“ . . . and thus, in the spring of the forty-eighth year Before the Founding of the Empire, Klendhor the Great, Son of Kredis and Fourth Supreme Chieftain of the Orange Mountain Freehold, took the head of King Orblis 7th Deathspawn, the last of the hereditary autocrats and thereby broke the ancient system of universal life bound allegiance. This allowed statesmen in the subject princedoms to come together and in the Declaration of Bhesnor, which decreed that henceforward only honor might be pledged as a surety, produce the. . .”
“Mar, your eyes are better than mine,” Waleck prompted. “Look ahead to the Library.”
Mar raised his head to scan the march of massive chased columns that supported the portico of the edifice.
“There are armsmen beneath the portico, old man.”
“Eh?” Waleck squinted across the plaza. “Yes, you are right. And on the perrons as well. Can you make out their livery?”
Mar looked closer. “They’re not Imperials. House and merchant sashes.”
“Swordsmen or bodyguards?” Household bodyguards were usually armed with no more than truncheons and knives.
“I can’t tell. Too far.”
“Any of Hwraldek’s?”
“What are his colors?”
“Korhthenr is red and gold -- I think.”
“Dark red and bright yellow?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a quad on the left stairs and five or six on the right. I can’t see well enough into the shade under the portico to make out the colors of the men there, but I count twelve. Make that fourteen. No, more than that. And there’s a quad of Bhleyr at the top of the stairs on both sides.”
Mar cut his eyes pointedly at Waleck. “Am I right in thinking that this is not the normal state of affairs?”
The old man pursed his lips. “No, I am afraid not. There is always an armsman or two, some patron’s bodyguard or chaperone, but never as many as this.”
“Got any magic to get us by those, old man?” Mar did not attempt to filter the sarcasm from his tone.
Waleck looked thoughtful. “Possibly -- but we will need accoutrements. Could you, do you think, appropriate a lap desk or notebook? Perhaps a book or two?” The old man glanced meaningfully toward the islands of pupils.
Mar shook his head.
“With a diversion?”
“Yes,” the younger man begrudged.
“Excellent!” Waleck grinned. “Make the best of your opportunity.” With that the former wasteminer, one time ethereal scholar, and current trader wandered somewhat aimlessly across the plaza. After a slight hesitation, Mar followed.
As a general courtesy, the scholars situated their classes so that the discourse of one would not infringe upon that of another. For the most part, no circle of students was any closer to any other than fifteen to twenty armlengths on every side. This buffer provided a relative isolation in which instruction could be propounded undisturbed. Between the groups, however, there was a constant but disjointed background of half-heard educational thought.
“--and then General Trevus moved his legions to the south — so, as you can see, a compounding of interest takes place – and Truth, as the philosopher Brendt proposed, is simply a matter of perspective --“
“GREAT PERNAPHRHAN! HEAR MY PLEA!”
Waleck’s rumbling bellow silenced the two scholars nearest the spot upon which he had planted himself.
These two pedagogues, one in traditional robes and the other dressed modernly, had impolitely positioned their equally glaze-eyed classes of boys of middle years within spitting distance of one other. The modern was gray-headed and wizened. The robed scholar was at least a decade younger and well fed. They faced each other across the bare heads of their respective charges but avoided eye contact. Mar’s immediate impression was that the two had been launching rhetorical salvos at one another at length.
The traditional scholar glared at Waleck sourly while the older man simply bided his time. Of necessity, all Khalarii respected the religious practices of others. Everyone had a story about their uncle Tregher or aunt Fillni or cousin Mhavis who had scoffed at the frantic leaps of the devotees of the God of Nautical Trades or the self-flagellation of the Curiseunii or the incomprehensible vows of the Worshipers of Plegh. The story usually ended with the blaspheming relative being found drowned in his own urine or strangled with his own intestines or some equally bizarre fate.
Waleck did not immediately continue, but fell to his knees and genuflected. Mar winced as he heard the old man’s bones pop.
