Bookburners The Complete Season Two

by Max Gladstone

  “Ah,” said Sal. “You got bored.”

  “She began collecting nineteenth-century research into cod a couple years ago,” said Liam, amused. “As a … what did you call it, Asanti? Palate cleanser?”

  “We’re wasting time,” said Grace. “Also, fish make terrible palate cleansers.”

  Asanti cleared her throat. “The point is, so far as the Canadian government is concerned, we’re visiting to deliver the documents. But Jeanne had a more … specific concern that she’d like us to investigate. She’s concerned the library may be haunted.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Haunted,” said Grace.

  “By ghosts?” asked Sal. “Real ghosts, or temporally displaced almost-people ghosts?”

  “What would a ‘real’ ghost even be, at this point?” muttered Liam.

  Asanti looked apologetic. “It may be nothing. The motion detectors, and occasionally the fire alarms, keep being set off; when security arrives, nothing is disturbed or missing. Jeanne wanted a … professional opinion on the matter.”

  “Sounds like a faulty security system,” said Liam, frowning. “Like sixty-two percent of most reported hauntings. Not something we need to concern ourselves with.”

  Sal tilted her head. “That’s an awfully specific statistic.”

  “I crunched the numbers once.”

  “They’ve checked the system several times,” said Asanti, patiently. “Nothing appears to be out of the ordinary. It’s as good a lead as any we’re presently chasing, without the Orb.”

  “Fine,” said Liam. “This is all well and good, but it still sounds like a spectacular waste of time and resources. What if something happens here while we’re gone?”

  “We’re not exactly in the best shape to confront it.” Sal shrugged. “Menchú’s staying. And Grace needs a vacation. Why are you putting up such a fight about this? It’s only for a few days. You can stay in the hotel and spend the whole time doing whatever it is you usually do here on your laptop.”

  “Yeah, and freeze.”

  “I hear they have central heating in Canada.”

  Liam rolled his eyes. “Fine. Apparently Toronto’s not as cold as the rest of the place anyway.”

  Grace’s lips twitched. “Ottawa.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “We’re going to Ottawa.”

  Liam frowned. “Isn’t the Canadian Parliament in—”

  “The capital. Which is Ottawa.”

  “Coldest capital city in the world,” Sal added, grinning. “After Ulaanbaatar and Astana.”

  “Small mercies,” Liam muttered. “When do we leave?”

  “In three hours and twenty-two minutes,” said Grace. “Pack a scarf.”

  • • •

  On the flight, Grace read Fifth Business by Robertson Davies, Asanti knitted, Sal napped, and Liam made use of the business class Wi-Fi to do some research. Damned if he was going to spend a few days being corrected by Grace and Sal about North American cities. But in among the photos of implausibly cheerful people skating through wintry sunsets, he found something interesting.

  “Hey,” he said, “did you know that the Canadian Parliament burned down in 1916?”

  Grace turned a page in her book—pointedly, he thought. Asanti looked up. “Oh?”

  “Yeah—says here the only part of the central building that didn’t burn to the ground was the library.”

  Asanti raised an eyebrow. “That’s … fortunate.”

  “And get this—the fire? Started in the House of Commons’ reading room.”

  She frowned. “Really. Well—that will certainly be something to ask Jeanne about when we arrive.”

  “That’s not even the best part.” Liam grinned. “Want to take a wild guess as to what time of year this fire took place?”

  “…The height of summer?”

  “Bzzt! Wrong!” Sal awoke with a start, while Liam looked at Grace with what he hoped was sufficiently obnoxious triumph. “February third. Meaning the hundredth anniversary of a mysteriously provoked reading room fire is two days away, in the very city Grace is mysteriously insisting on visiting! So, Grace. Care to share anything further about our destination?”

  Grace lowered her book and glared at him. “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Come on!” His grin faltered, but only a little. “You must have had a secret reason to come along, and this fits as well as anything. Reading room means books; books mean mayhem; you were around in 1916—what’s your connection to it?”

  “I was born in 1902.”

