Scammander looked at him and quoted some old rite. “Here with us are no golden locks or blue eyes or dark eyes, or rosy cheeks, no well-strung sinews or sturdy shoulders—all with us is one and the same dust, skulls bereft of good looks.”
Hemlocked nodded again, and quoted right back at Scammander. “I can only see bones and bare skulls, all of them looking the same.” The panther’s eyes seemed to focus even more intensely on the elf. “Yes, while we used to all appear as old skeletons to one another, that is no longer the case. Of course, you might take this opportunity to be as wily and wicked as before, and we might reconsider our policy.”
“Fine let’s get on with it.”
Hemlock smiled. “You’ll not evade me so easily, you old sorcerer. Please answer the first question Scammander. I would hate to have to ban you again, and you’re not even in the crypt yet.”
Scammander sighed, reconsidering the question. “Probably.”
“Do you intend to contrive the kidnapping of any princes, ladies in waiting, famous wizards, or nearby villagers for the purpose of ransom or ritualistic sacrifice?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Do you plan to corrupt others of lesser will to do your evil bidding with no intention of actually paying them for any resulting profits of your ill schemes?”
“If only I could have the good fortune to find a few so evil.”
“Do you have any weapons?”
“Of course.”
“Are you bringing any poisoned foods below with the intent to train others in this dark craft or with the purpose of poisoning someone in the crypt?”
“No, but I really should have thought of that,” he admitted. “I’m sorry but are you planning on offering me a scholarship once I complete this interview?”
Hemlock looked at us for a moment, and then looked back down to his list.
“Do you plan on using magic displeasing to academics?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you plan on plotting the destruction of any nearby towns, sacred shrines, or ancient homes?”
“Certainly.”
“Do you plan on engaging in any general deceit, treachery, or malfeasance?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Do you possess any stolen magical items?”
“Yes.”
“Are you willing to sell them?”
“For the highest price.”
“What does the phrase ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense’ mean to you?”
“It is the sentiment that allows me to thrive.”
“Of all our members, whom do you trust most with your life?”
“None of them,” Scammander cringed.
“Have you lied at any point during this interview?”
“Definitely.”
“Finally, have you had any recent contact with, or information regarding the whereabouts of that villain Scammander, and would you like to consider adding a donation to the considerable bounty on his head?”
Scammander spread his arms wide and grinned.
The skeleton and Hemlock consulted the list for a moment, then looked up at my companion. “Fair enough Scammander, you’re still as wicked as the rest of our vile guests.”
Scammander appeared slightly crestfallen. “Not the most wicked?”
“Your former self set an admirable precedent that even you seem incapable of overcoming.”
“I’m almost offended that you asked me if I was carrying any weapons.”
Hemlock tilted his head to the side. “That was more of a reminder, just in case you had forgotten the den of iniquity you were about to enter.”
Hemlock looked over his shoulder at me. “Would you like to begin initiation rites Evander? You would be the second minotaur to ever join our library.”
“He’s already morbid,” snickered Scammander as he hoisted himself up next to Hemlock. “Breathe in Evander, these are your kindred spirits!”
I might have taken Scammander up on his offer, if only I could have been assured to choke to death on all the dust.
After descending the winding staircase, I stepped out onto a balcony with mahogany railings and slick ebony marble floors which looked like mixing winter clouds, overlooking the sprawling scriptorium below. A staircase on either side stretched down to the main floor. From the vaulted grey stone ceilings tremendous chandeliers hung over rows of dark wood desks and bookshelves like idle spiders. The sides of the crypt were also used for bookshelves, and placed at regular intervals were statues of screaming wizards and candelabras. Above the bookshelves were old oil paintings of esteemed wizards holding their spell books.
The skeleton ambulated awkwardly past me down the staircase and joined a dark wooded table of skeletons and small floating imps in a debate on the ethics of suicide. That was the largest gathering. All across the room there were groups of two or three unsavory characters in corners, by bookshelves, near flickering, dripping candles, whispering, looking over their shoulders, and sliding their eyes around.
A midget fawn with tightly curled brown horns, a gold scarf, and a scarlet, velvet blazer greeted me.
“It has been a long time since a minotaur has visited our library—especially hosted by young Scammander. I knew Jacob Geist well, as did everyone here; may I also know your name?”
“Evander,” I said reluctantly.
“Well Evander, I’m Stertinsius Helluo Librorum. Please call me Stertinsius.”
I nodded. “Stertinsius. Nice to meet you.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Oh no, our greeting is ‘Though flesh may whither, these leaves shall not. Floreat! Floreat!” After his big grin faded, he spoke once more. “Do you know much about this library? Has Scammander told you about Hexameter’s?”
“Scammander doesn’t really tell me all that much,” I said. “So why do you call this crypt Hexameter’s?”
“Because it’s six feet under,” he said with a smirk. “But that is merely one reason I can tell a non-initiate, even if he is a minotaur, and even if he is brought to me by Scammander. To know others you must become initiated into our mysteries.”
When I didn’t eagerly request to know more he decided to continue.
