Lisa Shearin - Raine Benares 02 (11 page)

I
must have winced or something because Vegard nodded in understanding.

“Yeah,
it gives me a headache, too,” he said. “Nontalents do most of the book
retrieval in the stacks. The reading rooms are separate. Only certain mages are
allowed to spend time in the stacks themselves. Though I don’t see why they’d
want to.”

We
passed through massive, iron-banded doors into a cavernous, cool interior lit
by lightglobes recessed into the walls. The counter at the far end was a
wall-to-wall monolith of black marble manned by librarians who looked less like
academics and more like a black-robed line of defense for the precious books
that lay beyond. There was a single opening in the center to allow mere mortals
to pass into what the librarians no doubt considered their inner sanctum. I
didn’t think trying to stroll through without permission would be a good idea.

Something
moved above us, and I looked up.

There
was a kid stuck to the ceiling.

I
blinked. “What the . . . ?”

Riston
and Vegard looked up. Riston winced; Vegard chuckled.

“It’s
a student,” Vegard told me.

I
gave him a look. “I can see that. How the hell did he float up there like a
human balloon?”

“He
didn’t float,” Riston told me. “It’s detention.” He didn’t sound like he
approved of it. “He was put there by a librarian, probably Lucan Kalta.”

“Lucan
who?”

“Kalta.
The chief librarian.”

“What’d
the kid do?” Whatever it was, he didn’t look all that sorry that he’d done it.
He grinned and waved at me. I did a little finger wave back.

“Could
be anything,” Vegard said. “But usually ceiling tacking is reserved for trying
to take a book without checking it out. Kalta takes that personally.”

“So
take the book to the desk and check it out—what’s the problem?”

“Certain
books can’t be checked out,” Riston explained.

“And
other books students aren’t qualified to get their hands on, for their own
safety.”

Vegard
grinned. “Everyone coming and going can see you up there—it’s one hell of a
deterrent.” He looked up and chuckled again. “Let’s hope the kid paid attention
during levitation classes. When the librarians release you, sometimes they
catch you before you hit the floor; sometimes they don’t.”

I was
careful not to walk directly under the dangling student. “You have Mychael’s
letter saying we can be here, right?”

Vegard
followed in my footsteps. “I wouldn’t have set foot in here without it.”

Since
I wasn’t a Conclave mage or faculty, I needed a sponsor to vouch for me. Vegard
had a letter from Mychael that should get me access to the books I needed.

A
black-robed, bespectacled man virtually scrambled around the edge of the
massive counter to greet Vegard.

“Sir
Vegard. It’s good to see you again. How are you?”

“Doing
fine, Nelek. Doing fine.”

“How
may I assist the paladin today?” Nelek asked.

I
muffled a smile. It’s all about who you know.

Vegard
passed him an envelope. I noticed it carried the seal of the Guardian paladin.
Apparently Mychael wasn’t taking any chances on the Scriptorium’s staff giving
us the cold shoulder. The librarian glanced at the seal and surreptitiously
secreted it in an inner pocket of his black robes.

“Follow
me, please.”

We
were in.

The
looks that met us as we passed through the opening in the counter were curious
at best and downright hostile at worst. I felt like I was violating sacred
territory. Once inside, there was a lot of marble and granite, with doors that
looked suspiciously like vaults. Drawers slid out of stone walls on silent
rollers. Then there were the stacks—long, tall, dark shelves arranged in narrow
rows containing bound volumes. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere around if one of
them suddenly decided to fall. The place reminded me of a mausoleum. It
definitely set my teeth on edge. Though what probably made my teeth hurt was
the undercurrent of a nearly overwhelming scent of parchment, old leather, and
magic. It wasn’t the sense of stagnant magic, of just words or runes written on
parchment; it was waiting magic, sometimes not patiently, for the leather
covers containing them to be opened and read and given life beyond what already
pulsed impatiently against their parchment restraints. I sensed spells shifting
restlessly against the animal hides they had been written on. The outside of
the Scriptorium had given me a headache; the inside made my skin want to crawl.

