Dorrie did well. Swimming back to shore was no problem, and she was faster than many of the adults.
Back in the attics after dinner, Dorrie and Ebba settled in adjoining armchairs to decide on their imperiled subject. Nearby, Mathilde had her nose in African American Women in the Struggle for the Vote, 1850–1920, occasionally looking up to sputter things like “fish’s gizzards” and “How could they!”
At last, after an hour of noisy debate, Dorrie was pushing for John Stubbs, who’d had his hand chopped off for writing a book about Queen Elizabeth I that she didn’t care for, and Ebba was quite sure they needed to assist a Cherokee named Buck Deer who was going to have his newspaper, the Cherokee Phoenix, shut down for criticizing the government. Neither Ebba or Dorrie would budge.
“You’re going around in very annoying circles! And the threat against Stubbs is at least class two.” Mathilde finally declared. She smacked a page in her book. “Here’s one for you.”
Dorrie leaned over and peered at the page. It held a photograph of a group of women in dark dresses and coats. They wore odd star-studded poufy hats and carried pennants that read “Suffrage.” All of them had light-colored skin except for one woman in the center of the picture. She had her chin raised high. A scarf printed with the word “Illinois” hung around her neck.
Ebba read the caption. “‘Ida Wells-Barnett marching with other suffragists in a parade in Washington, DC, in 1913.’”
Mathilde snorted with disgust. “Yeah. After she had to force her way in. The white suffragists who organized the parade told her and the whole Alpha Suffrage Club she’d organized—black women who came all the way from Chicago—that they couldn’t march with the white women from Illinois. No, they had to march by themselves at the end of the parade.”
“But why?” asked Dorrie.
“The parade organizers didn’t want to scare the racists away from voting for women’s suffrage.”
“That’s awful,” said Ebba.
“So what would the mission be?” asked Ebba.
“Well, the way history is now, Ida B. Wells and the Alpha Suffrage Club members decided to fight their way through the crowds with a plan to join the parade when the Illinois suffragists walk by, but only Ida makes it through. The others were kicked and punched and had their banners destroyed, and that was that.”
“Totally fish’s gizzards,” Ebba said indignantly.
“Disgusting,” said Dorrie.
“Perfect,” Dorrie and Ebba said together, satisfied.
“Enjoy it while you can,” said Marcus listlessly from where he’d been idly plucking on the balaban over by the window. He stood and yawned hugely. “I guess I better go and get my beauty rest.” He shambled toward his bedroom, stopping at his door for a moment to sigh heavily. “For nobody’s sake.” He disappeared and closed the door behind him. The apprentices spread around the room glanced at each other.
“He’s just wrecked, isn’t he?” said Mathilde.
“I guess so,” Dorrie said uncertainly.
“I am never falling in love,” Fatima said, looking up from a game of solitaire.
Chapter 11
Potato, Potah-to
At breakfast announcements the next morning, to Dorrie’s disappointment, Mistress Wu made no mention of any news connected with Whim’s Gift.
“You know,” Dorrie murmured to Ebba as they were leaving the Sharpened Quill, “there’s another good thing about choosing the Alpha Suffrage Club.”
“What?” Ebba asked as she stuffed a napkin full of leftover toast crusts into her satchel. She’d taken to doing this every morning, always claiming the bits were for Roger, but whenever Dorrie offered to go with her to feed them to him, Ebba always put her off. Dorrie had begun to suspect that Ebba was searching for Darling in her spare time.
“We know that the Stronghold definitely opens up into Washington, DC.”
Ebba closed her satchel. “At least it did in the 1950s, when Kash escaped into it from the Stronghold.”
“Well, maybe it had already been open for a while.”
Ebba looked dubious as they walked out into the Commons sunshine. “Since 1913?”
“I’m just saying…” Dorrie looked around furtively. “Maybe we could be useful to the Alpha Suffrage League and the Lybrariad there. You know, keep our eyes open for signs of Foundation activity or any mentions of Whim’s Gift.”