The traditional waited for an extended moment then cleared his throat. “Now, as I was saying, students. The actual date of the birth of the Emperor Rhwalkahn was in 869 on the feast of –“
“Current research,” the modern interrupted, “has conclusively shown, students, that Rhwalck, son of Ihrexhs III’s advisor Dhreckal, was in fact born in 867 on the second thirdday of –“
“Now, students,” the traditional responded, “If you will turn to page two hundred twelve in your text, you will find my own treatise which debunks the Orphan Theory proposed by the essays of the discredited Scholar Tretiph, among others –“
“PERNAPHRHAN! HEAR ME!”
Both scholars scowled at this latest interruption of their duel but fell respectfully silent. The youths in both classes, sensing something that might alleviate the daily drone, perked up noticeably and craned their heads to look.
“OH SPLENDID AND POWERFUL ONE!” Waleck continued, leaping to his feet to cast his arms and voice skywards.
“HEED THE VOICE OF THY HUMBLE SERVANT!” With this last, the old man lowered his hands in dramatic pose and hung his head.
The modern, seeing his chance, flung out, “Modern analysis of the style of the Pithii’n Letter has proved without a doubt that it was actually forged in the year 1023 –“
Waleck, with uncanny grace, did a standing back flip and landed smartly on his boots without staggering. The students voiced pleasure and approval. Some clapped.
“Every-worthy-authority,” the traditional hurled back in a rush, “has-confirmed-the-authenticity-of-Rhwalkhan’s-letter-to-the-Pithian-Ambassador—“
“SEE EVEN NOW HOW THE INFIDELS DEBATE THE INCEPTION OF THY AVATAR!”
The traditional chopped off his rush abruptly. The modern made as if to launch his rebuttal, thought better of it, and snapped his mouth shut. Both men eyed Waleck somewhat apprehensively.
“SHOW THEM THY POWER, PERNAPHRHAN!” Waleck pleaded, his voice gaining volume and strength with every stanza of his prayer.
“SMITE DOWN THESE HERESIES!”
“PROVE THYSELF AND THY AVATAR RHALCK!”
“USE THY POWER TO DESTROY THESE USURPERS!”
“RAISE THY FAITHFUL TO REMOVE THESE STAINS FROM THY SIGHT!”
The younger scholar had heard enough. He snatched up his books and writing instruments, scattered his cheering students to their homes with a wave, and accomplished his retreat with a galloping flop of sandals.
“CLAIM THY VENGEANCE!” Waleck thundered, his outcry raising heads in other distant classes. “I AM READY FOR THY COMMANDS!”
The advocate of the Early Birth Theory broke at this last and hissed a dismissal at his class. While his delighted students gathered around Waleck to offer him pennies as tribute to Great Pernaphrhan, he fled the field.
The old man was called upon to execute another truly amazing back flip, was showered again with pennies, and then was left standing alone as the boys realized that they had an entire unencumbered afternoon with which to occupy themselves.
“Success?” Waleck asked as he joined Mar.
Wordlessly, Mar opened the flap of the satchel that hung over his shoulder. Inside were the older scholar’s lap desk, two of the younger scholar’s books, and a pen set from a student who had had Hwraldek pins on his wide starched collar.
“Excellent! That will do, I think. This way, Mar.”
It took Mar two strides to catch up with the old man. “Who is Pernaphrhan?”
“Can you name all of the Forty-Nine?”
“Awandrehachor, God of Poems and Sonnets; Bhurghrah, God of Waste, Sewage, and Refuse; Bhenthiabuka, God of –“
“And all the godlets?”
“Uh, some.”
“Most?”
“No.”
Waleck awarded Mar a smile. “Neither could those scholars.”
Mar dredged up a frown to conceal his slight amusement. “So how will this--” he thumped the satchel “—get us into the Library?”
The old man stopped and considered Mar thoughtfully. “To express a natural glamour, one should include associated components that will reinforce the image. A failure in the key details will break the semblance. The Library is a place of books and writing.”
“So because we’ve got a satchel we’ll not be thought out of place?”
“Exactly,” Waleck approved, nodding. “But also –“
“That’s not magic. That’s just another disguise.”
