The Ninja Librarians: Sword in the Stacks

by Jen Swann Downey

  Ebba appeared at Dorrie’s elbow, trying hard not to spill the jug of milk as the seal thrashed and made mewling noises.

  Kalliope stared. “Whatever is going on in your chiton?”

  Before Ebba could answer, the seal poked his whole head and a flipper out.

  Kalliope laughed out loud.

  “He’s lost his mother,” Ebba explained as some of the precious milk spilled.

  “Wait a minute.” Kalliope rifled through the crate of rotting bowls. “Aha!” She held up a leather bag with a little wooden spout coming out of it. “I knew I had one. Here, give me the milk.”

  In a moment, she had filled the bag. “You can come out of the sun and feed it in the stall if you’d like.”

  “Oh, thank you!” cried Ebba.

  Dorrie quickly helped Kalliope unearth a stool and a chair, which required finding new places for an empty dagger scabbard, a bronze platter with a big dent in it, and half a marble head. Dorrie took an instant dislike to the bust’s one white, staring eyeball and vaguely cruel lips. “Glad I don’t have to look at your whole head.”

  “Ah, Critius. Not someone I’d want to have to dinner either,” said Kalliope, shifting a bucket of pottery shards.

  The head nearly tumbled out of Dorrie’s hands. She glanced at Ebba and then back at Kalliope. “Did you say Critius?”

  Kalliope gaped at Dorrie. “You know who I’m talking about?”

  Dorrie set the bust on a small table. “One of the Thirty Tyrants and all that.”

  Kalliope ushered Ebba and the seal into the excavated chair. “You must have very enlightened parents to have taught you any history.”

  “Very,” said Dorrie quickly, remembering that in ancient Athens, formal education was only for boys.

  Kalliope pointed to a crate. “I bought a whole pile of things that a tramp dug out of the ruins of Critius’s house. Never should have. Haven’t been able to unload any of it. Not once customers hear about where I got it. I really have to stop telling them.”

  Dorrie stared at the crate. “Critius’s house is ruined?”

  “Oh, yes, it collapsed ages ago. It’s that pile of stone near the sandal shop on Panathenaic Way. There’s been legal squabbling over the property for approximately forever, and about five years ago, the house just got tired of its sad, empty life and gave up.”

  Just then, Dorrie spied Marcus wandering by, looking panicked.

  “Over here!” called Dorrie.

  Marcus charged over. “You said to meet at the well!”

  “We had a feeding emergency,” said Dorrie. “Did you find Timotheus?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Marcus. “And he’d be willing to use an orator-written defense, but he’s flat broke. Also? He’s an emotional mess. He could barely hold on to the zither he was trying to repair. No wonder he was going to fail so…” He broke off, noticing Kalliope for the first time as she rose to help a customer.

  Dorrie was hardly listening, impatient to look through the crate of Critius’s things.

  “I checked out the orators over at the courts and they’re superexpensive. We’re talking piles of drachmas. But listen to this.” He lowered his voice. “I heard a rumor about a woman who writes orations under a fake name who might do one for cheap.”

  “Why a fake name?” asked Ebba.

  “Because only men are legally allowed to write them or something, yada yada, like that,” said Marcus. “I say we try to find her.”

  Kalliope, who’d finished with her customer, turned back to them. “I hear she sells secondhand junk on the side.”

  While Marcus explained the situation to Kalliope and Ebba tried to rock the seal to sleep, Dorrie pounced on the crate again. It wasn’t until she’d taken nearly everything out that something interesting caught her eye. It was a stone box with the jagged-edged remains of a hinged lid.

  A piece of an etched design or word could be traced on the remaining bit of the lid. It looked like the top of a letter A or the outline of a steeply pitched roof. It tugged at Dorrie’s memory. Suddenly, she remembered Hypatia holding up her copy of The Foundation: Essential Dictums. Dorrie sucked in her breath. Three stacked diamonds had adorned the cover. She traced her finger along the etched lines, stopping at the rough edge created by the break. Judging from the size of the box and the bit of design left, she thought three stacked diamonds would have fit on the lid perfectly when it was whole.

