by Scott Rhine
That was the plan.
Unfortunately, as he stood poised with the hilt of the sword, ready to strike, his own lips betrayed him. “I am the Vengeance of Kiateros,” he shouted, quite against his own intentions. He could feel the divine blood in the weapon raging against the enemies who’d robbed him of both his kingdom and place in the heavens. Having an angry god forge a magic weapon had its disadvantages. The shock of the outburst and the target spinning around ruined his aim.
The sword skidded along the sentry’s clavicle and dissected a major artery there instead. The man would die in seconds, but he had just enough consciousness left before swooning to shout “Raid!” Blast the gods and their meddling; now he had to find another invader to capture alive. The camp stirred.
“Run,” the smith squeaked.
Unwilling to use the same road that the invaders would be taking for their escape, Pinetto climbed up the side of the shed using the nets for traction. The smith crept through the fog, swinging far to the right in order to reach the fire without encountering those rushing down the path. Most of the area between was a large garden, fenced to keep the rabbits out. He stopped when he reached an outhouse and peered cautiously around the shelter it provided. Three hooded men stood around the fire, while two wounded ones lay close to the blaze.
One was dressed much more elegantly than the others, in black silks like an aristocrat attending a costumed ball. This man spotted him lurking in the mist long before the others had a clue. Presumably their leader, the man who detected him drew an unmarked sword, shorter than the standard weapon made for knights of the realm. None of their swords had Honors.
“There’s someone on the roof. Archers!” reported one of the scouts by the smokehouse, erring in his haste.
“Rendezvous B, scatter!” ordered their leader. Determining that the man with the injured leg could never outrun a patrol, the aristocrat plunged the tip of his blade through the back of the man helpless at his feet. They couldn’t risk questioning by the Library police and the Wine of Truth.
A second swordsman closed on the smith. His attacker looked confused as several well-struck blows glanced aside for no apparent reason. The smith grinned as he realized that Kiateran steel would be hard-pressed to harm an instrument of Kiateros’s will. The third standing man ran away as fast as possible.
Meanwhile, the aristocrat disposed of the second injured man. After wiping the blade, the head invader watched the combat in progress, looking for a weakness or perhaps memorizing a face.
“Hey smith, they’re leaving. Do you need help?” called the astronomer from his perch. At that moment, their blades connected and the invader’s unmarked blade snapped in two. The impact numbed the fingers of the black-hooded man and he cried out. Swords without Honor were no match for the magic blade either. The smith’s confidence soared.
The astronomer had climbed down from the roof and was calling to locate him. The enemy leader chose to fight another time under more favorable circumstances, and faded into the foggy woods. The final enemy panicked at this display and attempted to run as well.
The smith saw his chance and sliced for the hamstrings, severing the entire right ankle instead. Either the Defender of the Realm was too aggressive or the wielder needed practice—perhaps both. “I’m not going to let you off that easy. You’re going to answer some questions, mister.”
While the smith grabbed a brand from the fire to stop the horrendous bleeding, the injured man pulled an odd, green glass dagger from the sheath of one of the dead men. Weighing the options of capture and possible torture, the man plunged the dagger into his own chest. When the smith tried to extract it, the tip stayed deep in the wound. A sharp, acrid smell filled the air, and the weapon turned clear and hollow. The glass dagger turned out to be a delivery system for a mysterious, green liquid. The man died hard and with a contorted face.
“Poison,” the smith squeaked, tossing the rest of the oozing glass dagger into the flames. Searching for any residue of the toxin, he wiped his hands off in the grass.
The god-forged sword wouldn’t stop one of these deadly glass weapons.
The first thing the astronomer said when reaching the scene was, “Gods. You’ve killed half of them already!” Later, as they examined the weapons and other evidence left behind and compared notes, they deduced that these men were assassins, and that there had been nine instead of the expected eight. “The aristocrat was their contact here. We have to tell the authorities.”
