The Heir To The North

by Steven Poore

  For one moment she thought she saw a figure that looked much like Baum further down the great avenue. She frowned and squinted, but the figure was obscured within the crowds thronging the road. If that was really Baum, why would he follow me? she wondered. Aware the men passing her on either side were beginning to frown at her, for she had halted in the middle of the steps and was causing an obstruction, she lowered her gaze, muttered an apology, and hurried on.

  The gates at the top were sheltered behind four columns that supported an overhanging roof. They were thick, iron-bound wood, coated and stained so dark it was hard to tell the difference between the two materials. Cassia brushed a hand against one of the massive beams for luck as she passed through, on the heels of a knot of earnest, bearded scholars. They veered off to the left into a colonnade as soon as they passed through the long gatehouse, and Cassia was left alone to take in the grandeur of Hellea’s famous library.

  It was a tremendous sight. The schools and estates of the North were nothing but cattle sheds next to this. The walls of the library enclosed a rectangular yard, paved level with slabs of stone that interlocked in a pattern too complex to comprehend from here on the ground. On Cassia’s left, life-sized statues stood atop pillars of differing heights, set into a squared-off horseshoe. Men wandered between the pillars, some small groups in animated discussions. At this distance she thought the stone statues were gods, but she recognised none of them. Further away, more scholars had gathered on plain wooden benches that faced each other. They debated in loud arguments that, overlaid and confused, made no sense at all.

  On her right hand, on foundations of white-painted stone that lifted it above the business of the main yard, stood a small temple of the kind she had seen in towns along the river. It was hidden behind thick columns and, unlike the rest of the yard, it was curiously silent and empty.

  The covered colonnade surrounded the yard on all four sides. Men rushed along, half-seen between the pillars, with scroll cases or writing boxes held tight underarm. There were doors visible on the far side, leading to what Cassia thought might be the chambers of the library itself.

  That’s where she would find Malessar’s scroll case. It could hardly be anywhere else.

  She took a deep breath and began the long walk toward the opposite side of the yard. There was no obvious place to start looking, so she might as well pick a room at random.

  Nobody else appeared to have noticed her presence. The men were all engrossed in their own little worlds and esoteric subjects. Her earlier thought bubbled back up to haunt her. They really wouldn’t notice me if I ran naked through their precinct! She raised a hand to muffle the laugh before it escaped and betrayed her.

  Cassia walked the entire length of the colonnade twice to discover how the library was set out. Most of the rooms that led from the colonnade were small cells with whitewashed walls and ceilings. There were no windows, but closed lanterns sat above each pair of desks, mirrored glass amplifying and directing the light. Some of the scholars glared up at her presence, while others were engrossed in their work. She stood behind one for several minutes, watching him carve intricate designs into the margins of a single sheet of manuscript. Unrecognisable creatures curled through the borders of twisted colours, licking at the words as though on the verge of devouring them. She was reminded of Rann Almoul’s copy of The Call to the North, yet these designs flowed with such ease that Almoul’s scroll seemed raw and untrained by comparison.

  Opposite the main gates were two larger halls. One was a kitchen where a large cookfire burned in a deep alcove along the back wall. The library’s boys came in from time to time with small braziers, loaded them with coals from the fire, and then scurried out with them to the reading rooms. Some of the scholars Cassia had seen were little more than skin and bone. She saw the need to keep them warm as they clearly could not look after themselves.

  The other hall contained a flight of stone steps, sweeping down into the hill beneath the library. Three scholars sat on stools over to one side, conversing in low tones about this year’s grape harvest. On the other side of the room stood a younger man, muscular and attentive, his eyes tracking her tentative steps. He looked as though he could have been a soldier, and when she approached the steps, he moved forward to loom over her.

  “You’re not allowed down there,” he said.

  “My master needs the third book.” She kept her tone as deep as she could. If anybody saw through her disguise it would be him.

