“Academics have wars?”
Scammander tossed his head back and laughed. “The disciplines are always quarrelling. The philosophers of course are naturally disputatious, and often start the fights, and the poets never back down.
“One instance, among thousands, is the indelible story of an old, august professor of philosophy named Pierce Perceivewell, who attended a new professor’s much celebrated lecture and sat in the center of the front row.
“The young professor, Horace Valentine Gentlecraft, was very flattered that this esteemed philosopher would even attend his lecture, much less sit in the front row. So he began his clever discourse, and after only a few minutes, the famous philosopher was completely asleep with his head back and mouth hanging wide open, snoring so loud that the lecture could not be heard.” Scammander grinned.
“Of course it didn’t end there. During the winter months in the Academe, students in poetry and literature compose and put on plays. These plays almost always make fun of other academic disciplines. So the new professor composed an acerbic comedy called Lullabies for Pierce Thotfool, Philosopher.” He stopped and furrowed his brow. “Or was it Pierce Thotsafoul…or Thotsawful?
“Well, anyways, in this play, an old and prestigious professor of philosophy falls asleep while giving a lecture, presumably because he has grown so bored of his own thoughts. The students move the slumbering professor to the front row of the class then one by one take the podium and give speeches denigrating him and mocking his style, and sing ribald ballads about him, and even throw awful fluids on him.”
“Speaking of awful fluids, what do you suppose the pink and yellow potions you gave me up there do?” I said. “Slow death?”
“Long life,” he countered.
“Same thing.”
Scammander flashed a grin at me.
“It’s too bad that out of all those academics and the great systems of philosophy they create, none of them have written a book regarding the systematic destruction of the world or at least the destruction of great systems.”
“I was starting to think that having you read philosophy was a mistake,” he said. “But after that suggestion, I’m starting to think that was one of the greatest things I have ever done.”
I began to ask a question then stopped. I looked at Scammander for a moment then went ahead with my question. “How many…how many humans do you think survived?”
“Undoubtedly, there are humans crawling around in the ruins. A few humans that we didn’t kill, in addition to the one that we designated a survivor.”
It was true. There were survivors. And they would propagate and the species that should not be would grow again. “I only wish I could save all the Lucifers,” I said. “And turn them loose on the world.”
“And of course there were survivors from the elfin mansion,” Scammander continued, clearly frustrated. “Not least of which is my mother,” he cringed a little as he spoke the final word. He continued pacing, shaking his head, closing his eyes and sighing. Scammander grimaced and his voice filled with eating, eschatological flame. “There’s only one way to do it. A doom word.”
“Philosophy, philosophy,” I said blithely, giving the curse a try. Hopefully someone somewhere died, but the two of us confined to this room lived on.
Scammander paused a second then continued pacing and talking. “That’s the only way to do it so that nothing is left. And there is only one doom word I know how to produce, aside from my name, and only one organism large enough to pronounce it. The Earth.”
“That’s quite a black heart you have,” I said. “And darker still.” I looked back at the small bookshelf of old dusty volumes. “How do you make the world scream? The world didn’t scream when we killed droves and droves of those humans.”
“That’s because their lives are meaningless,” he sneered. “I don’t know how to make the world scream, but it will certainly help if it’s covered in darkness,” he said. “And that’s where An Algebra of a Sunset and the Aurelius Algorithm will come into play.”
“Don’t we need the ghost stories of Alfred von Shudder?” Which we had given to a madman who was paying assassins to kill us.
He nodded. “Yes, I think we actually need all three. But they won’t matter if I can’t unlock the mathematics and magic thrumming within the Aurelius Algorithm or An Algebra of a Sunset, if I can find it.”
I dug into my robes, eager to deliver the book to Scammander, and even more eager to witness him resume his study of magic—magic that could destroy the world.
Then I realized I didn’t have the book. “By the lowest river,” I cursed. “I left it in that forsaken hole of humanity.”
In a flash Scammander rushed over to me and sank his thin fingers into my shoulders. I winced as he latched on and studied my face. “You’re not lying,” he said, drawing away and smiling. “Well Evander, you might have single-handedly done the most devastating thing you could have ever possibly imagined by leaving the text in that city.”
“Yes, I imagine any surviving human brave enough to read a book is going to be in for quite a shock when he actually learns something and is raised up out of his dark swamp of ignorance.”
“Oh no,” Scammander said drawing close to me. “There aren’t going to be any survivors. When the sunlight strikes those pages…” his eyes lit up with many hues of dark villainy. “I only wish I could be there to see it,” he whispered, partially turning away from me. Even in the feeble candle light of the chamber, I could see machinations of destruction dancing within his brain.
I walked over to the bookshelf and began scanning the titles in the dim light. The Eclogues, The Georgics, Adam Unparadised, The Concept of Anxiety, Fear and Trembling, Repetition, The Will to Power, The Sophist, The Prince and The Discourses by the same author. “These are essentially all the same books I read at the icy library,” I said running my finger down the thin leather spine. What I didn’t see on the shelf was the one book we were looking for and needed now more than ever since I had lost The Algorithm of the Sunset.
