My garret room felt spacious after my time with the Rodanian rebel. He was not the first I had ever met, but they were rare in the capital city. Most Rodanians stuck to the forested parts of the Empire, working as loggers and carpenters, in rejection of their historical plains homelands. Many citizens of Quinze felt that they stayed there as it provided sufficient cover for radicals among them.

As an orphan of the citadel, I was given schooling until my twelfth year. I learned about the conquerings of the Empire and Rodan seemed no different to me from any of the others. My classmates' stares taught me otherwise. We read of the Rodanian’s ochre skin and black eyes and I understood. It was always obvious that I looked different from my peers, but it did not become a reality worth mentioning until that day.

As I looked out my window at the slick rooftops of wood shakes, I felt no kinship for my world. I was a citizen of Quinze with no interest in royal politics or intrigues. I was not the same as Erl or the great scholars who came through the stacks. But I felt no more kinship for the rebel than I did Erl or the King. My loyalty was to the books, the scrolls, and the order of the twenty eight floors of knowledge.

I did not have a nightmare that night.

It was the part of the day I looked forward to most. Father was in his uniform, ready to go out for patrol. He read to me by candlelight, his fingers finding the greased grooves of the oft-turned pages. He did not need to turn them. He could have recited all of the stories in our book by heart, but I asked to hear them every night anyway.

“And he put to her a question that night which had long been on his lips.”

“Is it better to speak,” I said from my place beneath the blanket.

“Or die?”

“What does she say next, father?”

“Tell me, Origio. What do you think?”

“I think she says–”

“No, Ori. Not what is next in the story. What do you think he should do?”

Faced with our death, I say to the rooftops. What holds our tongue?

I slept little, but contemplated what the rebel wanted from me. I had not lied to him about my unimportance to the Empire. The library was open to all citizens in good standing. While my knowledge of the library’s layout was second to none, I could not imagine how that would help any uprising. When I could take my own thoughts no more I brewed a strong cup of coffee, closed my door behind me and climbed out the hallway window.

The only benefit of my garret room in the boarding house was the proximity to the roof. That morning I sat with my knees to my chest and sipped. The steam from my coffee mingled with the mist that hovered over the capital city. Many mornings I sat nestled on the shingles and watched as the sun rose and slowly burned off the mist. I did not have the time for leisure that morning. I planned on getting to sublevel four before my would-be compatriot to think. I did my best thinking surrounded by words. Perhaps the ancients would be so kind as to send me a sign.

The streets were almost empty at half six as I made my way to Febril’s stand. The smell of his bread reached my nostrils well before my feet made their way to his ramshackle food stall. By law, food stalls that were not permanent had to register themselves and their intended location at the start of each week. I walked by the line outside the registrar on my way to the library every week. It was not a short line.

“And it never will be,” Febril once told me. “But my life, there is another story. Too short for such lines.”

And so in the middle of the night, with the help of some of the capital’s less savory residents, he bricked in his stand right there in the street. He had done his research and was ready with the fine he faced for constructing an unpermitted public building.

“Who but a royal family member can say they’ve done what I did?” he laughed. “Have my very own law.”

Shortly after his little stunt, the fine was changed to imprisonment and permanent revocation of any food license. He shrugged off the Empire’s anger. Febril no longer had to stand in line.

I rapped on the slatted window. It was still pulled down for the night, but it did nothing to stop the wafting of fresh bread smells into the street.

“Closed!”

“Then open up, old man. I’ve coin you don’t deserve.”

His rumbling laugh preceded the rolling up of the slatted window. He was, as ever, red-faced from the heat of his ovens and covered in flour as evenly as any kneading surface.

“Origio my boy. You look terrible.”

“Didn’t sleep.”

Febril grunted as he turned to find me a cool enough loaf and wrapped it in a cool cloth. He waved off my proffer of coins.

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“They work you too hard. Come work for me.”

“Still no, Feb.”

“One of these days you’ll come home to the brick palace.”

“I thought you wanted me to be less stressed.”

“So what is it then?”

I took a bite of my fresh loaf. It was delicious and soft with a firm outer crust. Febril was an artist.

“Prince Edouard is coming to the library today.”

“Announced?”

“Not officially.”

He let out a low whistle as he threw a towel over his shoulder.

“He’s supposed to be a strange one.”

“Rumors.”

“Rumors sometimes turn out to be true.”

I took a healthy bite of my loaf and chewed for a moment.

“So your loaves are at best half sawdust then?”

