by Scott Rhine
The bureaucrat shook his head, setting the paperwork down. “And finally, the Minister of Protocol, who frequently goes fishing in the morning before work, slipped on a loose rock, stunned himself, and slid into the water where he drowned. What a mess that’s been. Assuming the mole isn’t an active killer, three out of four Glass Daggers succeeded in their missions the same night they landed, an incredible success ratio for such a venture. That also assumes that none of their personnel fill a support role. From your description, subgroups of them did seem to have a certain degree of specialization. Therefore, I think there may have been more than one ship.”
“That’s horrible,” said Pinetto.
“It’s what any sound military thinker or farmer would do. Never put all your eggs in one basket,” reasoned the smith. “So we’re looking at a minimum of thirteen enemy operatives, probably working in teams of three, dagger assassin, spear scout, and sword for a clean escape, with some cross-training for backup.”
The mathematician looked at the hulking smith with something approaching admiration, and took notes on the observations. “Not to worry. Now that we’re on to them, we’ve tightened security for the Library. No one gets in without the proper authorization. Once we catch the mole, we’ll catch the whole nest of them, I’m sure. The whole South owes you a debt of gratitude, as do I personally for vindicating my department. How can we repay you?”
Expecting at least two hours of interrogation and no reward, the smith fumbled for a moment. “We only want what we asked for, sir: a room, a meal, and a chance to study some of the ancient scrolls.”
The Minister of Statistics grunted. “A meal, that’s a capital idea. I’d forgotten about that.” He scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment and sealed it with candle wax, handing it to Pinetto. “There. I don’t have any authority over housing, but for the duration of your stay, you’ll dine on my account. See my secretary for a pass to the Library stacks, non-classified of course. One of my best runners, Cedric, will see to your needs until you can get one of your own.”
Both men thanked him for his generosity and shook his hand. Cedric had been waiting for them outside, along with their security envoy. Cedric was an efficient, young man concerned more with reading his current book than with conversation. His unrumpled, linen robe was the quality worn by the upper-middle-class. He rarely spoke and blended into his surroundings. The only clue they had of his runner status, other an his youth, was the fact that his sandals had been re-shod so often that he had tiny, metal plates tapped into the heels to slow the wear. Whenever runners walked by at a brisk pace, one could often hear their signature clicking.
Their next stop was the kitchen. The head chef beamed and lavished praise on the companions after reading the letter from the Minister of Statistics. While they were served up heroic portions of leek soup and stuffed game hen in orange sauce, Cedric set about finding them suitable lodging. The kitchen staff buzzed, catching fragments of the tale and embellishing them more with each re-telling. One brown-haired lass, an assistant cook of some sort, took a special interest in the burly smith. “You killed an entire ship full of assassins single-handedly?”
The smith tried to ignore her attentions, but Pinetto, eager for recognition of his own, kept fanning the flames. By the end of the meal, the young woman was hanging on the smith’s arm, admiring his vest, and flirting. When Cedric arrived to escort them away, the lass sighed, “Leaving so soon? But you’ll miss my course. I’ll have to make you one of my special desserts later.”
The smith waved and moved rapidly into the hall. Even Cedric raised an eyebrow at this. He cast a meaningful look at Pinetto, who replied, “I’m not sure. He did get his letter of reference from the Lord of the Mint, who also picked out those fashionable clothes of his. But I didn’t ask.”
“I’m engaged!” the smith protested. “Anna is a very good woman to whom I’m determined to remain faithful.”
Still a bit surly that the woman had chosen his friend instead, Pinetto pried, “So what is it that this Anna has that the tart chef does not?”
Cedric snickered at the pun.
Unprepared, the smith said, “Nice breath.”
“The tart didn’t have a bad pair herself,” countered Pinetto, ribbing playfully.
“Breath, you buffoon,” shouted the smith, exasperated. “Liking another person’s smell is very important in a marriage, and so is trust.” The other two men glanced at each other in a way that said they had never considered these criteria before. “Speaking of smell, did something die in here?”
Pinetto sniffed his own cape, deciding that the foul odor of fermenting snake intestines may have had something to do with the damsel’s choice after all.
When they reached their apartments on the second floor of a distant wing, the smith was awestruck. Above the doorway hung a brass version of the flare militant, the original holy symbol of the Temple of Tamarind Pass. “How did you know?”
From inside the room came the answer. “One can tell by the design of your very interesting sword hilt, my good sir.” A dignified man with peppered, black hair, a soft, five-cornered hat, and a wrinkle-free, spotless, blue robe stepped out to meet them. “I’m Darius, the steward of this floor. The gate guard mentioned that you were a religious man. When Cedric recognized your affiliation with our departed Captain Jotham, we thought it appropriate that you should use his quarters. Everything confidential has been removed, of course, but it is otherwise the same as the day he left. Jotham was an avid devotee of your faith. Though the active practice of this faith is technically forbidden by the kings, I cannot find faulits adherents. The chief researcher was the kindest, wisest man I have ever met, and the best tenant I have ever had. He’ll be sorely missed.”
