Bookburners: Season One Volume One

by Max Gladstone

  The Market Arcanum was to be held in Gutenberg Castle. Compared to the Papal Palace it seemed like more of a big stone house than a castle, but Sal supposed that if you ran a country, you could call your buildings whatever you wanted. It was outside of the town proper, and she and Menchú walked together up the hill from their inn.

  “The Market is run by a woman known as the Maitresse,” Menchú explained. “She sets the rules, and for the next three nights, her word is law.”

  “What are the rules?”

  “The Market is considered neutral territory, which means that no member is allowed to offer violence against another.”

  “What constitutes violence?” asked Sal. “Harsh words? Assault? Murder?”

  “During the Market, violence is whatever the Maitresse and her Guardians say it is.”

  “Ah. Gotcha.”

  “Any bargain struck at one Market must be fulfilled before the beginning of the next. If not, the owed party can demand a forfeit of their choosing.”

  Sal could only imagine what powerful magic-wielding people could come up with for a forfeit.

  “Lastly, anyone violating the secrecy of the Market will be permanently banned, along with their cadre.”

  The penny dropped. “That’s why you couldn’t give me any information earlier?”

  “Yes.”

  Sal considered. “So if I piss someone off badly enough, I could get the entire Catholic Church banned?”

  “In theory, yes.”

  “I’m not gonna lie. That’s just a little tempting.”

  Sal wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn she heard Menchú mutter, “You have no idea.”

  2.

  The sun was only a finger-width above the horizon when Sal and Menchú reached the castle. The Maitresse waited at the gates, flanked by two immense statues of armored men carrying stone swords. If the Maitresse had been anyone else, Sal would have pegged her age as somewhere between her forties and her sixties, an indeterminate maturity where experience, strength, and sex appeal came together and women with the standing to back it up could wear their power without even a whisper of apology. Something about her bearing, however, made Sal suspect that this woman had not apologized for her authority for a very, very long time.

  “Maitresse,” said Menchú with the barest nod of respect. “Thank you for inviting us to the Market once again.”

  The woman did not return the courtesy. “Bookburner.” Her eyes flicked to Sal. “And this is?”

  Menchú blinked, but took the hint. “Our newest member, Sally Brooks.”

  The Maitresse swept Sal with a penetrating stare. “Is she, now? How lovely for you.”

  Sal took Menchú’s lead and nodded. “Ma’am.”

  The Maitresse’s gaze lingered for another moment, and then, to Sal’s relief, transferred back to Menchú. “Do you claim a debt outstanding from the last Market?”

  “We do not.”

  “Very well.” At her gesture, the two statues stepped forward and away from the doors. Apparently, the Maitresse had figured out how to use magic without being consumed by madness, supernatural backlash, or a demon she sought to control. Which was . . . not a reassuring thought, actually.

  The artificial men reached out and opened the huge wooden doors leading into the courtyard of the castle proper.

  The Maitresse’s smile was anything but welcoming. “Welcome to the Market Arcanum.”

  • • •

  The courtyard was lit by sconces along the walls and illuminated orbs that floated overhead, unconnected to any visible tethers or power sources. Among the crowd already gathered, Sal could pick out at least half a dozen different languages being spoken, and guessed there were probably that many more that she couldn’t distinguish from the general murmuring.

  “Does the Market supply translators?” Sal whispered.

  Menchú grimaced. “This is just opening night posturing. Everyone keeping to their own group and proving how esoteric and mysterious they are. Once the Market officially opens, everyone switches over to a lingua franca.”

  “Please, tell me that’s pretentious-speak for “English.’”

  “These days, yes. It used to be Latin, then French, and some of the old families who insist on doing business ‘traditionally’ will use those for official documents and transactions, but English is the world’s second language, even here.”

  “Oh. Good.’

