The Clock Winked (The Sagittan Chronicles Book 2) (8 page)

“Gorgeous,” Bronwyn said. She pointed to two large paintings
hanging over the couches; one pictured a ship being catapulted forward by
tumultuous waves and the other showed a large dragon swooping over a terrified
village.

“Yeah, Simon found those upstairs.”

“There’s an upstairs?” Bronwyn asked, raising her eyebrows.

“I know, go figure.”

“You called?” Simon appeared in the doorway, apparently
responding to Auvek’s mention of his name.

“Bronwyn’s here. Can you make some tea?”

“Certainly, Master Auvek.
Blackberry?”

“Sure,” Bronwyn answered, smiling.
“My
favourite kind!”

“Was this the avalanche room?” Bronwyn asked, taking another
look around.

“It was. It turns out that the avalanche didn’t actually
extend that far into the room. The books were heaped up around the door—which
is why they fell—but most of the rest of the room was neat or empty.”

Auvek led her into the main part of the shop. It glistened.
Every surface had been dusted, all the shelves sat neatly, tidied and
organized, and behind the desk a brand new glass-fronted locked case stood
elegantly, filled with ancient and highly valuable volumes.

“Amazing,” Bronwyn said, craning her neck to look around.
“It’s an entirely different shop!”

“Yeah.
I even have a plan to move
around bookcases to maximize the number of books we can fit in this space! What
can I say, I like math.” He grinned. “Anyway, I found an article I thought you
might be interested in.” Auvek reached over the desk and pulled out a book.

The brown leather volume had tears across the cover, like an
animal with claws had swiped at it and ripped it to shreds. Gold embossed
letters were emblazoned across the front, also clawed but still legible. They
read:
History of the Clock: Construction and Intention
.

“It’s a really boring book about how to build clocks. Inside
it, however, was this.” He slid an old, yellowed piece of paper from between
the pages. It was a book review with no date. The book was called:
The Clock
of Legends: When the Bell Rings, the Cake is Burnt by Laertes Misanthrop
,
and the article was written in the Old Language.

“The book is part of a series, most of which was lost,”
Auvek explained. “I went on Green and looked up as much about it as I could.
The actual text is gone, but there are other books that reference it. It is
basically the life stories and ideologies of Laertes Misanthrop, who was
apparently quite angry at the entire universe. He was raised on the planet
Gwola in the Woerta Clan during the three-thousand-year war between the Woerta
Clan and the Lasta Tribe.”

“Why were they fighting?” Bronwyn asked.

“No one knows. The people in the clans can’t remember and no
one bothered to write it down anywhere because they figured it was so obvious
it didn’t need to be written down. In fact, this book is a satire of his entire
culture. A few years after the book was written, however, the two tribes
stopped fighting suddenly and not a single outsider knows why. Laertes moved
here to Sagitta not long after this event, but refused to talk about it.
Instead, he wrote this series of highly cryptic books as a satirical commentary
on the way his people interacted with the Lasta Tribe. This is the only one
that references the clock; the others, as far as we know, are completely
unrelated. And all we have left are a few archaic references and this really
old book review.”

“So, Laertes didn’t like the Lasta Tribe? Or he didn’t like
his own tribe?”

“I think he felt a large amount of disdain for both of them.
The whole thing is a bit confusing. I read an abstract. I wanted to see if it
was about our Clock of Legend or if there was some other clock on Gwola.”

“Where is Gwola?”

“It’s a planet a very long way from here, near the star
Emmett.”

“Who named a star Emmett?” Bronwyn laughed.

Auvek chuckled. “No idea. But he makes a comparison between
the Clock of Legend and his own people, saying that legends and traditions
shouldn’t dictate who we are or how we interact. He suggests that we should
teach our children to make decisions about how to behave and interact socially
every single day, not as social habits. He says the Clock of Legend is just as
ridiculous as anything because no one can predict the end... I got the
impression that he goes on and on and on and irritates other writers quite a
lot.”

“Interesting.
I wonder if we can
find that book somewhere. What’s it called—?” she scanned the article. “
When the Bell Rings, the Cake is
Burnt
.
”

“It’s doubtful that it’s here—Simon didn’t find it when I
asked him to look earlier. Unless Uncle Will managed to secure a copy at some
point and then hid it.” Auvek shook his head with a wry grin. “And we know
that’s about as likely as a horned-caterpillar going on a date with a squeamish
Melvian.”

