s expression was a silent censure, and Sal felt herself flush. “Sorry. Got delayed.”

  Luckily, Menchú seemed inclined to let it go at that. Asanti didn’t look up from her work, and Grace was already buried in a book, completely ignoring the in-flight safety briefing.

  It was Liam who muttered, “Hope it was worth it.”

  “Piss off.” If Menchú wanted to take her to task, she could live with it. She had been late, and he was her boss. But Liam? She’d made the flight. He could get over himself.

  “Be a professional and I will.”

  “Stop taking the fact that you hate this mission out on me, and I’ll listen to your opinion on professionalism.”

  Grace glared at them both over her battered copy of Moment in Peking.

  Sal closed her eyes. She could feel Liam staring at her, wanting to continue the fight. He could go right on wanting. She wasn’t going to play. Eventually, he let out a small huff, and she felt his weight shift in the too-narrow seat. A short time later, she could hear the familiar clicks of his laptop keyboard under the drone of the plane’s engines.

  While Sal pretended to sleep, her mind raced. Ever since her visit to the Market Arcanum, she’d had recurring dreams of wandering, looking for something she could never remember on waking. Often, they left her feeling even more exhausted than she’d been when she went to bed. But they were only dreams. They had to be. She tried to remember if she had been dreaming when the phone woke her.

  She tried, but she couldn’t be sure.

  No, she was being paranoid. It was a common result of exhaustion. Sal hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since long before the trip to Alexandria. She had come home, repacked her go bag, and then—instead of trying to grab a nap like a sane person—she’d pushed herself too hard. Gone back to the Archives to work. There, her fatigue had finally caught up with her, and she’d succumbed to exhaustion.

  That was all.

  A calm fell over Sal as the pieces of the explanation fell into place in her mind. Surely, that was what had happened. Yes.

  Sal’s breathing deepened, and she slipped into unfeigned sleep.

  The ruins at Delphi, an annoying number of hours later

  Unfortunately, getting to Delphi wasn’t as simple as catching a connecting flight from Athens. Even with Grace behind the wheel of their rental van, it had taken nearly three hours on winding mountain roads before they reached the Oracle’s home. It was as if the ancient Greeks hadn’t wanted anyone and everyone showing up at Apollo’s sacred temple demanding to know what the Fates had in store for them.

  As they drove, Asanti grew more eager. Grace grew more annoyed with Greek drivers, and Liam’s scowl reached epic proportions. Sal concentrated on the view out the window and on not snapping at Liam. She’d been listening to his low-grade grumbling since the jolt of their plane landing had jerked her out of a sound sleep. Which was about the least-attractive part of him to wake up to. If the flight had been six hours longer she might have gotten enough sleep to muster the mental resources to deal with his attitude. As it was, she was hoarding her meager reserves for whatever the Oracle decided to throw at them.

  For ruins that were both a) thousands of years old and b) a tourist draw, the scene the team found upon exiting the van was remarkably serene. Even so, it was mid-July, and milling tourists covered the site like ants on a picnic blanket.

  Grace put Sal’s exact thoughts into words when she said, “There’s an oracle? Here?”

  Menchú nodded.

  “Where?”

  This time, it was Asanti who answered. “If anyone could see it, we wouldn’t need an invitation.”

  Menchú looked startled. “Have you been researching the Oracle?”

  “The site at Delphi has been continuously active for thousands of years. It’s proof that magic can interact with the material world without being destructive. I wrote a dissertation on it. Why do you think I was so upset you hadn’t mentioned that you had an in?”

  Menchú shrugged, allowing her point.

  “You have a PhD?” asked Sal.

  “Several.”

  Liam rolled his eyes. “If we’re doing this, can we get it over with?”

  Menchú cleared his throat. “Indeed.” He gestured to Asanti. “Since you’re the expert, would you care to do the honors?”

  Following at the back of their little group, Sal had to admit the site offered commanding views. Asanti took them past the ruins of the Temple of Apollo to a path labeled “Castalian Spring.” Following it, they continued up the mountain under dappled shade—a welcome relief from the hot summer sun—until the trail ended at a sign labeled clearly in half a dozen languages: “Access Forbidden: Falling Rocks.” Asanti stepped around this barrier without slowing down, and led them toward the smaller and more crumbling of two stone huts beyond.

  The hut was just big enough for the team to stand comfortably inside a ring of stone benches surrounding a marble basin in the center of the space. In the basin, water bubbled lightly.