  “Fine, maybe not around around, but surely you can tell us now that we’re on our way?”

  Grace stared at him in cutting silence before grabbing his computer, balancing it on her lap, furiously jabbing one-handedly at the keyboard, then handing it back to him.

  He blinked. Sal leaned over him, blearily, to take a look. “…Winterlude?”

  Grace hugged her good arm across her chest and looked out the window. “It’s a festival. Bouchard told me about it once.”

  “Winterlude,” said Liam, flatly. “You want to freeze in the arctic wilderness for a pun?”

  “Sub-arctic,” corrected Sal.

  “There’s ice skating,” said, Grace, defensively. “And ice sculptures. I’ve wanted to see it for a while.”

  “…That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  There was a moment’s long silence while Asanti, Liam, and Sal took this in.

  Sal cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, “it’s got to be better than spin class, right?”

  “Look,” said Grace. “If there’s something solid for you to investigate, great. But I’m here to skate, heal, drink hot chocolate, and eat beaver tails. Is that a problem?”

  “No,” said Asanti, at the same time that Sal said, “Beaver tails?” and Liam said, “Yes.” Asanti and Sal scowled at him. He rolled his eyes. “No. No problem.”

  “Seriously though,” said Sal, “what are beaver tails?”

  2.

  Ottawa’s weather lived up to Liam’s grousing: They stepped out of the airport into a morning cold and bright as a knife’s edge, with gusts of wind whipping powder-dry snow against their hands and cheeks. They bundled into a taxi, and twenty minutes later were checking into their hotel.

  “Gotta say,” said Liam, shedding his parka and looking around their suite, “this is nicer than most of the places we hole up in on missions, even if it is located in the bloody tundra.”

  It was enormous, more a fancy apartment than a hotel room. There were high ceilings, two bedrooms, a spacious living room, and a view of the Parliament buildings; chandeliers dripped crystal, oversized mirrors hung just slightly too high for average-sized humans to glimpse their reflections, and coffee tables made of glass, walnut wood, and wrought iron supported Canadian Living magazines. There was even a fire crackling in the marble fireplace. Liam moved toward it palms-first.

  “It’s just convenience,” said Asanti, hanging up her dresses in one of the closets. “The Château Laurier’s the hotel nearest to Parliament and there weren’t any normal rooms available on such short notice. I’m going to call ahead and let Jeanne know we’ve arrived.”

  “So how do you two know each other?” asked Sal.

  “Oh, we began corresponding several years ago, and mostly see each other at the odd conference here and there. We have many overlapping interests.”

  “Including cod.” Sal paused. “That’s not a euphemism or anything, is it?”

  Asanti chuckled, but did not contradict her.

  “I’m heading out,” Grace announced. “Text me if Jeanne turns out to be a fire demon.”

  • • •

  Jeanne was not, in fact, a fire demon, but a tall, bespectacled Quebecoise in her mid-forties with short dark hair who met them in Centre Block’s foyer after they trudged dutifully through the building’s airport-style security. Jeanne greeted Asanti with a hug and two pecks on t
he cheeks. “Welcome to Ottawa,” she said, beaming. “It’s so good to see you! How was your flight?”

  “Very restful,” said Asanti, warmly. “Please allow me introduce Sal Brooks and Liam Doyle.” They shook hands and murmured pleasantries. “We have a fourth member, Grace Chen, in town as well, but she’s here strictly to sightsee. I’ve brought the texts we discussed—”

  “Oh, plenty of time for that later—it sounds like Grace has the right idea! Let’s get you your passes and show you around first. How long are you in town for?”

  “Only a few days,” said Asanti, apologetically.

  “Ah, well, I’ll take what I can get. Of your company and your private collection.” Jeanne grinned. “I can’t even begin to say how grateful we are for your donation.” While they nattered, Sal and Liam followed, looking around.

