Journey to the Library [The Library Saga]

by Amy Cross

  "You're so goddamn naive," she replies. "Did anyone ever tell you that?" She pauses. "Say you drive a sheep across a minefield and it survives. What do you do with it next?"

  "Set it free?" I ask tentatively, even though I know it's probably the wrong answer.

  "You hang onto it," she replies tersely, "for the next minefield. And the next. And maybe even the next until, one day, the sheep saves your life by...." She pauses. "Well, I think you can guess the rest, and it doesn't end with the sheep being given a pat on the back as it heads off into the sunset."

  Behind us, there's a whoosh of air as Kiran and his men light their torches. Orange light fills the darkness, and as I turn and look ahead, I realize that we've reached a large underground chamber with ornate painted walls. Up above, there appear to be thick, gnarled tree roots poking down through the ceiling, but the most fascinating thing of all is that there are several large stone slabs placed at the edges of the room, each covered in some kind of thick, painted writing that uses a language I've never seen before.

  "Attendants," Kiran says, coming up behind us and resting his elbows on our shoulders. "When a librarian died, his attendants would be buried with him. Just in case he needed them in the next life, you understand. Of course, they had to be buried alive, at least at first, in case they were needed early on. Most of them accepted their lot in life, but apparently a few had to be forced down here. I'm sure they were screaming as the stone lids were slid across."

  "So there are dead people in there?" I ask, staring at the nearest box with a feeling of dread.

  "I certainly hope so," Kiran replies, pushing me forward a couple of steps. "If they're not dead, they're gonna be pretty pissed off. Now why don't the two of you take a walk around, huh? See what you can find."

  "Come on, Alice," Table mutters knowingly, wandering across the room. "Let's just hope we're lucky sheep."

  "This particular grave," Kiran continues, "belonged to one of the most famous and notorious of the early librarians. If you know your history, I'm sure you'll have heard of Elder the Second. He governed several provinces over a five hundred year span, and he's widely credited with establishing the port city of Dashobar. Of course, others had tried to build there, but the ground was always too swampy. Good old Elder the Second realized what was needed, though, so he had ten thousand slaves minced up and churned into the ground. Their blood and bones firmed the soil right up, and the city's still standing today."

  "Is that true?" I whisper to Table as we make our way around the room.

  "Who knows?" she replies. "I've heard of Elder the Second, though. He was real enough. They say he was one of the cruelest librarians of all time. His tomb was apparently sealed with the blood of virgins."

  "Okay, okay," Kiran says, leading his men across the room. "I think we've seen enough. You kids have been very useful, but it's time for the men to get to work now." He stops at the far wall and runs his hands across the stone. "About here, I reckon," he adds, pulling a sledgehammer from across his back and taking a step back. "You might all wanna cover your mouths," he says. "It's liable to get a little dusty in here."

  "Why -" I start to say, before he swings the sledgehammer straight at the wall. Sure enough, a huge cloud of dust immediately fills the room, and for several minutes I stand with my hands across my face while Kiran continues to smash through the wall. Finally, as the dust begins to clear, I dare to open my eyes just in time to see Kiran and his men climbing through the hole.

  "Come and take a look in here, ladies!" Kiran calls back to us. "I think there's someone you should both meet!"

  "Are you sure we can't just get out of here?" I whisper to Table. "We did what he asked! Why don't we just turn and run?"

  "My God," she mutters, "you're getting more naive by the second. Do you seriously think he didn't leave a man at the entrance, just in case anything happened?"

  I watch as she climbs through the hole, and finally - realizing that I have little choice - I move to follow her.

  "Be careful," Nodby says, hanging back as if he's too scared to come with us.

  "Do you really think there's anything still alive down here?" I ask. "Look at the place. It's a tomb! By definition, that's a place for dead people!"

  "And I'm happy to leave it that way," he replies. "I don't feel the need to go poking about in there and maybe end up adding to their number."

