The dim orange light entering from the windows told Victor it was closing time.
He heard Evard shoo away visitors and took that as his cue to start putting the books back in their shelves, smiling apologetically when he politely tapped on the shoulder of those who hadn’t left their tables yet.
“Don't worry miss, it’ll be in the same place as always.”
“No, we’re not selling.”
“Yes, others are allowed to read it.”
“I’m sorry, but one may only borrow two books at any given time.”
As usual, it took a good while to get people to leave.
A student of some sort pleaded while taking notes like a man possessed. Evard had to threaten to revoke his membership to get him to understand that he had, in fact, no right to remain within the premises.
Victor was at this point trying desperately to find the other 25 volumes of an encyclopedia. He was sure he had left them all in one shelf, ordered by number. He eventually found them all, scattered throughout 25 different shelves, in two different floors. How this had happened in only one day was beyond him.
A fairly high rank member of the Scriptorium whose name Victor couldn’t remember came in just in time for his appointment, not a second too late nor too early.
The Custodian of the Library (a pretentious title, librarian was just fine) pointed at the table where his Junior Assistant had piled all 26 volumes of the 4th edition of the Encyclopedia of Natural and Medical Sciences. After a quick look, the Senior Scribe realized that he had asked for the wrong collection; he had intended to request the 5th edition of the Encyclopedia of Natural and Mathematical Sciences. He sheepishly apologized, but didn’t move a finger to help find the 29 books.
If looks could kill, Victor would have committed homicide right then and there.
Once only the librarian and his assistant were left, the old man sat down behind his desk. His usually jovial demeanor was gone.
“Victor, can you spare a moment?” his voice was cold, angry. Victor almost shat himself.
“Of course.”
“Here, look at this.”
“The notebook?”
“The one and only.”
“What about it?”
“This’ll be a good practical experience. Tell me, what do you see?” Evard’s tone took a gentler, expectant tone.
Victor picked up the offending object, trying to figure out exactly what crime it had committed or been involved in. Skimming through he found nothing. No marks in the leather that bound it, nothing in the fourty or so pages. No weird cyphers, no stains, no sneaky doodles. After careful examination he said:
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
“It seems to be completely blank.”
“Seems to?”
“It is blank.”
“So?”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“You’re a smart lad, you’ll figure it out.”
It was old, well maintained and of great make, but he couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary with it. Was it magical? No, he had no way of knowing that and Evard knew it. Why, it looked like of those he could buy in… shit.
“Did we get scammed?”
“I did.”
“When did this happen?.”
“It does not have a number so...”
“A year or less.”
“Fuck the Tyrant. Fuck him and his worthless dogs!”
“May his guts rot. Regardless, we had and still have more than we are legally allowed to, so we can’t rely on our inventory.”
“Fetch me the purchase records. You know where they’re hidden?”
“Yes. Are we going to cross-reference them with the list of books being currently lent out?”
“Of course, and then we’ll have to look for each and everyone of those that are supposedly in here.”
It took them two hours until they finally figured it out, thanks to the less than ideal distribution of the books. Victor swore to himself that if he ever saw someone misplace a book again, he would rip their fucking head off.
“Its ‘Gilman's journal’. Who’s Ghilman?”
“Bugger me if I know. Who did we buy it from?”
“The Guild Master's son.”
“THAT LITTLE SHIT!”
“Fuck him. Still, he is the boss’ son. Should we pursue this any further?”
“I’ll have a talk with his father, but I’ll bet ya this month’s salary nothing will come out of it.”
“Oh.”
“Just go home and get some sleep. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
Somewhat hungry, quite thirsty and very pissed off, he cussed under his breath the whole way to the inn. It was a dark, cloudy night, and with darkness came the cold. Victor quickened his step, eager to get shove something down his gullet and go to bed.
Half an hour later he could hear his destination. He was closer. He started jogging.
Two minutes after hearing it, he could smell it. Victor was almost there. He took a deep breath, and immediately regretted it.
The Punchy Boar was, to put it mildly, a very strange looking structure.
Four (and two thirds) stories tall, the part-ancient building had a very particular charm; it had history. Around two hundred years ago old Zecond (or Zecond the First, as Victor called him in his head) had come from across the sea, escaping from war and famine. Through sheer hard work he had risen from the mud and acquired what was at the time a nearly-worthless shack where a rat wouldn’t be caught dead, turning it into a thriving business. Or so did old Zecond (the Sixth) tell Zecond the young and any unfortunate bystanders on a daily basis.
Each generation of Zeconds would add something to the structure, be it slapping a new floor on top of the existing ones, annexing a nearby building, putting new windows in strange places, or radically reinventing the concept of basement.
Some walls had been whitewashed, some hadn’t. Some were brick and mortar, others stone and wood. The exterior of the third floor was darkish pink where the paint hadn’t fallen off, half of the first floor was bare brick (but only on the outside), and the lower third of the fourth floor was white in the outside and green in the inside . The second floor had windows that faced east and west. The first, north and south.
Whenever he entered, Victor felt that the place was somehow more real than the rest of the world.
Innumerable trophies and knick-knacks adorned the walls and ceiling; rusty old weaponry, animal pelts, small portraits, colorful paper lanterns, potted plants, a dreamcatcher, a kite, the oldest kiteshield in existence.
His favorite one was located in the fourth floor: a piece of rope from which hung several broken mugs, two spoons, and a copper whistle shaped like a very ugly dove.
All the tables were full. Of course they were. He pushed and shoved his way to the bar counter, which was also full. Many more were standing, waiting for a seat.
“I’d rather go to sleep, than stand around for an hour,” he thought. “I have water in my room.”
Victor dreamt of bathing in moonlight. He was perfect, the pinnacle of creation, the last thing there would ever be. It was a good dream. Right when the stars were descending to kiss the ground he stood upon, he woke up. It was at that very moment that his mood went to shit.