Cethe (38 page)

The bishop shrugged and smiled rueful y.

“If we were to see to the printing,” Michael went on, “could we rely upon you to have them distributed in places where they

might find the most readers?”

Storm brightened “Assuredly! You may be surprised at how receptive an audience it wil find. You should do the same with the

manuscript in my possession. I’ve had it copied out, as wel .” This was more than Michael had hoped for. “Excel ent! We wil

certainly do so. Which of the two Chronicles would you suggest we print first?”

“The First,” replied Storm at once. “In the meantime, I wil query those clerics of my acquaintance who feel as I do about the

direction of the Church. Several of them are quite highly placed. With their help, the true knowledge and wisdom of St. Aramis can

be restored to the people of Tanyrin and the kingdom once more be set upon the path that Loth intended for us.”

Of Withwil ow's many libraries, four were located directly within the Academy’s campus, immediately adjacent to the Cathedral.

The massive, rectangular moonstone buildings were single-storied and stood facing each other across a broad square known as

Scholars Plaza. The spot was famous for its public debates and as Stefn approached, his heart quickened in anticipation.

The hired carriage left him at the plaza’s edge. Fascinated, he wandered among the groups gathered there, listening to the

debates until someone noticed him. Then he would move on to the next debate. There were more students than clerics present; the

green and brown habits of the latter were easily spotted amid the more colorful and fashionable student attire.

As he passed an especial y large group, he noticed the tone of the debate seemed more acrimonious than the others.

Intrigued, he went to investigate. Standing on a box, a book clutched under his arm, was a novice priest. Surrounding him were more

novices and a few brown-robed priests. Most of the remaining audience were Academy students who seemed unimpressed by the

young cleric’s speech, hooting and shouting him down frequently.

“…cursed to relive the trials and atrocities of the old days!” the novice shouted, trying to be heard above the noise. “Their very

presence corrupts! To tolerate them in our midst is to insult Loth!”

“Where does it say so in Loth’s Covenant?” shouted a youth next to Stefn. He waved a slim pamphlet at the speaker. “Here is

the Word of Loth! He makes no mention of them!”

“If you want to talk about corruption,” another cal ed out, “look to your masters, priestling!”

“Aye!”

“Absolutely right!”

“In my parish, the abbot’s Domicile is more luxurious than the parish lord’s!”

“I speak of spiritual corruption!” retorted the novice, raising his arm and brandishing his book. “Their foul witchcraft, their

insidious attempts to mingle their cursed blood with ours — can you be so blind to not see they intend nothing less than our

destruction?”

“Every taint I know believes in Loth!”

“You’re a madman!”

“And you are fools and heretics!” This came from one of the priests standing at the speaker’s feet. “You can’t see the truth

before your eyes! Only when the taints offer themselves to Loth as Penitents are they redeemed and made harmless!”

“Bishop Storm doesn’t think so!” cried a student. “He says the h’nara and humans are both equal in Loth’s eyes!”

“He’s a heretic, too!” shouted the speaker, red-faced. “He ignores edicts from the Celestial Council and al ows taints to pol ute

the city with their crimes and blasphemy!”

“Our bishop cares about everyone! He is true to the Covenant!”

“I hear the Celestials take the most beautiful Penitents as their personal whores!”

Stefn realized he was no longer on the edge of the crowd. More students had joined the audience, jostling forward. Priests

and novices were among them, al trying to out-shout the others.

Suddenly, something flew through the air, landing on the speaker’s shoulder. It splattered, covering the young man’s habit and

face with dripping, pink juice. For an instant, the novice seemed frozen, his face twisted in ludicrous surprise. Then he toppled

backwards and out of sight.

Pandemonium broke loose. Tomatoes, eggs, and lute-apples rained down on the clerics, who responded by surging forward,

swinging their fists and shouting imprecations. Belatedly, Stefn realized he was in the middle of a ful -blown riot! Alarmed, he turned

and pushed his way out of the mob, struggling against the tide, buffeted this way and that. He final y managed to break free,

although not without having acquired random bits of vegetation in his hair and on his clothing.

Across the plaza, the familiar green and gold of Hunters appeared. Stefn quickened his pace, wiping off the bits of leaf and

slimy lute-apple seeds while the chaos grew behind him.

Once away from the plaza, he stopped and caught his breath, taking stock of his situation. The arrival of the Hunters had

dispersed the crowd, students running in al directions. The soldiers, on the other hand, made no effort to pursue anyone, content to

clear the plaza of combatants.

His apprehension fading, Stefn began to be amused by the entire experience. He suspected Michael would find it humorous,

too. In the meantime, however, he had business to take care of. Returning to the now peaceful plaza, he looked around for the

library he wanted.

A passing student that he stopped pointed to the building directly behind him. Reaching it, Stefn saw the library’s name etched

on a smal , inconspicuous bronze plaque: Warden Library of Engineering and Alchemy. He pushed open the door, heart quickening

in anticipation.

Inside, the moonstone had been plastered over. A newer, wooden wal created a lobby with reading tables and a librarian’s

desk near an archway leading to the stacks.

The man behind the desk was dozing, however, and didn’t stir when Stefn approached. The catalog lay on the desktop in front

of him. After a moment, Stefn stepped forward and, with one eye on the slumbering librarian, began looking through it.

Privately, he did not expect to find anything. Surely, the priests would put such information under lock and key? Yet, within a

minute or two, as Stefn glanced at the heading of each page he turned, his eyes suddenly lit on ‘producing mechanical text.’ His

heart lept. He noted the number of the shelf and, when the librarian continued to doze, went through the archway.