  “Tell him to send one of our boys.”

  Cassia nodded and ducked away before he asked a question she could not answer. If the bulk of Hellea’s library was kept below ground, it was effectively out of her reach. She allowed herself a sigh and wandered back into the yard, looking down at the pattern of the slabs under her feet and letting that guide her steps.

  When she looked up again she realised she was close to the base of the small temple. One boy knelt nearby, scrubbing industriously at the steps with a brush, but otherwise she was alone. There was no indication which god the temple was sacred to; no inscriptions, no figures, no decorations at all. It was as if somebody had built it as an empty shell. She took the steps cautiously and peered within, and her suspicions were confirmed. The altar block at the far end was plain stone, unmarked and devoid of offerings. This was a temple without a god. For a moment she imagined rows of Malessar’s shieldmen standing their silent vigil here, as they had at the shrine on the Western borders of the Empire. The warlock had set himself up as a god, after all. Might this be a monument to his works?

  “You look confused, boy,” a voice said behind her. She jumped, alarmed by the sudden sound, and turned quickly, gripping her staff tight with both hands.

  The speaker was one of the scholars. He was a hard-faced man. Weather and age had drawn lines upon his face, and his mouth wore a thin, emotionless smile. She was put in mind of a hawk, staring down unblinkingly at its prey. His robes emphasised his stern countenance, sleek, grey cloth lined and hemmed with deep emerald, which made him stand out from the other scholars in the yard. Unlike them, he was clean-shaven, his silvered hair cut short and flecked with purer white.

  Cassia opened her mouth, but then realised she did not know what to say.

  He came up the steps toward her. “This is your first time here.”

  She had to steel herself not to back away from him. “How do you know that?”

  “It would be easy to see, for any man who cares to look.” The emphasis in his words, combined with that mocking smile, made her flush.

  “I’ll leave,” she said quickly. “Please don’t have me thrown out, sir.”

  The scholar shook his head. “Your secret is safe with me, boy. If we punished curiosity then mankind would never learn anything.” He lowered himself onto the top step and motioned for her to join him. She did so reluctantly, holding onto her staff and making certain she was beyond his reach. The scholar’s smile twitched, but he did not comment on her caution. “You are not from the city.”

  Cassia did not like this sensation of being examined like a dragon’s new toy. “No, sir.”

  “The North, I think,” the scholar said. He waited for the boy scrubbing the steps to move out of earshot. “The accent is plain. And a girl with a storyteller’s cap – your father’s?”

  Could he unravel her entire life just by looking at her? Cassia shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze.

  “You would be lucky to merely be thrown out,” he told her. “There was a case once of a woman who entered the library, disguised as you are. She went about the scholars and contributed to their debates, and made several important philosophical points. She became a valued member of this community. But when one of her rivals became jealous, he followed her and discovered her secret. The next day he assaulted her in the precinct, over there.” He pointed to the benches on the other side of the yard. “He ripped her robes to her waist and uncovered her.”

  “What happened to her?” Cassia did not want
to ask the question.

  “They wanted to weigh her down with carved tablets from the depths of the library and drown her in the Castaria,” the scholar said. The slight smile had vanished completely. “Drown her with knowledge. She appealed to Casta and Saihri. During the night, there was a storm, and the temple cell where she was being held flooded and the stone walls burst out. Casta claimed her for her own.” He looked across at her again. “I would not rely on the gods to save you.”

  “Then what do you want from me?” Cassia felt the muscles of her thighs tense in preparation for a burst of speed. If she was lucky, she could be at the bottom of these steps and away across the yard before anybody responded to a shout from the scholar. She hadn’t felt this threatened since that last night in Keskor.

  He laughed softly. “What do I want? Nothing, for myself, other than to satisfy my curiosity. The question is, why would you risk your life like this?”

  She thought for a long moment, wondering what she should tell him. She doubted anyone would believe she was on a quest to find a centuries-old warlock to overturn his curse. This did not seem to be the place for such a revelation. “Stories,” she said at last.