Marcus, who had caught up with them, pressed a biscuit into Dorrie’s hand.
She tried to hand it back. “No thanks.”
“You should eat it,” Marcus said pointedly, backing away with one eyebrow raised. He turned and shot off down the oyster-shell path in the direction of Master Casanova’s office.
“What, is he Fedya now?” Dorrie asked, looking after him. She took a tentative bite, tasted paper, spat, and pulled a small roll of paper from the biscuit. She smoothed it out and read: “Major development. Meet me at the Inky Pot at lunch. Bring Ebba.”
“Again?” Ebba wailed. “We barely escaped with our lives last time.”
When Dorrie and Ebba sidled into the Inky Pot after their apprenticeships, Marcus was sitting in the same booth where they’d found him before. His sighing ennui appeared to have vanished. He waved them over impatiently, all business. After a quick, suspicious glance at Fedya, they hurried across the room.
“You got my message,” said Marcus.
“If by ‘got’ you mean did I eat some of it,” said Dorrie, “then yes.”
He smiled broadly. “We’ve been working on inconspicuous handoffs in Everyday Stealth and Deception. Man, I love that practicum!” He leaned forward. “You need any documents forged? Locks picked?” He sat back again. “What’s with the appalled face? Those are legitimate areas of lybrarian study.”
“I’m only appalled that you made us come here again,” said Dorrie.
Marcus pounded his fist on the table. “I hereby call this meeting to order.”
“You didn’t say it was a meeting,” said Dorrie. “You said to meet you here.”
“Potato, potah-to,” said Marcus. “Order in the court!”
“We’re not in—” began Dorrie, but she ended her sentence abruptly as a plate of pastries was lowered to the table in front of her.
Dorrie felt Ebba squeeze her hand under the table. Slowly, she looked up to see Fedya leaning over them, his lips pulled back in a grin. “For my friend’s friends.”
Dorrie tried to look grateful.
As soon as he’d gone, Marcus pushed the plate toward her. “Dorrie…we’ve been siblings for a long time now.”
“Yeah,” she said warily, pushing the plate back toward him and trying to ignore the fact that her mouth had begun to water without permission.
“I need a favor,” said Marcus.
Dorrie slapped at Ebba’s hand as she reached for one of the more glistening pastries. “What kind of a favor?”
Marcus pulled out the copy of Gouty Ben’s Weekly Digest that Dorrie had last seen wrapped around his head. He spread it on the table. “I read that article about Timotheus—mostly because I found myself in a prolonged outhouse situation.”
“Good to know,” said Dorrie.
“He is in way worse trouble than I thought.” Marcus read from the newspaper. “The defendant in the suit, Timotheus of Miletus, maintains a zither repair stall at the Athens agora. A ribbon maker who has the stall next to his commented that though she can’t stand Timotheus’s music either, the suit brought by Aristotle of Stagira seems extreme. Any fines or imprisonment will hit Timotheus’s family hard. He is the sole caretaker of four younger siblings. They have no other living relatives.”
“Oh, how terrible!” said Ebba.
Marcus sighed heavily. “Obviously, this is all my fault, and it’s up to me to right this travesty of justice!”
“Wait a minute,” said
Dorrie, suddenly suspicious. “You didn’t care a bit about him a few days ago.”
“Well, that was before I read that his three sisters suffer respectively from blindness, a clubfoot, and a fainting condition, and his younger brother lost a hand in a fishing accident in the Athens harbor.”
Dorrie regarded him shrewdly. “This is about impressing Egeria, isn’t it?!”
Marcus reared back, seemingly appalled. “Total slander.”
“Total truth,” said Dorrie.
“Okay!” Marcus took an enormous bite from one of the pastries. “Did you see Egeria look at Bang like he was the most disgusting kind of fat-chested hero when he volunteered for that mission?”
“So you want her to think you’re some kind of disgusting, fat-chested hero?” asked Ebba in confusion.
“If acting like a disgusting, fat-chested hero is what it takes to make her be my girlfriend, then I’ll sacrifice myself. I’ve been doing a little research.”
