Chapter 11: Donde Esta La Biblioteca

After a quick round trip to the orphanage and back, I was twenty gilt poorer, and the proud owner of my very own knife. I say quick, but by the time all was said and done, and I returned home for the second time, it was already nearly noon. Truly, I never appreciated the convenience of online shopping, until it was cruelly taken away from me. That’s not to downplay my satisfaction with the day, however; with thirty-three gilt in my pocket and a way to protect it in a pinch, much of the invisible weight upon me had faded away. True, it was hardly a princely inheritance, so much as a short windfall to tide over the period between leaving the orphanage and starting a new career, but that was still more than many of Frontier’s orphans got.

I wasn’t spending it right away, however, not when the orphanage still provided me with three meals a day. Being one of the first to arrive in the dining hall, I was able to grab my serving of fish stew without a queue, and sit myself down at the bench in the corner, to watch everyone else trickle in. The stew was good, a thick white, almost creamy surface, thickened with oatmeal with mixings of powdered fish, lentils, and a hint of pepper and spice. Sipping slowly, mindful of the heat, I kept a trained eye on the comings and goings in the hall. The line was gettin rather long, but there was plenty for everyone, and eventually everyone got their food, and half the benches in the hall were filled.

The other half were out performing some off-site activity, which was a fancy way of saying child labour. It wasn’t compulsory, but for those without an inheritance, it was a good way to earn a bit of a buffer, in case they couldn’t walk from the orphanage right into a job, if their class wasn’t good enough to make them a hot commodity. Will never bothered, secure in the knowledge he had a trust set aside. I would have taken more initiative, had I possessed my memories at the time, but there was no point bemoaning the past.

Some of the quicker eaters were already cleaning up, eager to head outside and play in the pleasant summer heat. It was a bit much for me, personally, being used to the mild English summers, so I wasn’t in any hurry as I sauntered out of the hall, leaving my tray on the table to be the bane of service workers everywhere. If word got to the head of house, I’d receive a dressing down, perhaps lose a meal, but that hardly mattered at this stage of things. I had a target, you say, and I didn’t mean the straw dummies people practised their weapons on. No, what I meant was the library. Perhaps this came as a surprise to you, dear reader.

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Certainly, I was immensely shocked to spot it in passing, as I headed for the smithy; Will had walked past many times before, but simply never taken note of the place, not being the kind to seek out any reading beyond his mandatory education. It was a sobering realisation, that my understanding of my new world was limited to the unreliable whims and memories of a teenage boy, but it was better to find out with something innocuous, rather than anything truly disastrous. Now, what was I talking about? Oh, yes, the library.

Somehow, public libraries existed as an institution in Frontier, sharing some similarities with those of England. The first, major difference, was that it wasn’t free, which, in hindsight might partially explain Will’s aversion to the place. In any event, as the sign by the door explained very clearly, they charged a fee of three gilt a day, for which you were issued a day pass, and permitted to read any of the contents within. Additional charges were in place for taking books out; evidently, the librarians here didn’t believe in the honour system to keep their stock, instead insisting on deposits to cover the book’s value. This would be returned, should the book itself return in good condition, minus a lending fee, and helped keep people honest.

Frankly, this place was a godsend for me, being at the time cash rich, but poor in knowledge. I didn’t hesitate to march over to the reception and all but slam eighteen gilt on the table, making my intent crystal clear. The receptionist scooped up the coins, taking one and holding it up against some crystalline glass, before nodding and bagging the lot. For this expenditure, over half of my remaining funds, I received a paper pass, good for the next six days. Barely able to restrain my smile, I wandered through the back doors, passing from reception to the library proper.

I am not a man prone to wallowing in the past. The future is in my sights, and the present exists primarily as a means to achieve it. But sometimes, nostalgia is simply inescapable. The smell hit me first, of old wood, ink, and that inexplicable hint of smoke and vanilla. This was something near and dear to me, having grown up in my first life before the rise of the digital behemoths that reshaped publishing with the eBook. For me, books were physical objects, first and foremost; blocky repositories of knowledge that I couldn’t help but love. Knowledge was power, after all, and power could make a man very wealthy indeed.

Wandering between the shelves at random, I noted immediately the lack of categorisation; old Melvil Dewey never got the chance to work his magic here. Books were stacked every which way, without any indication of what they contained; which, to be fair, was how I liked it. With the eagerness of a young buck, exploring a used book shop for the first time, I headed to the nearest shelf, scanned the titles until one caught my eye, and began to read.