by Jem I Kelley
“What about this – Azabar,” asked Bliss, mentioning the name for the first time since Spud had whispered it with his dying breath. We going to try to discover what it means?”
“Of course,” said Aden.
Hacknor gave them the task of delivering two crates of candles from Cort the Tallow & Candlemaker’s stall to Priest Hopily in the basement of Haverland Cathedral.
Hopily was again with Marti in the catacombs. Under the priest's instructions the friends put the crates of candles alongside the stores of paper, then went to talk to Marti.
There were two skeletons with the men and Bliss watched them suspiciously. Both skeletons were dressed in blue overalls with blue sacks sewn over their heads. It occurred to Aden that having no eye-balls, meant that perhaps skeletons didn’t see in the normal sense of the word; so that having cloth over their eye sockets didn’t ‘blind’ them.
One of the skeletons held a mallet; the other a sack on his back fastened by straps, similar to the equipment used by Hamble when he street-cleaned.
Marti nodded at the friends and gave them a shrewd look.
“Hello friends. I have been hearing that you are again being brave?”
Aden felt himself blush: “Well, I wouldn’t call it that.”
Bliss walked around the skeletons, staring at them.
“A lot of people wouldn’t call it that.”
Hopily shook his head and fingered the circle on the end of the chain about his neck: the circle symbolising the scorch marks left by the pyre that had burnt the saviour, Malackeen.
“Grimus Spalding. Who would have suspected such an upstanding member of our community to be…?” He let the words trail.
“Aden and Bliss,” said the large Novogoradian cheerfully, patting the friends so hard on the backs that he almost knocked them over.
Neither of the men mentioned Spud’s death and it occurred to Aden that neither of them had heard about it yet. After all, the murder had occurred the previous evening.
Hopily held his hands together, as if in prayer.
“Grimus never did donate generously to the church coffers, as opposed to other traders.”
Bliss nodded at the candles he and Aden had piled high.
“What’s with those? Got a lot more services coming up?”
“They’re a gift from our good Mr. Bart here,” said Hopily. “I believe he purchased them with proceeds from his experiments with the skeletons. Is that not so, Marti?”
“For sure. I have been successful with the skeleton experiments. The Archbishop, he has given me permission for longer trial now, yes? Indeed therefore, I have given the candle gift. Soon I will give profits proper. Hacknor from the market, he will employ two skeletons for night duty: one skeleton to keep rats away, one to clear rubbish.”
Aden looked from the skeleton with mallet to the skeleton with the sack.
“Cleaning the market is part of Hamble’s job. Does he know about the skeletons?”
Bliss looked worried.
“I hope Hacknor isn’t thinking of replacing Hamble?”
Marti made calming movements with his spade-like hands.
“No, no. Is not like that. Remember I talk to you the other day about trying a skeleton as help for Hamble? Well, I talk to market foreman about this and he explains to me that Hamble clean entire market and Embassy district alone; that he sometime work 20 hour day, yet even then rubbish build up and so could use some help.”
Aden felt unease.
“Hacknor agreed to let skeletons help Hamble? Not replace him?”
Marti dipped his head.
“Yes help, not replace. Hacknor say that porters used to have to help Hamble by clearing rubbish at start of early shift and end of later shift?”
Aden’s unease grew, he noticed Bliss's eyes narrow.
“Yeah, the porters help out at the ends of the shifts.”
“Well, now porters finish one hour earlier and for money saved you get two skeletons.”
There, I knew it, thought Aden. I knew Hacknor would pull a fast one, somehow.
“That’s an hour less a day, for those who work on the later shifts. I can see the older porters, the ones who have families, not being too happy about that.”
Bliss stuck her chin out.
“I’m not happy either. We could lose out.”
“I think I should add a word here,” said Hopily, “Hacknor has been told by the City Council that his market has been getting untidy. Hamble works long hours cleaning it, and the embassy area; yet, only gets paid the same as one of you friends. The skeletons should provide a cost-effective addition to Hacknor’s squad.”
