The Overlook provided an excellent dinner, eaten on the broad balcony. Fremin drank another two glasses of wine and told him how she had become lost in the Hansippif.
“To be accepted you have to bring the Order significant new knowledge. The book is the journal of someone who explored the caves years ago – well centuries ago now. It mentions an inscription but no-one found it again. I found a letter from the writer to their mother and I realised when it wrote of the streets of Dtlag that they were one of those people who confuse right and left. With that I could find the inscription and that would be my qualifying piece of work. My first problem was that the book was kept in the members’ section because a few aspirants had disappeared in the caves and I knew they would not let me have it. So I took it and I found the inscription all right, but then I heard them calling me. They must have traced the book, or maybe that prick Tselnu told on me. I panicked a bit, squeezed into a small passage and then crawled through another few trying to hide and then, well, the next thing was that I heard my name calling me right there and I thought Tselnu had found me and I tried to strangle you.”
“Who is – was – Tselnu?” asked Gherrit, curious.
“Another Aspirant. We were together for a bit and he couldn’t get over that I ended it. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Alright. Sorry I asked. What do the Archivists do about late returns?’
“There’s a fine of course but the Order deals in knowledge, not coin. I mean, we are paid for information but we have to eat, just like the Companions are paid to guard travellers. So you have to pay back in knowledge as well as coin. I heard of someone who lost volume Jha to Nu of an encyclopedia and it took him decades. Two hundred and twenty-seven years worth? I’ll be paying for the rest of this life and the next three to come.”
Fremin lapsed into silence, drank several more glasses of wine, became maudlin-drunk, declared that the Archivists would immure her again for a century and invited Gherrit to her room for a last night of pleasure before she went to her fate. Gherrit helped her to bed where she promptly fell asleep. He removed her shoes, pulled the coverlet over her and left quietly. In the morning she was grumpy until after her third cup of liani and a toasted bun. She did not mention the night before and Gherrit did not bring it up. When she squared her shoulders and said they should go the the Archivists it was in the tone of a person resolutely mounting a scaffold, determined not to show fear.
Fremin led the way confidently to a street in the oldest part of the city, where she halted in dismay in front of a soap-makers’ establishment. Inquiry found this had been in business there for forty years, having taken over the building from a perfumery. Gherrit back-tracked to to where a corner niche held a cast-iron raven. This croaked directions to Palisade Lane, half an hour’s walk away. Gherrit accompanied an increasingly jittery Fremin across town to a modest stone building near the top of a slight rise.
“Don’t let the size fool you,” Fremin told him. “It probably has five underground levels and an oubliette at the very bottom.”
The door extruded fronds which waved in the air above them before tapping the lock to open. Within was a small hall, neat and clean and furnished only with a polished wooden bench and a coat-rack. It had no doors other than the entrance. A voice spoke from nowhere. “What knowledge to you bring to the Order of the Learned Archive?”
Fremin spoke up with only a slight quaver. “The return from long imprisonment of Archivist-Aspirant Fremin Dtaie tel Jhaugusis with a report from a delving in the Hansippif Wild.”
“News of a demon of knowing and of the death of a mage,” added Gherrit. He had barely finished speaking before a door abruptly appeared in one wall and a woman in the green robe of the Order was ushering them through. Gherrit realised with a small shock that he could not see her aura, something he was now used to, and followed along wondering if his talent had abruptly failed. They were led to a comfortable parlour, offered their choice of infusions and invited to tell their stories. Gherrit jumped in.
“My tale frames Fremin’s, so I will begin.” Once again he laid out his journey from Daruz Alman through the Hansippif, withholding Sthirothh’s name. He had just recounted Fremin’s eruption from stone when a man with a bush of white hair, bright green eyes, an aura seething with red streaks and a face tight with anger burst in.
“There she is! I sensed her! There is the book-thief! Seize her! Beat her until she gives up the book!”
“Librarian Hainu, please. What is this about?”
Librarian Hainu’s accusing finger trembled with rage as it stabbed at Fremin “This, this, stealer of knowledge took volume thirteen of Premein’s Interesting Life two hundred and twenty seven years, one month and twenty-one days ago. From the members’ section, which was forbidden to her! Without marking the card!”
Fremin had squashed herself back in her chair, away from the finger. Now she reached into her bag and withdrew the book. It was no more than halfway out before the man lunged forward to yank it from her grasp. He first clutched it to his bony chest with the passion of a parent finding a lost infant then examined it closely, casting deadly glances at Fremin while he searched for stains or tears. The woman’s hand on his arm made him hold it close again in reflexive fear that it might again be taken away.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Librarian Hainu, please take the recovered volume to the archives and do all that is proper – check it thoroughly, mark the card, ensure the catalogue is up to date and place it with the other volumes. I am sure the book will be most happy back in its rightful home.” She gently propelled him out as he crooned to the book, assuring it that it was now back home, safe and that wicked people would never ever harm it again.
The archivist turned to Fremin. “Hainu is dedicated to his craft. I believe he recites the names of missing books each night, ending with a formal curse on those responsible. Oh don’t be alarmed – his curse has no power. But if Gherrit’s tale is complete I would like to hear yours from the very beginning. And I think the Head Archivist should hear it too, so we will adjourn to another room.”
* * * *
The Head Archivist was plump, mousy-haired, aura-less to Gherrit and decisive. She leaned forward from her armchair and fixed Fremin with a direct gaze.
