by Paula Guran
Laszlo buckled the scabbard into his belt and covered it with his cloak. The armor still left him feeling vaguely ridiculous, but at least he trusted his steel. Thus protected, layered head to toe in leather, enchantments, and weapons, he was at last ready for the final challenge each fifth-year student faced if they wanted to return for a sixth.
Today, Laszlo Jazera would return a library book.
The Living Library of Hazar was visible from anywhere in the city, a vast onyx cube that hung in the sky like a square moon, directly over the towers of the university’s western campus. Laszlo and Casimir hurried out of their dorm and into the actual shadow of the library, a darkness that bisected Hazar as the sun rose toward noon and was eclipsed by the cube.
There was no teleportation between campuses for students. Few creatures in the universe are lazier than magicians with studies to keep them busy indoors, and the masters of the university ensured that aspirants would preserve at least some measure of physical virtue by forcing them to scuttle around like ordinary folk. Scuttle was precisely what Laszlo and Casimir needed to do, in undignified haste, in order to reach the library for their noon appointment. Across the heart of Hazar they sped.
Hazar! The City of Distractions, the most perfect mechanism ever evolved for snaring the attention of young people like the two cloaked aspirants! The High University, a power beyond governments, sat at the nexus of gates to fifty known worlds, and took in the students of eight thinking species. Hazar existed not just to serve the university’s practical needs, but to sift heroic quantities of valuables out of the student body by catering to its less practical desires.
Laszlo and Casimir passed whorehouses, gambling dens, fighting pits, freak shows, pet shops, concert halls, and private clubs. There were restaurants serving a hundred cuisines, and bars serving a thousand liquors, teas, dusts, smokes, and spells. Bars more than anything—bars on top of bars, bars next to bars, bars within bars. A bar for every student, a different bar for every day of the nine years most would spend in Hazar, yet Laszlo and Casimir somehow managed to ignore them all. On any other day, that would have required heroic effort, but it was exams week, and the dread magic of the last minute was in the air.
At the center of the eastern university campus, five hundred feet beneath the dark cube, was a tiny green bordered with waterfalls. No direct physical access to the Living Library was allowed, for several reasons. Instead, a single tall silver pillar stood in the middle of the grass. Without stopping to catch his breath after arrival, Laszlo placed the bare fingers of his right hand against the pillar and muttered, “Laszlo Jazera, fifth year, reporting to Master Molnar of the—”
Between blinks it was done. The grass beneath his boots became hard tile, the waterfalls become dark wood paneling on high walls and ceilings. He was in a lobby the size of a manor house, and the cool, dry air was rich with the musty scent of library stacks. There was daylight shining in from above, but it was tamed by enchanted glass and fell on the hall with the gentle amber color of good ale. Laszlo shook his head to clear a momentary sensation of vertigo, and an instant later Casimir appeared just beside him.
“Ha! Not late yet,” said Casimir, pointing to a tasteful wall clock where tiny blue spheres of light floated over the symbols that indicated seven minutes to noon. “We won’t be early enough to shove our noses up old Molnar’s ass like eager little slaves, but we won’t technically be tardy. Come on. Which gate?”
“Ahhh, Manticore.”
Casimir all but dragged Laszlo to the right, down the long circular hallway that ringed the innards of the library. Past the Wyvern Gate they hurried, past the Chimaera Gate, past the reading rooms, past a steady stream of fellow Aspirants, many of them armed and girded for the very same errand they were on. Laszlo picked up instantly on the general atmosphere of nervous tension, as sensitive as a prey animal in the middle of a spooked herd. Final exams were out there, prowling, waiting to tear the weak and sickly out of the mass.
On the clock outside the gate to the Manticore Wing of the library, the little blue flame was just floating past the symbol for high noon when Laszlo and Casimir skidded to a halt before a single tall figure.
“I see you two aspirants have chosen to favor us with a dramatic last-minute arrival,” said the man. “I was not aware this was to be a drama exam.”
