by Scott Lynch
IN THE STACKS
Author’s Enhanced Edition
By Scott Lynch
© 2018 Scott Lynch
All Rights Reserved
ISBN 978-0-9863735-2-7 (ebook)
Designed by Scott Lynch
Cover Image: Georgina Gibson (Used Under License)
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
In the Stacks
About the Author
Novels by Scott Lynch
Author’s Note
An earlier version of this story was published in Swords & Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery, in June 2010. That anthology, edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders, marked the appearance of my first professionally-sold and mostly-professionally-crafted short story. I say “mostly” because I was not well during the time in which it was written. In point of fact, I was an undiagnosed clinical depressive still many months away from treatment. As a result, while the story was generally well received, I have never been entirely satisfied with it.
The deficiencies of “In the Stacks” were structural as well as artistic. The story pressed so tight against the limits of the word count Lou and Jonathan could give me that I had to truncate a few scenes and gloss over one of the more crucial points of resolution, for the sake of letting the story be published at all. In this new edition, I have tried to preserve as much of the original text as possible while smoothing over some of the rougher bits and completing all the scenes that had to be trimmed or excluded.
While I’m generally averse to the notion of modifying anything I’ve already published, it seemed unfair that “In the Stacks,” alone among all my existing work, should be sent back out into the world without my complete confidence. I hope the results of my adjustments are pleasing.
This new edition is cordially dedicated to the two gentlemen whose patience and generosity made it possible in the first place: Jonathan and Lou.
Scott Lynch
South Hadley, Massachusetts
July 2018
In the Stacks
Scott Lynch
Laszlo Jazera, aspirant wizard of the High University of Hazar, spent a long hour on the morning of his fifth-year exam worming into an uncomfortable suit of leather armor. Why had it once seemed like such a good idea to have the cuirass rakishly form-fitted, the straps made more decorative than functional? Time and the university dining halls had conspired to punish his vanity, and anything wishing to take a bite out of him might find itself having a lucky day.
“You’ve had a growth spurt.” Casimir Vrana, his chambers-mate, strolled into the room. “Mostly horizontal, it seems. Aren’t you in some sort of dueling society?”
Casimir was already fully armored, of course. Not merely with pristine leathers, but with his usual air of total ease. In truth he’d barely touched fighting gear in a half-decade at school. He simply had the sort of impenetrable deportment usually seen in patrician faces stamped on coins, and doubtless had more than one ancestor who’d ended up as such. Casimir could have feigned confident relaxation while standing in fire up to his privates.
“We wear silks,” huffed Laszlo, flexing and buckling his stiff neck-guard. “Makes it more interesting. Also less work. It’s a lazy sort of daring. This heap of preserved pigskin, I’ve hardly worn since I took Archaic Homicide Theory—“
“Forgot to go to the armory for a re-fit, eh?”
“I’ve been dutifully spending every waking hour wetting my breeches over exams, thanks.”
“A fifth-year aspirant, busy and confused at finals time? What an unprecedented misfortune. A unique tale of woe.” Casimir moved around Laszlo and began adjusting what he could. “The shades of ten thousand mighty wizards are waiting in the anteroom to offer you warm milk and cuddles.”
“I swear on my mother, Caz, I’ll set fire to your cryptomancy dissertation—”
“Can’t. I turned it in two hours ago. Let’s stop fussing with primitive material solutions to your problem, shall we?” Casimir muttered incantations, and the familiar heat of spontaneous magic ran up and down Laszlo’s back. A moment later, the armor felt looser. Still not rakishly form-fitted, but at least not tight enough to hobble his every movement. “Better?”
“Moderately. Never took you for a leather-fitter. What will your parents say when they find out you’ve turned tradesman?”
“I don’t mean to lecture, magician, but sooner or later you should probably start using this thing called magic to smooth out your little inconveniences.”
“You’ve always been more confident with practical work than I am.”
