by Scott Lynch
Still, they seemed to be making progress—there could only be so many vocabuvores, and Laszlo began to feel a curious exaltation as the ranks of their brutish foes thinned. Just a few more for him, a few more for the librarians, a few more for Lev, and the fight was all but--
“KILL BOY,” roared the commanding vocabuvore, the deep-voiced one that had launched the attack moments earlier. At last it joined the fight proper, bounding out of the bookcases, twice the size of any of its brethren, more like a pallid gray bear than anything else. “Kill boy with spells! Kill girl!”
Heeding the call, the surviving vocabuvores abandoned all other opponents and dove toward Casimir and Yvette, forcing the two aspirants back against the shelf under the desperate press of their new surge. Laszlo and Lev, caught off guard by the instant withdrawal of their remaining foes, stumbled clumsily into one another.
The huge vocabuvore charged across the aisle, and Astriza and Molnar moved to intercept it. Laszlo watched in disbelief as they were simply shoved over by stiff smacks from the creature’s massive forelimbs. It even carried one of Astrizas’s blades away with it, embedded in a sack of oozing gristle along its right side, without visible effect. It dove into the bookcases behind the one Casimir and Yvette were standing against, and disappeared momentarily from sight.
The smaller survivors had pinned Yvette between the shelf and her shield; like an insect under glass, she was being crushed behind her own magic. Having neutralized her protection, they finally seized Laszlo’s arms, interfering with his ability to cast spells. Pushing frantically past the smoldering shells of their dead comrades, they seemed to have abandoned any hope of new words in exchange for a last act of vengeance against Casimir.
But there were only a bare dozen left, and Laszlo and Lev had regained their balance. Moving in unison, they charged through the smoke and blood to fall on the rear of the pack of surviving vocabuvores. There they slew unopposed, and if only they could slay fast enough... claws and sword sang out together, ten. And again, eight, and again, six…
Yvette’s shield buckled at last, and she and Casimir slid sideways with claws at their throats. But now there were only half a dozen, and then there were four, then two. A triumphant moment later Laszlo, gasping for breath, grabbed the last of the creatures by the back of its leathery neck and hauled it off his chambers-mate. Laszlo drove his sword into the vocabuvore’s back, transfixing it through whatever approximation of a heart it possessed, and flung it down to join the rest of its dead brood.
“Thanks,” coughed Casimir, reaching over to help Yvette sit up. Other than a near-total drenching with the nauseating contents of dead vocabuvores, the two of them seemed to have escaped the worst possibilities.
“Big one,” gasped Yvette. “Find the big one, kill it quickly—“
At that precise instant the big one struck the bookcase from behind, heaving it over directly on top of them, a sudden rain of books followed by a huge dark blur that slammed Casimir and Yvette out of sight beneath it. Laszlo stumbled back in shock as the big vocabuvore stepped onto the tumbled bookcase, stomping its feet like a jungle predator gloating over a fresh kill.
“Casimir,” Laszlo screamed. “Yvette!”
“No,” cried Master Molnar, lurching back to his feet. “No! Proper nouns are powerful words!”
Alas, what was said could not be unsaid. The flesh of the last vocabuvore rippled as though a hundred burrowing things were about to erupt from within, but the expression on its baleful face was sheer ecstasy. New masses of flesh billowed forth, new cords of muscle and sinew wormed their way out of thin air, new rows of shark-like teeth rose gleaming in the black pit of the thing’s mouth. In a moment it had gained several feet of height and girth, and the top of its head was now not far below the stones that floored the gallery above.
With a foot far weightier than before, the thing stomped the bookcase again, splintering the ancient wood. Lev flung his mighty scarlet-scaled bulk against the creature without hesitation, but it had already eclipsed his strength. It caught him in mid-air, turned, and flung him spinning head-over-tail into Molnar and Astriza. Still dull from their earlier clubbing, the two librarians failed spectacularly to duck, and four hundred pounds of whirling reptilian aspirant took them down hard.
That left Laszlo, facing the creature all alone, gore-slick sword shaking in his hand, with sorcerous powers about adequate, on his best day, to heat tea or chill beer.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered.
