by Simon Morden
Felix’s stomach churned. After everything he’d witnessed, everything he’d done, he was now discussing killing someone in cold blood – at least, that was what he thought the signore was talking about. “I don’t want to think about this now.”
Allegretti immediately held up his hands. “Very well. Perhaps it is too soon to have such a conversation.” He nudged his horse away from Felix’s side, and they rode on in awkward silence for a while.
It kept raining, and Felix’s shoulder ached in a way he’d never experienced before. Despite the strapping, despite his intention to keep the joint absolutely still, there was nothing he could do to immobilise it completely while still riding. Soon enough, it was all he could think about: it became the centre of his world and he began to sob.
Pain had always been a brief and transitory thing, sharp and hard to bear, but he’d always known that a healer, gruff and rough from the interruption to their studies, would be along soon and would simply take the pain away with a wave of their hands.
This? This was different: it was eternal and all-consuming.
Wordlessly, Allegretti passed Felix a small silver flask. Its top was already off and hanging from the neck of the flask by a short chain. Felix lifted the flask to his nose and took a cautious sniff.
He recoiled from the sharp, stinging fumes with a gasp of disgust. Allegretti looked heavenwards and shook his head in mock despair, and Felix decided that he would have to drink: this was schnapps, and it was what Carinthian men drank. He was, by any standard, a man. He might be only twelve years old and an orphan, but he was a prince. He was a prince first and foremost, whatever else he might be.
So he raised the open flask to his lips and dribbled some of the liquor into his mouth. It burnt so much; it tasted only of fire. His tongue felt flayed and his cheeks went so red that he thought they might burst into flame.
He swallowed. There wasn’t much of the liquid left in his mouth by that time, but what there was scorched his throat and boiled in his stomach. His whole body shook involuntarily, but his collar-bone didn’t seem so important any more.
It took him a few moments to start breathing again. Did men really do this for pleasure? Apparently so. They even carried it around with them in specially made containers for occasions such as these. The sweet berry cordials he was used to belonged to another life: now, he supposed, it would be a diet of beer and wine and schnapps.
He handed the flask back, not trusting himself to be able to use his seared voice.
This time, Allegretti nodded approvingly. “My lord needs to give thought to where we will shelter for the night. The men are exhausted, the horses more so. While we need to return to Juvavum as soon as possible, arriving tired tomorrow afternoon will be better than arriving useless tomorrow morning.”
“What …” Felix cleared his throat. “What do you think?”
“We are coming up on the Simbach bridge. It is your right to claim hospitality at the farms there, and they should be able to accommodate us easily. We are few: both horses and men.”
“And the mistress,” added Felix.
“As you say, and the mistress.” Allegretti gave a weak smile. “Someone should ride ahead to prepare them for your arrival.”
“Will you do it?”
“I could, but I have sworn to stay by your side and protect you for as long as you need me. One of the earls, perhaps, or Master Büber.”
“Not the huntmaster,” said Felix; “he’s done enough.” He’d butchered the Teuton prisoners on his orders, plunging his knife deep into their necks and bathing his hands in warm, slippery blood. It had been necessary – the signore had said so – to start his reign mercilessly. He wondered what it would take to make such a man as Büber angry, and wondered how unwise it would be to ever try. “Is Master Büber someone to trust? He seems a good man.”
“A good man, perhaps. Huntsmen are simple and lack sophistication: they obey orders well, but thinking for themselves? I have not found it so.”
“Oh.” Felix was disappointed. So far, his court seemed to consist of just one man. “Then one of the earls, but I don’t want to make a fuss, signore.”
“Nonsense. You are the Prince of Carinthia. Whatever comfort a farmer enjoys will be yours whether or not he can spare it. It is yours by right and custom.” Allegretti allowed a note of annoyance to seep into his words. “These are your people, my lord. It is your duty to rule them, and their duty to serve. It is as simple as that: whether or not you believe it to be true, you must act as if you do.”
“I’ll try,” said Felix, chastened.
“You will make a good prince, my lord,” said Allegretti. “Just listen to me, and everything will fall into place.”
23
Their show of strength was enough. By mid-afternoon, the crowd in Library Square had mostly dispersed, the upsetting novelty of the day subsiding into grumbling complaint. That the rain had continued all day had clearly contributed to the muted reaction to the lights going out, but Thaler was still worried.
The militia were nowhere to be seen, and it was a matter of pride that the library staff were better organised than the mayor’s men. The building was secured, the spilt books were stacked in piles ready for reshelving, and the bodies of those trampled in the most unseemly rush were removed.
The wounded – a few breaks and sprains, one crushed and breathless – had been taken to the refectory and were being tended as best a gaggle of inky-fingered apprentices could manage.
Repeated requests for some healers to come from Goat Mountain stayed unanswered, unlike Thaler’s call for lanterns, which had been honoured to the full. Aaron Morgenstern might be an ungodsly Jew, but he’d roused his neighbours and shamed them into handing over everything they could spare.
From his new desk just inside the main doors, Thaler wondered if Morgenstern’s quick response was a ploy to extricate those religious texts he was so concerned about from the library’s clutches. Perhaps. On the other hand, he hadn’t needed to lift a finger to help. He could have chased the apprentices away and cursed their retreating feet.