“Though we exist only in rumor to those above, we have the most complete collections of any library. Do you know about the competition between scriptoriums?”
I shook my head.
“We all compete to acquire and maintain the most editiones principes, or what the uninitiated call first editions.”
“You steal books from one another?”
“Oh yes, and there used to be much greater competition. I certainly don’t anymore, but I used to go along on the raids. They used to break into ancient homes, or excavate lost libraries, double cross each other in back alleys, gamble books away in cards, dice, and drinking games,” he smiled. “You can see how such an occupation would be attractive to someone like your companion. But these days, when the Academy has most of the books, there’s not much excitement I’m afraid. Except, perhaps, for discovering who the Master is at the Academic library.”
“Why so?”
“If his identity was known he would most certainly be murdered. As you have probably noticed by now, it is a little more difficult to gain access to any of our scriptoriums.”
“Why don’t you conceal your identity?” I asked.
“Because we all know each other of course. We either went to school together or distinguished ourselves in our scholastic contributions.”
I nodded. “Who are some of the others?”
“There was a young and ambitious elven scholar by the name of Simonides I believe, who published an illuminating and richly researched text known by the title ‘On the Topic of Serpents, their Tongues, and Sundry Observations on the Draconian Dialect.’ Incidentally, we also have the editio princeps of his own book,” he said with a smirk.
That one sounded familiar. “And what happened to the young elven scholar?”
“Well he left on a much celebra
ted expedition that was to found a new elven colony in a far-away enchanted forest, but things turned quite bad I believe. A great deal of what happened on that expedition remains unknown and kept secret, even from many of the elves.” He looked up at me like I might know something, like Scammander might have let something slip to me. When I simply stared blankly back at him, he continued. “There were rumors of cannibalism, rebellion, desertion, and black magic. So I reasoned that he had perished along with everyone else and thus made a great effort to acquire his work, which was brought to me by your friend.”
“He has an uncanny ability for acquiring forbidden things, doesn’t he?”
Stertinsius grinned. “A distinguishing trait among our initiates.”
“What about the other keepers of books?”
“Well let’s see. There is the ancient tutor to the great families, Bertram, whose legendary library lies hidden in a secret garden. And I’m sure even you have heard of the floating library in the clouds. The master there is…well I seem to have forgotten his name. Those are the most important ones. There are of course noble houses that also steal books, but not as many of participate anymore.”
He paused to open up his blazer, and pulled a thin pen from the inside pocket. “As an esteemed guest, please take a stylus.” Scammadner shot a quick glance at Stertinsius’s pen before looking out across the library. “Now, as a scholiast, allow me to make a comment. They write with the thin blood of love-sick fairies so near to death that their blood is nearly weightless. It makes the markings easy to remove from the tomes once they are returned you see,” he said removing his glasses and cleaning them with the soft crimson cloth. “Now, as you are only the second minotaur to ever visit our vault, you may check out any book that you please. But only one; after that you will have to complete membership rituals. Feel free to mark in it, but only with the pen I gave you. No other library allows markings and they impose steep fines. We offer the sunetoi something quite special with these pens, I think.” He looked up at me. “Do you have any questions?”
“What is the most sought after book?”
The little fawn tilted his head and looked up at me. “The one Fate writes in,” he said in earnest.
I chuckled. “Yes, I suppose everyone wants to burn that one.”
“Do you think you could obtain it for me, Evander? That would surely earn you membership, as well as a painting on one of the prestigious walls of our library.”
I shook my head. “Not unless Scammander wants it.”
“The only book Scammander desires is an ancient manuscript called Of Mutability. Most likely, it doesn’t even exist.”
“I think the poets are more interested in that volume than my friend is. Why would he bother with it?”
“To destroy it and bother the poets.”
“Fair enough,” I snickered.
“Do you know how to read and write? The world knows so little about your race. You all were always so very reclusive, even before the horrible war.”
I nodded. “I recently learned how to read, yes. I never bothered to learn how to write.” I took a long breath. “Minotaurs never believed in writing because of its deceptive qualities, where one word could mean so many different things. We believed in speech, or at least our shamans did.” Of course, I didn’t believe in either.
“Did you know I taught Jacob Geist how to write?”
I shook my head. “No, I didn’t.”
“Would you like to learn this art? The art that preserves life even against death?”
I slapped the fawn on the back and grinned. “I’m afraid I have no need to preserve life against death. I will go quite happily to the silent meadows.”
I noticed that the whole time we had been talking his eyes had been occasionally dwelling on the giant volume written by the yeti. “You can have it,” I said, eager to get rid of the thesis.
“Well I will be happy to consider your donation,” he said motioning for two skeletons to take the volume from me.
As they lumbered away with the ponderous volume a surly halfling druid stormed up in front of us, carrying a large, gnarled wooden staff three times as tall as him. At the top of it was a large smooth purple oval globe that lit up with a dim white glow when it spoke:
“Scammander you knave, rascal, eater of broken meats; you base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy worsted stocking knave; you lily-livered, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; you one-trunk-inheriting slave; you that would be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and the heir of a mongrel bitch; one whom I will beat into clamorous whining if you deny the least syllable of your addition!”