  Stepping through the hole, I find to my surprise that the next room is a kind of long, high-ceilinged dining chamber, complete with a huge oak table that runs almost the entire length. The table is covered in plates of foul-smelling, rotted food, and while large portraits adorn the walls, a rusty old chandelier hangs from the ceiling. It's like an old-fashioned English dining room, except that there's now brick-dust all over the floor and there are no windows whatsoever.

  "Spooky, huh?" Table says with a faint smile.

  "Only because it's dark," I reply, hoping to reassure myself. "Apart from that, it's kind of normal."

  "I wasn't talking about the room," she adds, pointing toward the far end of the table. "I'm talking about him."

  Following her gaze, I realize that there's a figure seated at the head of the table, barely visible in the flickering light from the grave robbers' torches. Taking a few steps forward, I can finally see that the figure is that of a heavily-robed old man, his features gnarled and shrunken as if his entire body has been completely dried out. Other than that, however, he appears to be ready for a feast.

  "Elder the Second," Table says, with a hint of wonder in her voice. "He was well known as a tyrant and a gourmand. They say there wasn't a creature in all the seven worlds that he hadn't tasted at least once. Golvs, Loom People, Joths, Forbidders... everything. Apparently, he was particularly fond of Grandapam meat." She takes a few steps forward, before turning back to me. "What's wrong?" she asks, with a glint in her eye that suggests she already knows the answer. "Never seen a corpse before?"

  "No," I say, shaking my head. "Never." The truth is, although I'm horrified by the sight of the mummified old man, I can't take my eyes off him: his empty eye sockets and shriveled mouth, curled back to reveal a row of stained teeth, seem to contain all the horror and mystery of death, and I find myself almost involuntarily walking forward, drawn to examine him more closely. Frankly, I'm shocked; I would have assumed I'd run at the first sight of such a thing, but instead I want to get a better view. Maybe I'm not quite as timid as I always thought.

  "Careful," Table says, grabbing my arm and holding me back so that I don't get too close. "Some of the most elaborate and macabre booby traps were reserved for the immediate vicinity of the tomb's main occupant. I'd hate to have to carry your severed head around in a bag and deliver it to your parents." She pauses. "Then again, I suppose that might be quite amusing, in a macabre kind of way."

  "Look at this!" Kiran says, holding up a gold chain that he's found on the table. "We can sell this at the main market, all right. Hell, we can afford to retire on the proceeds from all of this!"

  "Where's the fun in that?" asks one of his men.

  "I didn't say we would retire," Kiran replies. "Just that we could afford to. That's the problem with money. No matter how much you've got, you could always have more."

  "So what's the plan?" Table asks. "Clean the place out and move on?"

  "More or less," Kiran replies, stuffing the chain into a bag. "Are you sure you don't wanna join us? We've never had a girl in our group before, but I think you might have the right stuff after all. You haven't got the usual weaknesses of the fairer sex."

  "Sorry," Table replies scornfully, "I prefer to work alone."

  "Suit yourself," he mutters, returning his attention to the jewelry that's laid out on the table.

  "I'm surprised," I say quietly, turning to Table. "I thought you'd love the chance to make money."

  "You really don't know me at all," she replies bitterly, "do you? But thanks for the compliment. It's nice to know that you think I'd fit in with a bunch of thieves
and murderers."

  For the next few minutes, the men fill their bags until it's clear that they can carry no more, and then they start filling their pockets for good measure. Table, meanwhile, takes only a couple of small gold rings, which she drops into her pocket while telling me that although she places no great value on money, she knows that from time to time it's useful to be able to buy a service from someone. She seems disdainful of the grave robbers' actions, and there's a cold, calculating look in her eyes; I can't shake the feeling that when the moment comes, she'll be more than capable of handling them all. In fact, she has the air of someone who's already worked out how to kill every other person in the room.

  For my part, all I can do is watch the mummified old librarian, his dead face staring straight ahead; I can't help but wonder whether, when he was placed here, his followers ever had any idea that the place would one day be looted like this. The whole situation seems wrong to me, but at the same time I'm in no position to argue with Kiran and his men. I just want to get away from them.

  "What about this?" one of the men asks, pointing at a large gold candlestick in the center of the table.