  “Do you ever worry,” whispered Sal, “that the Vatican sort of ruins you for history anywhere else? I mean, this is really pretty, but I can’t help but feel that everything’s really … new. Young. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Sure,” said Liam, smiling a little. “Though mostly I worry about the Vatican ruining me for the Vatican—like, that I start to take it for granted, stop seeing it for the marvel it is. Especially in my line of work, I get a bit used to just looking for the nearest Wi-Fi signal no matter the locale, and then everything around my screen melts away.” His smile faded. “I dunno. It’s weird what jades you.”

  Sal thought he might be wandering dangerously close to morose, but that was Liam—heartfelt turned morose pretty quickly. He was getting that faraway look that meant he was dwelling on his problems again.

  “Hey, listen,” said Sal, taking a plunge, “please, please get that I know this is none of my business,” she saw Liam stiffen but forged on, surprising herself with her own earnestness, “but if you want to talk about anything that happened—in Turkey or Shanghai or otherwise—I just—I’m here for you, okay? That’s all.”

  For a moment, she thought Liam looked even sadder—but not mad, so that was a relief. He nodded, and after a moment, gave her the world’s tiniest crooked smile. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

  They walked down a long corridor lined with stone arches—“The Hall of Honour,” Jeanne mentioned, helpfully—before Jeanne paused in front of two massive doors, stepped aside, and gestured them through with a flourish.

  Sal had been preparing herself for disappointment, considering the Black Archives—but the library was gorgeous. It was much smaller than what she was used to, but it reminded her of the library in the animated Beauty and the Beast, and she found herself half-expecting the circular room to slowly pan around her. An architectural purist might have disparaged the mishmash of styles making up High Victorian Gothic Revival, but to Sal it just looked grand: The domed ceiling vaulted above them into a bright cupola, and the arched windows above the highest line of books were white with light. It made Sal think of cathedrals—not the ones she’d grown accustomed to, but what she used to imagine as a girl a cathedral might look like.

  At the center of the room was a white marble statue of a young Queen Victoria; beneath her, an even younger brown woman with tightly braided black hair sat at a desk, reading. She looked up when they came in, then stood to greet them.

  “Welcome to the library,” said Jeanne, lovingly. “Aisha,” she continued, nodding to the woman behind the desk, “this is Asanti, the friend I mentioned, and her associates, Sal and Liam.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Aisha said, with an air that made Sal think beyond polite and land at courteous.

  “Aisha’s one of our work-study interns,” said Jeanne, “and doing a splendid job! She’s been researching the fire of 1916, putting together a display for the hundredth anniversary. I thought,” she said, turning to Asanti now, “she might take your associates on a tour of the building while we talked about fish. You know, get the boring stuff out of the way.”

  Sal thought that if she squinted she might be catching a bit of color in Jeanne’s cheeks—and an answering enthusiasm in Asanti’s smile. She very carefully did not squint.

  “Sounds great,” said Sal. “Lead on, Aisha.”

  • • •

  Aisha proved to be a charming, knowledgeable guide: Moldings, modillions, all the magnificent minutiae of an old public building came alive through her anecdotes. Unlike most tour guides in Sal’s admittedly limited experience, Aisha seemed happy to go off-book.

  “So you’re staying in the Château Laurier?” she asked as they strolled, a hint of mischief in her voice. “The stories about that building are way more fun than about this one.”

  Sal raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Sure. You know it’s named after Sir Wilfrid Laurier, the guy on the five-dollar bill? Only he didn’t want it named after him at all. But the man building the hotel, Charles Hays, wrote him this amazing letter—let me see if I remember it—” Aisha straightened her back and adopted a pose suggesting oration.

  “‘The proposed name of Château Laurier for our hotel in Ottawa has been received with such general satisfaction that I feel sure it would be a very unpopular thing for us to now make a change therein, and I hope when the hotel is completed, you will find it to be all that one could wish to make it worthy of the name.’ He later died on the Titanic. Hays, I mean, not Laurier.”

  Liam blinked. “Seriously?”

  “Literally a few days before the hotel was supposed to open! They delayed it by a few months out of respect for the family. And don’t believe what the boat tours tell you about the delay being about furniture—it’s nonsense. Also, it’s probably not haunted.”

