The Ninja Librarians: Sword in the Stacks

by Jen Swann Downey

  Disappointed, Dorrie joined Ebba at the mailboxes. Dorrie’s was empty. Hurriedly, she slipped Petrarch’s journal into Hypatia’s box.

  Marcus was waiting for them at the bottom of the steps. He held a small bouquet of flowers that looked like their stalks had been chewed off by an angry badger. “For Egeria,” he said by way of an explanation. “It’s a classic gesture.”

  Dorrie shot him a look. “But aren’t they from her own garden?”

  Without answering, Marcus took off in the direction of the Sharpened Quill, the tavern that stood on the opposite end of the Commons and in which the lybrarians and apprentices ate most of their meals.

  At the Sharpened Quill, the casement windows were thrown open wide beneath the building’s homely yellow-brown thatched roof. Stepping around the usual scattering of bicycles and carts at the entrance, Dorrie pulled open the heavy wooden door.

  Inside, the tables were already crowded with lybrarians. A pleasant din of conversation accompanied the clinking of silverware and the clonk of tankards of mead and water.

  “Bacon,” murmured Marcus, setting off at once for the serving tables.

  Dorrie grabbed Ebba’s hand and followed, taking advantage of Marcus’s wake. Everywhere she glanced, Dorrie was pleased to see many of the lybrarians she’d come to know. She watched Ursula, the director of the human repair and preservation department, pull a chair up to a table, her dark corkscrew curls already escaping from her morning bun. She must have said something amusing because Phillip, already seated, threw his head back and laughed. He noticed Dorrie, tapped Ursula’s arm, and they both waved.

  Grinning, Dorrie waved back, filled with hope that their light spirits meant the Lybrariad had indeed found Petrarch’s Star.

  After she and Ebba had served themselves, they headed for the apprentices’ long trestle table and sat down. It was already quite full, and most of the apprentices were poring over practicum lists.

  Marcus squeezed in beside them, looking disgusted. His flowers had sustained serious damage. “Never get between Master Al-Rahmi and a platter of crullers.”

  When Sven put his list aside, Dorrie pulled it toward her and brushed toast crumbs off it. “Is Principles of Lybrarianship any good?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ebba, reaching for a pitcher of water. “Who’s teaching it?”

  “Hypatia.”

  “Oh, well, then it can’t be bad.”

  “I know, but it sounds kind of…quiet.”

  Ebba shrugged. “Word gets around about boring practicums, and I’ve never heard anyone complain about that one. Hey, Mathilde!” she shouted up the table. “Didn’t you once take Principles of Lybrarianship?”

  Mathilde had no list and was busy making failed snatches for Saul’s. “Saul and I both did. Maybe two years ago.”

  “Was it more than sitting and talking and taking notes?” asked Dorrie.

  Mathilde and Saul stifled laughter.

  “Trust me,” said Mathilde. “You won’t be bored.”

  Dorrie scanned the room for the director of Petrarch’s Library and saw her at last in a corner, wearing a sky-blue chiton, her scarred face looking tired but serene enough, her graying curls loose. To one side of her sat the Archivist. His hair a wild thicket, he was chewing slowly and darting uneasy looks at a man sitting on her other side who was talking and cutting up a sausage with great gusto.

  “That’s Lybrarian Della Porta,” said Izel, having followed Dorrie’s gaze. “He’s teaching Codes, Invisible Inks, and Smoke Signals: Keeping Communication Maddeningly Secret. I’ve already decided to take it.”

  Dorrie looked away. Not because she was squeamish about watching people eat sausage but because she still felt uncomfortable whenever she caught sight of the Archivist. Not just because of how he’d scared her and Marcus that first night, appearing in an avalanche of the oranges he’d read out, but because when she and Marcus had fled, terrified, they had accidentally ripped a page out of an important book in Petrarch’s Library’s main reference room. The book was from a set known as the History of Histories, a record of all the missions the lybrarians had ever completed.

  The Archivist had been blamed for the missing page, and because she’d been worried that the Lybrariad would kick her out of Petrarch’s Library, Dorrie had taken her time admitting the truth. She hunched down a little, feeling ashamed. She had never really apologized to the Archivist for that.