  “Can I buy this?” Dorrie blurted out.

  They hurried out of the agora a few minutes later.

  Marcus was beaming. “I can’t believe Kalliope is letting us pay her later.”

  “I can’t believe we found something that might connect Critius and the Foundation,” said Dorrie.

  When they reached the Lyceum, the paths were empty of people, and they scuttled quickly back to the door that led to the Spoke Library. They were congratulating themselves on their good luck when the seal woke and began writhing violently, forcing Ebba to bend over nearly double and clutch her middle to keep the seal from falling to the ground.

  “C’mon,” urged Dorrie, the skipkey in her hand. Marcus was already holding the door open.

  As Ebba staggered toward them, Aristotle and the man who’d given him the seal emerged from a room farther down the colonnade.

  Dorrie’s heart lurched. Grabbing hold of Ebba, she hauled her inside.

  “She just had to have the fish sandwich,” Marcus called out to Aristotle before diving in after them.

  Chapter 18

  Dirty Laundry

  “Would you quit trying to have the last word!” Dorrie said furiously as she fumbled with the skipkey. The ship’s hold engulfed them again. From the deck above, Dorrie could hear the voices of the returning apprentices. Grabbing hold of one another, Dorrie, Marcus, and Ebba burst through the archway back into Petrarch’s Library.

  “We can’t let them see us!” said Dorrie.

  They made a dash for the Middle Shelf. No time to bother with umbrellas, they arrived at the Scooby-Doo Library, sweating, soaked, and smelling of seal.

  They decided that simply walking up to Francesco and gifting him with Dorrie’s discovery wasn’t really an option. Not if Dorrie wanted to remain an apprentice.

  “The box might not even have anything to do with the Foundation,” Ebba said, struggling with the seal as Dorrie lifted the vulture off its shelf. Darling’s jaws snapped hungrily. Ebba stowed the seal in the tub. “You can’t risk your apprenticeship on a guess.”

  “All right. Fine,” Dorrie said. “I’ll wait until the coast is clear and leave it by his office door with an anonymous note. When he sees it, he’ll have to take Lybrarian Della Porta’s suspicion about Critius’s house seriously.”

  While Marcus and Ebba fetched buckets of seawater to fill it, Dorrie set to work. Marcus insisted she write the note with her left hand to disguise her identity.

  In it, she explained that the box had once belonged to Critius, shared her theory that the lid might have once borne the symbol of the Foundation, and suggested that a search of Critius’s house in Athens, 399 BCE might be a good idea.

  When she finished, it was dinnertime. Dorrie tucked the note into the basket, grateful that the corridors would likely be empty. Not daring to use the spinning wall, she set off for Francesco’s office the long way around. She had just turned into the corridor that led to Francesco’s tower when she heard raised voices behind her. Though the box was hidden in the basket, Dorrie broke into a soft run, not wanting to be seen.

  “I want to know now!” Millie’s voice rang out before Dorrie was halfway to the tower door.

  Panic shot through Dorrie, and she ducked into a narrow opening marked by rough wooden posts. She found herself in a tiny room lined floor to ceiling with shelves full of great, carved wooden blocks. There was no door to close. The only place to hide was behind a tall stand upo
n which rested several of the carved blocks. Dorrie dove for it.

  Dorrie dove behind a tall, narrow stand, upon which several of the carved blocks rested.

  “Please stop harrying me,” came Francesco’s voice from the corridor.

  From her new position, Dorrie noticed another narrow doorless opening. Francesco spoke again: “Petrarch’s Library is facing a crisis right now, Millie. I don’t have time to give you proper answers and explanations right—”

  “I just want to know my real parents’ names,” said Millie.

  A short intense silence followed, during which Dorrie tried not to breathe, too afraid of being found to sprint for the other door.

  “Millie…” Francesco said, his voice strained with feeling. “By any measure that matters, you are my own true daughter. I am your own true father who loves you fiercely.”

  “Then answer me!” Millie demanded.