****
By dawn, the two were tied up at the docks of the Great Library. All the evidence was stowed in their craft, covered by an enormous tarp until they could contact the proper authorities. To do so, explained Pinetto, they had to find the right line to stand in. There were more than twelve entrances to the bureaucratic fortress, each with its own gatekeeper, rules, and strata of importance. Once inside the formidable walls, in the courtyard each line would divide into at least four others, also ranked by importance and overseen by another minor functionary. The system was a little slow at times, but Pinetto assured him it was ultimately efficient at what it did, filtering only the most worthy people and data so that the aristocrats in charge of each major function of the government were bothered as little as possible.
They seemed to walk around a third of the city and a long distance up the steep slope of the foothills before the astronomer settled on the proper line. Even at this absurd hour, there were already three people ahead of them. The second person in line offered to let them ahead of him for two silvers. Both companions scoffed at this. While Pinetto stood, the smith nestled into a nearby corner and took advantage of the brief lull to grab a much-needed nap.
When he finally opened his eyes, the midmorning sun had burned away the mist, and he saw the Library for the first time. The original structure had been a quaint and elegant, three-story square halfway up the lush, green hill covered with olive groves and vineyards. The main avenues were lined with fruit trees and the tiny, red flowers used to give the local wine its distinctive flavor. Monks had tended the immaculate grounds, but the knowledge had been free to all.
With the increased scope of data, donations, and students, an ad-hoc school system germinated. Random wings in a hodge-podge of styles branched off in every direction as the information and people housed there grew with the same organic directive as the trees. People from all over the world came to learn in this haven, and governments began to rely on it to train their clerks and statesmen to read, write, add, and plan. Through the efforts of its distinguished and determined hierarchy of faculty, the Library became the most prestigious, non-magical school in the civilized world.
The narrow shoreline and steep hills on either side formed a natural chokepoint for people and goods, which made the Library a natural location for a rest stop and trade town. When the high road to Mandibos was constructed through this valley, it ignited the local economy faster than a torch in a hay barn. Inns and warehouses sprouted all along the crushed-gravel shore. During its brief peak, this city became the most-used port in the south. Technically a free city, it owed taxes only to the emperor and no kings. White-washed villas of the wealthy sprouted up on the neighboring hillsides like weeds.
When the military value became apparent in the uncertain period shortly before the Scattering, the town began to grow tall, thick walls facing the threats from all kingdoms and the Imperial- controlled sea alike. The enormous expense had drained the coffers of the city. Sadly, after the Scattering began, the town received no goods from the water other than refuges. All former large-scale shipping and commerce had ended as starkly and suddenly as the messages from the gods. A few rich families survived with money and lands, but little real purpose. Many of the common people, however, went begging or worse.
Once the current Prefect came to power, he annexed this small city and made it his personal capital. A significant number of troops and a veritable swarm of accountants and researchers descended upon the lush foothills without warning. Although
most of the citizens had been of Babliosian birth, the primary reason the Prefect had been welcomed by the people was that he brought a guarantee of economic growth and stability, and crushed crime with an iron heel. He made liberal use of corporal punishment, creative death penalties, and the rehabilitation benefits of the nearby stone quarries. As he widened the ramparts against the threat of the Pretender, cramped apartments and tiny windows were added to the top layer.
Not content to be a military dictator, the Prefect incorporated and involved every layer of the city’s society in his rule, from the former elite to the seedier ones not discussed in polite company. His final addition to the patchwork architecture of the city was to transplant priests and plants from the Church of Bablios to the vineyards around the Library. In addition to increasing the wine produced each year, their presence helped further mitigate the crime problem. With the threat of their truth-extracting abilities and extreme punishments, the local crime lords voluntarily kept illegal activities within socially acceptable parameters. Even graft and bribery evolved formal boundaries. The city was also physically cleaner than it had been in over a generation. Most importantly to some talking in the line, it was once again safe for young students and their dates to walk in the university gardens alone in the evening.
