The Destruction of the Books (46 page)

Juhg nibbled at a pear slice. The fruit tasted fresh and clean.

“Of course,” Raisho went on, “to hear Craugh talk of it, them goblinkin could fill the sea in the space of the next drawn breath.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

Rolling his shoulders, Raisho said, “Them Dread Riders an’ Grymmlings came from somewhere. Course, it was magick what brung them here, but there’s a chance we’ll see more of them. Whoever sent them, why they’ve probably got as many magical spells tucked away as Craugh.”

Juhg doubted that. He knew the wizard kept a large number of spells at his disposal.

A flurry of motion sounded out in the hallway. In the next moment, Herby appeared in the doorway. The young boy was as unkempt as ever, and Gust the monkey sprawled across his narrow shoulders and gripped fistfuls of his hair. Sweeping his gaze across the room, the boy locked on Juhg at once.

Crossing the floor, Herby stood by the table just out of Raisho’s reach. “Juhg! Have you heard about the town meeting?”

“No,” Juhg answered.

“The Town Elders called it,” Herby said. “Told the Grandmagister he was gonna have to attend.”

“What’s it about?” Juhg asked.

“The news just got out,” Herby said. “The Town Elders just told the Grandmagister that they ain’t gonna support his efforts to rebuild the Vault of All Known Knowledge. Furthermore, they just ordered the Grandmagister to find some other place to keep them books what survived that attack. They said he can’t keep the Library here no more!”

21

The Grandmagister’s Ire

Out of breath from running through Greydawn Moors to reach the town meeting, Juhg slipped through the massive oaken doors shaped by skilled dwarven hands. There on the doors, in bas-relief, was an abbreviated telling of how the Vault of All Known Knowledge had been built. The images fell surely, one after the other, depicting the raising of the island, the erection of the Library, and the eventual founding of the town at the foot of the Knucklebones Mountains.

Voices echoed in the outer halls. Anger and frustration rode the words, but the walls were so thick that Juhg couldn’t make out what was being said. Though he knew Herby wouldn’t make up the tale he’d brought to
Windchaser
with him, Juhg couldn’t believe that the Town Elders would dare tell the Grandmagister that they wouldn’t support the efforts necessary to rebuild the Library.

Dressed in breeches and a shirt, looking more like a sailor than a Librarian, Juhg felt intensely self-conscious as he passed through the glare of the human guardsmen outside the town hall’s main chambers. When the faces of the four men outside the doors hardened and turned sharp, Juhg knew that the warriors recognized him even without his Librarian’s robes. Possibly at another time they might have been inclined to say something to him, or even prevent his admission to the main hall, but Raisho was at his side and none of them dared say anything to the fierce young sailor.

The massive three-story town hall was the first permanent building built on the shores around the Yondering Docks. The structure squatted on the highest hill in the cleared lands around the harbor. Peaked roofs poked through the swirling clouds of gray-white fog. Blue-green slate shipped from half-forgotten quarries in the South covered the roofs. Constructed of white wood and white marble, the town hall would immediately grab the attention of a newcomer.

Before the town hall had been constructed, the dwellers who had gathered on the island to undertake the responsibility of the Vault of All Known Knowledge had met under the canopies of trees, under tents, and finally under temporary buildings. They had camped out in ships pulled up onto the shore, in temporary structures, and even in lean-tos the elven warders had helped fashion out in the forest that had been magically grown.

The main assembly hall was on the first floor. The room was huge and round, cavernous, and built to carry the voices of speakers. Constructed in a circular design, the center of the room provided a round stage where speakers could inform or debate before the crowd.

During Juhg’s time at Greydawn Moors, the town hall remained largely unused. Dwellers gathered there upon occasion for someone’s birthday or a holiday or a festival. In the past, Grandmagisters like Frollo hadn’t allowed the meeting hall to be used by anyone for anything outside of Library business. Yearly addresses between the Town Elders and the Grandmagisters were the most common events.

Lanterns filled with lummin juice glowed in wall sconces and on the high ceiling. The ceiling was well lighted, providing views of great artwork that were copies of images of great art kept in the Vault of All Known Knowledge, as well as original images rendered by Librarians. The ceiling provided reflections on why the Library existed, on how it had come to be there, and who some of the Founders had been. Craugh was up there with those people, looking hardly the worse for wear, despite the passage of years.