The smith bowed. “Your hospitality will not be forgotten.” To his runner, he said, “Cedric, you sneak. Blessings be upon you, your children, and your children’s children. You’ve done better than I could have imagined. Take off the rest of the day.” Cedric blushed, bowed in reply, and scampered off to take his ease.
Darius smiled and gestured for the two to enter. “You should find everything you need to refresh yourselves in the bathroom between the first two suites. If you have need of anything before curfew, simply ring the bell at your doorway and a servant will be dispatched to fulfill your request.”
The smith stumbled around, gawking at the amenities. Each of the three rooms in this section was twice the size of his barracks at the guild Fortress. Despite the lack of gaudy ornaments or excessive luxury, the suite could have belonged to a council member. “It’s so big.”
Pinetto was impressed for different reasons. “The first two suites?”
The steward nodded. “There are four in all. This first was used by the captain’s personal guard, a swordsman like yourself.”
This grabbed the smith’s attention. Gesturing to his own forehead, he asked, “Tattoos?”
“Good. You knew him. How serendipitous. The second suite was used by Sir Jotham himself, and the last two for his personal research library and journals.”
“Sir Jotham?” asked the astronomer, trying to straighten out all the ranks and relationships.
Darius waved his hand. “A formality, really. I think he was knighted for one of his treatises on ancient warfare. He wrote so many that I don’t remember which one.” As they chatted, the steward told them more about Jotham, and they recounted their adventures with assassins and bureaucrats.
The smith chewed on the information, and an idea germinated. It would be too much to hope for, but he decided to push his good fortune just in case. “Would those records by any chance include a catalog of Jotham’s household items?”
“Yes…,” said the steward cautiously. “But those accounts are pretty out-of-date by now. If there’s something specific you desire, perhaps I could be of more assistance.”
The smith scratched his neck and feigned disinterest. “I happen to know that his personal guard had a fine, Imperial blade. As a historia
n, Sir Jotham may have chronicled its lineage. As a man of the forge, I appreciate learning all I can about great weapons and like to read stories about them.”
Pinetto looked puzzled, but kept his mouth closed in mixed company.
“Indeed,” mused Darius. “Such a history would most likely be in the twenty-six volumes on vegetables in the closest library.”
Pinetto could remain silent no longer. “Vegetables?”
The steward spread his hands. “Paper is expensive and hard to come by. The vegetable books were categorized as duplicates of non-essential information and hence available for re-use.”
This, Pinetto understood. Explaining to the smith, he said, “They write with a different ink between the lines, in margins, and on the blank spaces between chapters.” Poor university students often adopted this practice. Occasionally, a ribald romance might be found copied between the lines of some dull tome on alchemy. One could read just about anything in class with the proper cover.
“You have been issued two glow globes, one per bedroom. Please take great care with these as it is difficult to find artificers to replace them in times of war.” Darius pointed to the lamp above them. Upon closer examination, they found that the light came from a cool, glass orb in the center of a polished, tin replica of a lotus. The flower petals reflected and directed the yellow glow about the room. Seeing that his guests were unfamiliar with the devices, he added, “No flames are permitted inside the walls of the Library proper. When you wish to extinguish the light, turn the dark half of the globe up. To turn them on, face the night side down. Each morning, we must charge the globes by placing them on that shelf by the very short window where the morning sun comes through. The cleaning crew will handle that for you, if you wish. On cold nights, the window slot can be plugged with that board much the same as you would bar a door.”
Both traveling companions began to play with the minor, magical device immediately. When the light flicked back on for the third time, the steward cleared his throat. “Anything else I can do for you this evening, sirs?”
The smith pondered this for a moment before asking, “Can I count on your discretion?” Darius looked offended. “Very well, I can trust you. Because of my orders, I’ll need livery suitable for a retainer of the royal house of Kiateros. For my own peace of mind, I’d like a barber for myself, and laundry service for my friend.”
“Very good, sir,” approved the man in the blue robe. “I’ll contact a barber tomorrow. Leave your clothing in the hallway tonight and suitable clothes tailored to fit you will be on your doorstep in the morning. Since we are speaking in complete confidentiality, I’d also advise you not to mention the Fortress of Tamarind to anyone here.”
The smith was startled by the deduction. “How could you tell?”
Darius laid a finger aside his nose. “It is the job of a gentleman’s gentleman to know such things. I’m only being rude enough to broach the subject because Tamarind is currently under siege by a contingent of some thirty Babliosian Honors for suspicion of treason. This charge is reinforced by their refusal to open their gates for inspection.”
The smith considered this news. “Technically, the treaty says that they must open their gates to the combined armies of Bablios and Zanzibos. It’s not treason until both ask together.”
The steward shrugged. “I’m neither a lawyer nor a politician, but a humble host who wants the best for his guests. Even the appearance of conspiracy should be avoided in a place such as this.”
“If you could tell my origins, won’t others?”
Pinetto interjected, “Not everyone’s as perceptive as our host. Your new clothes and hair will give the others an excuse to look the other way. My father says that voluntary blindness is the glue that holds civilization together, especially when you know who all the nobles are sleeping with.”