“Yes, Master Molnar. Apologies, Master Molnar,” said Laszlo and Casimir in unison.
Hargus Molnar, Master Librarian, had a face that would have been at home in a gallery of military statues, among dead conquerors casting their permanent scowls down across the centuries. Lean and sinewy, with close-cropped gray hair and a dozen visible scars, he wore a use-seasoned suit of black leather and silvery mail. Etched on his cuirass was a stylized scroll, symbol of the Living Library, surmounted by the phrase Auvidestes, Gerani, Molokare. The words were Alaurin, the formal language of scholars, and they formed the motto of the Librarians:
RETRIEVE. RETURN. SURVIVE.
“May I presume,” said Molnar, sparing neither Aspirant the very excellent disdainful stare he’d cultivated over decades of practice, “that you have familiarized yourselves with the introductory materials that were provided to you last month?
“Yes, Master Molnar. Both of us,” said Casimir. Laszlo was pleased to see that Casimir’s swagger had prudently evaporated for the moment.
“Good.” Molnar spread his fingers and words of white fire appeared in the air before him, neatly organized paragraphs floating vertically in the space between Laszlo’s forehead and navel. “This is your Statement of Intent; namely, that you wish to enter the Living Library directly as part of an academic requirement. I’ll need your sorcerer’s marks here.”
Laszlo reached out to touch the letters where Molnar indicated, feeling a warm tingle on his fingertips. He closed his eyes and visualized his First Secret Name, part of his private identity as a wizard, a word-symbol that could leave an indelible imprint of his personality without actually revealing itself to anyone else. This might seem like a neat trick, but when all was said and done it was mostly used for occasional bits of magical paperwork, and for bar tabs.
“And here,” said Molnar, moving his own finger. “This is a Statement of Informed Acceptance of Risk . . . and here, this absolves the custodial staff of any liability should you injure yourself by being irretrievably stupid . . . and this one, which certifies that you are armed and equipped according to your own comfort.”
Laszlo hesitated for a second, bit the inside of his left cheek, and gave his assent. When Casimir had done the same, Molnar snapped his fingers and the letters of fire vanished. At the same instant, the polished wooden doors of the Manticore Gate rumbled apart. Laszlo glanced at the inner edges of the doors and saw that, beneath the wooden veneer, each had a core of some dark metal a foot thick. He’d never once been past that gate, or any like it—aspirants were usually confined to the reading rooms, where their requests for materials were passed to the library staff.
“Come then, “ said Molnar, striding through the gate. “You’ll be going in with two other students, already waiting inside. Until I escort you back out this Gate, you may consider your exam to be in progress.”
Past the Manticore Gate lay a long, vault-ceilinged room in which Indexers toiled amongst thousands of scrolls and card-files. Unlike the Librarians, the Indexers preferred comfortable blue robes to armor, but they were all visibly armed with daggers and hatchets. Furthermore, in niches along the walls, Laszlo could see spears, truncheons, mail vests, and helmets readily accessible on racks.
“I envy your precision, friend Laszlo.”
The gravelly voice that spoke those words was familiar, and Laszlo turned to the left to find himself staring up into the gold-flecked eyes of a lizard about seven feet tall. The creature had a chest as broad as a doorway under shoulders to match, and his gleaming scales were the red of a desert sunset. He wore a sort of thin quilted armor over everything but his muscular legs and feet, which ended in sick
le-shaped claws the size of Laszlo’s stilettos. The reptile’s cloak was specially tailored to part over his long, sinuous tail and hang with dignity.
“Lev,” said Laszlo. “Hi! What precision?”
“Your ability to sleep late and still arrive within a hair’s breadth of accruing penalties for your tardiness. Your laziness is . . . artistic.”
“The administration rarely agrees.” Laszlo was deeply pleased to see Inappropriate Levity Bronzeclaw, “Lev” to everyone at the university. Lev’s people, dour and dutiful, gave their adolescents names based on perceived character flaws, so the wayward youths would supposedly dwell upon their correction until granted more honorable adult names. Lev was a mediocre sorcerer, very much of Laszlo’s stripe, but his natural weaponry was one hell of an asset when hungry weirdness might be trying to bite your head off.