“Really?” said Dorrie, genuinely surprised.
Marcus gave her an injured look. “Timotheus cannot—I repeat, cannot—stand trial. The history books say he ends up as total toast. Fines, imprisonment because he can’t pay the fines, exile. His siblings get sold into slavery.”
“Oh no!” said Ebba.
“See, in Athens, you have to speak in your own defense at your trial, and Timotheus’s defense was just pitiful. He couldn’t convince a frog to croak. Complete fail. The trial has to be called off before it happens!”
“But how are you going to stop it?” asked Dorrie. “The Lybrariad is never going to let you go back to 399 BCE right now. That was one of the last places Mr. Biggs was seen. The Stronghold entrance is somewhere out there.”
“I don’t have to,” said Marcus. He pointed at the newspaper. “Look at the quote from Timotheus.”
Ebba read out loud. “‘I’m not a fan of dog sacrifice’—oh, he sounds nice.”
“Farther down,” said Marcus impatiently.
Dorrie took a turn. “I asked the soft-spoken musician how he’d invented his criminal style of music. ‘I didn’t invent it,’ replied the musician. ‘It’s a style of music I learned from my grandfather back in Miletus as a boy.’” She looked up. “But I thought…”
“Keep going,” urged Marcus.
Dorrie found her place again. “‘My grandfather told me he learned the drumming style from a stranger while playing at an Athens party with his first band.’” Dorrie looked up. “So you taught those rhythms to this Timotheus’s grandfather—also named Timotheus?”
“Wild, right?” said Marcus.
Dorrie gave him a beady eye. “I thought you didn’t care about anything anymore.”
“Oh, that’s just my cover,” said Marcus. “We’re working on misrepresenting ourselves in Everyday Stealth and Deception. I’m getting credit for it.”
“What?” cried Dorrie. “Casanova lets you practice that stuff on us?”
“Well, how else am I going to learn?”
“How are you going to help Timotheus?” asked Dorrie.
“It all comes down to Aristotle. He’s the one who brought the charges against Timotheus. I’ve been reading up on him and talking to some of the lybrarians who’ve met him. Apparently, he’s a total sucker for logic. I think I can show him that he’s in the wrong in pressing these charges. I’ve got a speech all made up.”
Dorrie was impressed that Marcus had figured out so much, even if it was just to impress Egeria. “But how are you going to deliver a speech to Aristotle?”
“Well,” said Marcus, leaning closer. “The field trip we’re going on is to Tyre, 327 BCE. I checked the calendar on the wall next to the archway. The timing is perfect. Timotheus’s trial will be happening out there in a couple months.”
“But Tyre is miles and miles away from Athens,” said Ebba. “In Persia.”
“Which is why I need that small favor,” said Marcus. He delicately removed a few crumbs from the corners of his mouth. “I need you to borrow one of the Archivist’s skipkeys and take me to Athens.”
“What?” Dorrie roared, unable to control her volume. “I can’t do that! Francesco would…would…dismember me!”
“No, he wouldn’t,” said Marcus. “Think about it. Francesco didn’t say you couldn’t use your multitool keyhand power to skip from one library to another. He just said you weren’t allowed to use it to get through archways.”
“And how am I supposed to take you to Athens in 327 BCE without going through an archway?”
“Because on the day of our field trip, one of the Tyre keyhands will be getting us through the archway.”
“Oh, that’s true,” said Ebba.
Dorrie shot Ebba a reproving look.
Ebba reached for the plate again. “Well, it is, technically.”
“Like any of that would make a difference to Francesco if I got caught! He’s already angry about the newspaper picture. No way.”
“I’m not saying you should take him to Athens, 327 BCE,” said Ebba. “But it does seem kind of fated for Marcus to help Timotheus. I mean, how perfect that Tyre, 327 BCE got picked for the field trip.”
“That was pretty amazing,” Dorrie conceded.
Marcus licked his fingers clean one by one. “You two are so quaint. You don’t think I just lucked into the right field trip, do you?”