Thaler looked at the ledger he had open in front of him and read the entry: from the Jews of Jews’ Alley, seventy-four lanterns and sixteen full boxes of candles, a score in each.
Put it like that, attributing some ulterior motive to old Morgenstern looked more than a little churlish. And hadn’t they earned some credit?
He turned his head to look into the library. Tiny sparks of light moved in the profound darkness, and echoing voices checked the furthest reaches of the shelves for anyone left within. They’d found one of the other under-librarians under a bookcase, and it wasn’t looking good for him. The other had completely disappeared. No one could say whether or not he’d been in the building.
With the master librarian incoherent or rambling, or both, Thaler was the one the whole staff looked to. He discovered he found the experience both terrifying and exhilarating. As orderly transitions of authority went, it was more de facto than he’d like: he was supposed to be appointed and ratified and handed his credentials by the prince. There ought to be speeches and toasts. Not this muddle.
He sat, chin on his chest, bemoaning the lack of ceremony, when a shadow fell across him. He looked up to see Glockner.
“Yes, Mr Glockner?”
“Mr Thaler. The library appears to be clear. Shall I …?”
“Appears?” Thaler sat more upright. “We have pairs of men searching – systematically, mind – each and every section. When they have all reported back here, to me, then and only then will the library be considered clear.”
“As you wish, Under-librarian.”
“I do wish it, Mr Glockner. I wish it very much.” Did he have the authority to demote the head usher? Or even to remove him completely? There were books he could consult later. “I would also very much wish for you not to undermine or countermand my explicit instructions at every opportunity.”
Glockner licked his lips nervously. “I
meant only to assist you in your duties, Mr Thaler.”
“Yes. Your zeal has been noted, Mr Glockner. Do we have any of your ushers spare to carry a message?”
“I do not believe so, Mr Thaler.” Glockner looked momentarily self-satisfied, and Thaler narrowed his eyes.
“In which case, Mr Glockner, you will have to take the message yourself.” There, he thought, that’s wiped the smile off your face. He opened a pot of ink and dipped his steel-nibbed pen to write.
By the grace of His Majesty Prince Gerhard V of Carinthia and by the authority of the Master Librarian, to His Honour the Mayor of Juvavum. Under-librarian Frederik Thaler is delighted to inform you that the Great Library of Carinthia is secured, and requests an official guard to be posted overnight at its doors.
He folded the paper over, and conspicuously placed the seal of the library in front of him while he melted some wax over the join. When sufficient had collected, he pressed the seal down and held it while the wax hardened.
Thaler held up the note, and Glockner reluctantly reached forward to take it. His fingers closed around it, but when he tried to pull it away, Thaler held on.
“Mr Glockner, put this in the hands of the mayor himself.”
“I know.”
“None other. And … ” – Thaler let go, and Glockner stumbled back a step – “I expect a reply. A sealed reply. Promptly. Whatever he’s been doing these past few hours, I neither know nor care about. I want this building properly guarded overnight by someone with the prince’s authority to be armed with more than a chair-leg.”
Glockner tried not to let his lip curl into a sneer, and, sensing his failure, he walked away with Thaler’s message in his fist. Thaler watched him stare up at the sky and adjust his gown over his head before stepping outside the portico.
It was very hard not to feel uncharitable. Men had died because Glockner hadn’t been able to keep control. He had to go. Whoever succeeded the master librarian – either him or Thomm, wherever he was hiding himself – would have some hard choices to make.
But there was more: the lights had gone out. That in itself was a catastrophe for the windowless library, let alone everyone who had been plunged into darkness. Metal-workers, embroiderers, engravers, jewellers: almost every specialised trade in Juvavum relied on the ever-lit globes to conduct their business. The streets were kept clear of thieves and whores by light alone.
Then there were the fountains. The one in Library Square had stopped spraying playful streams of water into the rippling pool beneath by the time he’d got out of the building. Was there any good reason to assume that this fountain alone was affected?
If not, the entire town’s plumbing had simply ceased to function. Fresh drinking water by pipe was a luxury: having their night soil flushed into the downstream Salzach was a necessity. It left them all, quite literally, in the shit.
The chances of the magic lights and magic pumps failing at exactly the same time were long odds, and Thaler – who was partial to a game of dice between friends – knew how to work those odds out. No coincidence could account for it. They had to be linked.
“Fuck.”
“Sorry, Under-librarian?”
One of the returning pairs of searchers had materialised in front of him while he’d been thinking, and Thaler just stared at them like they were ghosts, or trolls, or the ghosts of trolls.
“Under-librarian? Are you feeling all right?”
Thaler seemed to have lost the power of coherent speech. All that would come out was a series of noises, ending in “fuck” again.
“We … we didn’t find anyone,” said the librarian, and he looked at his colleague.
Thaler blinked like an owl. His heart was racing, and he’d gone both hot and cold at the same time. He could think of only one thing.
“The unicorns are all dead.”
“Under-librarian? What do you mean?”