“Oh, I doubt they were sleeping.” Another new voice, female, smooth and lovely. It belonged to Yvette d’Courin, who’d been hidden from Laszlo’s view behind Lev, and could have remained hidden behind a creature half the lizard’s size. Yvette’s skin was darker than the armor she wore, a more petite version of Laszlo and Casimir’s gear, and her ribbon-threaded hair was as black as her aspirant’s cloak. “Not Laz and Caz. Boys of such a sensitive disposition, why, we all know they were probably tending to certain . . . extracurricular activities.” She made a strangely demure series of sucking sounds, and some gestures with her hands that were not demure at all.
“Yvette, you gorgeous little menace to my academic rank,” said Casimir, “that is most assuredly not true. However, if it were, I reckon that would make Laszlo and myself the only humans present to have ever seen a grown man with his clothes off.”
Laszlo felt a warm, unexpected sensation in the pit of his stomach, and it took him a moment of confusion to identify it. Great gods, was that relief? Hope, even? Yvette d’Courin was a gifted aspirant, Casimir’s match at the very least. Whatever might be waiting inside the Living Library, some bureaucratic stroke of luck had put him on a team with two natural magicians and a lizard that could kick a hole through a brick wall. All he had to do to earn a sixth year was stay out of their way and try to look busy!
Yvette retaliated at Casimir with another series of gestures, some of which might have been the beginning of a minor spell, but she snapped to attention as Master Molnar loudly cleared his throat.
“When you’re all ready, of course,” he drawled. “I do so hate to burden you with anything so tedious as the future of your thaumaturgical careers—”
“Yes, Master Molnar. Sorry, Master Molnar,” said the students, now a perfectly harmonized quartet of apology.
“This is the Manticore Index,” said Molnar, spreading his arms. “One of eleven such indices serving to catalog, however incompletely, the contents of the Living Library. Take a good look around. Unless you choose to join the ranks of the Librarians after surviving your nine years, you will never be allowed into this area again. Now, Aspirant Jazera, can you tell me how many catalogued items the Living Library is believed to contain?”
“Uh,” said Laszlo, who’d wisely refreshed his limited knowledge of the library’s innards the previous night, “About ten million, I think?”
“You think?” said Molnar. “I’ll believe that when further evidence is presented, but you are nearly correct. At a minimum, this collection consists of some ten million scrolls and bound volumes. The majority of which, Aspirant Bronzeclaw, are what?”
“Grimoires,” hissed the lizard.
“Correct. Grimoires, the personal references and notebooks of magicians from across all the known worlds, some more than four thousand years old. Some of them quite famous . . . or infamous. When the High University of Hazar was founded, a grimoire collection project was undertaken. An effort to create the greatest magical library in existence, to unearth literally every scrap of arcane knowledge that could be retrieved from the places where those scraps had been abandoned, forgotten, or deliberately hidden. It took centuries. It was largely successful.”
Molnar turned and began moving down the central aisle between the tables and shelves where Indexers worked, politely ignoring him. No doubt they’d heard this same lecture many times already.
“Largely successful,” Molnar continued, “at creating one hell of a mess! Aspirant d’Courin, what is a grimoire?”
“Well,” she began, seemingly taken aback by the simplicity of the question. “As you said, a magician’s personal reference. Details of spells, and experiments—”
“A catalog of a magician’s private obsessions,” said Molnar.
“I suppose, sir.”
“More private than any diary, every page stained with a sorcerer’s hidden character, their private demons, their wildest ambitions. Some magicians produce collections, others produce only a single book, but nearly all of them produce something before they die. Chances are the four of you will produce something, in your time. Some of you have certainly begun them by now.”
Laszlo glanced around at the others, wondering. He had a few basic project journals, notes on the simple magics he’d been able to grasp. Nothing that could yet be accused of showing any ambition. But Casimir, or Yvette? Who could know?
