I cleared my throat. “I’m, uh... sorry if I hurt your feelings,” I mumbled. I couldn’t help cringing as I said it.
“Apology accepted,” said the truck. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I bit my tongue.
Ten minutes later, I pulled up in front of the Hall of Records. Or I should say, what was left of it. It was across the alley from a building that had been bombed, and the entire front corner of the Hall had been blown up. Rather than repairing the jagged edges of concrete, someone had simply built a second wall inside to seal out the weather. A number of windows on that wall were still boarded up, and one of the gargoyles had fallen from the top of the building to shatter all over the alleyway. The pieces were still there. It was disappointing to see the building in that condition.
Being one of the older buildings in the downtown area, the Hall of Records is a rare example of architectural splendor. Modern buildings in the undercity are just like those topside: they’re bland, sterile, and box-like. In other words, financially practical, but unappealing in just about every other aspect. The Hall of Records on the other hand, is a wonderful example of gothic styling, from the aforementioned gargoyles to the pointed stone archways and the high-level stained glass windows that surround the building.
The grand styling isn’t the only thing that makes the Hall stand out; there’s also the mystery of its origins. The Hall of Records has been in the undercity for decades, and although it wasn’t built here, it wasn’t magically summoned here at the same time as the other parts of the city, such as the Hallows or the Wells. Those districts were very purposefully brought into the undercity by powerful wizards. The Hall, on the other hand, simply appeared. And I don’t mean that there was a crackle of blue lightning and it materialized in a silvery mist. What I mean is that no one knows exactly when or how it arrived. No one saw it happen.
The building was never part of the city plan. In fact, it was one of the city’s engineers who made the discovery. Not that he really “discovered” the building, since people were already using it by then. It’s a fully-equipped library filled with thousands of books and records dating back more than a millennium, and people had been using it for some time without ever even questioning who built it or where it came from.
Eventually, the aforementioned engineer went to the city planners and demanded that the city plans be modified to reflect the building so he could plan utilities for an adjacent structure. This was all handled accordingly, but the mystery remains as to who created the Hall of Records, how they did it, and why.
I climbed the old stone staircase out front and passed under the tall arches on my way to the front doors. There were three sets of massive hardwood doors, each about twelve feet tall and fifteen wide. In the fashion of the rest of the building, the doors were shaped like arches, with inlays of interweaving vines and wrought-iron fittings. The center doors stood partially open. I stepped inside and paused in the entryway, taking it all in.
I stood facing a huge library with three levels of balconies and countless rows of tall wooden shelves. The air was thick with the smell of dust and old books. Daylight streamed down through the stained glass windows in beams of color that played like rainbows across the floor. I heard the quite noise of shuffling papers, of rolling carts, and of the occasional sneeze or cough, but otherwise the place had the airy silence of any old library.
About ten yards ahead of me was the service counter. It was a perfect circle in the middle of the room. There, the librarians kept track of their records on old computers while assistants stacked books and documents in piles fifteen feet high on carts that were far too small for the task. One of these carts began to move by itself, the pile of documents swaying from side to side as it rolled out from behind the counter. As the cart moved onto the main floor, I realized that there was a dwarf pushing it from behind. I hadn’t been able to see him at first. He’d been hidden behind the massive piles of books. Now that I could see him, I still couldn’t believe he could push that thing without any help.
As the cart rolled away, a butterfly-winged fairy zoomed down from the balconies to retrieve a book. She lifted it from the top of the pile and zoomed back up into the shadows. She reappeared a moment later for another. I drew my gaze back to the hall.
The rest of the main floor contained rows of tables and desks. I saw college students from Camelot studying for their midterms, contractors researching blueprints, lawyers questing for that ever-elusive document that might change everything. Groups of teens clustered together, talking quietly, probably happy to have found a safe place to avoid the Peacekeepers for a few hours. I felt sorry for them. They should have been outside, enjoying their fleeting youth, not hiding away in some dark, isolated library.
I approached the counter, where a middle-aged centaur woman was typing on a computer. Her nametag said Marjorie. She had long gray hair, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and was dressed in a charcoal gray cardigan especially tailored to drape along her back like a shawl or a cloak. She was the quintessential undercity librarian. She reminded me a bit of Miley, and I almost thought the two could have been related. I quickly dismissed the idea. Just because they were both female centaurs didn’t mean they had been related.
“Good morning,” Marjorie said without looking up. “Can I help you find something?”
“I’m looking for an organization,” I said. “It might be a business. I have a name.”
She glanced at me. Her eyes brightened for a moment, and I could have sworn she recognized me, but the look vanished instantly. “Let me see if I can help you,” she said, tapping her keyboard. She cleared the screen and then glanced at me over the rims of her glasses. “Business name?”
“The Preservation Society.”
Marjorie stared at me. I waited for her to type it in, but she didn’t. She just stared, without saying a word.
“Is something wrong?” I said.
