Bookburners: Season One Volume One

by Max Gladstone

  Sal wasn’t surprised to get a call from Menchú after giving her exactly one hour to wash, telling her to meet him in his room.

  Considering Liam’s warning, Sal had been dreading the lecture.

  Grace, now clean and in fresh clothes, opened the door when she knocked, and met her smile with a stony face.

  “All righty, then,” Sal muttered as she entered the hotel room.

  Menchú had gotten a suite with a couch and a kitchenette. Sal was relieved to see Asanti relaxed on the couch, waiting for her. She wasn’t going to be alone in this.

  Grace began to pace again, but Menchú put a gentle hand on her shoulder and suggested she go back to her room for a rest. She nodded once and left them without a word.

  Menchú put his hands behind his back and regarded Sal and Asanti. He sighed and looked at the floor, then back at them.

  “I am aware that Grace has already given Sal the gist of my thinking on this little adventure you two have taken,” he said. “I have spoken with Asanti as well. Do you understand why you shouldn’t have done what you did?”

  Sal nodded. “That much was clear to me by the time the riot started,” she said.

  “We are a team for a reason. Sometimes Liam fights. Sometimes Asanti and Liam do similar information hunts. Sometimes you and I think along the same lines. But we all have our role to play, and the team needs us like a table needs all of its legs.”

  He took another deep breath and looked at Sal. “This trip did show me that you can be trusted, though. Your text to Liam was perfect—if there were nothing amiss, we wouldn’t have followed you. You supported Asanti, and you kept her secrets. We were under the impression you were trustworthy, and now you have proven it.”

  Sal blinked at the unexpected compliment. “She said it was important. So I treated it like it was important.”

  “Thank you, Sally,” Asanti said in a low voice.

  “I hope this has underscored the truth that drives the Order—namely that magic, whether benign or evil, is beyond our understanding and it is safest when locked away. For as long as Seamus lived, this stolen book”—he emphasized stolen and looked at Asanti when he said it—“could be considered benign, since Seamus knew what he was doing. When he died, the true intent of the gluttony demon was able to come through. Asanti, if we all knew what we were doing, it would be one thing. But even when there was a man among us who did know, the moment he didn’t have control over the book, everything spiraled downward.”

  Asanti nodded, her lips pursed. Sal got the feeling she wanted to argue with him, but currently she didn’t have anything with which to back up her argument.

  The day had ended better than Sal had feared, with no deaths and only minor injuries. The restaurant looked like it would reopen after some major cleaning, renovations, and possibly a visit from a local priest and some holy water.

  Deep in thought, Sal left Menchú and Asanti. She thought about Aaron, and the fact that she had kept the secret from the team, and wondered if she should have said something sooner than she had. But her gut still said she had made the right move. Considering that she had walked straight into hell due to trusting her gut, and only a quick text to Liam had saved them, she wondered if she should continue to trust it.

  She took the stairs to the floor below, where she and Liam and Grace had rooms. She paused outside Liam’s door, hand raised to knock. She clenched her fist and then dropped her hand without knocking. She took a step past the door, but it opened before she could walk away.

  Liam looked startled to see her. “Ah, there you are. Asanti wants to meet in the bar for a short wake for Father Hunter. Bit of food, some beer, some stories. And I think Menchú wants an excuse to spend a little more time to make sure the chef is all right. Do you want to come down with me?”

  “Yes. In a little bit,” Sal said, and stepped past him into his dark room.

  He didn’t object, and closed the door behind them, pausing only to place the privacy sign on the doorknob.

  Episode 5: The Market Arcanum

  by Margaret Dunlap

  Prologue

  (Two weeks—and one gluttony demon—ago)

  Father Menchú had passed the point in his life when long nights did not inevitably lead to longer mornings. He had been awakened by a call from Sal and Liam, which had led to the dead body of Katie, ship’s steward of the Fair Weather, who had been executed by Team One without so much as a consultation with Team Three. That revelation had led to a lengthy and dissatisfying confrontation with Monsignor Angiuli, followed by an even lengthier conference between Menchú and Asanti as the two of them tried to determine—not for the first time—if taking their displeasure directly to the cardinal was a moral necessity, or if it would only result in Team Three and its operations being subjected to increased scrutiny and oversight. As it so frequently did, pragmatism had won out over principle.

  The familiar creak of old leather and loosening wooden pegs in Menchú’s office chair echoed in his own joints. Not for the first time, he wondered if this sort of deep politicking was really what God had intended when He called Menchú to his vocation. Or, whispered the tiny voice of doubt, did you join the Church merely as a way to embrace your politics?

  Menchú had never shied away from politics. He had entered the priesthood with seemingly boundless energy for his calling, shunning sleep for days at a time, going from mass to the homes of his parishioners to late-night meetings with like-minded individuals—inside the clergy and out of it—committed to creating a government and a country worthy of the Guatemalan people. Of course, even in those days, he had eventually succumbed to exhaustion—once, memorably, as he had knelt before the altar celebrating mass.

