by C. A. Pack
“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” his mother said. “Your brother is a sound sleeper, Lord knows, it’s nearly impossible to wake him up for school some mornings. You’ll sleep in a bed.”
“Whatever. See you later.”
“Aren’t you coming inside with us?” his mother asked.
“Not right now. Johanna and I have something we need to do.”
LOI
CHAPTER 37
Pru Tellerence sat at the top of the cupola stairs and watched through the railing as Natalia Dalura disappeared into the bindery. The overseer quietly made her way to the main floor and headed toward the other staircase when the front door slid open. Pru Tellerence flattened herself against a stack of books that separated her from the circulation desk.
“What can I do for you, Dame Erato?” Natalia’s voice floated like a melody on a breeze.
“The binding on my copy of Baladantic Prophecies needs repair. I may have once had the skills to fix it myself, but I ran out of the supplies necessary to make such a repair a long time ago. My eyesight has also dimmed with time. Would you be so kind as to help me out?”
“Of course.”
The older woman looked up alertly and searched the surrounding area.
“Is there a problem?” Natalia asked.
“Not that I can see,” the older woman answered, “yet I sense we are not alone.”
Natalia looked around. “There is no one here, Dame Erato, except us. And, as you know, the library has a way of protecting itself. Come with me into the bindery. I’m sure we can repair this quickly, and no one will be the wiser that it was ever damaged.”
Dame Erato lingered. She sniffed, as if smelling an intruder. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We are not alone.”
★
A lone officer of the military police force emerged from the Terrorian jail and made his way to the library steps where he stood off to the side of Nero 51 as the curator finished his speech.
“What is it, Captain?” Nero 51 asked. “Where is the general?”
The captain approached Nero 51 and whispered something in his ear. “Impossible!” The curator abruptly left the podium and strode forcefully toward the jail, disappearing inside.
Members of the crowd speculated wildly about the delay in the general’s release, as well as what Nero 51 could have declared impossible. Several minutes passed before the curator returned.
He clutched the podium with all eight of his tentacles. “Citizens, it is with great sadness that I must inform you that General Lethro 814 is dead. We can only surmise that the shame of incarceration took its toll upon him. The general was found hanging in his cell by the military police dispatched to inform him he’d been pardoned. I’ve been told the most strenuous life-saving efforts have been exhausted. My core, like I’m sure many of yours are, is heavy with grief, but we cannot allow this to detract us from our plans, which the general fully supported.” Nero 51 sighed heavily before continuing. “We must channel our sorrow into victory for our realm. It’s what the general would have wanted. And, forevermore, I declare this day be known as Lethro 814 day so we never forget that even in the darkest of times, we must stay optimistic, for a solution to our problems may be right around the corner.
“Let us commemorate the general’s great achievements together. I decree that all places of nourishment and drink open their doors at no charge to the public and allow patrons to gather in celebration of a military genius. The Library of Illumination will take care of all expense. It’s important to honor the general’s passing.” The curator hung his head for a moment of silence before retreating inside the library. The crowd broke into groups, each migrating toward their favorite watering hole or eatery, ready to comment on the benevolence of Nero 51 and the unfortunate death of General Lethro 814.
The curator withdrew to his secret living compartment on level 333. He poured himself a cup of absynale and relaxed. That turned out perfectly. The guards didn’t know what to think when they went to his cell to inform him of the reprieve, only to find him dead, an apparent suicide victim who couldn’t face the shame of incarceration. And right after I exonerated him. I will appear to be strong and fair. Lethro 814 will appear to be weak and guilt-ridden. Nero 51 threw back his head and downed the contents of his cup, before pouring another drink. Here’s to me and the execution of another perfect plan.
★
Johanna and Jackson headed down to level 1,311 to look for the Master Compendia of Sorcery. They chatted about the advantages of having a hotel room inside the library, so they scarcely noticed the deeper the elevator traveled, the slower it moved until it ground to a halt.
“Here we are,” Jackson said. “Lead the way.”
“We’re only on level 1,310.” Johanna pressed the button for the lower level. The elevator didn’t budge. “I wonder why it won’t go down any farther?”
“C’mon, we can take the stairs,” Jackson said, grabbing her hand as he pulled the brass scissor door to one side. Together, they descended the stairs that wound around the elevator like a huge spiral. “Whoever designed this place loved spiral staircases. I’m surprised the elevator doesn’t spin around like a giant corkscrew as it moves down the shaft.”
“Probably because it would nauseate the passengers,” Johanna replied.
“That’s what I love about you. You’re always able to see past the obvious.”
“Do you love me, Jackson?”
He stared at her a moment, speechless, then smiled. “Well, maybe you can’t always see past the obvious or you’d know the answer to that.”
She pulled him toward her and looked up. They kissed deeply, but a few seconds later, the elevator crashed to the lowest level raising a huge cloud of dust.
They broke apart. Johanna pulled her scarf over her nose and mouth and Jackson did the same with his T-shirt. He looked forlornly at the elevator. “How are we supposed to get back up 1,311 levels?”
“Slowly.”