When the smith realized how much time had passed, he located his companion, now second in line, and elbowed his way over. The line had grown, stretching out of sight down the narrow street. A few people grumbled at his advance, but the sight of his sword kept anyone from complaining. “What’s the problem?” he asked his friend.
Pinetto, eyes raccoon-black from lack of sleep, propped himself on the wall and nodded at the man in front of them. “The gentleman in front of us is a professional waiter.” The smith raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was strange, too. But evidently it’s an accepted practice. The gatekeeper even gets a fixed percentage of the take.”
“And what does that have to do with my numb ass?”
Pinetto put his hands out to calm his friend and whispered. “The Minister of Protocol hasn’t come in yet to open the inner gates. Sometimes it takes a few hours if there’s a flap at one of the other gates. Sometimes, if he’s sick, it never happens. In this case, only five people are allowed to be in the tunnel at a time, and they can talk to the next clerk through the portcullis.”
The smith made rapid continuing motions with his hand and tapped his foot.
Pinetto sighed. “The man ahead of us represents ten people, one of whom needs a second-degree, special dispensation. Again, it’s rare, but it happens. A dispensation like that can only be granted from inside the courtyard, as per Codes of Entry regulation number…” The astronomer was pointing to a set of rules etched in slabs of stone on either side of the gate. The writing was small and longer than a man’s arm.
“Can’t we just go ahead of him?” asked the smith.
Several people glared evilly at the companions. The astronomer hushed his friend. “Jumping in line is a major taboo here. And his client paid a special fee to insure that he started at the top of this man’s list. So you see how we’re all stuck here till either the inner gates open, or the client can be contacted with a request for deferral of special consideration with refund. But that’s unlikely because this gentleman has already spent the fee.”
The smith torqued his head to the side and said through clenched teeth, “Why not just pay the person in front of him the two silvers like he asked when we got here?”
Pinetto winced. “Two reasons. Once someone has passed the line, you can’t talk to them unless you’re inside, too. Most practically, if the gates aren’t opened, we can’t get to our rooms. There’s no point in paying my last coin to someone when it won’t get me any closer to a bed.”
“Surely there are other doors,” the smith pleaded, trying to hold his temper.
“University entrants must check in through the office of the Dean, no exceptions,” recited the drab guard who’d been listening stone-faced to their conversation.
“This is ridiculous. A university can’t run without students,” the smith complained.
The guard had unlimbered his truncheon and was about to evict these rabble-rousers from their place in line. The astronomer addressed the guard apologetically. “Forgive my friend. He doesn’t know that the university is on break today and these security measures are necessary for a nation at war.” Pinetto withdrew a single silver coin and held it out. “Maybe you could settle a bet between us. We realize the rules are there for a reason, but the Lord of the Mint had a personal message to give to his counterpart here. My associate bet me that we could arrange for an appointment with him sooner.”
The coin disappeared. “Lord Paymaster is three doors uphill, but has a longer line than this one. The average wait there is two days,” said the bored guard, with no trace of emotion.
“What if I had a message from the gods?” the smith ranted. “Where would I have to wait?”
Having no sense of humor, the guard replied, “Office of Religious Affairs and Charity would be the other side of the city, at the base of the hill. The line there takes about five days, unless you want to talk to the gods yourself; in which case, we can arrange that without delay.” Another guard poked his head out from the portcullis at the end of the tunnel, squinting to see if his co-worker was in trouble.
Pinetto glared and shelled out another silver. “Any time you make him talk, it costs us money,” hissed the astronomer. “Would you cut it out?”
Instead of being mollified, the smith bellowed in outrage. “Kingdoms are rising and falling by the hour. We don’t have time for this sideshow. There are four dead, northern assassins in our boat starting to stink in this sun!” He was a heartbeat away from smashing the Codes of Entry, or the gates themselves, with the hilt of his sword.