  “I can’t right now,” Francesco said, a note of pleading in his voice. “I’m late to meet Hypatia, and I still need to find a few things in my office.”

  “You’re always too busy to talk about this,” said Millie.

  “I’ve told you about your mother,” stammered Francesco.

  “Just the vaguest details!” cried Millie. “That she came from a small village. That her name was Sophia. That she had brown eyes and liked the woods. That she wrote poetry. I can tell you’re hiding something from me!”

  “Enough,” barked Francesco. “After we find the Foundation’s workshop. After we stop them from remaking Whim’s Gift, there’ll be time to talk properly. Now be my strong girl. Attend to your duties with Callamachus. Attend to your practicums.” Dorrie heard the creak of leather as though Francesco had turned to go.

  “If you love me, then you’ll tell me,” said Millie.

  “Please, Millie, I don’t—”

  “They’re my parents, I have a right to know about them. You can’t keep me closer by pretending they don’t exist,” said Millie, her voice cracking. “You taught me to never answer a question with a lie, and I’m asking you. Who is my father?”

  “Millie,” said Francesco, a pained huskiness in his voice. “You’re too young. You’re too—”

  “Tell me.”

  There was another moment of quivering silence, during which Dorrie could not stop herself from avidly listening, transfixed.

  “Your father…your father in nothing but name is…Tomas de Torquemada.”

  Dorrie’s mouth dropped open.

  “I knew it,” whispered Millie. “I’ve gotten quite good at research, working with Callamachus and—” she broke off, her voice trembling. “And I know why you didn’t tell me. Because you’re ashamed—”

  “No!” cried Francesco. “You don’t—”

  “Because you think I might be like him deep inside, unfit to be a lybrarian!”

  “Never!” cried Francesco.

  “Go away!” snarled Millie, and Dorrie wondered if he’d stepped toward her.

  “Millie,” said Francesco. “It’s not that way.”

  “I said ‘go away’!”

  Dorrie heard Francesco’s footsteps retreat down the corridor and the door to the tower open and close. She let out a silent breath and leaned her head back in relief. It was a terrible mistake. The stand tilted, and the wooden blocks perched upon it toppled onto the floor with an echoing crash.

  “Who’s there?” barked Millie over the sound of a sword being unsheathed.

  Dorrie closed her eyes in total and complete mortification and then gathered herself. “It’s me.” She hauled herself to her feet, heavy with the horrid embarrassment of having to reveal herself.

  Millie appeared in the doorway, eyes blazing and sword raised. A look of animal panic passed over her face, and then her eyebrows shot together. “You sneaking, horrible spy!”

  “I wasn’t spying! I swear!”

  “Like in my bedroom you weren’t spying? What did you hear?” Millie demanded, a tremble in her hand making her blade wobble.

  Good, serviceable, wonderful lies began to offer themselves up to Dorrie.

  “What did you hear?” Millie repeated, each word soaked in raw desperation.

  Dorrie licked her lips, tempted to say she’d just walked in through the other door and hadn’t heard a thing. But the words wouldn’t come. “Everything,” Dorrie said quietly, a wave of empathy for Millie washing through her. “I’m sorry.”

  Millie’s face twisted with violent emotion and her eyes glistened. “I hate you, Dorrie Barnes!” Then she spun on her heel and was gone.

  Dorrie waited a good long time after Francesco had descended the stairs from his office again to make her delivery. As she slowly padded up to his office, Dorrie thought back to the passage Marcus had read out of the book under Millie’s mattress. Torquemada had planned the whole frightening Spanish Inquisition. “The architect,” the book had called him. Dorrie shivered and for a moment felt full of raw longing for her parents and Miranda and then a strange, novel pity for Millie. Torquemada! Her father! That couldn’t feel good.

  Leaving the box and note beside Francesco’s door, she was about to twist the torch to get back in the Scooby-Doo Library when her eyes caught on the portrait. The woman had brown eyes that radiated brave warmth. Like two banked fires. Francesco had gazed at her as he threw his armband. She wondered what the woman meant to him.

  Dorrie let the wall spin her back into the Scooby-Doo Library.