“Known,” chuckled the creature. Its voice was now a bass rumble, deep as oncoming thunder. “Now will kill boy. Now EASY.”
“Uh,” said Laszlo, scanning the smoke-swirled area for any surprise, any advantage, any unused weapon. While it was flattering to imagine himself charging in and dispatching the thing with his sword, the treatment it had given Lev was not at all encouraging in that respect. He flicked his gaze from the bookshelves to the ceiling— and then it hit him, a sensation that would have been familiar to any aspirant ever graduated from the High University. The inherent magic of all undergraduates— the magic of the last minute. The power to embrace any solution, no matter how insane or desperate.
“No,” Laszlo yelled. “No! Spare the boy!”
“Kill boy,” roared the creature, no more scintillating a conversationalist for all its physical changes.
“No.” Laszlo tossed his sword aside and beckoned to the vocabuvore. “Spare the boy. I will give new words!”
“I kill boy, then you give new words!”
“Spare the boy. I will give many new words. I will give all my words.”
“No,” howled Lev, “No, you can’t—“
“Trust me,” said Laszlo. He picked a book out of the mess at his feet and waved it at the vocabuvore. “Come here. I’ll read to you!”
“Book of words…” the creature hissed. It took a step forward.
“Yes. Many books, new words. Come to me, and they’re yours.”
“New words!.” Another step. The creature was off the bookcase now, towering over him. Ropy strands of hot saliva tumbled from the corners of its mouth… good gods, Laszlo thought, he’d really made it hungry.
“Occultation!” he said, by way of a test.
The creature growled with pleasure, shuddering, and more mass boiled out of its grotesque frame. The change was not as severe as that caused by proper nouns, but it was still obvious. The vocabuvore’s head moved an inch closer to the ceiling. Laszlo took a deep breath, and then began shouting as rapidly as he could:
“Fuliginous! Occluded! Uh, canticle! Portmanteau! Tea cozy!” He racked his mind. He needed obscure words, complex words, words unlikely to have been uttered by cautious librarians prowling the stacks. “Indeterminate! Mendacious! Vestibule! Tits, testicles, aluminum, heliotrope, narcolepsy!”
The vocabuvore panted in pleasure, gorging itself on the stream of fresh words. Its stomach doubled in size, tripled, becoming a sack of flab that could have supplied fat for ten thousand candles. Inch by inch it surged outward and upward. Its head bumped into the stone ceiling and it glanced up, as though realizing for the first time just how cramped its quarters were.
“Adamant,” cried Laszlo, backing away from the creature’s limbs, now as thick as tree trunks. “Resolute, unyielding, unwavering, reckless, irresponsible, foolhardy!”
“Noooo,” yowled the creature, clearly recognizing its predicament and struggling to fight down the throes of ecstasy from its unprecedented feast. Its unfolding masses of new flesh were wedging it more and more firmly in place between the floor and the heavy stones of the overhead gallery, sorcery-laid stones that had stood fast for dozens of centuries. “Stop, stop, stop!”
“Engorgement,” shouted Laszlo, all but dancing with excitement, “Avarice! Rapaciousness! Corpulence! Superabundance! Comeuppance!”
“Nggggggh,” the vocabuvore, now elephant-sized, shrieked in a deafening voice. It pushed against the overhead surface with hands six or seven feet across. To no avail— its hea
d bent sideways at an unnatural angle until its spine, still growing, finally snapped against the terrible pressure of floor and ceiling. The huge arms fell to the ground with a thud that jarred Laszlo’s teeth, and a veritable waterfall of dark blood began to pour from the corner of the thing’s slack mouth.
Not stopping to admire this still-twitching edifice of flesh, Laszlo ran around it, reaching the collapsed bookcase just as Lev did. Working together, they managed to heave it up, disgorging a flow of books that slid out around their ankles. Laszlo grinned uncontrollably when Casimir and Yvette pushed themselves shakily up to their hands and knees. Lev pulled Yvette off the ground and she tumbled into his arms, laughing, while Laszlo heaved Casimir up.