Everyone gawked at him, open-mouthed. The guard’s face brightened, truly awake for the first time that morning. “Well, that’s different. The Bureau of Security is the first gate at the top of this hill. Allow me to escort you.”
The university gate closed down while two guards walked them through the maze. The smith was ecstatic, but the astronr had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. By lunch, they were heroes with access to the inner fortress and the constant accompaniment of a security envoy. However, their anonymity and privacy was forever gone.
Chapter 40 – Research
The Minister of Statistics saw Pinetto and the sword-bearer six hours later. As a visiting knight from an allied kingdom, they allowed him to retain his Honor;
however, they set a magically enhanced wax seal between the hilt and sheath. They couldn’t prevent him from carrying the weapon, but he had to swear not to draw the sword inside their fortress. If the seal had been broken or even tampered with upon his departure or any time he passed a guard post, his freedom and very life could be forfeit.
Most bureaucrats wouldn’t have allowed him a private audience with such a blade, even with the seal. The statistician was either a very trusting man or very secure in his lair. Physically, the Minister was a small man, with wispy, salt-and-pepper hair and a long, narrow mustache. His eyes were wide and as sad as a hound the smith once knew. His uniform shirt had the regulation shoulder epaulets and a single blue patch of rank. The old mathematician sighed as the two men came in, shuffling through the avalanche of papers on his desk for one that seemed relevant. “Dinnertime already?” He squinted in the dim light and corrected himself. “You’re not the kitchen help; you’re the heroes. Sorry to keep you waiting. There are so many numbers to refigure. Sit, sit. We owe you gentlemen a great debt. Yes, indeed.”
The smith demurred. “We just did what any concerned citizens would have.”
The statistician barked out a sharp laugh. “Most citizens would have pulled themselves safe into bed and come out when it was over. You got half of them, your friend said.”
“Four out of nine. We think the last one was a local noble,” Pinetto clarified.
/> The Minister nodded sagely. “He’s the mole. We’re trying to find him with cross correlation. He can’t hide long once we’ve focused our attentions. Still, four Glass Daggers isn’t a bad night’s work for two young students. They’re a nasty lot. Some people around here didn’t even believe they existed until you showed up with the proof.”
“One student,” corrected Pinetto. “My friend here did all the work.”
“Indeed,” said the wispy, old man, re-appraising the swordsman before him. “I told those bureaucrats there were rats in the wainscoting, but they wouldn’t believe me. We have over seventy key command and control positions in this complex. How many do you think die or retire each month?”
Pinetto jumped in. “With an average service duration of twenty years, and seven months per year, about half a person a month, sir.”
“Excellent,” said the mathematician, pleased to be talking to a peer. “What would you say the likelihood was of having four die the same night?”
“That’s an entire year’s worth!” gasped Pinetto. “All the assassins that we let escape have killed people already?”
“Outstanding. I wish I had more like you on my staff, young sir. See my aide if you want to earn a few coins for expenses while you’re attending university. You have a keen mind. Actually, our overweight, chief pastry chef died in bed of natural causes. We’d been execting him to die any year now. The kitchen wench he had in his bed with him just hastened that eventuality.”
Having found the sheet of paper he desired, the Minister squinted again, held the paper closer and began to read, his voice changing from cordial to grim. “A rich, minor port official was killed in an apparent, dock-side mugging. His heirs are already fighting over the family warehouses, which coincidentally provide grain for our troops. The lawyers have frozen shipments until the dispute is resolved. The Master of Herbal Lore in the university, who’s long been battling a lung ailment, ended his own life with a pot of poisoned tea and a hand-written poem about freedom. Would you be surprised to hear that this herbalist personally inspects all medicines sent to our soldiers? His second-in-command is at the front lines, and the third is the king’s own physician. The nearest, practical replacement, a distant fourth on the qualification list, will take three weeks to locate, notify, and escort back here. He’s doing berry research with some southern tribe.”