Aden wasn’t convinced.
“Not at the expense of the rest of us.”
“Hacknor should put his hands into his pockets more,” said Bliss, “Tight fisted old git. He could afford the skeletons without having to cut the porter’s hours.”
Marti’s broad face dropped in despair and he put his hands over his eyes.
“I am sorry. I not think I would cause so much trouble. I had worried more about damage caused by Hacknor not instructing skeletons properly, not effect on other workers.”
Aden watched Marti with a critical eye and wondered whether the show of regret was genuine. He still had a hunch the man wasn’t exactly all he seemed. Bliss though seemed taken by the large Novogoradian’s angst and patted him on the shoulder.
“Those skeletons are a great idea. We’re angry with Hacknor, not you. I think he must be siphoning off the rent the stall-holders pay, to his own pocket, otherwise he’d have enough money for the skeletons and the last hour of porter’s work.”
Hopily fiddled with the holy symbol on the end of his chain and sucked in air through his hare-lip.
“Let’s not cast dispersions. We’ll give the situation a few weeks to settle. If Hacknor decides to keep the skeletons, I’ll have a word with him about the general levels of market funding.”
Aden decided to change the subject.
“Have either of you ever heard of Azabar?”
Hopily’s face went blank, “Is it a new artefact world?”
“The name, it clangs a bell. I feel sure it something in Novogoradian history perhaps? My history, not so good.” said Marti.
Aden was disappointed. Spud had mentioned 'Azabar' and 'The Threat to Haverland' in almost the same breath. Aden was sure 'Azabar' was somebody very important. Perhaps a master criminal.
“Have you got any ideas how I could find out what it means?”
Marti looked at Aden closely.
“What is this Azabar to you?”
It was a question casually put, yet, Aden sensed a feigned indifference from the man. There was a tightening about the jaws, a narrowing of the eyes. Aden kept his reply vague, hoping Bliss would keep quiet.
“I heard the word mentioned somewhere, just wondered what it meant.”
“You could speak to a librarian in the Disc-World Academy,” said Hopily thoughtfully, “or....”
“Yes?”
“You could try Priest-Archivist Thalding on the 3rd floor of the Cathedral. That’s where the church's library resides. Only the King has more written material than us. If this Azabar is anything to do with Novogorad, like Marti thinks, then Thalding should be able to tell you.”
Aden felt a flicker of hope. He’d heard the Cathedral library was well stocked. He glanced at the watching Marti and then looked back to Hopily.
“Thanks, I’ll ask him.”
Hopily picked at his robes, “Thalding is a busy man, he can be cantankerous too.”
Aden shrugged.
“Well, I suppose we can only try.”
“Thanks for the warning,” said Bliss.
Chapter 44: The Cathedral Library
Archivist Thalding was a tall man with cropped hair, a monocle in one eye and a ridiculous looking moustache waxed and twisted at each end. He looked more like a military man than a man of the cloth, but Aden remembered the adage that one shouldn’t ju
dge by looks alone.
Thalding sat behind a desk, at the front of a vast room that held racks of manuscripts and scrolls; racks so tall ladders were needed to reach the top-most shelves. Expensive glazed windows, comprised of lots of tiny pieces of glass in a framework of lead, allowed light to pierce the gloom of this dusty place. Men pottered with tomes in their hands, or sat at desks staring at scrolls.
As Aden and Bliss approached Thalding, the man gave instructions to a hunched middle-aged priest.
“What I want now is references to the activities of the Amari, outside of Haverland during the year before they disappeared,” said Thalding in a crisp manner.
“But, the references could be anywhere, in any category,” replied the man.
“That is so.”
“But, that means I have to look at each book and manuscript in the entire library.”
“There is that.”
“Can I have any help?”
Thalding puffed out his cheeks, causing his moustache to waggle.
“Were stretched enough as it is. Many more important tasks to take care of than this you know.”