They backed away from the elevator, closed their eyes to keep the dust out, and struggled to breathe until the dust settled. Finally, they looked around, examining their surroundings. Level 1,311 was different from the other levels. The other sub-floors were clean and modern. This level had rock walls and floors and niches chipped out of the walls with bundles inside of them.
“What do you think these are?” Jackson nodded toward one of the bundles.
“We won’t know unless we open one.”
“If Superman were here, he could see right through them.”
“If Superman were here, he could push the elevator back up to sub-level six. I don’t suppose you’ve got a Superman comic book on you?”
“Nope … talk about groan-worthy.”
She reached out toward a parcel and allowed her hand to hover over it for more than a minute.
“Well, are you going to unwrap it or what?”
“I’m working my way up to it.”
“I know what you’re thinking. What if there are bones in there? Or an early overseer’s petrified head? Am I right?”
“I was thinking more along the line of what if the contents are protected by an enchantment that turns me to stone if I unwrap them?”
“Okay. I could see how that might stop you.”
“Except I’m the curator, so here goes nothing.” She grabbed the bundle and when nothing diabolical happened to her or her appendages, she unwrapped it.
“Big surprise, huh? It’s a book.”
She opened it. The pages, browned and brittle, had withstood the vagaries of time. “This is old. Really old. It’s not even printed on paper. The pages are a thin skin of some kind.”
“Vellum?”
“If it is, I’ve never seen vellum like it. It’s a little cruder.”
“Is it the book we’re looking for?”
“I don’t know. I can’t read it.”
Jackson walked over to the next niche and unwrapped the book inside. “Hmmm …I can’t tell if this is the
right book, either.”
“We’d better check the other cubbies.” Johanna rewrapped the book and replaced it. Then moved on to the next niche. “Same thing, different location.”
For the next two hours they moved through the lowest level, checking books.
Jackson took a deep breath. “I’m surprised we haven’t died of asphyxiation yet.”
“There’s probably oxygen traveling down the open staircase from the upper levels.”
“That’s a plus. Too bad you didn’t ask Myrddin how we’re supposed to recognize the right book when we find it.”
“I think he knew that we’d know when we found it.”
“Yeah. Except that’s not working.”
“Oh. I wouldn’t say that.” She held a book in her hands that glowed from within.
Jackson walked over. “You think that’s it?”
She stared at the cover. The letters and glyphs floated into a new pattern across the top that read, Master Compendia of Sorcery. “Yes.” She opened the cover and found a drawing mirroring the constellation embedded in her palm. Intuitively, she placed her hand over the image and eight people appeared—four men, three women, and a young girl. “Are you the Eahta Frean fram Drycræft?” she asked.
“Gese,” they answered simultaneously.
“Geese?” Jackson repeated.
“It’s like yes in old English.”
“It is so,” one of the women said.
“I’m Johanna Charette.” She tilted her head, “And this is Jackson Roth. Myrddin told us we could find a list of the current Eahta Frean fram Drycræft in the Master Compendia of Sorcery. However, you don’t look very current.”
“Myrddin spoke to you? He is long dead. Are you one of his disciples?”
“We’re curators of the Library of Illumination,” Jackson answered.
“I can tell you who they are,” the young girl said. “I have the power to see the future.”
“You mean, like, you can tell us where and when the Terrorians will strike?”
“I can only tell you what Myrddin wants you to know,” the girl replied.
“So, you don’t know,” Jackson said.
“I know. But I refuse to impart that knowledge.”
“But knowledge is power.” Jackson interjected. “Ask Francis Bacon.”
“Power corrupts.”
“Yeah, yeah, and absolute power corrupts absolutely,” he replied. “I know that one, too.”
The girl turned to Johanna. “The names you require are Cathasach Caird of Scotland; Robert Birk of Sweden; Zendali Zendaga of Zimbabwe; Mateus Ferrari of Brazil; Alianessa Anjou of France; Brychan Rhydderch of Wales; Edmund Beasom of England; and Veronika Veselov of Russia.”
“Wait a second. There’s no one named Beck?” Jackson asked.
“The young girl stared into space for a moment. The man known as Beck is Brychan Rhydderch.”
“Oh. For a second, I thought we’d found our guy,” Jackson said.
“What guy is that,” the girl asked.
“The guy who’s trying to steal Myrddin’s memoir.”
“It is not Beck.”
“Figures. He would have been the easy one to find. Who is it then?” Jackson asked.
“I have already imperiled the parameters of my power by telling you who it is not. The rest is up to you.”
“We’ll have to travel halfway around the world to find some of these people,” Johanna said.
“Unless you wait until Ides, when they will all meet in Prague.”
“Prague, huh?” Jackson looked at Johanna and raised his eyebrows. “Road trip.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“That gives us a couple of days,” Jackson replied
“No,” the girl answered. “It gives you one day.”
He did the math. “The Ides of March is on the fifteenth. Today is the twelfth.”
“According to the calendar of Numa, March was a long month with the Ides falling on the fifteenth day. However, this is April, a short month, in which the Ides falls on the thirteenth. You must be in Prague tomorrow by sunset to intercept them at their meeting place.”