Ebba stopped pulling the plate toward herself. “You didn’t?”
“Of course not.” Marcus snorted. “Every time someone shouted out Tangiers, 1729 or Arapata, 1140, I just wrote down Tyre, 327 BCE.”
Dorrie goggled at him. “So you cheated!”
“Well, if you’re going to call giving Sven a little Filthy Lucre to suggest Tyre, 327 cheating.”
“You paid him off?” said Ebba.
“Well, it’s not like anyone else had a pressing mission,” said Marcus. “Like I said, Timotheus needs my help.”
“You mean you need to help Timotheus so Egeria will fall in love with you.”
“To-mato, to-mahto,” Marcus said airily.
Dorrie rolled her eyes. “Well, sorry. You’ll have to think of a different scheme.” She glanced at the pocket watch she had tied to her satchel. “We’re going to be late for our practicums.” She and Ebba slid out of the booth.
“That’s right,” said Marcus, trailing them across the room. “Take all the time you need to think about it.”
“Not happening,” Dorrie said as she pushed through the door. “Ever.”
“Exactly,” said Marcus as they parted ways in the corridor. “No need to make a hasty decision.”
Chapter 12
The First Principle
It was with great anticipation that Dorrie arrived at Hypatia’s practicum at the end of the week, the mission proposal she and Ebba had finished that morning in her satchel.
During her morning with the Archivist, Dorrie had been so full of daydreams concerning when and how the mission would begin that she’d almost nodded yes when he offered her tea.
Hypatia began the practicum by asking about the imperiled subjects the practicum students had chosen. All went well, with Hypatia nodding approvingly at the choices until the very elderly lybrarian-in-training reported she had chosen someone named Sophie Scholl. Hypatia had to point out that since current history showed Sophie as having been killed by the Gestapo in Hitler’s Germany, the nature of the threat she faced would have to be considered Class One and not inappropriate for training purposes.
“Hitler, Schmitler,” railed the elderly lybrarian, nearly losing control of her false teeth. “Who cares if I die in the line of duty? I’m old. I’ve had a good life. A bad oyster could take me out tomorrow.”
Beyond the problem with the nature of the threat to Sophie, Hypatia also had to explain that the Lybrariad did not yet connect with Sophie Scholl’s time.
Hypatia gathered up the students’ proposals and handed them to the runner, who disappeared as suddenly as she’d appeared.
Before Dorrie could ask Ebba what she thought that was all about, Hypatia asked them to take out their copies of Twelve Principles of the Lybrarian and open to Section One: “The Even Eye.”
“So,” Hypatia said after a half hour of reading and discussion, “would someone be willing to summarize the Principle of the Even Eye for us?”
Dorrie experienced the uncomfortable realization that daydreams of her upcoming mission had blotted out parts of the discussion.
A nearly bald lybrarian-in-training spoke. “If I had to take a wild stab at an answer, I would say that lybrarians must serve any and all persecuted writers and protect any and all written artifacts without regard for the opinions expressed therein. Even if the opinion induces sensations of anger, fear, loathing, or nausea in the lybrarian.”
“That’s his wild stab?” Ebba asked out of the corner of her mouth.
“Imagine if he’d been aiming,” Dorrie whispered back.
The reference runner reappeared, bearing what looked like the same stack of files. This time, the elderly lybrarian-in-training managed to hold on to her teeth.
“Perfect timing,” said Hypatia as the runner put the folders down in front of her and evanesced again. She looked carefully at each folder and then laid one before each of the practicum members.
Dorrie and Ebba exchanged curious glances as she laid theirs to rest between them.
“Yes. The Even Eye,” said Hypatia. “One of the most challenging principles to put into practice.” She sat back. “Please open your folders.”
Eagerly, Dorrie and Ebba complied. In each lay an identical piece of parchment, and on each, a tidy hand had written “Training Mission for Dorrie Barnes and Ebba Ghambo” at the top. Her heart hammering with excitement, Dorrie skimmed over the words.
The Ninja Librarians: Sword in the Stacks Page 11