A crowd had turned out to watch the confrontation between the Town Elders and the Grandmagister. The dweller townsfolk sat together in groups representing the merchants. Their group outnumbered the factions of dwarven warriors and craftsmen and eleven warders and human sailors by a factor of four or five. Most of the grumbling came from that group as well.

Grandmagister Lamplighter stood at the round rail that marked the center of the debate area. He looked resplendent in his robes. Craugh stood only a short distance away—probably, Juhg reflected, at the Grandmagister’s insistence because the wizard’s glowering expression offered immediate threat—but no one would mistake the fact that he was there with Grandmagister Lamplighter.

Craugh’s own attire, clean and neat and powerful, bespoke of the severity of the issues being dealt with. Normally, the wizard dressed like he’d just come in from a long journey, which was usually the case. Green embers circled the top of his staff constantly, a grim reminder of the eldritch forces that were his to command.

Juhg knew the faces of all the Town Elders. Over his years of living in Greydawn Moors, he’d gotten the chance to meet all of them at one point or another.

Feron Dilwiddy acted as Chief Speaker for the assembly. Dilwiddy owned the hostels where the sailors stayed while they remained in Greydawn Moors. He was old and fat, even for a dweller. Time had sloughed his face down and given him thick, corpulent jowls that looked like tallow that had melted from the sides of a candle. His wide, fat lips held an unhealthy purplish hue. A ribbon bound his white hair back and matched the thick beard he wore down to his chest.

“… don’t want to be subjugated by the Vault of All Known Knowledge or its Grandmagisters any more,” Dilwiddy stated. “Nor do we ever wish that so again.”

“You were not subjugated,” Grandmagister Lamplighter said.

“‘Not subjugated’?” Lisster Brokkle sneered. Like Dilwiddy, Brokkle was a dweller. He was only half the Chief Speaker’s age, but gray flecked his gray hair and beard. Brokkle owned several warehouses around the Yondering Docks and speculated constantly—and successfully—at buying and selling along the mainland.

Brokkle had been a frequent visitor to the Library to read up on civilizations that had once flourished along the mainland and had stood Blood-Soaked Sea sailors to drinks in exchange for tales of their travels. Juhg had noticed the dweller merchant prince several times in his own research of potential markets.

“Perhaps, Grandmagister Lamplighter,” Brokkle spat, “for all your vaunted knowledge of words, you don’t know what the word means.”

“I know full well what the word means,” the Grandmagister replied in a level voice. “I say again, neither the Library nor its Grandmagisters have ever subjugated this community.”

“Then you lie,” Brokkle shouted.

Craugh turned then, his face a mask of frozen rage. Green embers swirled from the tip of his staff. The dwarves and elves and humans stood as well, hurling epithets and threats among the dwellers for the disrespect that they showed the Grandmagister.

The dwellers who stood so boldly along the railing suddenly drew back from the wizard. Four of them pulled back so far that they had to step back into the seats that surrounded the discussion area.

Without turning, the Grandmagister lifted a hand and said, “Please. I’ll handle this.”

Craugh halted, but his jerky movements showed his exasperation and the amount of restraint he had to exercise. “Better you than me, Grandmagister. I’d turn the lot of them into toads and be done with the matter.” He stamped his staff irritably. “And if they don’t cease their yapping, I’m like to do it anyway.”

The dwarves growled agreement, and their suggestions for the fates of the dwellers was more bloody and more final. With obvious reluctance and distaste, the dwarves and elves and humans took their seats.

Juhg stared in wonderment at the chaos about to break out around him. The door at the rear of the meeting chamber opened as more people, many of them ships’ captains due to get under way that morning, entered. None of them looked happy about the situation either. Of all the Grandmagisters, Grandmagister Lamplighter was one of the favorites.

“Has anything like this ever happened before?” Raisho asked.

“No,” Juhg replied, watching the dweller speakers slowly move back to the railing. Some of them even took care to separate themselves from Dilwiddy and Brokkle.

“I know them town dwellers don’t much care for the Library or its Gran’magisters,” Raisho said.

“They never have. Since the earliest days, dwellers have turned more and more from the Vault of All Known Knowledge.” Over the years, Juhg knew from his review of past Grandmagisters’ journals, a certain enmity had always existed between the Grandmagisters and the dwellers who lived in town.

