Authors: Alexey Pehov
Naturally, to go in through the central entrance would be an act of great insolence and an open challenge to every nobleman in the kingdom, and so I maneuvered through the bustling stream of townsfolk who were already up and hurrying about their business and made my way to the right side of the gray building, were there was a separate entrance for employees.
I walked up to the cast-iron door and knocked loudly. But as always happens, my modest personage was ignored in the most shameless fashion. After waiting for a couple of minutes, I hammered again, with redoubled strength. Silence again. Has everybody in there gone to sleep, then? I can easily believe it, there are never many visitors, especially since entrance is restricted to nobles, priests, and members of the Order. Simple folk have no need of books, they’re happy if they can manage to feed their families. I waited for a while and then knocked yet again, so loudly that the racket frightened the pigeons on the nearby roofs, and the startled flock went soaring up into the cloudless June sky.
Eventually a lock clicked, a bolt squeaked, the door opened a crack, and an old man peered out at me with a short-sighted, angry expression.
“What’s all the racket about, you hooligan?”
I didn’t say a word, just held out the king’s ring before the old man
had time to slam the door in my face. He screwed up his eyes and peered closely at the circle of gold, then opened the door and stepped aside.
“Why didn’t you say so straightaway? Come in then, if you’ve nothing better to do at home.”
There was no point in arguing, so I walked into the library, and the old man rapidly slammed the door behind me.
“They’re always trying to get me! But I’m too smart for them!” The old man giggled and grinned gleefully, exposing the worn stumps of yellow teeth.
“Who are
they?
” I asked in an effort to patch things up with the caretaker.
“Ogres!”
Well, how about that? The old man’s touched. He’s gone completely round the bend hidden away in here among all these books.
The old man nodded a few times, and then shuffled off along a narrow corridor into the depths of the building. I had no option but to go after him.
“What have you come for, then? To increase your stock of knowledge?” the old man asked querulously.
“Uh-huh.”
“A magician’s apprentice, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, sure,” the old-timer chortled, not believing a single word.
For a minute we walked on in total silence along service corridors with dim light streaming in through narrow little steel-barred windows. Specks of dust glittered and sparkled as they drifted through the rays of sunlight.
“So tell me, apprentice, what the hell are you doing with that wasp hidden under your cloak?” the old man suddenly asked in a cunning voice, stopping and looking me straight in the eyes.
“I see you’re sharp-sighted,” I said, amazed. “How do you know about the wasp?”
“How do I know?” the old man muttered, walking on. “I served thirty years as a scout in the Wild Hearts. So I ought to be able to spot a lousy little crossbow, even if it is hidden.”
“The Wild Hearts? A scout? Thirty years?”
“Sure.”
Well now, how about that! The old-timer’s a genuine hero, a walking legend! But then what’s he doing in a place like this? Over their period of service the wild ones put together a fair-sized fortune, so they can relax and live out the rest of their lives in their own little houses with no worries or cares, and no need to slave away day and night, choking on old dust.
“You’re not lying?” Somehow it was hard to believe I was face-to-face with a genuine Wild Heart, even a retired one.
The old man snorted angrily and rolled up the sleeve of his greasy, moth-eaten, light green shirt to reveal a tattoo on his forearm. A small purple heart, the kind that lovers draw on walls, only this one had teeth.
The Wild Heart. And below it the title of his unit:
BRIAR
.
So the old-timer isn’t lying
. No fool on earth would be stupid enough to tattoo himself with the symbol of the Wild Hearts, let alone the name of a reconnaissance unit. The Hearts would simply slice the rogue’s arm off, tattoo and all. And they wouldn’t bother about his age.
I whistled.
“Oho! And how many missions?”
“Forty-three,” the old man muttered modestly. “I got as far as the Needles of Ice with my detachment.”
I almost stumbled and fell. Forty-three missions beyond the Lonely Giant? That was impressive. This old-timer deserved a little respect.
“Was it tough?”
“You bet it was,” the old man replied, thawing a little. “We’re here.”
We left the dark, narrow little corridor behind us and entered an immense hall that seemed to go on forever. The vast numbers of tables and chairs for visitors were all empty, except for one, where a youth wearing the robes of the Order was sitting. He was leafing through a thick, dusty book, blowing his nose into a handkerchief every second. The snot-nosed juvenile took no notice of us.
An entire lifetime would be far too short to read everything that had accumulated in the library over the centuries. The huge shelves of black Zagraban oak soared way up high into the space under the domed ceiling, their tops hidden in darkness that not even the light streaming in through the tall lancet windows could dispel. There were thousands of books—hundreds of thousands—standing on the shelves, preserving
the knowledge of thousands of generations of Siala on their yellowed pages.
There were narrow balconies winding around the walls of the library, so that visitors could climb all the way up to the ceiling to get the book they needed. There were books here that had been written by half-blind priests sitting beside a candle with its flame flickering in the wind: ancient tomes of the elves, who had created their manuscripts when the full moon shone and the black waters of the Iselina reflected the heavenly lamp of night as they flowed between the roots of gigantic trees. There were books here by the gnomes—written first on clay tablets, and later on thin sheets of metal, and finally printed on the printing press they invented, which was stored away somewhere safe in the Steel Mines. Scrolls written by human magicians; books created by the finest minds of Siala; books produced by nonentities and mediocrities. Learning of all kinds: history, culture, war, peace, magic, shamanism, life, and death. Legends of the gods, men, elves, heroes, stories of hundreds of animals and other creatures, of thousands of stars, and Sagot only knows what else. All the knowledge of the world was gathered together in this ancient library, which was based on the library at Ranneng, built almost nine hundred years earlier.
“Oho!” I exclaimed admiringly, throwing my head back to look up at the ceiling and trying to make out exactly where in the gloom the walls of learning came to an end.