  "We're loaded down," Kiran says. "It wouldn't fetch much."

  "Still," the man replies, grabbing the candlestick, "we might as well -" Suddenly he freezes, with the candlestick in his hand, as if he's suddenly horrified by something that the rest of us haven't yet seen.

  "What's wrong?" Kiran asks. "Dolphur, what are you playing at?"

  "The candlestick," the man says, his voice filled with fear. "When I picked it up... it was on a small platform that raised up slightly, almost as if it was..." He pauses. "Pressure sensitive..."

  Above us, a slow, ominous rumble begins, as if stones are starting to move.

  I look over at Table.

  She looks at Kiran.

  Kiran turns to look at the mummified old man.

  And slowly, with a creaking sound in his neck, the mummified old man turns and looks at me.

  "Run!" Kiran shouts, leaping onto the table and down the other side as he races back the way we came.

  In the ensuing panic, with bodies rushing past and knocking me into the wall, I lose sight of Table for a moment. One of the men drops his flaming torch, which lands at my feet and momentarily blinds me, but as I struggle to make my way around the table, I trip over something heavy on the floor and land hard against one of the chairs. I try to pick myself up as fast as possible, but I can see the others racing through the hole, trying to get back out of the tomb. Running after them, I finally feel as if we might be able to get out, before suddenly a huge stone slab comes slamming down, slicing one of Kiran's men in half as it seals the entrance shut with a loud thud that makes the whole tomb shudder for a moment.

  "No!" I shout, running forward before seeing blood pouring from the severed lower torso. Stepping back, I feel someone brushing against my shoulder, and I turn to find Table standing next to me.

  "How many of them got out?" she asks breathlessly.

  "All of them," I say. "I think. Except..."

  We stand in silence for a moment, staring at the legs and lower torso of the dead man. One of his feet twitches for a moment, before finally falling still.

  "So it's just us," Table mutters, swallowing hard. "Damn. If Kiran was down here, they might bother to come and rescue him."

  "They can't leave us like this," I say, feeling a growing sense of panic rising through my chest. "They can't just leave us down here alone!"

  "They can," Table says, staring at the sealed entrance, "and they will. And anyway..." She turns and looks back toward the hole that leads into the dining room. "I don't think we are alone."

  Thomas Never

  "Subsection 14a, paragraph 5," says the Grandapam Marshal, reading from a scroll, his voice sounding weary and tired. "Subsection 14c, paragraph 9. Subsection 14d, paragraphs -"

  "Christ," Carstairs mutters, standing next to me as we wait to be led up onto the gallows. "Can't he just get on with it?"

  "Subsection 14d," the Marshal says firmly, as if to forestall any further interruptions, "paragraphs 8, 10 and 15. And finally, subsection 20, paragraph 5. Thus ends the list of all crimes, misdemeanors and transgressions committed by the two prisoners stood before the Council today. On these charges, the prisoners have been deemed guilty, and the court has been left to pass judgment. This judgment is based on certain criteria, which I shall now go on to elucidate for the benefit of those here gathered."

  As the Marshal proceeds to read out a long list of new subsections and paragraphs, I look up at the nooses hanging high above us. A cold chill passes through me as I contemplate, for one moment, the sensation of the rope being placed around my neck. Looking at the platform, I can see an outline of the hatch that'll swing down when the guard pulls a long lever placed next to the edge. It looks so clinical and quick, and even though the Grandapams seem to love reading long lists of rules and regulations, I have no doubt that soon Carstairs and I will be led up the steps and put in position, ready to die.

  The strangest thing, though, is that I'm not panicking or crying. I guess that'll come later, when we're forced to take our places. For now, my mind is racing as I try to think of some way to get out of this mess.

  "Are you sure you don't know any magic?" I whisper, leaning closer to Carstairs. "You must have picked something up along the way!"

  He doesn't reply; his eyes, like mine a moment ago, are fixed firmly on the nooses.