  Putting aside for the moment the part of her brain that kept trying to understand all of the words floating around her, Sal concentrated on what her eyes were telling her instead. Now that Menchú had pointed it out, she could see that all the people in the courtyard kept to small clusters of four or five. Apparently, not every group was limited to the Society’s two invites.

  One group of men wearing wolf pelts draped over their shoulders like hoods looked like they had hiked in out of the Alps. The pelts had heads still attached, artificial eyes staring glassily from above their wearers’ own faces. It was disconcerting. Especially when Sal saw one of the wolves blink.

  On the opposite side of the yard, a group of men and women in jeans and black T-shirts had apparently not gotten Menchú’s “dress for company” memo and were all busily bent over some piece of equipment. Support staff? As Sal tried to get a glimpse of just what they were working on, one of the men looked up and met her gaze. Sal felt suddenly cold. Then he looked away, turning back to his work, and she wondered if she had imagined it.

  “Who are they?” she asked Menchú.

  “Techno-cultists.” Sal wasn’t sure she had ever heard him sound so disgusted. “They believe that magic, like information, ‘wants to be free.’ And that by combining human technology with the supernatural, they can bring about the singularity, not just of artificial intelligence, but of all human knowledge.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “That they’re a bunch of anarchists who have no respect for the power they’re playing with.”

  Sal’s stomach clenched. “Are these the people Perry was mixed up with?”

  “Philosophically, maybe, but we never had evidence that your brother and his friends were working with anyone except themselves.”

  Before Sal could pursue the subject any further, the loud bang of a wooden bar falling across the entry doors reverberated through the courtyard. The assembly fell silent, and in that pause, the Maitresse stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the Market.

  “Tonight begins the Market Arcanum. For three nights, from sunset to sunrise, all debts and grudges are to be set aside within these walls. In the outside world we are friends, rivals, enemies. Here we are equals.”

  The Maitresse clapped her hands once, and the air throughout the castle vibrated, as though they stood inside a giant bell. On the stone wall above her, a clock face appeared. It had only a single hand, creeping from sunset on the far left edge of the circle toward dawn marked opposite.

  The courtyard instantly erupted in conversation once again.

  The Market had begun.

  One of the men with the wolf pelts examined the contents of a lacquered wooden box held by a woman wearing an elegant evening gown, but whose exposed skin was completely covered in tattoos. The techno-cultists went back to their equipment. And a tall man wearing a suit that probably cost more than Sal earned in a year was striding toward her and Menchú.

  When he arrived, his voice dripped with false cordiality. “Excellent. I had hoped that the Bookburners would deign to make an appearance.”

  Sal wondered if everyone at this gathering hated them, or if they just kept running into the ones who did.

  “We don’t burn books,” said Menchú, gently.

  “Of course not. You take them. Even when they don’t belong to you.”

  Sal frowned and glanced at Menchú. Did he have any idea who this man was or what he was talking about?

  Menchú’s expression was impossible to read. “There are no debts or grudges within these walls. If you have a proble
m with the Society, I suggest that you take your quarrel elsewhere, Mr. . . ?”

  The man smiled. “The name is Mr. Norse.”

  Mr. Norse. Owner of the Fair Weather. Sal was mildly impressed that he was more upset about the book than his burned yacht, but maybe he didn’t know Team One had been behind that. Maybe his yachts spontaneously caught fire all the time. With hobbies like his, it had to be a risk.

  “Since you took something of mine,” Mr. Norse continued, “now I’m going to take something of yours.” He was practically leering. On instinct, Sal placed herself between the two men.

  “You heard the lady on the balcony. This is neutral territory. But if you want to step outside, I’d be happy to kick your ass three nights from now.”

  Mr. Norse only smiled. “I’ve already stepped outside, Ms. Brooks.”

  He laid a particular emphasis on her name, rolling it on his tongue.

  Sal felt her phone vibrate against her thigh. Incoming call. She ignored it.

  “Congratulations, you know my name. Am I supposed to find that intimidating?”

  “You’ll want to get that,” said Mr. Norse.