“Mr. Mossberg, what do you want with the Preservation Society?”
“Just doing some research,” I said. “Confidential stuff. How do you know my name?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
She turned to leave, but I reached over and caught her by the sleeve. “Look, lady, I’m on a case. I can’t go around explaining everything to complete strangers. People’s lives might be at stake.”
She tilted her head, staring at me over her glasses with that look that said she knew more than she was letting on. It was starting to piss me off. Unfortunately, I didn’t have many options. I wasn’t going to threaten a librarian, much less a sixty-something year-old centaur. She could walk away and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Worse yet, she knew it. She glanced down at my hand on her arm, and I reluctantly let her go.
“I can’t give out information on secret societies to just any creep that comes through those doors, regardless how famous or self-important he might be.”
“Secret societies?” I said.
“Good day, Mr. Mossberg.”
“Jacques Maxwell,” I mumbled under my breath.
Marjorie raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”
I exhaled. “Jacques Maxwell. According to records, he worked for the Preservation Society before he was murdered.” I reached into my pocket and produced the image I had drawn of the symbol on his ring. I showed it to her. She glanced at it and then stared into my eyes, that ever-so-slight grin tugging at the corners of her mouth again.
“Well?” I said.
“They said you would be stubborn. We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Mossberg. Please, come with me.” She stepped out from behind the counter and started walking towards the back of the room. I stared after her with my jaw hanging open.
“Come along,” she mumbled over her shoulder.
I jammed the paper back in my pocket and hurried after her. “Did you dream about me?” I said.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Steward.”
We passed through the center of the room, between the tables and
workstations, and then turned left to walk between the shelves towards the far wall. There, in the shadows at the back between two towering bookshelves, we came to a red metal door with a sticker that said “Employees Only” in yellow lettering. Marjorie dug into the pocket of her sweater and produced a ring of keys. She fumbled with them for a moment, chose the correct one, and unlocked the door. She gave it a little shove and it swung open.
Inside, a row of fluorescent lights on the ceiling cast a pale glowing light to reveal a long tunnel leading down into the earth. Cool, dry air washed over us.
“There you go,” she said, and motioned for me to step inside.
“What’s down there?”
“What do you want to be down there?”
I stared at her. I had the sinking feeling that I was walking into some sort of trap, but I couldn’t make any sense out of it. Why would this librarian send me into a trap? How could she have known I was coming? What exactly was the Preservation Society anyway? And why was it located underground?
A thousand other questions came to mind, but I knew she wouldn’t answer them. The only answers I was going to find were down at the bottom of that tunnel. Or, maybe there weren’t any answers. Maybe it really was a trap. If so, I’d already died once. I knew what to expect. I adjusted my hat, took a deep breath of that cold, musty air, and began my descent.
The door closed behind me. As I walked, the tunnel curved to the right in a wide sweep, gradually working its way deep into the earth. The air grew colder as I progressed, until every breath came out in a gush of steam. The slick stone floor glistened under the lights, and the tunnel echoed maddeningly with every sound I made.
Despite the unusual situation, I felt an unexpected sense of comfort as I progressed ever deeper into the earth. It reminded me of being in the soil under the mother tree, protected and nurtured, growing like a weed without a care in the world. I found it strangely rejuvenating. Soon, I forgot my worries and proceeded with all the confidence of a fool marching toward his doom.
At last, probably fifty feet down, the tunnel leveled out and I came to another door. This was a tall, arched wooden door similar to the ones out front. Emblazoned on a brass plaque across the center were the words “Preservation Society,” and underneath, an image of the symbol on the ring. Just like Jacque’s ring and Miley’s necklace, it was an inlay of gold on a large black stone. The only difference was that this one stood three feet tall and probably weighed a couple hundred pounds.
There was no lock, and when I touched the door, it easily swung open. I stepped inside and found myself in another library. It was every bit as gothic and elaborate as the building above, but far more luxurious. Here, the chairs were plush velvet and smooth leather, and the tables bore leather inlays of maps and artworks. Thick rugs covered the stone floor and painted tapestries hung from the walls. I saw a fountain nearby, at a lower level of the room. Hovering over the pool of water, I saw a globe with a map of a world and continents I did not recognize. It spun slowly, like the second hand on a clock, and as I looked closer, I saw that the landmasses weren’t printed on, but were three-dimensional. The oceans seemed to shimmer as it moved, and I began to discern the shapes of clouds hovering just above the land. The peak of a mountain caught my eye, and I could have sworn I saw movement there, as if a powerful wind shook all the trees.
“Be careful,” said a man’s voice. “The orb contains many answers, but also mysteries that might swallow you whole and never release you.”
I turned, drawing my gaze away with some effort, and saw a satyr standing before a desk on a dais at the back of the room. He was good-looking: middle-aged with bright green eyes, graying shoulder-length, loosely curled hair. He was well dressed, wearing a dark brown waistcoat and tailored trousers, and he wore a number of silver rings and bracelets decorated with precious stones and crystals. His manner was confident and refined, and I had the uneasy feeling that he knew more about me than I knew about him.