Waleck shrugged. “Have it as you will. Now, come, and remember –“
“I know. Say nothing.”
Waleck reached the foot of the eastern stair and began the long climb up the sweeping granite steps. The steps were shallow and broad, but there were a great many of them; the floor of the Library portico was two and a half manheight above the Plaza. There were scholars and students ascending and descending, but no great number of either. Mar saw other merchants and common citizens as well, but these were rare.
When they reached the portico, Mar was breathing heavier, but not out of breath. They had overtaken and passed several who had paused to gain their wind. Waleck pressed on, apparently unaffected by the climb.
“Give way there, Sir,” the old man said to the back of a Korhthenrii swordsman.
The man turned and examined Waleck and Mar carefully. “Right you are, Sir. My pardon.”
The swordsman and the rest of his quad shifted to open a path to the high double entrance doors. The men of Bhleyr and the other armsmen squatting in the shade of the columns or camping on decorative benches had no reaction whatsoever. There were other idlers about, vendors and the like, but none showed any interest in Waleck or his bondsman.
Waleck, totally unconcerned, sailed by the armsmen and into the entranceway of Viceroy’s Library.
Mar had never seen the interior of the Library. Only persons of station were permitted entry. As no rumors had ever reached his ears of any item of sufficient marketable value being housed within, he had never felt the motivation to visit upon his own terms. Had he been by himself, he might have paused to take in the decorative columns, the numerous illustrative friezes, and the intricate and colorful mosaic that covered the vaulted ceiling.
But Waleck evidently was quite familiar with the layout of the Library and hurried through the entranceway to the main hall, down that to the left, and into the huge northwest chamber. Immediately, aisle after aisle of tall wooden shelves crammed with the seemingly limitless spines of books confronted them.
“The Viceroy’s Library,” Waleck offered quietly, as if he sensed Mar’s curiosity, “is divided into four departments, each with its own chamber. The first is Natural Sciences. The second stores works of Philosophy. The third is devoted to Mathematics and Engineering. This one holds the world’s store of History and Geography. Wait here.”
The old man disappeared into the labyrinthine shelves of the catalogue. Mar caught glimpses of him moving about in the company of one of the attending bondsmen, consulting first one scroll then another.
With nothing else to do, Mar turned slowly to view the chamber and winced as his weight settled on his left foot. The boots Rynthrahl had produced for him had not quite fit, and the long walk from the inn had worn a blister on that ankle. Looking about, he spotted an unoccupied bench and made his way over to it. Gratefully, he sank onto the bench and dropped the satchel beside him.
The Chamber of History and Geography was at least two hundred paces from buttressed corner to buttressed corner. The walls were of patterned stonework and rose to a height of three storeys above the red tile floor. Great arched windows, set with wooden casements and clear panes, pierced the upper two thirds of the walls. Mar did know that these windows provided the only light into the chamber; lamps, and all other sources of flame, were understandably forbidden. Above the windows, resting on a reinforced ledge, was the great dome of the roof. The underside of the dome had been plated with silver foil to focus reflected light down into the chamber.
“I have it!” Waleck announced, smiling broadly, as he returned. He waved a small slip of paper.
“Only one mention of the Mother of the Seas and that from a work by a geographer of the early Empire. The attendant assured me that the catalogue is up to date, so hopefully what we seek is here.”
Waleck held the slip at arm’s length to read. “Title: Travels; Author: Khavurst the Younger; Date: Circa 562 After the Founding of the Empire; Manuscript transcribed and printed: 1206 After the Founding of the Empire; Location: Blue aisle, Row 19, Shelf 412.”
“Will they let us examine a book that’s over four hundred years old?” Mar questioned.
“Not the original. If they have it, it will be in storage vaults beneath the Library. The shelves are filled with re-prints.”
Waleck grinned eagerly. “We are close now, Mar, but we must hurry.” The old man pointed to the sunlight angling from the high windows. “The barge leaves in little more than two hours.”
Though quite cryptic to Mar, the directions were evidently easily deciphered by Waleck, who led them to the far quadrant of the chamber.