“I do apologize,” said Caz, “for nearly every word of criticism I’ve ever offered on any dissertation you’ve ever scribbled.”
“Tonight we will get drunk,” yelled Lev. The big lizard’s friendly slap between Laszlo’s shoulders almost knocked him into the spot previously occupied by Yvette. “In your human fashion, without forethought, in strange neighborhoods, so that the experience will yield anecdotes for future mortification—“
“Master Molnar!” said Yvette. In an instant the four aspirants had turned and come to attention like nervous students of arms.
Molnar and Astriza were supporting one another gingerly, sharing Molnar’s staff as a sort of crutch. Each had received a thoroughly bloody nose, and Molnar’s left eye was swelling shut under livid bruises.
“My deepest apologies,” hissed Lev. “I fear that I have done you some injury—“
“Hardly your fault, Aspirant Bronzeclaw,” said Molnar. “You merely served as an involuntary projectile.”
Laszlo felt the exhilaration of the fight draining from him, and the familiar sensations of tired limbs and fresh bruises took its place. Everyone seemed able to stand on their own two feet, and everyone was a mess. Torn cloaks, slashed armor, bent scabbards, myriad cuts and welts—all of it under a thorough coating of black vocabuvore blood, still warm and sopping. Even Casimir— no, thought Laszlo, the bastard had done it again. He was as disgusting as anyone, but somewhere, between blinks, he’d reassumed his ancestral mantle of sly contentment.
“Nicely done, Laszlo,” said Astriza. “Personally, I’m glad Lev bowled me over. If I’d been on my feet when you offered to feed that thing new words, I’d have tried to punch your lights out. My compliments on fast thinking.”
“Agreed,” said Molnar. “That was the most singular entanglement I’ve seen in all my years of minding student book-return expeditions. All of you did fine work in putting down a real threat.”
“And importing a fair amount of new disorder to the stacks,” said Yvette. Laszlo followed her gaze around the site of the battle. Between the sprawled tribe of slain vocabuvores, the rivers of blood, the haze of thaumaturgical smoke, and the smashed shelf, sixty-one Manticore Northwest looked worse than all of them put together.
“My report will describe the carnage as “regretfully unavoidable,” said Master Molnar with a smile. “Besides, we’ve cleaned up messes before. Everything here will be back in place before the end of the day.”
Laszlo imagined that he could actually feel his spirits sag. Spend all day in here, cleaning up? Even with magic, it would take hours, and gods knew what else might jump them while they worked. Evidently, his face betrayed his feelings, for Molnar and Astriza laughed in unison.
“Though not because of anything you four will be doing,” said Molnar. “Putting a section back into operation after a major incident is librarian’s work. You four are finished here. I believe you now understand this place, and our role in tending it, marginally better than you did before. Aspirant Bronzeclaw’s suggestion is a sensible one, and you all deserve to put it into practice as soon as possible. Retrieve your personal equipment. Let’s get you back to daylight.”
◆◆◆
If the blue-robed functionaries in the Manticore Index were alarmed to see the six of them return drenched in gore, they certainly didn’t show it. The aspirants tossed their book-satchels and lantern fragments aside, and began to loosen or remove gloves, neck-guards, cloaks, and amulets. Laszlo released some of the buckles on his cuirass and sighed with pleasure.
“Shall we meet in an hour?” said Lev. “At the eastern commons, after we’ve had a chance to, ah, thoroughly bathe?”
“Make it two,” said Yvette. “Your people don’t have any hair to deal with.”
“We were in there for five hours,” said Casimir, glancing at a wall clock. “I scarcely believe it.”
“Well, time slows down when everything around you is trying to kill you,” said Astriza. “Master Molnar, do you want me to put together a team to work on the mess in Manticore Northwest?”
“Yes, notify the night staff. I’ll be back to lead it myself. I should only require a few hours.” He gestured at his left eye, now swollen shut. “Another quick dash through the infirmary. I’m well-known there.”
“ Of course. And the, ah…”
“Indeed.” Molnar sighed. “You don’t mind taking care of it, if—“
“Yes, if,” said Astriza. “Hopefully just if. I’ll take care of all the details. Get that eye looked at, sir.”
