by Mike Carey
It was not difficult for Rem to borrow the key to the Rare Texts room again from the First Librarian, and even easier to get a copy cut in the market for her personal use. Although their existence was not put about widely in Bessa, for fear of unwelcome attention, some of the scrolls in this room were of great value, if one knew where to sell them. After a decade of service, Rem knew. She also knew that these would be the easiest ones to rehouse, the ones that were coveted by the world at large for their beautiful illustrations and exquisitely illuminated characters, their wooden rollers inlaid with jewels and their gold leaf. It was the others, the hundreds of thousands of plain scrolls written on simple parchment, that would present the challenge. They had no market. No one, aside from herself and a few penniless scholars, had any interest in them at all.
It was here that Rem moved into the next phase of what she privately termed her evacuation plan. Selling the contents of the Rare Texts room raised less money than she had hoped, but still enough for the purchase of a disused bakery in Bessa’s merchant district. Its previous owner no doubt felt that he had thoroughly cheated her, could not believe his luck when his eccentric buyer seemed unconcerned at the sight of the rotting door hanging from its hinges, picked her way through the piles of rubbish and dead rats inside without comment, and smiled with satisfaction as she pronounced the place perfect.
She had found what she wanted as soon as she entered the room, gleaming dimly in the far corner: the heavy metal ring of a trapdoor. Bakers in desert cities like Bessa had a simple method for stopping their produce from spoiling. They built their storerooms underground, where the air was cooler. Coincidentally, this also made them ideal for storing scrolls, the lower temperatures protecting the parchment from heat damage, degeneration and the risk of fire.
Rem cleaned out the traces of mouldy bread and flour from the cavernous room, and moved a steady stream of scrolls into it over the course of the next month. If either of the other Librarians noticed the slowly emptying shelves in the Library, they did not think it important enough to comment on.
When she had filled the storeroom almost to its ceiling, she began the long-term loans. This was not an easy decision to make; putting the scrolls in hiding was one thing, but sending them into exile, into other peoples’ homes, where she would in all probability never see them again, hurt Rem deeply. But Hakkim had started burning the sacred texts of other preachers in the Jidur, and it was a mark of the fear he commanded that none of them had tried to stop him, or even protested. If the threat he posed to the Library had seemed at all distant or unreal to Rem before, it was ever-present now.
So she steeled herself, and decided to work by section, starting with the scientific and medical treatises. This area always had a steady trickle of visitors, mostly student apprentices working for Bessa’s doctors, surgeons and apothecaries. The Library was large, however, and it was never difficult to find a reader who was standing alone, or at least far enough from the next person that there was no risk of their conversation being overheard. Once she had spotted a potential candidate, Rem would wander to their side and cough politely, waiting until they looked up from the scroll in their hands.
“Are you finding it interesting?” she would ask softly, “Do its ideas please you? Then take it home with you. Read it, share it with your friends. All I ask is that you keep it safe.”
A huge advantage of dealing with scholars is that they are not stupid. They had all been to the Jidur on occasion, had all heard Hakkim speak, and they understood what she wanted almost immediately. Most accepted a scroll without question. Some even offered to take a few more. No one asked why: the only really surprising thing to those who had paused to think about it was that the Ascetics had not attacked the Library already. Many were confused when Rem waved away their offers to return the scrolls after the trouble had died down. It seemed only logical to them that it would die down, that Hakkim’s hold on Bessa would be broken any day now, that Al-Bokhari would move against him, and the Ascetics would dissipate, as if they had never been. After all, the violence had been escalating for months: surely someone would do something about it soon?
That each day which passed without change signalled more clearly than the last that no one would do anything, did not seem to have occurred to them. But the people of Bessa could not be blamed for their lack of foresight. The city was hiding its eyes behind its hands like a little child, waiting to be told that everything was alright now, that it was safe to look, that the worst was over. One peek and the city would dissolve into abject terror; a lack of clear vision was the only thing keeping it going. By the very nature of her gift, Rem did not have that luxury.