Once inside, he was struck dumb. Shia’s library was unusual y large, possessing five hundred and twenty-seven books. Stefn

stared at what was surely ten times that number. They crammed shelf after shelf, straight, orderly rows marching from one end of

the barn-sized chamber to the other. His nostrils were fil ed with the scent of them. It was a moment or two before he was able to get

on with it. Reciting the shelf number under his breath in an endless litany, he started down the nearest row.

To think he’d considered Shia’s library impressive! What a naive fool he’d been!

An edition of Chase’s Forts and Castles caught his attention. He’d seen it referenced frequently in books he’d read, but Shia

had no copy. Unable to help himself, Stefn pul ed it down from the shelf. It was satisfyingly thick and almost new, the leather smooth

and tight, the print crisp upon the page. He noted the printer’s mark on the frontispiece: Withwil ow Academy Press.

Reluctantly, he set it back and continued his search. Title after title passed under his dazzled eyes. There were instructions for

the manufacture of dozens of machines. Scattered among them were works of mechanical theory, of engineering history, alchemy,

astronomy, even speculative texts on naran devices. Frequently, Stefn couldn’t help but stop to take out an especial y intriguing

volume, reading avidly until something recal ed him to his mission.

The section on printing presses and writing instruments was at the far end of a back row, on the bottom shelf. While the rest of

the shelves had contained new works along with the old, here nothing had been added for years. Nor had it been disturbed, from

the looks of it. Stefn took out two likely volumes and blew dust from their covers.

Footsteps approaching made him start. He looked around. Michael? Already?

“I just found what we need,” Stefn greeted him.

“Just?” Michael grinned. “I should have thought you’d not only found the books, but read half of them by now.”

“I got distracted,” replied Stefn with a guilty look around.

Michael laughed, quickly muffling it when Stefn shushed him.

“These are the best I could find,” said Stefn with a warning frown. “Let’s take them to the reading room and have a closer look.

”

Michael took them, but to Stefn’s astonishment, tucked them into his coat. Smiling blandly, he strol ed away. Stefn, not sure

whether to be outraged or admiring, hurried after him.

The librarian was stil napping when they let themselves out of the stacks. Al eyes swiveled to fol ow Michael across the

marble floor. Stefn’s heart pounded, expecting to have someone cal out at any moment, but they made it outside without incident.

A carriage waited at the bottom of the steps to take them back to the hotel. No sooner were they inside it then Stefn pounced.

“You stole the books!”

Michael gave him a wide-eyed look. “Nonsense. I borrowed them.”

“You mean to return them, then?” Stefn made no effort to restrain the sarcasm.

“Maybe.” Michael pul ed both of them out, tossing Stefn one. “You look through that one.”

Stefn dropped it to the seat beside him instead. “What did His Excel ency say? Did he agree it was a worthy idea to print the

Chronicle? Wil he distribute it?”

“He does and he wil .” Michael’s face lit up in a triumphant grin. “And we have a copy of the First Chronicle manuscript, too!”

As the carriage made its way uphil toward the hotel, Michael recounted his conversation with the bishop. By the time they

reached their destination, Stefn began to think the plan, audacious as it was, had a real chance of success.

Later, in the dining room, their table shielded from general view by a very large potted fern, they consulted their purloined

goods. Stefn’s was the newer book, but it contained no drawings. Its rambling discussion of theory was accompanied by an

occasional sketch, but only of completed presses.

Michael had more luck. “Mine has plans,” he said, handing it across their soup course to Stefn. “I don’t know what good they

wil do us. There are some oddly shaped parts.”

Stefn helped himself to another dinner rol and studied the sketches. The objects they depicted were familiar. Munching

absently, he turned a page. As he did, he recal ed where he had seen such things.

“The cel ars!” he mumbled through a mouthful of rol . “I’ve seen this in Shia’s cel ars!” He stabbed a finger at the etching of a

long, cylindrical object. “It was real y old and rusty. I haven’t been down there for years, but unless Lothlain has been clearing things

out down there, too… ”

“I don’t think he’s touched the cel ars. Are you sure? You’ve seen this exact thing?”

Stefn nodded. “I’ve seen that piece, too. And this one!” He turned the page, excitement rising. “It has to be very old, pre-

Reformation, according to this book, but if I’m right, there’s at least part of a printing press at Shia!”

Stefn and Michael left Withwil ow the next day. This time the weather held, making the ride considerably more pleasurable

than the trip south. Michael seemed in no particular hurry. He was quite wil ing to delay here and there to visit some place of

historical interest or admire scenery. They broke their journey early each evening, their leisurely suppers made twice as enjoyable

by lively conversation. If Stefn found his bed lonely afterwards, he refused to admit it.

As they approached the northern highlands, it grew noticeably colder. Since Fornsby was too risky, Michael hired a carriage in

nearby Granvil e. “I’l not arrive at Shia with frostbite,” he declared.

Stefn sniffed. “This isn’t cold,” he sneered. “You won’t last a month in Shia once proper winter is here.”

Privately, however, he was more than happy to abandon the cold, windy saddle for the comfortable, leather-upholstered cab.

Furs and thick quilts were piled high on the seats and the innkeeper had hot bricks brought out to keep their feet warm. Michael

joined him a few minutes later, complaining about the cold and blowing on his hands.