  Behind her, Father Menchú’s hand slid toward his own ringing phone.

  “Why?”

  “It’s the part you’re supposed to find intimidating.”

  Sal pulled out her phone and glanced at the caller ID. Liam.

  • • •

  Liam and Asanti stood at the center of a maelstrom. A fierce wind roared through the Archives, picking up books and sending them flying off their shelves, hurtling through the air like mad birds.

  “What’s going on?” Liam shouted.

  Above them, the towering shelves swayed, metal creaking like an old barn in a storm. Liam wondered just how many tons of paper loomed above their heads, and how long it would take to dig out their bodies if it all came tumbling down.

  And then something was falling toward them: Grace. No, she wasn’t falling. She had slipped through the lattice surrounding the central stairs and was skittering down the supports like they were a giant, swaying jungle gym. She landed lightly on her feet, not even out of breath.

  “Are you insane?” Liam asked.

  She shrugged. “Faster than walking.”

  “Did you find the monsignor?” Asanti asked.

  Grace shook her head. “Couldn’t get out.”

  “We’re sealed in?”

  It wasn’t really a question, but Grace nodded. Liam reached for his phone.

  “I tried,” said Grace. “No signal.”

  Liam didn’t look up. “I’ve got some boosters built into mine. I might be able to get through whatever’s causing this so we can warn the other teams.”

  Asanti grabbed Liam’s shoulder to get his attention. “Try Sal and Menchú first.” Even though she was shouting directly into Liam’s ear, he had trouble hearing her over the creak of shelves and the thumps of falling books.

  “Why?”

  “Because the Market began tonight, and whatever this is, it started at sunset.”

  • • •

  Once Sal had hung up with Liam, Menchú calmly returned his attention to Mr. Norse. “All right. You’ve shown that you can attack my people. Now stop.”

  The other man smiled. “No.”

  “I will report you to the Guardians. It is against the rules of the Market—”

  “The rules of the Market forbid any member to offer violence against another within these walls. I have not lifted a hand against you or your companion. But you killed three of my people. Return my book,” said Mr. Norse, “or the attacks will escalate every night until the rest of your team is just as dead as mine.”

  3.

  Sal and Menchú left the castle the instant the doors were unbarred at sunrise. Their landlady gave them a look as they arrived for breakfast through the outside door, but Sal was too strung out to care. As soon as they could, they adjourned to Menchú’s room and called Asanti.

  “The maelstrom stopped briefly at dawn,” she reported, “but it keeps picking up again, randomly and without warning. Which is almost worse.”

  “Is everyone okay?” Sal asked.

  “A bit battered, but so far, yes.”

  Well, that was something, at least. “Could Mr. Norse be bluffing?” Sal asked.

  Menchú shook his head. “Unfortunately, I think we have to assume that whatever Mr. Norse is doing will escalate to more lethal levels until he makes good on his threat.” Then he added, to Asanti, “We should be there with you.”

  “As much as I’d appreciate your company and assistance, I think you can do more good working on Mr. Norse where you are. Besides, we’re locked in.”

  Menchú said something in Spanish that Sal suspected he wouldn’t be willing to translate. She decided to get back to the matter at hand.

  “Okay, so if you’re stuck in there, what can we do from Liechtenstein to make sure that you don’t, you know, die? I mean, besides give Mr. Norse a book leaking demonic goo that wants to drown the world.”

  “It depends on what he actually wants,” said Asanti.

  “He sounded pretty clear about wanting all of you dead,” said Sal.

  “If Norse wanted to kill us, there are a lot of faster, easier, and more deniable ways to go about it,” said Asanti.

  Menchú grimaced. “Which means that this is just the opening of negotiations.”

  • • •

  Indeed, Mr. Norse responded immediately and favorably to their request for a meeting, which Sal had to admit lent a certain degree of credibility to Asanti’s theory. They arranged to meet before sunset, in a small room that was normally part of the castle’s museum.