It was a slow process, but gradually the Library was emptying out. Considerable sections of the shelves were empty now, like patches on an ornate rug worn through to the bare weave. Yet there were still thousands of scrolls left; the Library was vast, and Rem knew that it would take more than the scattered efforts of some well-meaning scholars to save it all.
She increased her efforts nonetheless, trawling the corridors ceaselessly for likely looking candidates. Soon, she was speaking to everyone she came across, even if they seemed uninterested or slow-witted. She abandoned her efforts with the medical texts when there were so few of them left that students no longer came to the Library to read them, and moved on to the poetry scrolls.
It was here that she met Nabeeb. She came across him by chance one day when she was patrolling the long avenues of shelves. He was a slight man, dressed in black, though in a different style to the Ascetics. Where they wore thick cloaks, his garments were less voluminous: a simple black shirt and a pair of trousers. Looking at him carefully, Rem realised that he was a regular visitor to the Library. She had seen him many times before, wandering between the rows of texts with a measured pace and an earnest expression. She came closer to him and looked at the scroll he was reading. He glanced at her with mild grey eyes.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“You come here quite often,” Rem replied, “you must find many things that you like. I am Rem, the Third Librarian here, and I would be honoured if you would take some of these scrolls away with you, that you may read them at your leisure. I only ask that you keep them safe.”
The man put his head on one side, appeared to be considering.
“I’m Nabeeb,” he said. “I know what you’re asking. I’ve seen you talking to others before. It won’t work, you know.”
“What?” Rem was startled into abruptness, and there was an edge to her voice.
“I only meant,” he answered, holding up a hand in placation, “that it will take you a very long time. Individuals, a few scrolls at a time. It’s no way to clear a library this size.”
Rem leaned closer to him, eyes brightening with interest. “Do you have a better idea?”
“Corpses,” he answered promptly, and then, in a shy rush, “I am an undertaker by trade. All corpses must be buried outside the city’s walls. So, I prepare them for burial, then drive them outside Bessa’s gates. The funerals themselves take place within city limits: when I actually bury the bodies, I am alone. I never get any trouble, from the Palace Guard or the Ascetics. People are put off by the idea of searching a hearse—it seems disrespectful, somehow. So if I were to carry some scrolls out with me the next time I make a burial trip, I could get them outside the city in complete safety. We could wrap them in winding sheets, and no one would ever think to check them.”
“What would happen then?” Rem asked. “They will be hardly any safer in the middle of the desert than they are here.”
“I have some friends in Perdondaris who have similar interests to myself. I can write to them now, ask them if they will take the scrolls back to their city. I know it’s a long way,” he said anxiously, noticing how Rem’s face fell, “but at least they will be in good hands, amongst those who will value them.”
With the pro
spect of success suddenly so near, the thought that she might really be able to save the entire Library from destruction, Rem was unexpectedly engulfed by a feeling of desolation. The thought of the endless avenues of her city bereft of scrolls, the echoing emptiness that would replace the living silence she loved, hurt like a fist to the stomach. She embraced Nabeeb a little harder than she had intended, thanking him profusely for his kindness. He blushed, insisted that no thanks were necessary. “I’m doing this for love, like you,” he mumbled, suddenly embarrassed.
Given that the mail service between Bessa and Perdondaris was comprised of a single recalcitrant camel, the reply from Nabeeb’s friends was a long time coming. He visited the Library every day, and every day he met Rem’s eyes with a slight shake of his head, disappointment in the set of his shoulders. Meanwhile, Rem continued with the long-term loans, though at Nabeeb’s insistence she made her enquiries more subtle. “Stealing from the sultan’s Library is still a treasonable offence, Rem, whatever the circumstances,” he reminded her. “You need to tread carefully.”