“I see you are still frumious from our last discussion Alastair,” smiled Scammander, rolling his head arrogantly to the side. “Is there perhaps another—”
“Is frumious even a word?” the halfling’s staff snarled as the druid slammed it into the floor. The gnarled staff flickered: “Show your knives and hide your wives! The paradoxer Scammander is here!”
It dawned on me that this was the intemperate hierophant who cut down a sacred forest when he lost a debate to Scammander’s verbal tricks. And now that we had been announced to all of Scammander’s former enemies, it was time that the fighting began.
The irascible halfling druid looked at me then slid his eyes over to Scammander. “What are you up to?” the staff said in a quiet, dismayed voice. “Learn any new…words lately, what did you say your name was?” the halfling swallowed, and the glow of the purple orb dimmed. Everyone was looking at us, and no one looked comfortable.
“I’ve learned of the word ‘Scammander,’ but I haven’t quite got hold of what it means,” I grinned pelegasianly.
“How do you catch Scammander?” wondered Alastair’s staff.
“You don’t; he is the very slickness of water. Grab him, and he merely slides between your fingertips,” a man in a long black leather duster said as he approached. He had a hypnotic walk, like a lynx sauntering through the forest at midnight. “Scammander is capable of being in Uncertainties, Mysteries, and Doubts without any reaching after Fact and Reason.” There was a long pause, and then the warlock spoke with a reptilian cadence: “A very enviable trait.”
“Johannes Dubitandum,” mused Scammander.
“Any relation to Johannes Moonlight?” I snickered.
“I’ve sent a few his way,” the man said villainously as he approached us. Long matted hair the color of primordial night, the way the first sky looked before stars were born, fell to his shoulders and across his brow. His eyes were bloodshot, like he was awake, all-too-awake, like he was a somnambulist who had awoken from a dream and decided to never go on dreaming. Around his neck was an old, grimy noose kept company by severe blue, grey, and purple bruises that should have healed long ago. A grim smirk remained fixed on his pallid face. I saw a worn leather book sitting in his jacket pocket, dyed the color of summer thunderclouds with flaking gold lettering, which read “The Immediate Erotic Stages: Or, The Musical-Erotic.” I then glanced down at his wrists, expecting to see scars, and instead saw that he had a word tattooed on each one in a black-green cursive, reading “Sex” and “Mayhem.”
Whenever Scammander was accused of teaching me magic, the use of weapons was not far behind. I tucked my hands into my robes and took a quick survey of the room before the fighting began. A small circle of various villains had gathered around us, and most of them looked like they would be using magic.
“Oh my friend, there are no friends,” the two said in unison as they embraced. I let a sigh slip across my lips as I looked up at the ceiling, then closed my eyes and let my muscles relax. No killing tonight.
Johannes stepped back and looked at Scammander. “I threw him in to the Gloomstone Vaults, and even I’m surprised to see him out alive.”
“He had you throw him in,” Alastair’s gnarled staff chuckled as he rolled his ey
es and turned his head away. “If Scammander is a stream, it must be a treacherous one with two contradictory sources, one hot and one cold which flows in opposite directions.”
“Yes, he had me throw him in there on purpose.” No one here seemed surprised at that. “Still looks the same, though,” said Johannes as he came closer. Everyone seemed surprised at that. While Johannes and Scammander exchanged pleasantries, I took the opportunity to explore the crypt library.
I strolled by the large bookshelves passing an enormous stone statue of a troll, when I saw a tall, elegant dark elf leaning on the edge of a bookshelf, casually thumbing through a book I had read. His skin was as blue as deep lake water, and his hair was whiter than banshees and fresh frost.
“I know every line of that book,” I said.
“Yes, but do you know every inference?” he said softly, as he gently closed the tome and raised his head. His eyes were like two polar stars. “A minotaur. There are more of us than there are of you,” his voice was weightless and elegant, like autumn moonlight. It was so enchanting that I didn’t reply immediately. “Reticent,” he said again, fondly.
“True to legend,” I finally said.
“So you have read philosophy?”
“All of it.”
He arched his eyebrow, then spoke: “And what do you think of philosophers?”
“That they all really wanted to be sorcerers.”
A tiny smile pulled his thin lips upward. “So then, is this your favorite book?”
“No, that would be The City’s Relation to One’s Self.”
“I have often thought that the one, while speaking plainly, suggests many golden thoughts, while the other,” he raised the tome he was holding a little, “while attempting to suggest many sweet, golden thoughts actually boldly states them; and, incidentally, can be read as a short cut to the esoteric and noble teachings of your book.”
“Short cuts in knowledge can be dangerous,” I said.
The dark elf slid the book back on the shelf. “They will often cost you your life.” He looked at something on the bookshelf for a moment before he spoke again. “I see you are here with that villain Scammander. Would it be too much to hope that he is teaching you magic of the most destructive sorts?”
Splatterism: The Disquieting Recollections of a Minotaur Assailant: An Upbuilding Edifying Discourse Page 9