“Grimoires,” continued Molnar, “are firsthand witnesses to every triumph and every shame of their creators. They are left in laboratories, stored haphazardly next to untold powers, exposed to magical materials and energies for years. Their pages are saturated with arcane dust and residue, as well as deliberate sorceries. They are magical artifacts, uniquely infused with what can only be called the divine madness of individuals such as yourselves. They evolve, as many magical artifacts do, a faint quasi-intelligence. A distinct sort of low cunning that your run-of-the mill chair or rock or library book does not possess.
“Individually, this characteristic is harmless. But when you take grimoires . . . powerful grimoires, from the hands and minds of powerful magicians, and you store them together by the hundreds, by the thousands, by the tens of thousands, by the millions . . . ”
This last word was almost shouted, and Molnar’s arms were raised to the ceiling again, for dramatic effect. This speech had lost the dry tones of lecture and acquired the dark passion of theatrical oration. Whatever Master Molnar might have thought of the aspirants entrusted to his care, he was clearly a believer in his work.
“You need thick walls,” he said, slowly, with a thin smile on his lips. “Thick walls, and rough Librarians to guard them. Millions of grimoires, locked away together. Each one is a mote of quasi-intelligence, a speck of possibility, a particle of magic. Bring them together in a teeming library, in the stacks, and you have . . . ”
“What?” said Laszlo, buying into the drama despite himself.
“Not a mind,” said Molnar, meeting his eyes like a carnival fortune-teller making a sales pitch. “Not quite a mind, not a focused intelligence. But a jungle! A jungle that dreams, and those dreams are currents of deadly strangeness. A Living Library . . . within our power to contain, but well beyond our power to control.”
Molnar stopped beside a low table, on which were four reinforced leather satchels, each containing a single large book. Pinned to each satchel was a small pile of handwritten notes.
“A collection of thaumaturgical knowledge so vast and so deep,” said Molnar, “is far, far too useful a thing to give up merely because it has become a magical disaster area perfectly capable of killing anyone who enters it unprepared!”
Laszlo felt his sudden good cheer slinking away. All of this, in a much less explicit form, was common knowledge among the aspirants of the High University. The Living Library was a place of weirdness, of mild dangers, sure, but to hear Molnar speak of it . . .
“You aspirants have reaped the benefit of the library for several years now.” Molnar smiled and brushed a speck of imaginary dust from the cuirass of his Librarian’s armor. “You have filed your requests for certain volumes, and waited the days or weeks required for the library sta
ff to fetch them out. And, in the reading rooms, you have studied them in perfect comfort, because a grimoire safely removed from the Living Library is just another book.
“The masters of the university, as one of their more commendable policies, have decreed that all aspirant magicians need to learn to appreciate the sacrifices of the library staff that make this singular resource available. Before you can proceed to the more advanced studies of your final years, you are required to enter the Living Library, just once, to assist us in the return of a volume to its rightful place in the collection. That is all. That is the extent of your fifth-year exam. On the table beside me you will see four books in protective satchels. Take one, and handle it with care. Until those satchels are empty, your careers at the High University are in the balance.”
Lev passed the satchels out one by one. Laszlo received his and examined the little bundle of notes that came with it. Written in several different hands, they named the borrower of the grimoire as a third-year aspirant he didn’t know, and described the process of hunting the book down, with references to library sections, code phrases, and number sequences that Laszlo couldn’t understand.
“The library is so complex,” said Molnar, “and has grown so strange in its ways that physical surveillance of the collection has been impractical for centuries. We rely on the index enchantments, powerful processes of our most orderly sorcery, to give us the information that the Indexers maintain here. From that information, we plan our expeditions, and map the best ways to go about fetching an item from the stacks, or returning one.”
“Master Molnar, sir, forgive me,” said Casimir. “Is that a focus for the index enchantments over there?”
Laszlo followed Casimir’s pointing hand, and in a deeper niche behind one of the little armories along the walls, he saw a recessed column of black glass, behind which soft pulses of blue light rose and fell.