“I won’t know about that, sir,” claimed the steward. “But apart from that example, your father seems to be a wise man. Breakfast for this wing begins at sunrise and will be carried here tomorrow at your convenience. Beyond that, I’ll need a copy of your schedule for my own planning. My duties discharged, I bid you good evening.”
The smith shook his hand in thanks. But when he took out a coin, the well-groomed gentleman raised his nose and left without touching the money. When the hall steward had left, the smith said, “I didn’t mean to offend him. I’m not used to these new bribery rules yet.”
“Why did you ask for Kiateros uniforms?” demanded his friend.
“A certain higher authority has entrusted me with a mission regarding the heir of Lugwort,” he confessed vaguely. Pinetto drew a finger across his own throat. “No!” the smith insisted. “Why does everybody always assume that all I do is kill? It’s quite the opposite. But I can only tell you if you’re coming with me to the northern kingdoms.”
Pinetto was intrigued at first, but after some thought said, “And leave all this? No, thanks. I’ve had enough danger for one lifetime. Just out of curiosity, does this mission involve a message?” When the smith started to open his mouth, the astronomer changed his mind and held out his hands to block the reply. “I don’t want to know. Forget I asked. But you’ve got to tell me one more thing. You don’t read for pleasure. You can barely read at all. Why the nonsense about the catalogue?”
“The historical records of the sword of Akashua,” the smith prompted, unwilling to say more out loud.
“Ah, right,” the astronomer said, remembering their research goals. “So I’m supposed to spend all tonight and most of tomorrow slogging through the complete, annotated history of vegetables in hopes of finding a clue?”
The smith nodded. “After you take off your clothes. I intend to help you search as much as I can. But I refuse to be enclosed in the same room with that smell any longer.”
Pinetto blushed. “I didn’t have time or money to buy new clothes and I don’t… that is to say I’m not wearing…”
It took a moment for the smith to understand the difficulty. “I have an extra kalura in my pack, if that would help.” His companion nodded. While the smith located his own glow lamp and then the catalogues, the astronomer changed into his borrowed night clothing.
The final two rooms were not just lined with books, but crammed with as many shelves as would fit, arranged like ribs in a man’s chest. The smells of oiled leather and dust permeated the entire suite. Only one person could pass through the stacks at a time, and the smith had to turn sideways to squeeze through some areas. For both of them to fit at once, they had to stand in front of a small desk beside the entrance to the room.
After three hours of scanning the tiny, precise lettering in brown ink, the astronomer located not one, but two references to the former Imperial warlord Akashua. Rubbing his eyes, he said, “But the text doesn’t make sense. It’s all jumbled, like some kind of code. Weird.”
“Let me see,” said the smith excited. “Hah! What a sneaky, old bird. He hid the most important information in plain sight. It’s a pity we’ll never meet this Jotham fellow; I’ve grown to like him.”
“Show me!” demanded the astronomer.
Suddenly, the smith grew cautious. Grimacing, he said, “Sorry. Secrets of the Order. I’ll have to ask you to step outside. If I showed you, I’d either have to swear you into the Brotherhood or kill you.”
Pinetto laughed. The sword-bearer didn’t. After a tense moment of locked gazes, the astronomer said, “Religion. Pah! You can keep it.” He left the room in a huff. Once by himself, the former executioner found the proper marks on the pages in separate volumes and dovetailed them together. The biggest secrets of the Way could not be trusted to just one repository; replication and obfuscation were common practice in matters of higher learning. He read, carefully tracing the unified text with his fingers. After finishing the relevant passage twice, he put one volume back where it belonged and mis-shelved the other under a stack of notes on famous battlefields in the final room of the suite. While hiding the evidence, he uncovered
a detailed map of the north and tucked it into his sash. It might prove useful.
Then, he went to share the information from the manuscript with his friend. Pinetto was sulking, however, and had to be cajoled and told how valuable he was for some time before he’d listen. Once he was won over again, the smith explained, “We were right about Akashua being our culprit. His official title was marquis of some island that I’d never heard of; the Scattering wiped it off the map. Once the emperor’s chief warlord, this sword-bearer retired early to protest Myron’s insane behavior. Normally this wouldn’t be permitted, but some by-rule of the Imperial military allows for elder members to join a monastic order of their choice to live out their days in quiet contemplation. This retirement is often exercised by people who lose their reflexes or those in disfavor who choose a self-imposed exile. This protects the man’s family name and shields him from retribution from the throne.”
Pinetto nodded. Such clauses were not unheard-of even in the present kingdoms. The smith continued, lowering his voice, “Akashua took the sword with him. Since the obscure, splinter order he joined had a vow of poverty, all of his worldly possessions had to be sold and the money sent to the church. This guy was filthy rich, and it took almost a year to clean out his estate.” The astronomer gave a low whistle. “When the money for the last piece of property arrived, the sword was sent back sealed in a teak box. Everybody accepted the transaction at face value. But what if he or the cult kept the true sword?”