“Oh, there’s no cause to worry about Al-Bokhari,” Rem scoffed. “He wouldn’t notice if we harnessed the entire Library to a team of elephants, drove it across the square and crashed it into the palace. His mind is on other things.”
The image made Nabeeb laugh because there was a lot of truth in it. Bokhari Al-Bokhari had never been the most observant ruler, but now, all his attention was claimed by the Ascetics, and bands of street urchins could piss against the palace walls without the least fear of consequences. Increasingly, the entire palace guard was sent out to patrol the streets, to guard Bessa’s largely abandoned pleasure district and to police the Jidur. It did no good: the Ascetics picked their fights, and large groups of guards were left to their work unchallenged through the heat of the day.
But at night, when nervous watchmen patrolled alone, that was the time when a black shadow would detach itself from the lighter shadows all around, and start to follow them. The flash of a blade, a muffled cry, a dull thump—it was over in seconds, and when the next patrol came around, all that was left was a body.
The worst thing about it all was that there were no suspects. Hakkim himself was maddeningly peaceable, only emerging from his humble lodgings to preach in the Jidur. Every other Ascetic was just a figure in a black robe, able at any moment to turn a corner, shed their disguise, and don once again the anonymity of a common citizen.
The spreading poison of their presence seemed impossible to remedy. Al-Bokhari’s counsellors had tried to bribe Hakkim, who would not even speak to accept or refuse the offer. His spies had searched for some piece of information with which to blackmail Hakkim, but none could be found. As far as the covert agents of the sultanate could ascertain, the Ascetics had no lieutenants, no headquarters, no hierarchy. Kill one, and another would take his place. They were a river of black, and a river has no angles, no weak spots, nothing to grapple with and nothing to attack. They had been mobilised by words and cunning argument, but Al-Bokhari had no such weapons at his disposal. Military force is a blunt instrument at the best of times, and in the face of the Ascetics it seemed worse than useless. So the sultan waited in indecision, orders hovering on his lips. And the city held its breath.
The day that Al-Bokhari made up his mind to act was the day Nabeeb received his reply from Perdondaris. There was a crowd in front of the Library that morning when Nabeeb arrived, clutching the long-awaited letter. He was pushing through them without a glance, eager to greet Rem with the good news, when he felt a hand on his arm and saw her standing at his side, a grim expression on her face. “Come and see this,” she said, pulling him along.
The crowd were not facing the Library at all, but the palace on the opposite side of the square, staring at something suspended from the palace gates. As they moved closer, Nabeeb could see that it was a man. Hefam Shafiq was a vizier of unremarkable talents, known in court, if he was known at all, for his reliably dull counsel. He was a fat man of solid opinions, a sure bet for a lifelong career as a royal advisor. His life was entirely banal. His death, however, was a declaration of war.
Rem and Nabeeb stared up at the pathetic figure, his face showing wan and ghastly above the sign hung around his neck: I was the servant of corruption. Wordlessly, they looked at one another, turned and headed towards the Library.
“We have to move the scrolls tonight,” Rem said, as soon as they were inside.
“What, all of them?” Nabeeb protested. “Surely that’s not necessary? It will be safer if we move them out in stages.”
“The time for that has passed,” Rem shot back, “Al-Bokhari will begin arresting the Ascetics immediately. They’ve forced his hand, but he isn’t strong enough for a show of power, and the weakness of his retaliation will expose him. Everything is coming to a head. We must move the scrolls tonight!”
“I’ll go and fetch my hearse,” Nabeeb said. If he was puzzled by her certainty, he did not show it.
They spent the day wrapping scrolls in winding sheets and piling them up by the side entrance, waiting for the cover of night to move them to the hearse which Nabeeb had parked in the alleyway at the side of the Library, far from the main square. Rem had barred the great wooden doors to prevent visitors, but there would be no scholars in the Library today. Once the Palace Guard started pouring into the streets, they had emptied, most people fleeing to their homes, locking their doors and covering up their windows in preparation to wait out whatever storm was coming.