“Who are you?” I said.
The satyr gave me a knowing smile. He stepped off the dais and approached me. His hooves made quiet clacking sounds when they touched the floor stones. “My name is Elias Fountaingrove, and I am the loremaster and last surviving member of the Preservation society. I’ve been expecting you, Steward.”
“Why do you people keep saying that?”
He gave me an amused smile. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you all of my secrets. I assure you, in time all will be revealed.”
“Fine,” I said. “Who was Jacques Maxwell, and why did he carry this symbol?” I held it out, and Elias glanced at it.
“Jacques was a friend of mine. I was devastated to hear of his death.”
“I’m sure you were, but that doesn’t answer my questions.”
Elias folded his hands behind his back and started walking across the room. I fell in beside him. His hooves clicked against the stones and then went silent as we reached the carpet. “That symbol represents the Preservation Society, which I’m sure you have already discerned. Jacques was a neophyte,” he added. “He was training to become a lorekeeper.”
“Like you.”
“In time, perhaps. It takes centuries to master these skills. Not just anyone can achieve such a lofty goal. Jacques showed potential though, and I was willing to help him explore that potential. It’s a pity he was cut off so young.”
“Why was he killed?”
Elias looked askance at me. “Aren’t you the one to answer that question, detective?”
“Quit playing games with me. I know there’s a connection to the Preservation Society and these murders. Miley and Jacques both wore your symbol, and-”
“Ah, yes. Miley. She too, will be missed.”
“I’m sure she will. Did you kill her?”
He laughed quietly.
“Something funny?”
He turned to face me, staring up into my face. “I can’t help but wonder why you presume the Society is responsible for their deaths, rather than the other way around.”
I frowned down at him. “What?”
“The Society, Steward, is not what killed Jacques and Miley, but one must certainly wonder whether it is why they were killed, musn’t one?”
“Are you saying Gallan chose Jacques and Miley specifically because they worked for the Preservation Society?”
“Of course not. How can I presume to know what goes on in the mind of a madman?”
“But you don’t deny there’s a connection?”
“Occam’s razor would indicate there is.”
“Why?” I said. “Why would he kill them? What did they know?”
The satyr’s eyes lit up. “Now that is a question!”
“Then tell me the answer.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” I leaned closer, looming over him threateningly. “I’m getting tired of playing games with you, Loremaster. I have no problem hanging your pelt on that wall over there if it gets me some straight answers.”
“Calm down, Mr. Mossberg,” he said, patting me on the chest. “You’re quite a violent fellow, aren’t you? I can’t say for sure what led to their deaths, but I can tell you what they were researching at the time. They were doing a special project for a friend of mine.”
“What friend?”
He smiled. “I’m not entirely sure I should tell you that. Confidentiality-”
I caught him by the lapels and lifted him a few inches off the ground. “Let me reassure you,” I snarled. “You should tell me. It would be most appropriate.”
“All right, all right... they were working on a special research project. Something about the history of the undercity and its races.”
“And they were working for..?”
He sighed. “Her name is Siva. She came to us with a very specific request-”
Chapter 9
The sound of Siva’s name shook me to the core. My head practically exploded with questions. What did Siva have to do with the Prese
rvation Society? What had she been looking for? Did she get Jacques and Miley killed? Was this all part of Gallan’s plan? I was still holding Elias, and I gave him a little shake.
“When was she here?” I demanded. “What did she want?”
He licked his lips. “I’m trying to tell you that, sir! Please, set me down. I’m beginning to feel faint.”
I lowered him to the floor. I waited patiently while Elias straightened his vest, and brushed his hair back with his hands. “As I was trying to say, Siva came to us with a request for a very specific document. Something in our archives. As I recall, it took some time to locate-”
“What was it?” I snarled. “What was she looking for?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
I raised a fist.
“Wait!” he said, throwing his hands up. “It’s not that I won’t tell you, it’s just that I can’t. I don’t know. I was never directly involved in the search. But there is someone who might know. She was working the day Siva made her request.
I narrowed my eyes. “And who might that be?”
“Why, Marjorie, of course. The Librarian!”
I glared at him. “Are you messing with me?”
“Absolutely not. Marjorie is in charge of public research. I’m only here to train the neophytes. Our duties rarely intersect.”
I chewed on that for a second. “All right, I’m gonna go have another chat with Miss Marjorie. If I find out you’re giving me the runaround, I’ll be back with a backhoe.”
“I assure you, that won’t be necessary.”
“Good.”
Five minutes later, I was back upstairs and standing at the front counter, right where it had all started. Marjorie was there, but she was busy helping another customer. I couldn’t help noticing that it didn’t stop her from glancing at me every now and then with that mysterious smile. Finally, she got the customer taken care of and made her way back to me.
A Dame to Die For Page 7
