The young, inexperienced interim Spymaster stepped into the ancient and mysterious bookstore. Unlike other lively shops that welcomed customers in with cheerful warmth, a dense silence hung in the air here, broken only by the faint crinkling of parchment. The air was heavy with the odors of old leather and candle wax.

Leather-bound books and vellum scrolls overflowed from crowded bookshelves, each hinting at secrets unknown to most. There were thousands of volumes. Such an array of knowledge was unknown to Ean who stood in amazement.

Behind the counter, hunched over a heavy tome, sat a solitary figure—the bookstore's enigmatic owner. The old man was stooped with age, his silver hair receding into bald patches. His shrewd, avian blue eyes peered at Ean from beneath bushy white brows, giving him the appearance of a wise old owl. Using his cane for support, the shopkeeper was barely able to stand straight, yet somehow, there was an air of authority and wisdom about him that demanded respect and attention.

"Hello and welcome to the Argonian Bookshelf," creaked the shopkeeper's voice as he rose from his seat and hobbled towards Ean. "How may I help you?"

A knot of nervousness tightened in Ean's stomach. If this old man was not the retired spymaster the king mentioned, he would be speaking of matters a common citizen should not be made aware of. The urgency of his mission helped him muster the courage to speak.

Inhaling deeply, Ean tried to settle his nerves. "Excuse me, sir. I'm looking for a retired master spymaster who is said to own a bookstore."

The shopkeeper's bushy brows furrowed as he peered at Ean. "An old spymaster, you say? While I am old, my class is bookseller." He chuckled, the lines around his eyes crinkling. "Though I suppose we bookworms do have our secrets, don't we?"

Ean's heart sank. "But I was told the spymaster owns a bookstore and this is the only one I've found. It's a matter of utmost importance that I speak with him."

The shopkeeper paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Though I can't say for certain if the owner was a spymaster or not. You're welcome to come back in a week's time to ask him."

Ean sensed the old man was toying with him, concealing a secret through linguistic subterfuge rather than lies. "I said retired, not old although the two descriptions are not mutually exclusive."

"So you did. Still, you'll have better luck if you return next week." The old man looked at Ean in anticipation.

Ean examined the shop from top to bottom, looking for something to reveal what his instinct was trying to make him see. "You're trying to make me believe there's another person who owns the shop and they're away for a week. Yet, as I look around, I see floor to ceiling books and scrolls. Barely enough room for your tiny desk and single chair. Everything says this shop is operated by one person."

"You're a bright young man but it's late, and as we've established, I am old. Too old to entertain fantasies of being a spy. Whoever put you up to this is playing us both for fools. I need to close up so hurry back home."

Ean turned to go. Could I be mistaken? Did I mishear the king? No.

He turned back. "I'm here on the king's business," he declared, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "He told me you used to read The King With Six Friends to him as a boy."

The shopkeeper's eyes flickered with interest. "I see," he drawled, his gaze unwavering. "So, you're here to buy a copy of the book for the king then?" His tone was laced with a hint of amusement, his eyes continued to sparkle with mischief.

Ean shook his head, casting aside the bait. "No, sir. I'm here because the king told me I could get help with this."

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the crumpled piece of parchment—the secret message that he was tasked with deciphering. He held it out to the bookstore owner.

Alarm flashed in the shopkeeper's eyes as they fell upon the parchment. His voice was tinged with urgency and a warning as he hissed, "Put that away! You never know who might be watching."

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Ean made the parchment vanish as quickly as it had appeared. The shopkeeper slammed the front door shut and bolted it with a resounding click.

"So, you are the spymaster he gave me a quest to find! Why were you so cagey?"

Ean stared in surprise as the now shockingly spry bookseller led him behind the counter and into a dimly lit living quarters.

The old man prepared two cups of tea as he spoke, "I am, or was, in hiding… and retired." He handed a cup to Ean. "What do you know about secret codes and ciphers?"

"Not much, I'm afraid," Ean confessed, his voice betraying his nerves. "I have only been an apprentice spymaster for one week. Please help me, sir. The king is counting on me."

A gleam of interest sparked in the old man's eyes. "As long as you prove to be a good student, I will help you," he declared. "While I put a tea kettle on to boil, tell me what you do know."