  The scholar nodded. “Not as strange an idea as it might first appear,” he said. “What would you do with these stories?”

  “Tell them,” she said bluntly. The scholar seemed to appreciate her honesty so far. “Not here, though. Not in Hellea.”

  He laughed again, but this time with genuine humour. “I can see why. Where, then?”

  “I would go back to the North,” she said, warming to her new theme. “I could build my reputation there.”

  “Then you have already made a gain on the day.”

  Cassia took a breath to embolden herself. “I did not realise, sir, how much of the library is underground. I don’t want to debate with the others. I just want to read and learn.”

  The scholar stared at her, his fleeting smile gone again. That penetrating gaze remained, however, and she felt pinned to the steps of the empty temple. “If you are serious, then we may make a deal. I find myself in need of a boy – bright, trustworthy and obedient, mind you – to assist me in the archives for the next few days. The help the library hires out varies quite appallingly in quality. Irritating, fickle children. Will you do exactly as you are told, without question or delay?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cassia said without hesitation.

  The weight of the scholar’s stare was disconcerting. “Then I will meet you here tomorrow, boy, when the Saihran acolytes ring their prayer-bells.”

  He stood abruptly and began to descend to the yard. Cassia picked up her staff and followed. “Sir, may I ask a question?”

  “Already?” He did not pause.

  “What is that place? Is it really a temple?”

  “It is sacred to the god of knowledge,” the scholar said, over his shoulder.

  “So why is it empty?”

  At last he looked back and the skin around his eyes creased in a knowing smile. “It should be clear, boy. There is no god of knowledge but man.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The rain was a penetrating drizzle borne on a sharp wind from the north-west. Cassia shivered beneath the whitewashed portico and drew her cloak as close as she could around herself. The weather had forced all but one or two of the philosophers from the library’s yard and she felt self-conscious again. Any moment now, somebody would come to ask what she wanted or who she waited for, and her disguise would not stand up to the scrutiny.

  She told Baum she had found work at the library in order to see if Malessar was there. To her surprise he approved of her idea and, when she described her new employer, Baum clapped his hands. “A man of authority and seniority,” he said. “Stay with him. If Malessar is inside the library, then he will lead you to him.”

  “How long have you waited there?” the scholar called from the bottom of the steps. She had not noticed his approach, and she hastened down the temple steps in case he decided she was hopelessly lazy.

  “Only a few moments, sir,” she said. It was almost the truth: the bells at Saihra’s temple had rung several minutes ago, just as she reached the top of the flight of steps that led to the library. Since then she had struggled to quell her fears that the scholar had already grown impatient and gone on without her.

  The scholar looked her up and down as though he had not seen her before. “You will pass, I think. But speak only when directly addressed, and keep your eyes down. Once we are in the lower archives, you will need to cover your mouth, and that will make your disguise even more effective.”

  He strode toward the rear of the yard and Cassia fell in a few steps behind him. “Sir, what should I call you?”

  “Karak will suffice for now,” he said. “And you?”

  “Cassia, sir. What are you looking for in the library?”

  “Two questions already, and the day has only just begun,” Karak observed. “You seem intent on making the best of our bargain.”

  His voice was dry, but Cassia ducked her head so he could not see the fresh bloom of red on her cheeks. It would not do to aggravate the scholar, she told herself furiously.

  This time they were waved over to the stairs without any comment. If anything Karak was given more deference than the library’s other scholars, and Cassia’s presence was not commented on at all. Karak had to bend low to squeeze through the entrance to the underground archives, and even Cassia had to twist her body to fit through the gap. The space below, at the bottom of the short, steep flight of steps, was a small squared antechamber built between a set of rough-hewn pillars. Wooden doors were set into two of the four walls; after a moment Cassia found her bearings and realised the archives must run beneath the buildings above ground, forming a great loop.