“Except these are all editio princepi. I stole all of these from libraries all across the world and replaced them with forgeries.”
“Are you trying to collect all the first editions?”
“No, just the ones I am fond of,” he said coming over to his old bookcase. “There’s really not that many worth reading.” He peered at the books for a moment, then picked up The Eclogues. “This was one of my favorites,” he said sitting his finger on the edge of the cover. He sighed and thrust the book back in next to the other dusty tomes without opening it. “We used to call them ‘editions of the princes,’ or ‘princely editions’ because they were the only individuals able to purchase such rare items.”
“How exactly did you come by all these?”
Scammander’s eyes were slowly walking across the bookshelf. “Each one of these has been a chapter in my life,” he said finally. “We tricked, duped, bribed, coerced, ransomed and murdered for books. And we were tricked, duped, bribed, coerced, ransomed, and attacked for books in turn. I forged, plagiarized, and sold so many folios as apocryphal first editions and forgeries and plagiarized books were sold back to me,” he continued. “It’s part of Jack Daw’s Game.”
“A jack-a-daw is a clever bird know for stealing,” I said starting to put all the pieces together.
“Jack Daw was a raffish wizard prince. He was probably the Master of Eventide College, and was responsible for the enormous expansion of their library. If that is true, then his real name was Statius Windsor Simplicus Cavendesh and he was said to be ‘irreputable, irrefutable, and irresistible.’”
“Sounds like he should be a member of your family,” I said.
“The library at Eventide College, in addition to being the oldest, is also one of the largest. Long ago, when more students matriculated and needed more books, Eventide needed a way to increase its holdings. So, when the question was asked ‘how are we going to get more books?’ Statius replied �
�like a jack daw.’ And then he sipped his brandy, and then Jack Daw’s Game was begun.”
“I had no idea so much mischief went on at the Academy.”
“Yes, the old colleges are always up to no good. That’s why they are the best,” he grinned. “The particular band of sorcerous thieves who were also the first Jack Daws are known around the modern academy as the Black Hall or the Brimstone Common Room, for all the ignoble things that its members were doing.”
“Wait, so are they still active today?”
Scammander scoffed. “I don’t think it’s anything more than a place for playing cards, reading old books, and drinking brandy.”
“There are other confederacies of criminals stealing books?” I asked only vaguely remembering the lore from the crypt library.
“Most libraries have dedicated collectors they pay to acquire knowledge, and these collectors undergo prodigious trials to be initiated into these secret cabals. Once admitted, most of the members are zealous and loyal.”
“Did you work for the Brimstone Common Room?”
He shook his head. “I worked for them all, I was a robe without a badge.”
“I suppose I should have known that.”
“I betrayed them all to serve knowledge.”
“I certainly don’t believe that.”
“I sought out books not to sell them to other libraries and the scriptoriums of affluent, ancient houses, but because they contained lost knowledge and forgotten magic. I only began to sell forgeries in the hopes that it might ruin lives.”
“How could a book ever ruin someone’s life?”
“Get some fool to read a book the wrong way, and they will lead a horrible and wrong life,” he said returning to his desk.
Scammander opened the black book, whose pages began blowing from beginning to end. In his place was a hunchback carrying a very large folio, an astute and discerning scholar clad in a silken ebony robe with maroon, velvet slippers.
“I was given this by a very old collector for the Academy. He tried to sell me a forgery. I told him that the opening line was wrong and that he shouldn’t hire out this kind of work to students.”
“Then what?”
“I murdered their wisps,” the old scholar said, lowering the large book to the desk. “Then I made the master plead for the student’s life, and the student plead for the master’s life,” he said and for a moment drifted away across the soft waves of recollection. “It is amazing how…poetic one becomes on the edge of life.” After a moment of silence he shrugged. “Anyways, I was persuaded by the scholar, but not the student. Johannes was persuaded by neither, so he killed them both and we never found the book we were looking for on that particular journey.”
The tome on the table flopped open as pages whipped from the end to the beginning; by the time the folio closed again Scammander stood before me once more.
“Johannes was often with me when I worked and raided for Hexamater’s. But it was not always thus.”
Scammander picked up the shrunken red skull and was wrapped in clouds and shadows. As they unraveled they revealed an unfleshed skeleton. “This is what we would wear on raids to other libraries,” the eye-less skeleton hissed. “I always enjoyed it when we descended on other exchanges as wild, wanded skeletons, or came wand-bearing after midnight to assassinate and steal guarded folios ripe with artfully crafted words and teeming with ancient lore, secret philosophies, and unfamiliar rites.”
The dark shadows swirled about him once more, replacing flesh over bone as the wizard placed the scarlet skull back on the table. “Often though, it was conducted in as clandestine a manner as possible; there were more than a few times when I simply went to a library as a scholar and copied a book out.”
“Speaking of books, now that you’ve got your spellbook and your robe, why don’t you find a spell to conjure the elusive lost book?”