  Yawning, Fatima appeared at the table with a plate of eggs and sausage, her arms loaded with newspapers. She dropped down hard on the bench. “I’m supposed to deliver these to Francesco’s office, but if I don’t eat something first, I’ll never be able to make it up all those tower stairs.”

  Dorrie understood, having once had to climb the long, cold, circular stone staircase herself.

  Fatima flopped the newspapers on the table. “They’re from your wheren, actually.”

  “Hey, my parents get this,” said Dorrie, picking up a copy of the Passaic County Ledger. Her mother checked it for yard sale advertisements, and her father said he read it mostly to smell the ink and feel nostalgic.

  Marcus tossed a practicum list to one side. “Done and done.” He pulled Fatima’s balaban out of his satchel.

  “Which ones are you taking?” asked Fatima, reaching for a the salt.

  Marcus gave the balaban a strum. “Cloaks, Hoods, Tunics, and Wimples: How to Dress for Mission Success, taught by Master Obaji, staff lybrarian and director of haberdashery services.” He strummed again. “‘Don’t Let a Fashion No-No Nix Your Rescue Fix.’”

  “And…” said Dorrie, turning a page of the Passaic County Ledger.

  “Everyday Stealth and Deception,” her brother said, coaxing a pretty little melody out of the instrument. “I have got to get one of these.”

  “Is Fatima ever going to get a chance to play that again?” asked Mathilde, pouring syrup on her pancakes.

  “We are the music makers,” said Marcus. “And we are the dreamers of—”

  Marcus’s words and playing came to a sudden dissonant end. Dorrie looked up to see Egeria standing beside the apprentices’ table, her long, auburn hair hanging over her shoulder in its usual braid.

  The balaban leaped from between Marcus’s hands like a wet watermelon seed and noisily bounced on the wooden floor. His face scarlet, Marcus dove for it.

  “Sorry to startle you,” said Egeria, the small gap between her front teeth showing as she smiled. “Just wanted to say ‘welcome back.’”

  “Hi,” said Dorrie, looking with some concern at Marcus, who had dropped the balaban again.

  “That sounded lovely,” said Egeria.

  “You’re welcome,” croaked Marcus, finally gaining control of the instrument.

  She waved and continued on to the serving table.

  “I mean, thank you,” Marcus said far too late.

  “Hey,” said Mathilde. “Anyone want to go swimming after breakfast? Last day of interim and all?”

  “Does no one remember that we have the entire attics to get clean by two o’clock?” cried Amo.

  At that moment, the usual twirling of monocles and eyeglasses signaled the beginning of announcements.

  Ebba brushed crumbs off her hands. “If the lybrarians have Petrarch’s Star back, this is when we’ll hear about it.”

  Mistress Wu stood, and the room quieted.

  Dorrie listened intently, her fingers crossed.

  “Well, here we are just a few short days before the start of the summer quarter. Apprentices, please note that all practicum and apprenticeship request forms must be in my mailbox by eight o’clock this evening.

  “As many of you already know, our regularly scheduled Lybrarians Council will be held tomorrow evening.” She took out one of her handkerchiefs. “Mr. Biggs, the Foundation operative who attacked our own Kash with such viciousness, wil
l be in attendance for part of that meeting. Lybrarians-in-training and apprentices are welcome to attend, but please sit in the rear of the room, and do not in any way impede the proceedings.”

  A chill danced down Dorrie’s back at the thought of seeing Mr. Biggs again, but she could hear excited murmurs from many of the other apprentices.

  “And while we’re on the subject of viciousness,” continued Mistress Wu, “I’m afraid I must report that the monitor lizard kept as a pet by Mr. Biggs escaped before it could be transported to New Guinea and is likely somewhere in the library.”

  There were many gasps of the unhappy sort in the room. But beside her, Dorrie felt Ebba suck in her breath with relieved joy.

  “Because this is such a dangerous creature, if you encounter it, you must either give it wide berth or…” Mistress Wu glanced at the apprentices’ table, her handkerchief hand twitching, and Dorrie had a bad feeling about what was coming next.

  “You must aim to kill.”

  Ebba gasped again but this time in horror. Dorrie squeezed her hand.