  Asanti looked at Father Menchú. “The invitation?”

  Menchú produced the paper, still folded and sealed, from his coat pocket and handed it to her. “You’re sure this is the place?”

  Asanti seemed vaguely insulted. “Of course. The source of the Oracle has always been the spring, not the temple. Some scholars have actually posited that ethylene gas, percolating into the water from volcanic vents, was responsible for the Pythia’s divine gifts, but hallucinogens in the water don’t explain—”

  “What are you doing in here?” a man’s voice barked.

  Sal whirled to find a man in casual business clothes, collar open against the summer heat, staring at them from the hut’s doorway.

  “Visitors aren’t allowed—”

  As Menchú moved to placate the man, Asanti broke the seal on the invitation, opened the paper, and plunged it into the water until her arm was submerged nearly to the elbow.

  As she did so, the room was filled with a roaring sound like a waterfall, and the man vanished.

  Sal gasped in the sudden silence, the sound of her own breath and heartbeat the only things reassuring her that she hadn’t gone deaf. The team hadn’t moved, but something in the air had changed, and Sal suspected that it was they, and not the man, who had vanished.

  Slowly, Asanti withdrew her arm from the pool. She still held the paper, but the ink —and the blood—were completely gone.

  “What happened?” asked Liam, if anything even more on edge than he had been for the last two days.

  Menchú looked around. “Perhaps we should go outside and investigate.” No one seemed to have a better idea, and so they filed back into the dappled shade.

  Outside, they found not an angry administrator, but a woman in a white draped garment with laurel leaves twisted through her dark, curling hair. She smiled, as though she had been waiting for them.

  She said, “Welcome to Delphi.”

  3.

  The Castalian Spring, near Delphi (apparently)

  In spite of her own supernatural preservation, Grace had never been particularly sensitive to magical phenomena, much to her relief and Asanti’s disappointment. However, at the moment of transition from there to here—wherever here was—she had felt a faint tremor in her bones. A resonance. A sympathy.

  She examined the woman in white, who looked like she could have stepped off the side of a painted amphora, and she knew what bound them together. “This is a place out of time.”

  The woman nodded. “Yes.”

  “Where are we?” asked Sal.

  “I told you,” said the woman. “This is Delphi.”

  “But we were in Delphi—”

  Asanti cut off Sal’s objection. “We were in the Delphi of the world. This is the Delphi of legend.”

  The woman in white nodded.

  “Is this how the Pythia sees the future?” Asanti asked. “By existing in all times at once?”

  The woman held up
a hand. “You have come with a question,” she said, “but not, I think, that one.”

  “Do you know what information we seek?” This time, the question came from Menchú.

  “No, but we were told to expect you.”

  “By whom?” asked Grace.

  “By the Pythia, naturally.”

  In retrospect, Grace supposed she should have seen that answer coming.

  • • •

  Liam grumbled to himself as the woman in white led the group back down the path, away from the spring. “Naturally,” the Pythia said to expect us. Liam had never met an oracle before, but so far the Pythia was exactly as annoying as he had anticipated.

  He glanced at Sal, his normal go-to for an appreciative audience of mildly witty snark, but she was walking with Menchú. It was like she’d been purposefully avoiding him since the breakup. Which was stupid. They had to work together. They could be friends, even if they had given up the benefits. But apparently, Sal didn’t see things that way. The suspicion that their friction was not entirely Sal’s fault did nothing to help his mood.

  Liam was so engrossed in his own spiraling grumpiness, he didn’t notice when they left the woods until suddenly the whole of the valley was spread before them, and the group could once again see the slopes of Mt. Parnassus.

  It had been a holy site since pre-Hellenic times, consecrated to Apollo and then also to his brother, Dionysus. Temples had been destroyed and rebuilt, destroyed again, and rebuilt again, until ultimately passing into ruination by a combination of the rise of Christianity, natural disasters, and the march of time.

  Until now.

  The team froze in their tracks. The Temple of Apollo was once again—still?—all gleaming columns on a pristine marble foundation. Where there had once been a village, there was now a shining city.

  Where there had once been tourists, there was now not a single living soul.

  “What happened to everyone?” Liam asked.

  The woman in white shrugged. “We used to have many supplicants, and all who sought us came in good faith. Now, the Pythia must be more selective about whom she lets inside her doors.”