  Mr. Norse seated himself on a tapestried stool that must have been at least four hundred years old as though he sat on Renaissance furniture every day. Maybe he did. Menchú and Sal remained standing.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” Menchú began.

  “Do you have my book?”

  “We do. Locked in our Archives.”

  “Then I suggest you unlock it,” Mr. Norse remarked drily. “If transport is a problem, I have an envoy in Rome who will accept delivery on my behalf.” He took a card out of his jacket pocket and held it out to Menchú. Menchú ignored it.

  “The book is both damaged and highly dangerous. We cannot hand it over.”

  Mr. Norse raised a brow. “I thought Catholics believed in the value of human life.”

  “We are aware that you purchased the volume, and are prepared to compensate you for your loss of property.”

  “My demands for compensation are very simple. I want my book. Since I suspect you will not provide it, I will kill your team. And then, I want you to live with the knowledge of the deaths you caused with your obstinacy.” His smile was flat and cold. “Unless you can offer me something better than that, I think our discussions are concluded.”

  So much for negotiations, Sal thought.

  • • •

  “Time?” asked Liam.

  “One minute to sunset,” came Grace’s calm reply. As though they weren’t anticipating all unholy hell breaking loose in the next sixty seconds.

  Liam had faith in Menchú and his powers of persuasion. He believed that God would protect those committed to His work on earth. Liam had also been taught that the Lord helped those who helped themselves—and so that was what he and the rest of the team had spent the day doing. Now, Liam’s entire body felt like one huge bruise, and his ears rang from stress, hunger, and lack of sleep. But this time, they would be prepared.

  “Are you ready?” Asanti asked.

  “Gimme five seconds.”

  “Thirty seconds to sunset,” said Grace.

  Liam took hold of two heavy iron maces—originally part of some forgotten order’s regalia, now wrapped in wire stripped from every reading lamp in the Archive—and lifted his arms to their greatest extension, one on either side of his body. “Do it.”

  Grace and Asanti both jammed spliced e
lectrical plugs into outlets on opposite walls, one for each mace. It hadn’t been easy to create electromagnets with things that were stashed around the Archives, but pain and annoyance were both powerful motivators, and Liam had plenty of both to egg him on. Now he just needed this harebrained scheme to work.

  “Grace, a little more on your side.”

  Liam heard a scrape as she pushed a set of iron shelves through the cascade of books covering the floor. He fancied he could see Asanti wince out of the corner of his eye, but she didn’t say anything. First, save themselves. Worry about the damage later.

  The pressure on his left arm eased, as the magnetized mace wavered, torn between the pull of the magnet in his other hand and the huge hunk of iron Grace was moving toward it. The pull was easing, nearly neutral. . . .

  “There!”

  Grace froze. Liam held his breath. Slowly, carefully, he let go of the maces, trying not to jostle their positions in the air. Then he stepped away. The two weapons hung, perfectly balanced between the attractive force of the iron shelves, the central stairway, and each other.

  Liam let out a long, slow, breath. No one moved.

  “Time?”

  “Four seconds to sunset.”

  Three. Two. One.

  The Archives remained silent. No winds. No flying books.

  Grace looked at Liam, impressed. “Field is holding. Nice work.” Then, she frowned. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “High-pitched sound. Like a fluorescent bulb that’s slightly off-cycle.”

  Liam shook his head. “No, but my high frequencies aren’t great.”

  “Too much time with your headphones on,” said Asanti.

  Liam shrugged. “Probably.” Then a sound tickled at the edge of his hearing. “Wait. Is it kind of . . . ?”

  The high-pitched noise exploded in his head like someone was driving an ice pick through his eardrums. Liam gasped in pain. He heard Asanti shout. And Grace . . .

  Grace, who could take a fist to the face without blinking, whom Liam had seen head-butt armored demons twice her size and not even bruise, crumpled to the floor, unconscious.