I’d never been in any libraries before. Except for a few private ones, where I’d borrowed a couple of rare volumes from the owners for other, equally passionate lovers of literature.
“Oho’s about right!” the old man said as proudly as if he’d written everything in the place himself. “So what are you after, hooligan?”
“Are there any old plans of the city here?”
“There are a few, all right,” he mumbled.
“I need plans of the Stain. And plans of Hrad Spein—in fact, everything you have on the place.”
The old man whistled, pursed his lips, and snapped his fingers a couple of times as he gazed thoughtfully over my shoulder, then he fixed the gaze of his watery eyes directly on me. “So that’s the lay of the land, is it, my old mate? Why not ask for a map that shows the treasures of the dwarves or the gnomes while you’re at it? If you didn’t have that
ring, I’d throw you out on your ear. I get all sorts in here asking about documents proscribed by the Order. No end to them these days. Pah! Right, let’s go . . .” The old man turned his back on me and started wandering through the shelves toward the mysterious inner depths of the library.
“No end to them?” I questioned him cautiously. “Who?”
“You, for instance. Why the hell can’t you all stay at home with the girls?”
“And who else?”
“There was one here yesterday,” the old-timer muttered angrily without turning round as he led me into a narrow little room with a wrought-metal door in the wall.
“He looked like you. Gray and tight-lipped he was, just like you. Came in the evening. And he stuck a ring under my nose, too. A bit different from yours, but it had just as much authority, you mark my words. Old man, he said, give me the plans of the Stain, he said. At least he hadn’t completely lost his senses, like you. He didn’t ask any questions about Hrad Spein. We’re here. Hang on, I’ll unlock the door.”
The old man began fiddling with a massive bundle of keys and swearing as he opened the squeaky old locks.
I was thinking hard. Who else has suddenly decided he needs maps of the forbidden district of the city? Has the king hired someone else to do the job as well as me? Doesn’t he trust me? Or are these people working for someone else? The Nameless One, for instance?
“What’s your name, pops?” I asked amiably, bending down to duck under the ceiling of a gray corridor that led deep under the ground, into darkness.
“Bolt,” the old-timer muttered, lighting the torch lying ready near at hand. “Crossbow Bolt, that’s my name. Mind you don’t break your legs, the steps are steep. All the forbidden books are kept in an underground depository. Let’s get what you want, then you can go back up to read it, otherwise I’ll freeze to death here.”
“I heard that the forbidden books couldn’t be taken out of the depository.”
“Hmm . . . I’d like to tell the Order where to stick their stupid rules. Those fat bloated wizards don’t understand a thing. If they’d ever fought
ogres, like me, they’d soon drop all that stupid nonsense. Who needs this old junk? When you’ve read everything you want, I’ll bring them back. Careful, the step’s broken here.”
Hm. Bolt. I knew that in the Wild Hearts many soldiers were given nicknames to replace their real names. The nickname described the man, and men earned them for the specific quality of their service, actions, knowledge, or character. The Wild Hearts took pride in their new names.
Crossbow Bolt. So in former times the old man must have been a good shot.
We walked down into a dark hall that was small, but even so the torchlight was too feeble to illuminate it fully. The old man reached out one hand into the darkness, there was a loud click somewhere up above our heads, and the room was flooded with blinding sunlight. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut in sudden surprise.
“Aha, frightened, eh?” The old man giggled with delight. “Come on now, don’t be afraid. Come on, open those peepers.”
I slowly got used to the bright light. Like the large hall up above, this small one was crammed absolutely full of books and scrolls on metal shelves. And hanging from the high ceiling there was a blindingly bright round sphere, like a little sun.
“The dwarves invented it. Did you think they run around in the dark in those caves of theirs, smashing their foreheads against the walls? Oho noo . . . They put up magic lamps like this. Magic! Our Order’s never even come close to anything like it. The charlatans! But the dwarves put one of these candles in here, and about ten of them in the basements of the royal palace. Of course, I’ve got no idea how much money they took for it. But it’s handy all right.”
I nodded.
“Right, then. Stay here, and don’t touch anything or stick your nose into anything. I’ll go and get what you want.” The old man gave me a menacing look to make sure I understood what he’d said.
As soon as he was gone, I instantly shed my harmless pose and started strolling about, looking at the titles of the old volumes. My eyes slid along until they suddenly came to rest on a small shelf of magic scrolls. The following words were written in immense, ornate letters on the wall
beside the shelf:
BATTLE SPELLS! RUNE MAGIC. THESE SCROLLS MAY ONLY BE USED BY ARCHMAGICIANS OF THE ORDER, WHEN PERMISSION HAS BEEN GRANTED BY THE COUNCIL!
I couldn’t understand why rune-magic battle spells would be lying there so openly, entirely unprotected. Any light-fingered rogue—like me, for instance—could easily make off with these rolled-up sheets of parchment.
Carelessness will destroy the world yet. Just you mark my words!
I glanced round quickly, grabbed one scroll, with a black ribbon, out of the dusty heap and stuck it inside my shirt. Then I moved away, to wait for the old man. I’d acted like a petty thief, but I thought to myself that no one else was going to need the scroll for a long time, and it might come in handy in Hrad Spein.
The trouble with scrolls is that you can only use them once. After you’ve chanted the formula and worked the spell, you can simply throw the useless parchment away. The magic destroys the words, erasing them from the scroll and from the reader’s memory. But at least you don’t have to be a magician to work magic that has been written down on paper. You only need to know how to read.
I heard Bolt coughing somewhere behind the shelves, and then he himself appeared, carrying two books in his hands. One was huge and thick, in a brown buffalo-skin binding with worn gold embossing, the other was small and so old that I thought it would crumble to dust under his fingers.