For a while, the only sounds in the city were the tramp of feet and the bellow of orders as troops of guards ran past. In the afternoon, they heard the fighting begin. It intensified as evening came on, and a great roar of voices started up in the square outside. Nabeeb went out to investigate, returning with the news that the remaining Ascetics had congregated outside the palace gates.
“Rumours are running wild out there,” he told her. “They’re saying that Al-Bokhari’s guard rounded up most of the Ascetics and put them in the keep, but they’re breaking out. People are saying they’re throwing themselves against the door, again and again. Beating themselves bloody. And it’s working! The guards are falling back!”
“Then we need to hurry,” Rem replied.
In the surreal, hushed urgency of the falling night, Rem and Nabeeb made a series of journeys which came in time to seem like one unending journey: from the Library to the waiting hearse to the Library again, holding winding sheets filled with scrolls in their arms like limp bodies.
Time was a naked flame in a high wind, sometimes flaring with sudden life, sometimes sinking to a creeping shimmer. At first, Rem had found it easy to carry the scrolls. In the aeons of time and space spent running between hearse and Library and hearse, they began to feel like boulders.
She and Nabeeb took it in turns to run round to the mouth of the alley and peek into the main square, to see how the situation was progressing. When Rem saw that the sultan’s standard was on fire, she knew their time was up. “They’ve breached the palace,” she said, rounding the corner and helping Nabeeb load his bundle into the hearse. “We don’t have time to take any more, but I would appreciate it if you could do one last favour for me.”
Convincing the First and Second Librarians that their lives were in danger was fairly easy. Fear was rife in Bessa, and the sight of the hordes of black-cloaked figures swarming round the palace gates made Warid’s lips go white, and his father tremble.
“Nabeeb here is taking some of our scrolls out of the city to Perdondaris,” Rem told the two men. “I would strongly advise that you go with him.” She turned to Nabeeb, her voice dropping into a swift murmur. “If you go now, you will be able to make it before the Ascetics take the city gates. The sultan’s men have fled, so there will be no one guarding them at the moment. Hurry, and go in safety.”
Nabeeb stared at her. “Aren’t you coming too?”
“I ca
n’t. The Library is not yet empty.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she saw the intention as he formed it, and firmly shook her head. “No. You need to drive the hearse. They”—jerking her head at the First and Second Librarians—“don’t know the way to Perdondaris. They wouldn’t even make it out of the city. You need to go.”
“But they’ll catch you if you stay! Why won’t you come with me?” Nabeeb’s eyes were glistening. Rem knew, with the knowledge that was her gift, what was in his mind. She could taste all the flavours her words had for him: confusion, grief, and beneath these the bitter tang of spurned affection. Nabeeb had thought throughout that Rem was a young man, and wished to flee with him to a place where they could both read and love without the fear of oppression.
“Nabeeb,” she said, as gently as she could, “I must stay with the friends I cannot save.”
He saw her resolve and nodded, began to turn away. Rem caught his hand and kissed him, just once, on the cheek. Let him make of that what he wanted; she could give him no more.
She waited until she was sure they were gone before she allowed the tears to come. When they flowed at last, they left dark tracks down her face like smudged kohl, staining her pristine uniform with dark patches. Tears of black ink. Her second dubious gift, and the reason why she never cried in public. When she was younger, Rem had sometimes imagined herself as a scroll, with all her words securely wrapped inside her. They must be very sombre words, if they only escaped when she cried.
Behind her, the Library’s heavy wooden doors shuddered in their frame, rocked by the impact of some heavy object. The Ascetics were charging them with a battering ram, but they were sturdy, and would hold for the time being. Rem wiped her tears away hastily with the hem of her shirt: another distinctive thing about them was that, once dry, they would not fade. She had about an hour, she guessed, and a good third of the Library was still full. She had put up a good fight, but there really was nothing more to be done. Well, there was one thing. Rem headed for the First Librarian’s office, to prepare for her last stand.