“Theory’s a wading pool, Laz. You’ve got to come out into deep water sooner or later.” Casimir grinned, and slapped Laszlo on the back. “You’ll see that today, I promise. Let’s get your kit together so they don’t start without us.”
Laszlo pulled on a pair of fingerless leather gauntlets, the sort peculiar to the profession of magicians intending to go in harm’s way. With Casimir’s oversight, he filled the sheathes on his belt and boots with half-a-dozen stilettos, then strapped or tied on no fewer than fourteen auspicious charms and protective wards. Some of these he’d crafted himself; the rest had been begged or temporarily stolen from friends. His sable cloak and mantle, lined in aspirant gray, settled lastly and awkwardly over the creaking, clinking mass he’d become.
“Oh damn,” Laszlo muttered after he’d adjusted his cloak, “where did I set my—“
“Sword,” said Casimir, holding it out in both hands. Laszlo’s wire-hilted rapier was his pride and joy, an elegant old thing held together by mage-smithery through three centuries of duties not always ceremonial. It was an heirloom of his diminished family, the only valuable item his parents had been able to bequeath him when his mild sorcerous aptitude had won him a standard nine-year scholarship to the university. “Checked it myself.”
Laszlo buckled the scabbard into his belt and covered it with his cloak. The armor still left him feeling vaguely ridiculous, but at least he trusted his steel. Thus protected, layered neck to soles in leather, enchantments, and weapons, he was at last ready for the final challenge every fifth-year student faced if they wanted to come back for a sixth.
Today, Laszlo Jazera would return a library book.
◆◆◆
The Living Library of Hazar was visible from anywhere in the city, a vast onyx cube that hung in the sky like a square moon, directly over the towers of the university’s western campus. Laszlo and Casimir hurried out of their dorm and into the actual shadow of the library, a darkness that bisected Hazar as the sun rose toward noon and was eclipsed by the cube.
There was no teleportation between campuses for students. Few creatures in the universe are less mobile than magicians with studies to keep them busy indoors, and the masters of the university ensured that aspirants would preserve some measure of physical virtue by forcing them to scuttle around like ordinary folk. Scuttle was precisely what Laszlo and Casimir needed to do, in undignified haste, in order to reach the library for their noon appointment. Across the heart of Hazar they sped.
Hazar! City of Distractions, the most perfect mechanism ever evolved for snaring the attention of wonder-hungry sentients. The High University, a power beyond governments, sat at the nexus of gates to fifty known worlds, and took in the students of nine thinking species. Hazar existed not just to serve the university’s practical needs, but to sift heroic quantities of valuables out of the student body by catering to its less practical desires.
Laszlo and Casimir passed curio-sellers, gambling dens, fighting pits, freak-shows, pet shops, concert halls, houses of carnal pleasure, and private clubs. There were restaurants serving a h
undred cuisines, and bars offering a thousand liquors, teas, dusts, smokes, and spells. Bars more than anything— bars on top of bars, bars next to bars, bars within bars. A bar for every student, a different bar for every week of the nine years most would spend in Hazar, yet Laszlo and Casimir somehow managed to ignore them all. On any other day, that would have required effort, but it was exams week. The dread magic of the last minute was in the air.
At the center of the eastern campus lay a waterfall-bounded sward of soft violet grass, some five hundred feet directly below the dark cube. No direct physical access to the Living Library was allowed, for several reasons. Instead, a single tall silver pillar stood in the middle of the turf. Without stopping to catch his breath, Laszlo placed the bare fingers of his right hand against the pillar and muttered, “Laszlo Jazera, fifth year, reporting to Master Molnar of the—“
Between blinks it was done. The grass beneath his boots became hard tile, the waterfalls become dark wood paneling on high walls and ceilings. He was in a lobby the size of a manor house, and the cool, dry air was rich with the musty scent of library stacks. Daylight shone from above, tamed by enchanted glass to fall on the hall with the gentle amber color of good ale. Laszlo closed his eyes and took a deep breath to drive away the teleportation dizziness, and an instant later Casimir appeared beside him.