Dilwiddy pulled himself up to his full height at the railing and glared around the room. “We asked you here this morning, Grandmagister Lamplighter, so that we might air our grievances over the events of these past few days. We did not invite the ruffians in your employ to attend.”

“Why, ye thick-necked, warty-headed mud ape,” one of the dwarves exploded, rising to his feet. “If’n ye call me or me friends ‘ruffians’ again, why, I’ll come over there and wallop ye, I will.”

“Erolg,” the Grandmagister said in a calm voice of reproach. “That will be enough.”

“Aye,” the dwarven warrior replied. “’Twill be. Because I’ve already had me a craw full of it come this mornin’, what with them little halfers a-frettin’ over whether they’re going to make their profits or keep their hollow bellies full. They’re forgettin’ themselves, an’ I’ll slap some knots on their heads if I have to, in order to get a show of proper respect.”

An angry buzz whispered through the ranks of the dwellers.

“If I see Erolg in a tavern any time soon,” Raisho said, “I’m gonna stand him to a drink.”

“The way you’re always ready to fight,” Juhg observed, “you should have been born a dwarf.”

“Mayhap I was,” Raisho said. “Just a really tall dwarf.”

Erolg stamped his feet and adjusted the harness of his battle-axe across his back. His chain-mail shirt jangled against his weapons. He pulled on his beard and sat.

“Do you see what this is coming to?” Dilwiddy demanded. “You’re putting everyone who lives here at each others’ throats.”

“The dwellers who live here,” a quiet, calm voice stated clearly for all to hear, “have never cared much for the dwarves, elves, and humans who have shared this island with them.”

A thin, beautiful elf stood up from the warders gathered to the right of the dwarves. He wore green leathers and leaned in a relaxed fashion on his longbow. A longsword hung at his waist. He moved with the graceful economy of a cat, languid and at ease. His pointed ears showed at the sides of his head under hair the color of split cedar.

Brokkle’s eyes narrowed contemptuously. “Do I know you?”

“No,” the elf replied. “I do my best to stay out of this town. It’s dirty, unkempt, and unclean. You people live nearly as badly as goblinkin.”

Angry muttering filled the meeting chamber.

Juhg watched the events unfolding, hypnotized as if he were watching an avalanche take shape and slip toward the final, fatal plunge. All of the old aggressions between the races were coming to the forefront. Those prejudices and jealousies had been a constant problem since the island had risen from the sea floor.

“I would have your name,” Brokkle stated.

A small smile fitted itself to the elf’s beautiful lips. “I am Sayrit Threld, leader of the Brotherhood of the Falcon. My kith and kin have served the Vault of All Known Knowledge from its inception, and we will continue to do the same as long as blood yet remains to us.”

“I will remember that name,” Brokkle threatened.

“It would be better for you if you did,” Sayrit said.

The implied threat caused Brokkle to draw back a little.

“You dwellers—” Amused at his own forgetfulness, Sayrit glanced in the Grandmagister’s direction and inclined his head. “I beg your pardon, Grandmagister Lamplighter. There are exceptions to any rule.”

“Sayrit,” the Grandmagister said, “please don’t—”

“I fear I must,” Sayrit stated. “It was not easy for my kin and I to leave the forests and come here today. But once we found out what these … petty beings hoped to do here today, I found I could not stay away. You know me, Grandmagister. You know how much I hate even coming to this place, where these people wreck the natural habitat with their filth and want and ignorance.”

“When an elf gets mad at ye,” Raisho muttered, “ye’d best be listenin’ as attentive as ye can. Ye get one mad enough an’ ye’re not listenin’, that elf’s apt to leave a blade or an arrow stickin’ out of ye somewhere.”

Juhg knew it was true. Of all the races in the world, the elves tended to be the most solitary. They considered themselves above the other races, and they disliked great gatherings, even of their own kind. An elven city usually took advantage of natural divisions in trees, along rivers and streams, to carve out individual places for themselves.

Where a dwarf or a human killed out of passion—out of anger or jealousy or fear—an elf was most likely to kill a being in cold blood. Death was a decision, not a response. In the annals of the elves, human and dwarven populations were sometimes killed to the last man or woman to open up territories or protect lands they had elected to serve as guardians. Horror stories of the vengeance of elves existed within the histories of dwarves and humans.