  Decades later, sitting in his corner of the Archives, waiting for his tea to cool enough to allow him a satisfying slug of much-needed caffeine, Menchú thought of the unavenged body of a young Australian woman and wondered if her fate had been a result of letting his ideals interfere with his calling or of failing to pursue his ideals energetically enough.

  • • •

  Fortunately, after a few days, even bad nights receded into memory, edges softened by the sands of time. Until Sal came to revive the events of the Fair Weather with a knock at Menchú’s office doorway.

  “Do you have a minute?” she asked.

  Even if Menchú had been inclined to send her away, Sal’s expression told him that whatever was on her mind couldn’t wait.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Not that there was strictly an “in” involved. Menchú’s office was merely a niche among the shelves of the Archives, its “doorway” an accident of the main room’s idiosyncratic layout. Still, it gave the illusion of privacy, which was usually enough. Menchú waited as Sal sat down on one of the large piles of reference books that served for most of his furniture. He let her take her time, years of experience telling him that he didn’t need to push. She had come this far because she wanted to talk. Eventually, she would.

  “There’s something I didn’t tell you about the Fair Weather.”

  Menchú waited.

  “There was a tour guide. Well, I thought he was a tour guide, but that was before—”

  Menchú put up a hand. “Take a breath.”

  Sal did. A little shaky at first, but it firmed up on the exhale.

  “Whatever it is, it’s all right. Just begin at the beginning.”

  Sal took another breath. And then, she told him.

  • • •

  The pit of Menchú’s stomach pooled with dread as Sal came to the end of her story.

  “I know it’s crazy,” Sal said. “But I think Aaron might be an angel.”

  Yes, he’d been afraid that was where this confession was heading. Menchú leaned forward, took Sal’s hand.

  “I assure you. Whatever you encountered, it was not an angel.”

  Sal shook her head. “Maybe not an angel-angel. But in the same way that we call the evil things that come out of the books demons, isn’t
it possible that some of these supernatural creatures are trying to help—”

  “No!”

  Sal jumped as Menchú’s empty mug hit the scarred surface of his desk with a near-shattering crack. He noticed her flinch, and made an effort to rein in his tone.

  “If the man you met was truly a divine messenger, carrying the will of God to his people on Earth, why could he only give you vague hints and whispers?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Demons that wear evil on their faces, like The Hand, are easy to identify and combat. In New York, was there ever any doubt in your mind that your brother had been taken by a sinister force?”

  Sal shook her head. “No.”

  “The clever demons are more subtle. They force you to fight yourself, your own doubts, before you can fight them. That is why you must always be on your guard.”

  Slowly, Sal nodded. “Have you ever seen an angel?”

  “Never. Nor do I expect to until after I have departed this world for the next.”

  When Sal left, Menchú noticed that his hands were shaking. It took some effort to still them.

  • • •

  (Two weeks—and a trip to Scotland—later)

  Asanti snagged Menchú as he passed her desk by holding up a thick, cream-colored envelope addressed in perfect copperplate handwriting. Menchú recognized the signs of its sender and didn’t bother to hide his distaste.

  “I guess it’s that time again. Are you going to take Liam?” he asked.

  Asanti shook her head. “No. You’re taking Sal.”

  Menchú froze. “In light of recent events, I don’t think that’s a good idea . . .”

  “From what you’ve told me about recent events, she’s already in up to her neck. Better that she knows what she’s swimming in. Besides, don’t you wish you’d gone into this with your eyes wide open?”

  Menchú sighed. Asanti, of course, was right. It was time for Sal to learn about the Market.

  1.

  (Now)

  Sal had come to the gym to lift weights, put in some treadmill time, and take out a little pent-up aggression on the heavy bag. All of those plans, however, flew right out the window when she found Liam with his shirt off, taping his hands and showing off both his physique and tattoos to very good advantage. Not that she wasn’t intimately acquainted with all of his ink already. Still, just because a girl was familiar with the scenery didn’t mean that she couldn’t appreciate the view.

  He caught her looking and smirked.

  “You come to work out, or just window shopping?”

  “I can’t do both?”

  “I’d hate for you to get hurt because you were distracted.”

  Well, she couldn’t just let that pass, could she?

  Despite being in a genuine roped-off ring, their sparring was more mixed unarmed combat than straight-out boxing. (Liam was scandalized to learn that New York police did not generally engage in recreational fisticuffs, at least, not since handlebar moustaches had gone out of fashion.) But they both had enough training to make for an interesting bout, and if one or the other of them periodically wound up flat on their back against the canvas, Sal wasn’t complaining. From the press of his body against hers, Liam didn’t object either.

  Liam was helping her to her feet, and Sal was just about to suggest that they hit the showers and then continue their conversation in a less public setting when she was cut off by Father Menchú clearing his throat behind them.

  Caught engaging in sparring-as-foreplay by a priest. There was an effective mood-killer for you.

  Sal covered her blush by scrubbing her face with a towel.

  “Father,” said Liam, his form of address betraying the depth of his discomfort. There was one advantage to being a lapsed Presbyterian who just happened to work at the Vatican: Sal might not be familiar with Catholic politics and hierarchy, but at least she didn’t have to fight years of childhood conditioning every time her boss walked in. Most of the time, Liam did pretty well at ignoring the fact that Menchú was a priest. This, apparently, was the line.