“Ha! Not late yet,” said Casimir, pointing to a tasteful wall clock where tiny blue spheres of light floated over the symbols that indicated seven minutes to noon. “We won’t be early enough to shove our noses up old Molnar’s ass like eager little slaves, but we won’t technically be tardy. Come on. Which gate?”
“Manticore, I think. I hope!”
Casimir all but dragged Laszlo to the right, down the long circular hallway that ringed the innards of the library. Past the Wyvern Gate they hurried, past the Chimaera Gate, past the reading rooms, past a steady stream of fellow aspirants, many of them armed and girded for the same errand they were on. Laszlo, sensitive as any prey animal. picked up instantly on the general atmosphere of nervous tension. Exams were out there, prowling, waiting to cull the unworthy and the unprepared from the herd.
On the clock above the gate to the Manticore Wing, the little blue flame was just floating past the symbol for high noon. Laszlo and Casimir skidded to a halt before a tall figure.
“I see you two aspirants have chosen to favor us with a dramatic last-minute arrival,” said the man. “I was not aware this was to be a drama exam.”
“Yes, Master Molnar. Apologies, Master Molnar,” said Laszlo and Casimir in unison.
Hargus Molnar, Master Librarian, had a countenance that would have been at home in a gallery of military statues, among dead conquerors casting permanent scowls down through the centuries. Sinewy, with close-cropped gray hair and a dozen visible scars, he wore a use-seasoned suit of black leather and silvery mail. Etched on his cuirass was a stylized scroll, symbol of the Living Library, surmounted by the phrase Auvidestes, Gerani, Molokare. The words were Alaurin, the ancient language of formal scholarship, and they formed the motto of the Librarians:
RETRIEVE. RETURN. SURVIVE.
“May I presume,” said Molnar, sparing neither aspirant the very excellent disdainful stare he’d cultivated over decades of practice, “that you have familiarized yourselves with the introductory materials that were provided to you last month?
“Yes, Master Molnar. Both of us,” said Casimir. Laszlo was pleased to note that Casimir’s swagger had prudently evaporated for the moment, and he was doing an impression of a humble young man that was nearly lifelike.
“Good.” Molnar spread his fingers and words of white fire appeared in the air before him, neatly-organized paragraphs floating vertically in the space between Laszlo’s forehead and navel. “This is your Statement of Intent; namely, that you wish to bodily enter the Living Library stacks as part of an academic requirement. I’ll need your sorcerer’s marks here.”
Laszlo reached out to touch the letters where Molnar indicated, feeling a faint warmth on his fingertips. He closed his eyes and visualized his First Secret Name, part of his private identity as a wizard, a thaumatic symbol that could leave an indelible imprint of his personality while remaining invisible to any party outside the bounds of the transaction. This had once seemed like a dramatic notion, but in the fullness of time Laszlo had only used it for occasional bits of magical paperwork, and for bar tabs.
“And here,” said Molnar, moving his own finger. “This is a Statement of Informed Acceptance of Risk. . . and here… this absolves the custodial staff of any liability should you injure yourself through irretrievable stupidity or clumsiness. . . and this one, which certifies that you are armed and equipped according to your own comfort.”
Laszlo bit the inside of his left cheek, but gave his assent. When Casimir had done the same, Molnar snapped his fingers and the letters of fire vanished. At the same instant, the polished wooden doors of the Manticore Gate rumbled apart. Laszlo glanced at the inner edges of the doors and saw that, beneath the wooden veneer, each had a core of dark metal a foot thick. He’d never once been past that gate, or any like it. Aspirants were usually confined to the reading rooms, where their requests for materials were passed to the library staff.
“Come then, “ said Molnar, striding through the gate. “You’ll be going in with two other students, already waiting inside. Until you are escorted back out this Gate, you may consider your exam to be in progress.”
◆◆◆
Past the Manticore Gate lay a long, vault-ceilinged room in which indexers toiled amongst thousands of scrolls and card-files. Unlike the librarians, the indexers preferred comfortable blue robes to armor, but they were all visibly armed with daggers and hatchets. Furthermore, in niches along the walls, Laszlo could see spears, truncheons, mail vests, and helmets readily accessible on racks.