  “I take it this isn’t your first front-line tourism gig,” said Sal. Aisha grinned.

  “No, that honor belongs to the Haunted Walk of Ottawa. Which,” she said, dropping her voice, “is still the best tour in town, for my money—all the weird histories and creepy incidents around public buildings.”

  “What about Parliament?” asked Liam. “Any stories about it being haunted?”

  Aisha chuckled. “It’s so not-haunted that we used to make jokes about it at my other job—politicians favor skeletons in closets, that sort of thing. But there are literally zero stories about anything weird or supernatural happening here. Maybe the old Parliament was haunted and all the ghosts got burned out of a home.”

  “That’s a little weird, isn’t it?” said Sal. “That there are no stories? I figured with the fire and everything, there’d be at least a few.”

  Aisha sobered with a suddenness Sal found surprising, and shook her head. “No. What you have to understand is that ghost stories need distance. I’ve had great-grandchildren of some of the people who died in that fire on this tour. Ghost stories are only fun when you’re not implying someone’s dearly departed grandmother’s stuck around to knock on the walls, you know? It’s disrespectful.”

  “Could you tell us more?” asked Liam, catching Sal’s eye. “About the fire? What caused it?”

  “No one really knows, even today,” said Aisha, almost apologetically. “We know it started in the House of Commons’ reading room—this huge, well-ventilated space over that way.” She gestured toward the Commons chamber. “We know it got out of control really fast. At the time everyone strongly suspected German arsonists, because of the First World War—they even rounded up people of German descent for questioning, in an early instance of ethnic profiling.” Sal had to admire the deliberate neutrality with which Aisha made the remark; it was like watching a ballerina en pointe. “They never decided conclusively whether it was arson or someone being careless with matches or cigar ash in the reading room. But seven people died, and everything but the library burned.”

  “That seems … so unlikely,” said Sal, carefully. Aisha shrugged.

  “That part’s no mystery; a clerk, Michael MacCormac, ordered the iron doors to be shut before the flames could reach the library. He was made a member of the Order of the British Empire for it.”

  They’
d completed their circuit, having arrived back at the library’s entrance. Liam frowned, looking at it.

  “Are the iron doors still there?” he asked. “I see only wooden ones.”

  “They look like wood,” said Aisha, approaching them, “but they’re iron. Listen.” She knocked, and the sound had the unmistakeable ring of metal to it. “Enough to keep fire and fairies out. In fact,” she smiled a little, “maybe that’s what stopped the fire—the Honourable E.M. MacDonald is on record as saying he believed ‘that fire was not due to purely natural causes’ and that it proliferated with ‘perfectly marvellous rapidity.’ So, who knows …”

  As Sal and Liam stared, Aisha burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it—old habits. Obviously it was someone’s match or cigar—who’d own up to smoking in the reading room after accidentally burning Parliament to the ground? But there wasn’t enough evidence left to determine anything either way.” She peeked her head into the library. “I think you may want to hang out here a bit until Jeanne and your friend are—ah—done talking about fish.”

  “So,” said Sal, “I guess Parliament wasn’t in session that night, if only seven people died?”

  “Well, yes and no,” said Aisha. “It was technically in session, but hardly anyone was there because the subject under discussion was—well, fish, actually.” She bit back a smile. “Way less interesting in those days, though. The Honorable—amazingly named—Bowman Brown Law was reported as saying, ‘I have been very sorry to notice during the years I have had the privilege of sitting in this House that when our fishing industry is being discussed very few members stay in the chamber.’ The fishing industry being boring saved a lot of lives, I guess. Cost him his, though—he died that night.”

  “You have a really good memory for this stuff,” Sal observed. Aisha grinned, a little sheepishly.

  “All part of the skill set. Also it’s the air I’ve been breathing for the last few months. Kind of looking forward to it being over, to be honest.” A door opened across the room, and Jeanne and Asanti stepped out, still chattering merrily with each other. Aisha smiled. “Speaking of which, I should probably get back to work. Unless there’s anything else I can help you with?”