  “That’s all for now,” Mistress Wu said hurriedly. “Enjoy your preparations for the summer quarter.”

  Dorrie stared from Mathilde to Marcus as the volume in the room rose again. “I guess they didn’t get the Star back.”

  “Or if they did,” said Mathilde, “they’re not telling us lowly apprentices.”

  “I’d better get these to Master Francesco,” sighed Fatima, gathering up her bundle of newspapers.

  Disappointed, Dorrie began to fold up the Passaic County Ledger, only to freeze halfway through the operation. She stared at the newspaper’s back page bug-eyed. It held an enormous photo of Dorrie scrambling through the window of the Passaic Public Library the day before.

  “What is that all about?” cried Izel in a near-shriek. “‘Juvenile Delinquents Plague Passaic Public Library. Mayor’s Office Plans Investigation.’”

  The apprentices crowded around the open newspaper. Dorrie groaned inwardly.

  “On July first,” read Marcus, “a juvenile delinquent broke into the Passaic Public Library and threw a brick at library director Richard P. Scuggans before eluding capture.” He punched Dorrie on the shoulder. “Wow, you sound dangerous!”

  “For the last time, I didn’t throw a brick at Mr. Scuggans!”

  “What happened then?” clamored the apprentices.

  As quickly and with as little detail as possible, she told them the story.

  “Just what our newest Spoke Library needs,” said Millie, stuffing the book she’d been reading in her satchel. “Publicity.”

  “You think I’m happy about it?” Dorrie thrust the paper at Fatima. “You’d better go ahead and give it to Master Francesco.”

  Marcus pursed his lips together like Veruca Salt’s mother. “Someone is going to be very unpopular around here.”

  Dorrie hadn’t needed Marcus to tell her that.

  As Fatima hurried away, Mistress Wu materialized beside the table.

  “Well, I’m sure you already have the attics shipshape for inspection,” she said in a determined sort of way.

  Caught off guard, Dorrie and the other apprentices gave one another sidelong glances.

  “Hardly a thing left to do really,” said Amo, a desperately fake smile pasted on his face.

  “Excellent,” said Mistress Wu. “I only stopped by to say that I must attend an important meeting this afternoon during the usual inspection time, but not to worry, Mistress Lovelace said she wouldn’t mind doing the inspection for me.”

  A horrified silence took hold of the table as, after patting Mathilde’s shoulder, she trundled off.

  “Mistress Lovelace,” Ebba whispered with something like terror in her voice at the thought of the meticulous director of the circulation department. Staring at her practicum list on which she’d drawn a great big heart around Lybrarian Davis’s practicum, Mathilde began to hyperventilate.

  “So much time and so little to do,” said Marcus cheerfully. “Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it.”

  “We’re dooooooomed,” said Amo.

  Chapter 7

  Brooms, Beds, and Bangs

  “People!” shouted Mathilde as the apprentices swarmed back into the attics. “Our hour of darkness is upon us.”

  “Oh, now you see the problem,” said Amo.

  Dorrie felt a surge of panic as she looked around at the chaos.

  Mathilde leaped onto a chair and shoved her admiral’s hat backward on her brow. “Listen up, you lazy dogs! We have five hours to transform this filthy, verminous nest into something Mistress Lovelace will interpret as clean! We need drop cloths. We need whitewash. We need colossal amounts of soap!” An unpleasant thought seemed to seize hold of her, and she grabbed two of the three corners of her hat. “We may need inspirational quotes!”

  The apprentices spread out over the den like a plague of locusts, stripping it of sweaters, baked potato skins, books, swords, apple cores, broken quills, crumpled paper, pewter cups, accordions, and roller skates.

  Looking only a little smug, Amo handed Mathilde his pie chart, and she began shouting out assignments.

  Izel objected to hers. “Floor scrubbing won’t work for me. I’m very prone to splinters.”

  Mathilde’s eyes nearly crossed. “I’m about to be prone to violence.”

  “Okay, okay!” said Izel, picking up a bucket.

  For two long hours, the apprentices swept and mopped and shoved furniture from one end of the den to the other. They cleaned the fireplace, polished the doorknobs, and splashed vinegar water on the windows.