  "Magic's real in this place, isn't it?" I continue, trying not to let my desperation become too obvious. "I mean, I've seen some crazy things since I got here, so it's not much of a leap to think that a bit of magic might be possible, is it?" Deep in my chest, I can feel the first stirrings of panic, and although I can hear the Grandapam Marshal still droning on and on with his list of rules, I know that at any moment he'll fall silent and the execution will begin. "Please, Carstairs," I whisper, "if you've ever performed even a scrap of magic, now's the time to do it again!"

  "I'll let you in on a little secret, shall I?" he says after a moment, his voice strained as he keeps his gaze on the nooses. "There's no such thing as magic, Thomas. Not here, and not in any of the seven worlds. Of course, things can appear to be magic. One can perform an act that isn't understood by those watching, and some people are all too ready to believe tales of mysticism and strange powers. The truth, though, is that magic, if it exists at all, is merely a degradation of perception. If you believe in magic, it means you have a childish, naive view of the world. There's really no such thing at all, and I certainly can't call upon any kind of supernatural ability to get us out of this mess."

  "Then what about the Angel?" I ask. "The Angel sounds pretty magical."

  "The Angel is the Angel," he replies firmly, turning to me. "Further explanations are... unhelpful. And unnecessary."

  "But you could just go and -"

  "No!" he snaps, momentarily filled with anger. "I really, really couldn't, Thomas! I've done a lot in my life, and I've faced some of my biggest fears, but I always swore that I'd never go back to that thing, and I'm afraid there's no price I won't pay in order to maintain my position." He pauses. "I'm sorry that it's going to mean my death, and I'm even sorrier that it's going to mean yours too, but there's absolutely nothing I can do to change the situation. Some lines just can't be crossed, no matter how hard we might try. Some things, some paths, are meant to be, and sometimes death is just an inevitability. We've both reached this point, the end of our lives, and we should face our final moments with grace and honor, and try not to let the side down."

  I take a deep breath, feeling the sense of panic start to grow and grow in my chest.

  "Charles the first, the old English king, wore extra clothes to his execution," Carstairs continues, somewhat randomly. "It was a cold day, and he was worried that if he shivered, the crowd might think him a coward." He smiles weakly. "Just a tidbit of information from my days studying History at Cambridge."

  "You stu
died at Cambridge?" I reply, shocked at the reference. "You're really, truly from the same world as me?"

  "I suppose so," he says. "The past is all so foggy, though. That's one of the curses of getting older. It's so hard to remember things."

  "And you don't know how you ended up here?"

  He opens his mouth to reply, but suddenly we both realize that the Marshal has stopped speaking.

  "Uh-oh," Carstairs says after a moment. "Chin up, Thomas. It won't last long, and hopefully it won't hurt too much."

  Before I can say anything, a Grandapam guard grabs my arm and leads me, along with Carstairs, up the wooden steps. A set of gallows has been constructed on the edge of one of the library shelves, and two nooses hang down, ready for our necks. Still trying desperately to think of a way out of this mess, I allow the guard to lead me into position until finally Carstairs and I are standing side-by-side over two trap-doors, and before I know what's really happening, our heads are placed in the two nooses, which are then tightened at the back.

  "Do the condemned prisoners have any last words?" asks the Grandapam Marshal, staring up at us.

  "None," Carstairs says quietly.

  The Marshal turns to me.

  "You're making a mistake," I tell him, trying to keep my voice from cracking with tears. "I never meant to enter your territory! I was just following Carstairs, and he didn't say anything about Grandapams or territory or anything like that!"

  "Ignorance is no excuse," the Marshal replies coldly. "One must always take care to be aware of the rules when one is traveling. We try to put up posters at popular entry points, but ultimately the onus is upon the traveler."

  "But -"

  "I asked if you had anything to say," the Marshall continues, "but that doesn't mean you have the right to whimper and moan."

  "Just..." I pause, and suddenly it's as if the panic in my chest stops dead. Somewhere deep inside, I seem to have finally accepted what's about to happen, and it's almost as if I'm in a kind of trance, filled with fear but unable to do anything other than stare straight ahead. "If my sister or my parents come looking for me," I continue, my voice sounding flat and calm, "tell them I did my best to find them."