Ean's mind raced as he tried to recall the bits and pieces of information gleaned during his brief training. "I know a code is when you use a word or a symbol to represent a word, a sentence, or an idea," he explained.

The retired spymaster nodded approvingly. "Hmm, yes. If we met in a public place and I said, 'I feel ill,' most people would think I am sick. As a fellow spymaster, using our shared codes, you would know I am speaking in code to tell you it is not safe to talk."

Ean's eyes widened in comprehension. "I see," he marveled. "So, codes are a way to communicate secret messages in plain sight."

"Precisely," the retired spymaster affirmed. "And ciphers?"

"A cipher is generally a one-to-one substitution for the letters in a word," Ean recited.

"True, but not a random substitution," the old man corrected. "There must be logic behind the substitution so someone else can decipher the message."

Ean listened intently as the master spymaster expounded on the intricacies of secret codes and ciphers, his mind laboring to absorb the wealth of knowledge being imparted to him. Amidst the barrage of information, one word stood out.

"Decipher?" he asked with uncertainty. "I heard the king use that word, but I'm not sure what it means."

The old spymaster paused, regarding Ean with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "An ordinary line of text is known as plaintext in the spy world. When you use a code or cipher to make the text unreadable by others," he explained. "The result is a coded message referred to as ciphertext."

Noticing Ean's empty hands, he frowned. "Why aren't you writing this down?"

Ean's face flushed with embarrassment. "Sorry, Master," he stammered. "I do not have a notebook. I do have a good memory…it's one of the reasons I was recruited to be an apprentice spymaster."

"A good memory is vital for a spymaster," the old man admonished, his tone stern. "But the information we deal in cannot risk corruption or loss by relying on memory alone."

Ean's shoulders slumped. "I am sorry, Master," he said contritely. "I will go purchase a notebook."

"Don't be sorry," he said. "Be prepared!" The Master Spymaster's expression softened. "I believe I still have an empty questbook from the days when I was training novice spymasters like yourself. Help me look for it."

Eager to rectify his mistake, Ean joined the retired spymaster in his search of the cluttered living quarters. The old man shuffled through piles of papers, opened and closed desk drawers with a clatter, and occasionally knocked books off shelves. Ean carefully avoided the precarious stacks of books and papers, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of an unused notebook.

The elderly man grunted as he straightened, a small leather-bound book in his hand.

"Here it is."

He handed the empty questbook to Ean. "This should serve you well. Now it's time to start filling those pages with the knowledge I'm imparting."

Ean nodded, clutching the questbook reverently. "Yes, Master Spymaster."

The old man waved his hand dismissively. "I am retired. No need to call me Master Spymaster. Samuel will do. Now, back to the lesson."

"Nice to meet you, Samuel," he said politely. "I am Ean Fleming."

"As I was saying, Ean" Samuel continued, "when you convert a plaintext message into a coded form, that process is called encrypting. The processing of converting the ciphertext into plaintext is called decrypting."

Ean was too preoccupied with the squirming questbook in his hand. He tightened his grip which made it vibrate more. When he loosened his grip, the questbook gently wriggled.

Samuel cleared his throat to get Ean's attention. "You act like you've never held an auto-writing questbook before. What did you think I was giving you?"

His mouth open in wonder, Ean replied, "I heard of auto-writing notebooks but thought people were making them up like dragons and fairies. Amazing."

"Plenty of time to be amazed later. Do you understand?"

Ean glanced at the ceiling, recalling what he'd heard. "Yes. Plaintext becomes ciphertext through encryption. Then ciphertext becomes plaintext again through decryption."

"Good. Allow me to demonstrate," Samuel said while grabbing parchment sheets and quill pens.

Ean watched with keen interest as Samuel, with fingers gnarled by age, demonstrated the process of encrypting a message. The old spymaster wrote out two lines of words on a sheet of parchment, the top line in lowercase and the bottom line in uppercase.

"The general convention, Ean, is you write your plaintext on one line in lowercase letters," Samuel explained. "Then as you encrypt the message, you write the ciphertext on a line below the plaintext using uppercase letters. Like this."

Ean's eyes followed the lines of text as Samuel pointed to them.

meet me at the bridge

OCFF NF UF HTJ OTUBMS

"In this example, the plaintext is 'meet me at the bridge,' and the ciphertext is…the unpronounceable uppercase words."

The teapot whistled and Samuel stopped to make them tea.