  “You,” Mathilde said, pointing at Millie, who’d just come down from hunting cobwebs in the rafters. “Get us two more buckets of clean water.”

  “You,” she said, pointing at Dorrie, Marcus, and Ebba after Millie had left the den, buckets banging with ill humor. “Strip the beds and pull the mattresses into the den.”

  “Why are we doing this?” asked Dorrie as they wrestled with the first mattress.

  “Have to empty out the old straw,” huffed Ebba, “and stuff in fresh.”

  It didn’t take long for Marcus to decide his role was to call out instructions to Dorrie and Ebba while they did the sweaty maneuvering.

  “Just help us!” snapped Dorrie as she and Ebba dragged Millie’s mattress off its wooden frame.

  Instead, Marcus pounced on a frog-green book that lay balanced on the crisscrossed ropes. “Teen-girl diary treasure!” He opened its cover, making a creaking sound.

  As a keeper of a diary back in Passaic, Dorrie felt a flare of compassion. “You can’t read that.”

  “Even if it is Millie’s,” added Ebba.

  He paid no attention and began to read out loud, keeping Dorrie and Ebba at bay as they tried to snatch the book from his hands. “‘The history of Frey Tomas de Torquemada is not so much the history of a man as that of an abstract genius presiding over a gigantic and cruel engine of its own perfecting.’”

  “Put it back!” Dorrie yelled as their struggle toppled a stool.

  Marcus only held the book higher. “‘Through the records that survive, we may observe its cold, smooth action and trace in this the awful intelligence of its architect.’”

  Even as she lunged for the book again, Dorrie felt uncertainty. The words Marcus had read didn’t sound exactly like thirteen-year-old diary writing.

  “Relax,” said Marcus, letting Dorrie have the book. “It’s not even a diary.”

  Dorrie looked down at the cover. “Torquemada and the Spanish Inquisition: A History,” she read aloud.

  “Cheery subject,” said Ebba.

  “What are you doing?” rang out Millie’s voice from the doorway. She strode to Dorrie, snatched the book out of her hands, and hugged it to her chest. “Get out!”

  Dorrie hesitated, feeling
both ashamed and unfairly accused. Before she could work out what to say, Millie seized the stool as if to throw it, sending Dorrie, Marcus, and Ebba scurrying from the room.

  “What was that all about?” said Marcus.

  “I don’t know, but thanks for making things worse between me and Millie!” said Dorrie, irritated.

  When they were done with the mattresses, Mathilde sent Ebba to fetch more water and, to Dorrie’s dismay, thrust a paintbrush in Dorrie’s hands and told her to go help Millie whitewash a wall.

  Dragging her feet, Dorrie joined Millie where she had spread out a drop cloth close to a section of the wall. Millie glanced at her, startled, and then her eyes narrowed.

  Dorrie took a deep breath. “I wasn’t messing with your stuff. Marcus was fooling around. I was trying to get him to put the book down. That’s all.”

  Millie slapped at the wall with her own paint-laden brush. “Don’t think just because you stole keyhand powers, I’m going to suck up to you like everyone else.”

  Dorrie stared at her, feeling slapped herself. During her week in Passaic, she had let herself hope that even if she and Millie weren’t destined to be the best of friends, they wouldn’t have to be enemies. The hope fizzled.

  “I didn’t ‘steal’ keyhand powers.” Dorrie said in a low voice.

  “Acting like you’re really one of us,” muttered Millie, her lips barely moving.

  “I’m not acting anything,” Dorrie flung back, nauseated by the words. She thrust her brush into the whitewash bucket and attacked the wall grimly, battling an urge to fling some at Millie. Dorrie could feel Millie’s determination to cover more wall faster and more thickly and with better results. Her teeth clenched, Dorrie increased her own painting speed.

  In other parts of the attics, copious amounts of water were being spilled, sweat flowed freely, and the apprentices were managing to find ever more creative methods of getting in one another’s way.

  “We’re running out of time!” cried Mathilde, helping push the last of the mattresses out the den window. They landed with a thud on the others four stories below. “Kenzo, run down to the circulation department. When Mistress Lovelace leaves, run back here and tell us. Saul, you and Marcus go down to the yard and start emptying the old straw out of the mattresses.”