“It’s not here,” Mar stated, rising from his inspection of the lower shelf that the old man had indicated.
“Are you sure? Check again.”
“I did already. Twice. No book named Travels.”
The old wasteminer’s faced clouded. “Someone must already have it.”
“We’ll have to wait then,” Mar suggested.
Waleck shook his head sharply. “There is no time.” He pointed west along the row. Bivouacs of reading tables were scattered strategically throughout the aisles. Several tables were visible beyond the end of the row. “We must search for it.”
There were five of the large black-varnished tables but only two were occupied. A matching brace of white-haired scholars, one snoring gently with his nose resting on the book laid before him, were seated at opposite ends of the center table. At the farthermost sat a lone student with his back to them. From his height, he appeared to be an older student, probably in the latter third of the of the standard six year curriculum. Such students were often given independent study. His tunic looked a size too large and the gray of the fabric had faded. He had an out-of-fashion brimmed canvas cap pushed low on his head and he wore no House pips on his collar. He was likely a craftsman’s son.
A quick glance over the shoulder of the sleeping scholar proved him to be contemplating The Art of Classical Mechanisms. The other, surrounded by a veritable phalanx of texts, admitted that he was researching a new biography of the Emperor Khev XXI.
“The boy must have it,” Waleck decided moving on.
As they approached the student, Mar’s unease flinched, causing him to miss a step, so that Waleck’s long strides left him lagging.
“Pardon, young sir,” Waleck greeted the student’s hunched back. “We are looking for a book named Travels by the ancient Khavurst the Younger. We are in immediate need of the book, and if you have it, could you be so kind?”
At the sound of the old man’s voice, the boy jerked upright but did not turn about or reply. The large book that he had been studying was now revealed spread upon the table before him.
Waleck continued around the table to face the boy. “I will only need the book for a few moments and will speedily return it to you. Or, if you have already come across the information I seek, I will gladly recompense you for your time.”
Mar, coming up, saw an odd look flicker across th
e old man’s eyes. The young thief’s inner sense flared again, causing him to halt a pace behind the boy’s chair.
“I must know,” Waleck continued, now almost frowning, “of the location of a place known as the Mother of the Seas.”
Springing to his feet, the student thrust his hips and knees to cast his chair backward.
Mar danced to his left, almost falling, as the heavy chair tipped and slid. Before he could recover, the boy whirled his arm and cast a shiny black ball the size of a thumbnail onto the spread pages of the text.
The flash was bright enough to force Mar to turn away. When he looked back, he saw dazzling flames leaping from the curling and blackening pages.
SEVENTEEN
"Catch him, Mar!” Waleck shouted.
Needing no prompting, Mar was already in motion. His lunge slammed his full weight into the student's side, and he grabbed the boy in a rigid hug, twisting to throw the other's slight frame to the floor. Mar fell with the boy, trying to pin him down with his greater weight.
Bucking and kicking wildly, the boy managed to strike Mar on the side of the head with one of his fists. Angered by the sharp pain, Mar struck back with an open-handed slap, buffeting the cap from the other’s head. A cascade of long brown hair escaped, shrouding them both as they rolled in a tangle across the tiles.
Mar managed to snare the other’s thin wrists as their fight lodged them into the corner formed by a bookshelf and the floor. Tucking his knees to protect his groin, he leveraged his shoulders to trap his opponent beneath him, lowering his head to forestall head butts. As he did so, his face fell close to hers and he felt her rapid breath burn across his cheek.
Mar only realized it just then, that he fought a girl and not a boy, because that breath was undeniably feminine. Gradually, the other peculiarities of the struggle began to impinge on his awareness. For a moment, the girl grew still, their faces juxtaposed.
Mar looked into eyes as dark as midnight.
Then she twisted suddenly, trying to bite his ear.
Lunging back, he rolled off his shoulder and got his feet under him. Standing quickly, he hauled the girl up beside him. Unrelenting, she continued to jerk and twist violently, trying to break his hold. Rankled, he spun her about and twisted her hands toward her shoulder blades. With a suppressed gasp, the girl subsided.
Key to Magic 01 Orphan Page 16