“The First Sieve tells me that you, then an Aspirant, took a book from the members’ section of the archives without permission, travelled to a Wild and were immured there until some days ago. Is this a fair summation?”
Fremin stuttered a miserable assent. The Head sat back. “Two hundred and twenty-seven years. There are not many people in Dtlag who could meet the fine for that period, and then there is reparation of knowledge.”
That was Gherrit’s cue. “If I may, Head?” She did not object so he went on, “Are Aspirants paid a stipend?”
“Yes. Fifty-two bees a day and, of course, room and board.”
“If Fremin was an Aspirant for the whole time she was held under stone, then the stipend due amounts to 70,862 tulips and two bees. Would the fine amount to more than that? If she was not, then the fine only applies for the hmm, eleven days that she was in conscious possession of the book. Surely that is not a huge sum?”
The Head bridled. “The level of the fine is at our discretion.”
“Certainly. Yet there is one further consideration. A fine levied for the period Fremin was held by the Wild could be felt as applying law there. The Hansippif is not known as a tolerant Wild.”
The Head looked at Gherrit, mouth pursed. “Are you a lawyer?”
“No, merely an accounting clerk. I have had some recent conversations with lawyers about my own affairs which touched on similar issues.”
“Hmmf. There is something in what you say. Have you anything more to add?”
Gherrit ignored her acid tone. “About reparation of knowledge, would not a first-hand account of Dtlag and the Order as it was two centuries ago be of some value? Particularly if it came with the opportunity to ask questions? And I believe Fremin made some significant discoveries while in the delving. Could she tell you of those?”
“This is my office, young man. Yet I will listen.” She looked at Fremin.
“Well, I found and copied the epitaphs in a pre-Ssaved mortuary,” began Fremin.
“What!” exclaimed the Head and the First Sieve together.
“And found Ssaved inscriptions in a delving below the Hansippif,”
“What!!”
“And partially mapped a Ssaved transfer nexus that extends to the southern face of the Frozen Wild, where there are open ways in. Some sigils had been translated into Azic. And I have copies of those.”
The Head and First Sieve were regarding Fremin with open mouths. Fremin reached into her bag, took out her notebook and opened it. The two Archivists fell on it like seagulls on a sardine, hissing when one turned a page, squabbling over pronunciation and interpretation.
“I took note of the landmarks visible from the last places in the Frozen Wild and think the entrances could be found again without too much trouble,” Fremin told them after a little. The two immediately started organising an expedition. When Gherrit tentatively asked to speak they waved him away. He asked again and the Head looked up.
“What is it?”
“I have a request but first could you tell me where Fremin stands with the Order.”
“Oh. I will have someone take you out. As for you, Archivist Fremin Dtaie tel Jhaugusis, we will decide on second or third rank later and you cannot expect back-pay. Now Sieve, have the curator of maps up here and we will see where this entrance is. High up you say? Send someone to check if that Flying Wig is serviceable. I look terrible in it but it will have to do …”
Gherrit interrupted again, to her annoyance. “I brought knowledge to the Archive as well as Fremin and have more to give. I understand you pay in coin or information for such. Can I discuss an exchange in the next few days?”
“Of course, of course. Just come to the front door when you are ready. Now, this view here ...”
A polite young man was summoned who escorted Gherrit to the front door and thanked him for his contribution to the Archive.
* * * *
Gherrit spent the next two days exploring Dtlag. He wandered the oldest part of the city, had plum wine and almond cake at Biyerda’s Hotel and sampled the beers at Feelian’s Brewery, took in a puppet-opera performance and ate fish fried fresh from the sea down by the harbour. Throughout he thought about his own conduct and what a bolder approach to life had brought him. If he was free of the bonds of drudgery then he should think more widely, act with more confidence.
On the third day he dressed neatly, had a light breakfast and met his appointment at Green Sea Mercantile. This time he was shown into an upstairs room where two senior managers awaited him, documents laid out neatly on a polished table. After the formal introductions they came straight to business. Gherrit’s claim to the account had been confirmed and, if he would sign this waiver freeing the bank from claims should any natural heirs to Saore appear in future, the money would be his. Gherrit signed and a manager said the bank hoped to keep him as a customer.
“Certainly.”
“In that case we will open a new account and transfer the funds. We will need your birth-details and a trifle of blood, of course. Here is the latest statement.”
Gherrit took the sheet, glanced at the total and kept his face still only by great effort. The late Saore had unwillingly bequeathed him 67,421 tulips. The interest alone would provide a comfortable living. He gravely affirmed that their arrangements were entirely satisfactory to him, and provided all that was necessary to open the new account. When he finally left the building he waited until he was several blocks away before giving a whoop that drew him looks from passers-by and startled a pet armadillo into curling into a ball.
The next day he again visited Archivists to discuss an exchange of knowledge, where a senior member of the Order greeted him with warmth.
“We are pleased to engage with you both for yourself and your deeds. Rescue one of us from a Wild (and the Hansippif at that!), enable the return of a lost book and bring us report – gained at first hand – of of a marvellous site. My dear sir, we are in your debt and freely acknowledge it.”
When the welcome had subsided and enough courtesies exchanged Gherrit broached his request. “As it happens, I do have a very particular need which I hope you can meet. What brought me to the Hansippif was the Name of a demon of knowledge ...”