  Menchú nodded to Liam in acknowledgment, then turned to Sal. “I need you to go home and pack a bag. We’ve got an assignment. Our train leaves in two hours.”

  Sal snapped into ready mode, tossing aside her embarrassment along with her used towel. “I’ve got a go bag here. We can leave now.”

  Menchú raised an eyebrow. “We could, but the train still leaves in two hours, and you need something you can wear in upscale company for the next three days.”

  Sal wasn’t sure she had anything in Rome that she could wear in upscale company. Depending on how upscale he meant, she wasn’t sure she owned anything appropriate at all. “What’s the assignment?”

  “I can’t say.”

  That apparently caused something to click for Liam. “Is it Beltane already?”

  Menchú gave him a quelling glance.

  “What’s going on?” Sal demanded.

  Menchú shook his head. “Can’t say.”

  “Can’t? Won’t? Or aren’t allowed to?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Well, when he put it that way, Sal didn’t suppose it did.

  • • •

  The train took them to Zurich. Once there, Menchú rented an economy car, and they drove north through the mountains. Through it all, he wouldn’t say a word about where they were going, what they would be doing there, or why they were the only members of the team involved. Although Sal had come to accept that answering questions was not the Society’s forte, it was troubling that Menchú didn’t want to talk about anything else, either.

  Finally, after hours of silence and crossing the border into Liechtenstein—of all places—Sal asked, “Are you mad at me?”

  Menchú glanced at her in surprise. “No. Why would I be mad at you?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m starting to feel like the cat you’re planning to abandon three states away, hoping that I won’t be able to find my way home.”

  Menchú looked pained. “I’m sorry, Sal. I’ve been a bit distracted.”

  “No shit.”

  He glanced at a passing kilometer marker and came to a decision. “All right. We’re close enough now. Let me tell you about the Black Market.”

  Somehow, Sal had a feeling he wasn’t talking about tax-free booze and cigarettes.

  • • •

  “It’s properly known as the Market Arcanum, or more commonly, the Market. The Society was first invited in the 15th century, thanks to the connections of certain members of the Order of the Dragon. From what we can tell, however, the Market dates back at least another half-millennium before that. In any event, every year at Beltane, covert practitioners of magic gather for a three-night conclave. It’s part auction, part high-level diplomatic conference for every power player who uses magic to rig the game.”

  “Wait,” said Sal. “There’s an annual clearing house where people buy, sell, and trade the objects that we’re supposed to be hunting down and destroying?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Team One hasn’t nuked it from orbit?”

  Menchú gave her a sardonic look. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that individuals within our organization do not always agree on matters of policy.”

  Sal thought of Katie. “Yeah, but this time you’ve managed to stop team trigger-happy. How?”

  “The Society leaves the Market alone for two reasons. First, it was pointed out by one of Asanti’s long-ago predecessors that even if we could destroy the Market, it wouldn’t eliminate magic from the world. At least this way, we can keep an eye on things.”

  “That seems surprisingly sensible,” said Sal. “What’s the second reason?”

  “In an open assault against the Market, The Society isn’t sure they’d win.”

  “There are going to be people at this thing who could take Team One?”

  “It’s highly possible that there are people at the Market who could take Team One without breaking a sweat.
”

  Sal wasn’t sure she wanted to contemplate that. “Who are these people? World leaders? Guys who go to Davos? The Illuminati?”

  “The members are . . . rather eclectic,” Menchú said. “The backbone is made up of representatives from the old noble European families. Though there’s been an influx of new money and technologists in the last hundred years, much to the disgust of the old guard. You’ll also see practitioners from Africa, Asia, and the New World, but we believe most of them have core gatherings in their own regions.”

  “I’m sure the Society would love to have invites to those.”

  “The Society would like to be able to send more than two representatives to this one, but wanting and getting are two very different things.”

  “Not that I’m complaining, but why isn’t this a Team Two job? Aren’t they the diplomats?”

  Menchú snorted. “They are, but objects and texts are our jurisdiction. Also, the members of the Order of the Dragon who secured the original invitation were part of Team Three, and so, by tradition, we’re the ones who go.”

  Sal had a sudden suspicion. “Are you a member of this Order of the Dragon?”

  Menchú actually rolled his eyes. “The Order of the Dragon was founded hundreds of years ago to protect Christendom from encroachment by the Ottoman Turks.”

  “That is not a denial,” Sal pointed out.

  Menchú quirked his lips, but said nothing.

  • • •

  They rode in silence the rest of the way to Balzers, a town tucked into a valley in the middle of the mountains, which—as far as Sal could tell—was a fair description of most of Liechtenstein. Spring came late to the Alps, but the hills behind the small B&B where Menchú had booked their rooms were definitely greening up, and Sal took a minute—after she had changed out of her travel clothes into the black pants, black button-down shirt and black jacket that were as formal as she had managed—to appreciate the smell of clear air and growing things. She was getting used to Rome, but even after all her years in New York, Sal wasn’t a city girl at heart.