To Aden’s eyes, the little priest sagged, as if he’d been full of water and a little bit just leaked out.
“I suppose I’d better start then?”
“Yes, there’s a good chap,” said Thalding, smirking.
“How long have I got?”
“A week should do it.”
“But we’ve got tens of thousands of manuscripts,” said the priest, a hint of hysteria entering his voice.
“You’re up to the job. I wouldn’t have chosen you otherwise.”
“But I normally deal with cataloguing saints of Haverland and the architecture of the churches. This isn’t my thing.”
“Nonsense man, now make a start and stop dawdling.”
“Um, excuse me,” said Aden, as the man scurried away.
Thalding turned his head and saw the friends.
“What is it? If you’re going to clean the chimneys then you don’t come here. There aren’t any fireplaces on this floor. It’s all the paper: fire hazard.”
“We’re not chimney sweeps, sir.”
“Well then what the blazes are you? Come on out with it.”
“Aden Green and Bliss Todd, we’ve come for some information.”
“Aden Green ... Bliss Todd ... erm ... rings a bell,” said Thalding. Then his back went straight and his eyes widened causing his monocle to fall, “Not the blasted friends that were in the Afternoon Herald? The ones who sunk the fishing boat!?”
Aden nodded, “We were hoping that you could tell us what Azabar meant.”
“No I can’t, now buzz off.”
Thalding put the monocle back in his eye.
“Look,” said Bliss, “We only asked you a question, you haven’t got to be rude.”
“Haven’t I?” said Thalding, with what to Aden seemed a forced sweetness. “Every priest here wants at least one report of information from me. Every Bishop two and the Archbishop: don’t even ask. Yet you expect me to drop everything for you?”
An idea came to Aden
“Have you got information on Dazarian prisons?”
“No. There, that was simple wasn’t it? We don’t have the information, so I can’t give it to you. Now get lost, pesky youths.”
Aden noticed Bliss scrunch her hands into fists and got the impression his friend was heading for trouble. He grabbed Bliss’s arm and said to Thalding: “We have.”
“Have what?”
“We have got information on prisons in Dazarian. We know everything about them. How they operate, the types of prisoners. We even know quite a bit about the lizards of the Issyrian marshes. Not many people know anything about them, because they eat humans they catch.”
Thalding looked at the friends intently.
“The Afternoon Herald article mentioned you’d been in prison. Yes. I remember when it all happened now; two years wasn’t it? Bit of an outrage?”
“We’re about the best experts on Dazarian prisons that you’re going to find,” said Aden.
Thalding twirled his moustache, and his eyes sparkled in a greedy sort of way. “I could do with a tome in the library about Dazarian prisons. Show my critics that an ex-colonel in the Haverland army was just what this library needed. Count yourself lucky. I’m going to allocate a priest to you for a few hours and the fellow’s going to learn everything he can about the Dazarian prisons. Not many people can say they’ve contributed to the church library. Well done.”
Bliss made a face.
“A few hours! Hacknor will wonder where we are.”
“Who the deuce is Hacknor?”
“Market foreman, he’s our boss on the Haverland central market.”
“Don’t worry about that,” snorted Thalding, “I’ll send someone down and tell him that for the next three or four hours, you’ll be busy on more important matters.”
“And what about the information we wanted, that we came here for?” said Aden.
Thalding blinked, and frowned. “And what was the information you came here for?”
“We want to know what or who azabar is.”
“An azabar? What’s the deuce is that?”
“That’s what we want to know,” said Bliss.
“Azabar? Never heard of the word.”
Thalding looked at the friends suspiciously.
“Where did you hear of it?”
“In the Dazarian prison,” Lied Aden smoothly.
Thalding shrugged.
“I'll make a bargain with you,” he said. “You spend three and a half hours telling my chap about Dazarian prisons, and I’ll then let him spend half an hour looking for references to azabar, for you.”
Bliss thrust her chin out.
“Half an hour? That’s not a fair swap!”
“Take it or leave it.”