  Karak had collected a small lamp from the table at the bottom of the steps, along with a handful of spare wicks. He passed them to her without comment and waited as she fumbled to settle the load so she could hold the lamp aloft without dropping everything else. Then he pushed one of the doors open and disappeared into the dark beyond. Cassia hurried to follow, less certain of her step. The lamp illuminated a few feet, enough to show Karak’s back and the edges of the shelves to either side, but nothing more than that.

  This space was a catacomb, like the burial chambers of the nameless family that she and her father had once sheltered in, stranded on the high moors in a sudden storm a few years ago. At the time she had been grateful to stumble across the broken-in barrow entrance, never thought to question why it was there. Now she knew a little better. The place could have been one of the outlying reaches of the old Northern kingdoms. Perhaps that family, whoever they had been, were leaders of Gethista, or another town like it. Gone now, lost to history, their goods stolen long ago by robbers, or rusted and decayed to nothing.

  Like the barrow, this passage was tight and claustrophobic, with deep alcoves and shelves on both sides. Instead of caskets, these held dozens of cylindrical scroll cases, of different widths and thicknesses, their ends strengthened with leather or rings of iron, dulled silver and other metals. On the lower shelves were flat wooden boxes with handles on each side, similar to the box in which Rann Almoul kept his copy of The Call to the North. For a moment Cassia’s imagination burned with the thought of what wondrous stories she might find in those boxes, but then she looked up at the rows of scroll cases, and remembered what it was she wanted to find.

  A single case, which once belonged to Malessar the Warlock. One single case amongst thousands. Perhaps even more than that. It would take weeks, if not months . . . if the warlock had not taken it already.

  Side passages appeared from the dark, tilted down into the depths of the hill and lined with yet more shelves. Her heart sank even further, and she struggled not to sigh at the sheer scale of the task she had set herself.

  Cassia hurried to keep up with Karak, though the scholar appeared to be so certain of his footing that he did not need the light. She wondered how we
ll he knew this labyrinth of tunnels; whether he might even know where Guhl’s purloined case was stored. But how to broach that sort of question without arousing his suspicions?

  Karak finally halted, peering up at the top shelves. “Here we are.” He motioned her to raise the lamp higher. “Yes. This was the place, I think.”

  “What are you looking for, sir?”

  “Old stories,” Karak said with a wry smile. Cassia bit her lip, glad the lamp cast her face in shadows. “I apologise. But in all seriousness, you could say that is what I am looking for. The things written by past generations of scholars. A few small paragraphs in particular that will resolve one area of difficulty in my research.” He reached up to the dark shapes on the top shelf. “If I can ever find them.”

  He lapsed into silence. All Cassia could hear was the scraping of the cases on the shelf as he rummaged through them. She kept the lantern high, moving it as he directed so he could examine inscriptions and carved rims. Only once did he unseal a case to unroll the flimsy piece of parchment inside, twisting forward to catch the light. The decorations on the borders were faded with time, the script almost illegible. Karak’s lips moved as he read, his brow creased into dark lines. Then he resealed the case, dismissing it with a shrug.

  They moved along the archive to another set of shelves. Karak repeated the exercise, rifling through the lower shelves, sending up dust that hung in the air and caught in Cassia’s throat. Other than the sound of their own breathing, the scrape of leather against the shelves, and the occasional muttered echo from far down the passage, there was little else to hear. The space closed up around her, shrinking the world to what could be illuminated by the lantern. Cassia began to feel that the world outside the library might as well not exist.

  Her throat tickled, and the corners of her eyes itched, but she dared not rub them for fear of disrupting Karak’s concentration. The lantern was heavy too, the muscles in her arms ached, and the effort of keeping it aloft started a quiver that affected how the shadows fell. She shifted her grip as carefully as she could, adjusting her stance and flexing her free hand to bring her fingers back to life, but nothing worked well for very long.