“I don’t need to. I’m going to pry it from Johannes’ dead hands. I’m certain now that he’s had it this entire time.”
“And what he really needed was Eidos—or pieces of him,” I said, starting to put the pieces together.
Scammander nodded. “Time to go Evander. Fighting Johannes is going to be the best chance you will ever have in this life to be completely obliterated.”
As we turned to leave, Scammander paused and spoke a simple charm. “I silently laugh, at my own cenotaph, and out of the caverns of rain, like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise, and unbuild it again.”
One by one the candles began to dim. Scammander tapped me on the shoulder and motioned to follow him out of the makeshift study. I quietly followed him down the hall as the light slowly swept out of the chamber behind us. We finally came to a towering series of gloomy stone stair cases interspersed with plateaus as wide as city squares.
“I thought you said we weren’t that far down,” I said peering up the broad stone staircases, dotted with gargoyles and horned skulls at the start of each bannister. They were so wide an entire army could have marched up them with ample room between each soldier.
“There are only forty-seven,” he said moving past me and ascending the stairs.
“How about some light to help us scale this promontory of stairs?” I called up behind him.
“We climb the fastest in the darkness!” he snickered. “Come Evander, let me tell you a story of my youth.”
A Lecture Concerning Shadows (Ecce Liber!)
“The more fully and ably one lives, the readier one is to relinquish one’s life for a single good sensation.”
Nietzsche
The first question I must answer is: who is going to betray everyone else first?
The second question I must answer is: will I help them?
I frowned.
The first question I must answer is: who has already betrayed everyone else here, and when and in what manner will they reveal this?
It won’t be the half-elf bard—not first anyways. Everyone is already suspicious of him, since the rest of us are elves. Plus he talks too much, most likely as a distraction for someone else.
I looked at Tiberius, in his elegantly tailored green velvet gown, with a discrete golden patch on the left side of his chest. It was the crest of an illustrious family that was unfamiliar to me. And because it was some wealthy home, it was most likely some College in the Academy trying to clandestinely increase its rare books collection.
I looked down at my own robe, a regal and trim velvet gown the color of blue shadows that rest on calm grotto-water. I was also wearing my favorite velvet slippers, black with crowned skulls on the tips.
Then I looked at Demonax, who was looking at me. “Scammander!” he hissed. “Stop plotting and scheming and appointing friends to high offices and arranging marriages and come do some magic,” he growled. “Unveil the sky and draw the moon closer,” he said pointing up to the starless night.
The thick grey clouds drifted apart revealing a slender crescent resting amongst a field of stars.
“I hope you don’t require its influence for your powers tonight,” I said slyly.
The other wizard ignored my jibe.
“I knew it had waned, I just needed to see it,” he said, lowering his voice. “I like to do my work in the moonlight.” He dropped his voice even lower. “I…I wish I could make the sun set forever. We used to love to cast spells in the evening right after dancing. We used to…,” he stopped suddenly then looked over at me. He scowled and tucked his thoughts back into the folds of his mind.
As he brushed passed me I surveyed the camp again, starting with the cold black floor I was standing upon. The sky was reflected perfectly in the black glassy plane: each refulgent star twinkled just as bright as its twin in the aether; in fact each was so bright that the tiny white and yellow beams shot up past my slippers and some even to my ankles.
It was as though I was standing on a luminescent, astral carpet.
I looked up and saw the giant onyx promontory, the site of a fa
llen god and ill executed druid and necromancer efforts. To most of the world, this was the accepted legend; and for most of the world, this legend had been turned into a jail where most of the world put most of the problems it didn’t want to deal with.
For those of us who read, a deeper, more secret lore was revealed. Dusty volumes stained with candlelight suggested that there were resurrection chambers built within the god’s upturned skull, and that there were twelve great homes of necromancers built in a very precise circle surrounding the ebony mountain. It was the possibility of discovering one of these great houses of necromancy that had brought me on this journey, to the land everyone simply called the Unyielding Field, since no vegetation could grow here.
I would have to come back here and build a house, perhaps even with Meredith.
If I survived this night.
I returned my gaze to my fellow mercenaries.
Robyn Goodfellow.
Demonax.
Tiberius.
A coven of witches.
And me.
No one was using their real name, except for me. I even used my real name in the dueling theatre, which was starting to cause problems.
One of those problems was Robyn Goodfellow. “Scammander, why is it that you change allegiances so often, yet neither change your name nor your appearance?”
“Perhaps because I still believe that the essence of change is unchanging, and therefore I am more essentially changeful than the rest; and that to be still distills the motion of rest, and to be the cause one must still be; though to cause one can never be still, and still one must change. Rest assured that to the rest this motion is unrestful because it appears to change all, yet does not change at all.”
“How are things with Meredith?” Robyn said with a joking sparkle in his eye. “From that riddle I can tell they probably aren’t well at all.”
“Oh leave it be Robyn,” Tiberius said. “How about a song? Isn’t that what you’re tagging along for?”
Splatterism: The Disquieting Recollections of a Minotaur Assailant: An Upbuilding Edifying Discourse Page 31