  “Anybody see you?” Ebba called over the sounds of splashing from the bathroom.

  Dorrie hesitated, torn. “Nobody,” she said at last.

  • • •

  The next morning, Dorrie began to understand what it felt like to be dead to someone. Millie sat as far away as possible from Dorrie at the apprentices’ table and absolutely refused to meet her eyes and no longer bothered to loft even scoffing, scornful words her way.

  “What’s up with your nemesis?” Marcus asked as Millie got up from a chair in the den and disappeared into her room a half second after Dorrie came in and sat down.

  “She’s not my nemesis,” Dorrie said and left it at that.

  Dorrie had other things to worry about. She began to watch Francesco and the other lybrarians carefully, looking for some sign they’d heeded her note. There was also the matter of the principles mission. Dorrie and Ebba were soon due to return to London. They had been so busy planning for the trip to Athens and researching what Lord Cromer had in store for the suffragists that they’d spent next to no time researching who might be taking the Anti-Suffrage Review.

  After sitting through a principles practicum in which every other member had reported making at least some progress in protecting their imperiled subjects, Dorrie and Ebba vowed to give their official mission attention.

  They settled themselves in the Scooby-Doo Library one day with every intention of focusing only on the needs of the anti-suffragists. Despite this, they kept forgetting themselves and drifting into talk about how unjust it was that the Suffragette wasn’t going to be printed.

  It didn’t help that Marcus kept interrupting them every two minutes to announce each new idea he had for raising the money to pay Kalliope. So far, he’d proposed a valet bicycle parking service, working off other people’s overdue circulation department fines for cash, and getting Mistress Wu to offer a bounty for Darling, after which he’d turn the lizard in to her. The last idea had been rejected in most colorful terms by Ebba.

  Dorrie watched Ebba feed the seal she’d named Spinoza, after a philosopher who was rumored not to think much of Aristotle. “Let’s just do a stakeout. Mrs. Richardson said Monday night is when the Anti-Suffrage Review gets delivered. The League’s benefit tea is happening on a Monday. Let’s ask Hypatia if we can stick around afterward to see who takes the newspapers. We can watch from the park.”

  “Obligation
met,” said Ebba, tossing the seal another sardine.

  “FA-TI-MA!” crowed Marcus, as though he’d just won the lottery.

  “Yes,” said Dorrie, staring at him. “Her name has three syllables.”

  Marcus leaped up. “And she’s the answer to our money-making needs!”

  “Our needs?” said Dorrie. “Since when—”

  “She’s gotten really good on the ukulele,” said Marcus. “We can play a bunch of songs together now. And she sings pretty well. I mean, she does that annoying teen girl warbly thing sometimes, but it’s not a deal-breaker.” He ran for the door. “We’ll busk in the Inky Pot. Play for tips. I’ll offer to give her half.” He disappeared, slamming the door behind him.

  Ebba stared after him. “Dorrie, I think I just had my own great idea for helping Annie and the suffragists.”

  “What?” asked Dorrie.

  “FA-TI-MA!” yelled Ebba, just as Marcus had done. “She apprentices to Lybrarian Franklin. She knows all about presses and how to make newspapers.”

  Dorrie grinned, understanding. “We can print up the next edition of the Suffragette.”

  • • •

  The next morning, Dorrie rose before dawn. While Ebba and the other apprentices slept, she made her way to the mission room, where the lybrarians met to plan and prioritize their missions. As she had hoped, it was empty. Last quarter, when Dorrie had visited it, there’d only been one enormous blackboard, showing the list of missions the lybrarians were currently working on. Now blackboards covered every bit of wall space, including the fronts of the glass-doored bookcases. She raked her eyes over them one by one. An entry on the last one electrified Dorrie into full and total wakefulness . A mission to search Critius’s house had been chalked in.

  Jubilant, Dorrie sprinted back to the attics to tell Ebba and Marcus, but her joy was short-lived. At breakfast, Dorrie got her first indication that the silence the lybrarians had maintained about the fate of the History of Histories page was crumbling.