“I envy your precision, friend Laszlo.”
The gravelly voice that spoke those words was familiar, and Laszlo turned to his left to find himself staring up into the gold-flecked eyes of a lizard about seven feet tall. The creature had a chest as broad as a doorway under shoulders to match, and his gleaming scales were the red of a desert sunset. He wore a sort of thin quilted armor over everything but his muscular legs and feet, which ended in sickle-shaped claws the size of Laszlo’s stilettos. The reptile’s cloak was specially tailored to part over his long, sinuous tail and hang with dignity.
“Lev,” said Laszlo. “Hi! What precision?”
“Your ability to sleep late and still arrive within a hair’s breadth of suffering demerits for your tardiness. Your laziness is artistic.”
“The administration rarely agrees.” Laszlo was deeply pleased to see Inappropriate Levity Bronzeclaw, “Lev” to a certain few of his fellow aspirants. Lev’s people, a dour and dutiful culture, gave their adolescents names based on perceived character flaws, so the wayward youths would supposedly dwell upon their correction until granted more honorable adult names. Lev was a mediocre sorcerer, very much of Laszlo’s stripe, but the armor and weaponry nature had gifted him with were anything but merely decorative.
“Oh, I doubt either of them were sleeping.” Another new voice, smooth as varnish on fine wood. It belonged to Yvette d’Courin, who’d been hidden from Laszlo’s view behind Lev, and could have remained hidden behind a creature half the lizard’s size. Yvette’s skin was darker than the armor she wore, a more petite version of Laszlo and Casimir’s gear, and her ribbon-threaded hair was as black as her aspirant’s cloak. “Not Laz and Caz the inseparables, the mystery wrapped inside the enigma. But which one’s mystery, and which one’s enigma? Confirm the rumors for us, boys. Were you absorbed in… extracurricular activities?”
“Yvette, you improbably gorgeous menace to my academic rank,” said Casimir, “that is most assuredly not the case. Though if it were I reckon it would make Laszlo and myself the only ones present to have ever seen an adult human with their clothes off.”
“Poor Caz. So unclear on
all the useful things people can still do with their eyes closed.” Yvette blew softly on the fingers of one hand, then brushed them against Laszlo’s cheek. “A kiss for you, Laz.” She repeated the gesture, glanced meaningfully at Casimir, then touched Laszlo’s other cheek. “And another. Casimir can’t have any.”
Laszlo felt a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach, beyond the pleasure of even play-flirtation, and it took him a moment of confusion to identify it. Great gods, was it relief? Hope, even? Yvette d’Courin was a gifted aspirant, Casimir’s match at the very least. Whatever might be waiting inside the Living Library, some bureaucratic stroke of luck had put Laszlo on a team with two superior magicians and a lizard who could kick a hole through a brick wall. All he had to do to earn a sixth year was stay out of their way and try to look busy!
Casimir retaliated at Yvette with a series of subtly impolite gestures, some of which might have been the beginning of a minor spell, but he snapped to attention when Master Molnar loudly cleared his throat.
“When you’re all ready, of course,” he drawled. “I do so hate to burden you with anything so tedious as the future of your thaumaturgical careers.“
“Yes, Master Molnar. Sorry, Master Molnar,” said the students, now a perfectly harmonized quartet singing the time-honored tune “Please Don’t Flunk Us.”
“This is the Manticore Index,” said Molnar, spreading his arms. “One of eleven such indices serving to catalog, however incompletely, the contents of the Living Library. Take a good look around. Unless you choose to join the ranks of the Librarians after surviving your nine years, you will most likely never be allowed into this area again. Now, Aspirant Jazera, can you tell me how many catalogued items the Living Library is believed to contain?”
“Uh,” said Laszlo, who’d wisely refreshed his limited knowledge of the library’s contents the previous night, “About ten million, sir. I think?”