“The unicorns. They’re dead. Of course they are. I should have known.” He smacked his hands hard against the tabletop and made the inkwell jump. He looked up at the two men, by now convinced he was having some sort of fit. “What a fool I’ve been.”
He reached out, took another sheet of parchment, and then, gripping his pen, began to write. When the librarians started to edge away, he fixed them with fever-bright eyes.
“Stay. No. Different instructions. Can either of you ride a horse?”
One of them tentatively raised his hand, as if he were back in the apprentices’ school. “Sort of. It’s been a while.”
“Good man.” Thaler stopped writing mid-sentence and took a third note from the roughly cut pile. “Take this to the prince’s stables; come back here with a horse. The fastest that the stable-master has left.”
He scribbled out a requisition order without the certainty it would be honoured, sealed it, and handed it over.
“Under-librarian, what are you going to ask me to do?”
“Right now? Run.”
Something about his mood was catching. The librarian left at a faster clip than Glockner would ever have managed. To the one left, Thaler gave another task.
“Find Under-librarian Thomm. If he’s incapacitated in any way, give him all due aid. But bring him here as soon as you can. It’s important.”
“Where should I start?”
Thaler didn’t know. “Start with the beer cellars, move on to Gentleman’s Alley. After that, I don’t know. Use your imagination.”
“Yes, Under-librarian.”
When the man had gone, Thaler continued to write his first letter, scribbling away and dipping the pen nib as necessary. It was necessary often, and he realised that he was rambling now. He thought he’d better finish.
“Can the Order still act?” he wrote.
Have they already solved this problem, and are they wilfully denying the prince the benefit of the solution, or are they now powerless? Be careful, my friend, whichever it might be.
Your faithful servant,
Frederik Thaler
Under-librarian.
He folded it, dripped wax on the join and pressed the seal to it. Now, if only Büber could read – it was a gaping hole in his plan, transmitting written information to an illiterate. Instead, he was going to trust a man he’d barely been aware of before today to deliver the most important message he’d ever sent.
None of anything that had happened since that first sign of darkness was what he’d expected to be doing, so why not this? Why not entrust his life, and possibly the life of his friend, to someone who merely shared a vocation with him? Thaler didn’t want Büber, nor himself, to get on the wrong side of the Order. By all the accounts he’d read in the last day or two, being well connected wouldn’t save either of them. And, unlike Büber, he wasn’t directly a prince’s man.
The hollow ring of hooves on stone made him sit up. The first of the two librarians he’d sent out was leading a horse along the front of the portico, and Thaler hurried out from behind the desk to meet him.
It was still raining; perhaps not as heavy as before, but still a piss-awful day to be out in.
“I’m sorry. But there is no one else,” he said, before realising just how young the librarian actually was. Just out of apprenticeship, probably by only a year or two. “Was there any trouble?”
“I gave the stable-master your note, and he told me to take whatever I wanted.” He smiled uncertainly at Thaler from under the hood of the waxed cloth cloak he’d borrowed. “Where am I going?”
“First: what’s your name?”
“Librarian Braun,” he said, then hesitated before adding, “Ernst Braun.”
“Right. This is a little complicated, so I want you to listen carefully.” Thaler held the letter out to Braun, who turned it over in his hands and saw that it was blank apart from the seal. “I need you to take that letter to the huntmaster, Peter Büber, and him alone. If it looks like you can’t do that, destroy it at once. Without reading it.”
“Without reading it. Of cour
se.” Braun nodded, and put the letter in one of the leather saddlebags. “A secret, then.”
“When … no, if … oh, you know what I mean. The huntmaster can’t read. So you’re going to have to read the letter to him. Then give him the letter and try to forget everything you’ve just heard.”
“Under-librarian, isn’t that going to be, well, difficult?”
“Yes. But it’s a piece of fiction that we’ll all try very hard to maintain. Büber will know what to do after that. Come back here, and as far as it’s in my power, which is very little, you’ll be well rewarded for your trouble.”
“And where will I find the huntmaster, Under-librarian?”
“Good question. He’s riding with the prince, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. Between here and Simbach on the via, firstly, and east after that. I know I’m asking a great deal, but if Büber gets it in time, this could be of critical importance to the palatinate.”
Thaler spread his hands wide. There was nothing more he could say. Braun more or less competently got his foot in the stirrup and lifted himself onto the back of the horse.
“Good luck, Mr Braun,” said Thaler.
Braun beamed down from the saddle. “This is the most exciting thing anyone has ever asked me to do. I won’t let you down, Mr Thaler.”
24
“A librarian?” Büber bent back over the bowl of now-lukewarm water and scrubbed at his arm. Everything was bloody: the water, the container, the block of hard yellow soap, the towel, even the stubby brush he was using to scrape his skin raw. Most of the blood wasn’t his, but he was continually finding new cuts buried under the grime.
The carter – the ex-carter now, since steering a magically propelled wagon seemed to be a profession wanting a practice – stood just inside the door of the barn and wrung his hands nervously. “A librarian, Master Büber.”
“And he doesn’t want to talk to anyone else?”
“No, Master Büber. Just you.”