Nelek
the librarian strode purposefully ahead of us. He must have been a nontalent.
If I had to work here, I know I’d want to be.

“Uncomfortable?”
Vegard asked me.

“To
say the least.”

“We’ll
be working in a shielded room,” he assured me.

“You
won’t be able to sense the manuscripts out here in the vault.”

I
glanced around. “It’s actually called that?”

“Not
officially, but that’s what it looks and feels like, so that’s what we call
it.”

I had
a thought, and it wasn’t comforting. “What’s going to shield us against what
we’ll be reading?” If level-twelve wards hadn’t held against the Saghred, I
didn’t know what’d work against the probably insane scribbling of the goblin
shamans who had spent their short and mad lives living and working with the
Saghred.

“There’s
plenty of security precautions in the reading rooms,” he assured me.

Right.
Now where had I heard that before?

The
reading room the librarian unlocked for us was just a room with a table and
four chairs. That was normal. What was not normal was a clear cubicle next to
the table. It looked like glass, though I suspect it wasn’t. It was tall and
wide enough that a man could have stood upright in it. Inside was a sturdy
lectern to hold a manuscript or document being examined. I sensed a charge in
the air surrounding the cubicle. Containment wards. Not level twelve, but still
impressive. They were inactive now, but then the cubicle was empty. No menacing
manuscripts inside whose mere touch would turn the staunchest mage into a
cackling lunatic bent on an island-wide killing spree.

Nelek
opened and read Mychael’s request. Mychael had reviewed the list of books with
me before I left the citadel. There were two history volumes of the goblins’
Fifth Age, which was about a thousand years ago—when the Saghred had surfaced
and had done its worst damage. The other was the journal of Rudra Muralin, the
Fifth Age’s version of a young Sarad Nukpana. Unlike Nukpana, Rudra Muralin had
actually gotten his hands on the Saghred and had used it extensively.

“It
will take a few moments to gather what you require, Sir Vegard,” the librarian
said. “And since the paladin’s request involves highly restricted volumes, the
chief librarian must be informed.”

“Of
course.”

With
a little servile bow, the man left, closing the door behind him.

“Shit,”
Vegard said mildly.

“What?”

“Lucan
Kalta’s gonna foam at the mouth when he sees that list.”

“Are
you saying we won’t get the books?” That didn’t make me happy.

“It
might get dicey.”

What
seemed an eternity later, Nelek came back with two assistants carrying what I
assumed to be the books Mychael had requested for me. A fourth man followed. He
was tall, black robed, spectrally thin, and didn’t look happy to see any of us.
I experienced the sensation of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Vegard
inclined his head respectfully. “Chief Librarian Kalta.”

“Sir
Vegard.”

Lucan
Kalta turned those basilisk eyes on me. I stood my ground. Show no fear; know no
fear. Kalta was likely used to cowering students and probably most of the
faculty with that gaze. I’d imagine he’d had a lot of practice over the years.
But I’d been sucked inside the Saghred yesterday; it was going to take a lot
more to intimidate me than one man questioning my right to merely read about
it.

“You
are Paladin Eiliesor’s consultant?”

If
that was what Mychael was calling me, I’d play along. “I am.”

“May
I inquire as to your qualifications to view these books?”

I
didn’t hesitate. “Did Paladin Eiliesor include them in his request?”

“He
did not.”

“Then
he probably didn’t think it necessary to make them public knowledge.”

From
the way Lucan Kalta’s face reddened, you’d think I’d slapped him. One of the
librarians with him gasped and stopped breathing. A muffled snort came from
Vegard. This was Kalta’s turf, but I wasn’t about to buckle to any territorial
posturing. The Benares’ definition of diplomacy was putting cannon shot across
someone’s bow rather than through their waterline. Any finer points of
civilized behavior were lost on my family—and right now I didn’t feel like
trying to be an exception.