“If that’s a rumor you’ve heard I demand to know where and from who. I’ll cut–”

“Relax, Feb.”

The sounds of Febril’s morning preparations were companionable as I finished my breakfast. I rapped his countertop with my knuckles before turning to leave and he stopped his nervous oven peeping to lock eyes with me.

“Be careful, Ori.”

“Always,” I say.

The library was quiet when I arrived. I locked the door behind me as I made my way to Myths and Legends. Out of habit, I checked to make sure I was alone. When I was certain, I pulled Heptullio and Decamerel from the shelf and reached in behind them to my shoulder. It was not necessary to hide my cloak and mask, but every man needs a secret or two. Once dressed for the stacks I sat with my back to the shelves and opened Heptullio. Its pages were worn thin with grease prints from fingers. I opened it at random and read for a few minutes. It calmed me.

Once it was replaced next to its mate, I stood and made my way to the stairs. Down and down again I went, but I did not find what I expected. As I reached sublevel two, the unmistakable flicker of candlelight reached me, its tendrils crawling up the stairwell walls. By sublevel three, I was certain that I was not alone. I was not.

“Hello, Desert.”

He sat with his legs crossed on the stone floor, a candle near his knee, a scroll spread across his lap.

“An odd intimidation technique,” I said.

“Being early is a habit. One that has saved my life on several occasions.”

“I don’t disagree, but that’s not what I meant.”

He folded his hands, intertwining his fingers and smiling at me. The candle flickered from his exhaled breath.

“Enlighten me then.”

I sat down on the bottom step across from him, the cold stone seeping through my old cloak.

“The scroll you chose. It’s in Semerian. The language has been dead for eight hundred years. No one can read it.”

His smile faded and he unclasped his hands.

“You disappoint me,” he said. “I was told you were intelligent.”

“Insulting me does not change the facts of the matter.”

When planting maize he began, the distance between each replanted cob should be no more than one and one half spans apart. The removal of the baby’s hair must be done by mid summer at the latest and great care should be taken with consistency of removal. If too much sheath is pulled, that stalk will wither in the remaining heat of the season. In the second year of the first reign of Franz–

“Shall I go on?”

“You read Semerian.”

“I couldn’t. The language has been dead for eight hundred years. So the great scholars of the Empire say.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You’ll see soon enough. He’s coming just before opening so as not to attract a crowd. Ever so image conscious, Edouard.”

We sat in silence while the candle threw wild shadows against the stairwell walls.

“I won’t hurt him,” I said.

“I’d stop you if you tried.”

There was amusement in his face as he read my confusion. He took great pleasure keeping me in the dark. I found out later this was a personality trait of his that did not improve with familiarity.

“When the time comes, you will be asked to guide the Prince to the research materials he is coming for.”

For the first time that day, I was the one who was amused. I laughed aloud at the idea.

“Does your plan rely on that?”

“The Prince is not stupid. I will give him that much. He does his research. He needs an expert for this task. One of the library’s finest schol–”

“I am not–”

“One of the library’s finest scholars,” he spoke over me. “But as we’ve already discussed, Edouard is not looking to make a fuss. There are already rumors about his budding interests and what they might mean. If there’s one thing that scholars love to do more than blow smoke about those long dead, it’s blow smoke about the living. Gossips. The lot of them. I don’t need to tell you that. And so he makes enquiries. Trying to solve the riddle. Where can he find someone with a scholar’s knowledge to guide him, but also with that finest of attributes: discretion? It stumped him for a long time. It stumped us too. Mutual despair among our brethren and Prince Edouard is a rare thing but there it was. But he did not give up. He kept his eyes and ears within the community of scholars wide open and eventually…eventually something of interest came up. There was loose talk over wine, an argument, insults were hurled about intelligence, scholarship, and the deservedness of positions. A name was thrown out. Or so it seemed. By rights, Desert would have your position. Knows more than you and isn’t a blowhard. Now, the recipient of this insult stormed out of the inn and did not respond, leaving our Prince with a very curious question. Who is Desert?”

By this point, my head was between my knees. My breath resounded in my ears but the rebel did not stop. He was enjoying himself.

“You’ve done an admirable job staying under the radar. I doubt anyone outside of the registrar building even remembers your real name. But the hunt was on and it was only a matter of time. He will be here, alone, and looking only for you. He will try Myths and Legends first, so we’ll just have to make sure you’re there.”

I swallowed hard.

“What will he ask of me?”

“He needs a guide for the twenty-eighth floor.”