“We all leaving together?” said Yvette.
“I need to grab my impression device,” said Casimir, pointing to the glass niche that housed a focus for the index enchantments. “And, ah, study it for a few moments. You don’t need to wait around for my sake. I’ll meet you later.”
“Farewell, then! Later! Inebriation and glorious regret!” said Lev. He and Yvette left the Manticore Index together.
“Well, my boys, you did some bold work in there,” said Molnar, staring at Laszlo and Casimir with his good eye. Suddenly he seemed much older to Laszlo, old and tired. “I would wish… that boldness and wisdom might always go hand in hand for the pair of you.”
“Thank you, Master Molnar,” said Casimir. “That’s very kind of you.”
Molnar seemed to wait an uncommon length of time before he nodded, but nod he did, and then he walked out of the room after Lev and Yvette.
“You staying too, Laz?” Casimir had peeled off his bloody gauntlets and rubbed his hands clean. “You don’t need to, really.”
“It’s fine,” said Laszlo, curious once again about Casimir’s pet project. “I can stand to be a reeking mess for a few extra minutes.”
“Suit yourself.”
While Casimir began to fiddle with his white crystal, Astriza conjured several documents out of letters that floated in the air before her. “You two take as long as you need,” she said distractedly. “I’ve got a pile of work orders to put together.”
Casimir reached into a belt pouch, drew out a small container of greasy white paint, and began to quickly sketch designs on the floor in front of the pulsing glass column. Laszlo frowned as he studied the symbols— he recognized some of them, variations on warding and focusing sigils that any first-year aspirant could use to contain or redirect magical energy. But these were far more complex, like combinations of notes that any student could puzzle out but only a virtuoso could actually play. Compared to Laszlo, Casimir was such a virtuoso.
“Caz,” said Laszlo, “what exactly are you doing?”
“It’s more or less irreducibly complex.” Casimir finished his design at last, a lattice of arcane symbols so advanced and tight-woven that Laszlo’s eyes crossed as he tried to puzzle it out. As a final touch, Casimir drew a simple white circle around himself, the traditional basis for any protective magical ward. “So let’s just summarize it as graduating early.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry, Laszlo. You’ve been a good chambers-mate. I wish you’d just left with the rest.” Casimir smiled at him sadly, and there was something new and alien in his manner—condescension. Dismissal. He’d always been pompous and cocksure, but gods, he’d never looked at Laszlo like this. With pity, as though he were a favor
ite pet about to be thrown out of the house.
“Caz, this isn’t funny.”
“If you were more sensitive, I think you’d already understand. But I know you can’t feel it like I do. Yvette felt it. But she’s like the rest of you, sewn up in all the little damn rules you make for yourselves to paint timidity as a virtue.”
“Felt what—“
“The depth of the magic in this place. The currents. An ocean of power, fermenting for a thousand years, lashing out at random like some headless animal, and all they can do with it is keep it bottled up and hope it doesn’t bite them too sharply. It needs a will, Laszlo! It needs a mind to guide it, to wrestle it down, to put it to constructive use.”
“You’re kidding.” Laszlo’s mouth was suddenly dry. “This is a finals-week joke, Caz. You’re kidding.”
“No.” Casimir gestured at the glass focus. “It’s all here already, everything necessary. If you’d had any ambition at all you would have seen the hints in the introductory materials. The index enchantments are like a nervous system, in touch with everything, and they can be used to communicate with everything. I’m going to bend this place, Laz. Bend it around my finger and make it something new.”
“It’ll kill you!”
“It could win.” Casimir flashed his teeth, a grin as predatory as any worn by the vocabuvores that had tried to devour him less than an hour before. “But so what? Let’s say I graduate with honors, I go back to my people, and what then? Fighting demons, writing books, advising ministers? To hell with it. In the long run I’m still a footnote. But if I can seize this, rule this, that’s more power than ten thousand lifetimes of dutiful slavery.”
“Aspirant Vrana,” said Astriza. She had come up behind Laszlo, so quietly that he hadn’t heard her approach. “Casimir. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about this?”