Kalta
recovered, something he probably didn’t get too much practice doing. I could
feel the frost coming off him. “It may not be necessary for the public, but it
is for me, Mistress . . .”

Apparently
Mychael hadn’t given him my name. I had no problem providing it.

“Benares.”

The
librarian next to Lucan Kalta managed to find a little air, but he sucked it in
with a strangled squeak. Sometimes I got intense satisfaction out of telling
people my name and then watching the reaction. This was one of those times. I
know it was petty, but a girl has to take her fun where she can get it.

Kalta’s
red face faded all the way to an outraged white, and his lips pulled so tight
they vanished entirely. I think any sense of humor he may have possessed
vanished with them. I was curious to see if the books I needed did likewise.

There
were many things Lucan Kalta could have said or done. Apparently the list was
too long for him to make an immediate selection, so he turned to Vegard.

“Sir
Vegard, if you would please tell Paladin Eiliesor that I require any future
requests for restricted manuscript study to be
preapproved
by me, along
with the names and scholarly qualifications of those who will be viewing the
books. I will officially relay my wishes in writing by the end of the day.”
With that, he turned and left the room, sweeping the three librarians along in
his wake like a little flock of startled crows. The door closed behind them all
with a resounding boom.

Vegard
lost it.

I’d
never seen the Guardian doubled over with laughter before, and I had to admit
it did suck the tension right out of the room. Even the normally stoic Riston
couldn’t stifle a couple of chuckles. Lucan Kalta must not be in danger of
winning any popularity contests.

I
glanced at the door, expecting it to fly open. I really didn’t want to get
kicked out of the Scriptorium without reading one word of what I’d come to see.

Riston
was smiling. “Don’t worry, ma’am. The room’s soundproof.”

So I
joined them. Laughing felt good.

Unlike
the Saghred itself, the books about the stone behaved them
selves. No attempt to influence, no writhing runes
trying to crawl off the page and jump on my face.

The
Fifth Age goblin history books were massive and predictably dry reading. There
were a lot of names and dates, but no personal commentary or interesting
asides. I skimmed them both, stopping only for detailed reading when I saw the
character for “Saghred.” History was written by the victors, and during the
time the goblin royal family had the Saghred in their arsenal, they had more
than their fair share of victories. There was plenty of smiting, laying waste,
conquering, and enslaving going on, but no explanation of how the Saghred had
actually done any of the above. What I did get was an all-too-comprehensive
picture of just how much damage the Saghred had done during its heyday—and how
much damage I might be able to do now.

Rudra
Muralin’s name was mentioned often, which made sense, seeing that he was the
one telling the Saghred who to smite and what to lay waste to. On one page, he
was called something else.

Saghred
bond servant.

My
hand had been resting on the page just below those words. I moved it, resisting
the urge to wipe my hand on something, anything. Sarad Nukpana had told me
yesterday that I was the bond servant to the Saghred, like my father before me.

I set
the history book aside and quickly reached for Rudra Muralin’s journal. It was
a much smaller book, its pages yellowed with age and held together by a band of
leather wrapped around the middle. From what I knew about him, Muralin had been
like a bully on a playground—except his playgrounds had been cities or
battlefields, and thousands of people had died for the sake of his childish
curiosity. It sounded like Sarad Nukpana hadn’t fallen far from the crazy
shaman tree that had sprouted Rudra Muralin.

The
paper of Muralin’s journal was brittle and dry with age, but the information was
anything but dry reading. There was page after page of what he had asked the
Saghred to help him do. None of Muralin’s antics were anything I’d ever
repeat—and I would never do what he did to get that power. Before he did
anything significant with the Saghred, Rudra Muralin would sacrifice captives
to the stone, feeding its power with all the consideration one would give to
throwing logs on a fire.