“Where are they meeting?” Johanna asked.
“In one of the chambers beneath Old Town Hall.”
“There’s more than one?” she continued.
“Beneath the buildings of Old Prague lays a labyrinth of cellars, chambers and tunnels, all interconnected in some way.”
“Figures. I’ll bet there are catacombs down there too,” Jackson said.
“I don’t believe there are any beneath Old Town Hall, but you may find a connecting tunnel to one of the churches and there could be catacombs or a graveyard, there.”
“Great.” Jackson replied. “There’s nothing like skeletal remains to keep us on our toes.”
“There’s a problem,” Johanna said.
“What’s that,” he asked.
“It’s probably too late to get a flight out tonight.”
“Not if we hurry.”
“Up 1,311 flights of stairs?”
“Oh.”
“That is not necessary,” the girl said.
“Look at the elevator,” Jackson said. “It crashed to the bottom from the level above us.”
Once again, the girl stared off into space. “Ascend the stairs to the next level and press the button for the elevator.”
“It’s not going to work,” he claimed.
“It is enchanted to ensnare trespassers. Are you a trespasser?”
“No.”
“Then it will come for you. However …”
“I knew there had to be a catch,” he muttered.
“The book Johanna is holding cannot leave this level. If it does, there are dire consequences.”
“I’ll put it away,” Johanna said, wrapping the book. She stuck it back in the niche. When she turned back, the Eahta Frean fram Drycræft were gone.
Jackson grabbed her hand. “Here goes nothing.” He pulled her up the stairs and pressed the button for the elevator.
★
Dungen wasted no time taking over Torran’s spot as head of the library council and immediately called for a meeting, sending an underling to fetch Furst.
Furst bristled at being called to a ‘meeting of the minds,’ which he felt would be long on rhetoric and short on practicality. His place was in the library, but he knew Dungen would make his life miserable if he didn’t attend.
Furst arrived at the town hall to whispers of discontentment as Dramaticans voiced their anger over rumors Dungen was about to propose a weapons tax.
“Ridiculous, it is,” one woman muttered.
“Collect everything, the Rodo twins did. Grinders, they built. Pay for their services, we must,” a pro-tax board member stated.
Commerce on Dramatica was conducted by direct barter. A tax implied that people would be promising goods and services to a cause, without necessarily receiving something tangible in return. There would be powerful guns for protection, but they would go to the fighters and not the individuals paying for them. And, yes, the voluntary militia needed to be fed and compensated for lost trade. But what if the general public sacrificed their goods and services for a war that didn’t materialize? The Terrorians were gone and the soldiers in the library already had weapons taken from the invaders. Now that the Terrorians had seen how fiercely Dramaticans protected their realm, they might decide not to return.
Dungen called the meeting to order as he uncovered a sign he had made. It listed ‘Volunteer Compensation, Weapons, Militia Meals, Uniforms, Fuel, Barracks, Supplies, Maintenance, Training, and Administration.’
He faced the crowd and put both hands on the table in front of him. “Comes at a price, defending ourselves. Compensated, volunteers must be. Paid for making weapons, Berra and the Rodos must be.” As Dungen stated each need, he pointed to it on the sign.
The volume increased dramatically when he said a barracks must be built.
“A barracks, we have,�
� Furst pointed out.
“A school, it is,” Dungen stated.
“Closed, it was,” another man said.
“Need it soon, we may. Permanent, a barracks would be.”
But the Dramaticans weren’t buying it. A permanent barracks meant an ongoing war, and they were a peaceful people at heart. They weren’t afraid to fight if they had to, but they preferred to think peace would endure.
“Our tithes back, would we get, if no war, there is?” someone called out.
“No,” Dungen replied. “For preparation, the money goes.”
“Ridiculous, it is,” a dissenting board member said. “No wisdom, there is, for goods paying, we may not need. Waste, it is. Suggest this, Torran never would.”
Dungen’s ringlets noticeably tightened at the mention of his predecessor. “Dead, Torran is, which is why a prepared militia, we need. Maybe then, dead, he would not be.”
“Lining your own pockets, you are. Powerful you want to make yourself,” an elder pointed out.
“Take sides, we must. Bar the door. Win, the side with the most votes will.”
“No,” someone else yelled. “Only one vote per family, we must consider.”
A younger citizen who had volunteered as a soldier raised his voice. “Fight, my father will not. Fight, I will. Get a vote, why should he, over me?”
“Enough,” Furst shouted. He walked to the front of the room until he stood face to face with Dungen. “What you started, simple, it is not. No vote tonight, there should be. Reason this out, we need to. Vote, everyone of the age of majority must, to make it fair.”
Dungen hissed. “Fair, that is not. Many votes, big outskirt families have. Fight, they would not choose to do. Outvote the voice of reason, they would.”
“The voice of reason, you are? Not, I think,” the curator countered.
“Then pay the tax, everyone who gets a vote must.”
“Fine. Agreed, we are. He grabbed Furst’s hand and asked the elder to break the connection. When it was done, Dungen smiled, smugly. “You, it is, who their money, wastes.”
“No. Outvote it, they will, so no taxes, there will be.”