They didn’t have much choice, and so agreed to the Chief Archivists offer. With a gloating expression, Thalding called over a priest called Duncan and told the man the friends were going to tell him everything about Dazarian prisons for the next three and a half hours; to make notes on all they said, so it could be penned up properly at a later date. He also told Duncan that he could spend half an hour trying to find out what an azabar was.
Duncan was a gaunt priest, with a lantern-like jaw and sunken eyes. He led the friends to a desk, took paper from inside it, a quill and small vial of ink too; and then settled down to write.
“Now,” he said, in a voice as dry as the paper before him. “Let’s begin.”
Aden and Bliss told the priest all about prison life; in much the same way as when they’d told Sergeant Plumbert, Bliss’s parents and others.
“Stew most days,” said Bliss, “Not nice, beef stew with a strong taste and dumplings, pale watery stew, with more rat than beef, and grainy hard bread to go with it.”
“Just bread for morning and supper, no butter either,” said Aden.
“The place was always hot and smelly,” said Bliss, “We were given one bucket of water a week to wash with, and a bar of that really hard soap that doesn’t rub easily.”
Unlike Plumbert, or Hamble, or Bliss’s parents; Duncan, stopped them often in their recollections.
“You said, rat stew,” said Duncan. “Did you regularly see rat put into the stew? Or did you hear rumours the meat was rat and not beef?”
“On serving duty one day, I accidentally served a rat-tail,” said Aden.
“Any other times?”
“Well, a few times when Bliss and I were helping out in the kitchens, the chunks of meat didn’t look like beef. They were too small; as they cooked they became a funny colour.”
“So, sometimes the stew wasn’t ALL beef and possibly this could have been a regularly occurrence?”
Bliss put her hands on her hips.
“What is this? Twenty questions?”
Duncan put the quill down, and regarded the friends.
“I’m taking no
tes from you about Dazarian prisons. From these notes, someone will write up a detailed account of life in these places. Others will use the account as a reference, from which other references will build. At each step, the truth may subtly distort. At least if I question you closely now, and make it as accurate as possible, fifty years later when somebody writes a ‘guide to Dazarian prisons over the years’, it will be more fact than fabrication.”
Aden shrugged, “we tell it the best we can remember.”
“Yeah!” snapped Bliss, “I don’t make up stories.”
Duncan attempted to smile, but with his gaunt face, it didn’t amount to much.
“We all remember events differently than they actually happened. Our emotions on the day, and our feelings and biases on the day we remember, all colour our recollection; as too the people we’re with when we try to recall.
For instance, if you’d done well at a school exam, Aden, you might recall your actions differently with friends that admire that sort of thing, than those who think you’re being a swot.”
“I think I get what you’re saying.”
“Excellent,” said Duncan, and proceeded to question the friends in-depth on everything heard, seen or done in prison. He took pains to cross-question them on any assertions they made, to determine whether the assertion was based on fact or rumour or guesswork; or even an over-active imagination.
The three and a half hours went quickly; Aden and Bliss felt drained at the end of it. They’d never been so closely questioned about anything; they felt that Duncan understood Dazarian prisons now, more than they did.
Duncan rolled the paper into a tube; wrapped a silk ribbon about it, and dropped it inside the desk, along with the vial of ink and quill. He turned to them with his deep-set eyes.
“Azabar, wasn’t it?”
The friends nodded.
“In what context did you hear the word?”
Bliss looked to Aden, and Aden swallowed. He recalled the awful moment of Spud dying words; that Haverland was at threat, and ‘he called himself… Azabar.’ Of course, Spud hadn’t actually said ‘Azabar was the threat to Haverland’, that much Aden assumed.
“Um… in prison in Dazarian,” he lied smoothly. The mistakes surrounding the nature of the powder on the Grey Hind meant he was determined to try and get to the facts about this Azabar business before informing the authorities. A week or two delay before telling Plumbert probably wouldn’t hurt; he knew from Bliss’s face now, his friend felt the same way.