Bronwyn laughed, looking up from the tattered piece of paper
she held in her hands. “So how is your Uncle?” she asked.

“Still in jail.
Hopefully it’ll do
him some good.” Auvek shrugged. “I need a little more time to finish things up
here, anyway, so hopefully they don’t let him out too soon.” Bronwyn’s laugh
burst from her lungs and filled the room.

“Now, now, be kind to your unfortunate Uncle Will,” Simon
scolded, appearing with a tray holding a teapot and plate of cookies. “His father
ran the Oliphant Bar and Tavern in Southern Pomegranate City. It’s not his
fault his mother ran off when he was a kid, or that his father believed that
sobriety was one of the seven deadly sins.”

Auvek rolled his eyes at Simon’s scolding and Bronwyn grinned.

“Thank you for the tea,” she said to Simon, before turning
to Auvek. “Can I look around upstairs? I’m quite curious.”

“Sure,” Auvek replied. He picked up his teacup and led
Bronwyn into the back room where they had dragged the drunken Uncle Will to
sleep off the wine. “There’s a door behind these curtains,” he said, “although
I don’t really understand why there’s a double curtain when there is only one
door.”

The stairs were old and rickety and smelled like dead
rodents. Auvek’s steps made footprints in the dust as he moved carefully up the
stairs. She could see other sets of footprints as well, presumably from when he
had come up the stairs earlier.

“Watch out for nails and things,” he said. “No one ever
finished building, so there are all kinds of little annoying dangerous
tidbits.”

“Oh my goodness.”
Bronwyn’s eyes
widened as the fluorescent lights blinked on one by one, shedding light over
the room. It was as big as all the rooms downstairs combined, but heaps of
books filled every corner, every space. A path had been carved through, going
around each pile like paths through a mountain range. Several chairs had been
placed in various locations around the room, presumably to make it easier to
reach the tops of the piles. Four bookcases sat empty against one wall.

“It’s... it’s... a book dump!” she exclaimed.

“During the information revolution,” Simon explained from
behind them, in his tour guide voice, “protesters began burning books to
emphasize the frailty of their nature and to show how easy it was to destroy
information contained between pages. They wanted their children taught database
science instead of reading, and information language instead of writing. They
agreed that reading was of course necessary, but not from books—books, they
claimed, were archaic, an old religion fit only for monasteries and hobbyists.
Then a violent subset began breaking into personal libraries and stealing books
to burn.

“William Oliphant the thirteenth had a brilliant idea. He
pretended to agree with the radicals and offered to let them store the stolen
books upstairs here, for a future enormous bonfire. The Radicals’ intention was
to burn the entire shop and every book in it. But Oliphant was clever. He
played along until he managed to secure the names and locations of the leaders
of the violence. He fed the information to the police, who commenced a sting
operation. They found and arrested everyone in charge.”

Simon placed the teapot and cookies on a chair and scampered
down the stairs.

“So did people come to get their books back?” Bronwyn asked.

“Some. But I mean, how many thousands of books are up here?”
Auvek answered, shrugging. “It’s a gold mine, but one that is going to require
a lot of work to sort. You want a job?”

Bronwyn grinned. “I would love one. But I doubt my aunt
would allow it. Speaking of my aunt, I have a more pressing issue to discuss.
She stole the book you gave me and I don’t know how to get it back.”

“She stole it?” Auvek exclaimed. “Why?”

“I’m forbidden from researching the Clock.” Bronwyn shrugged.
“She apparently searched my room. Usually she searches on a repeated schedule
so I can hide things, but she must have been suspicious of that day when I
stayed here so long and decided to do an extra search.”

“Your aunt searches your room?”

“She also has me followed.
All the time.
I managed to slip away today, but I can’t keep these books at my house.”

“That’s a bit disturbing. But we can keep the books here.
You can make yourself a hiding spot up here if you want.” Auvek gestured to the
large room surrounding them. “I think I have a couple extra couches in storage.
I’ll have Simon start stockpiling books for you.”

“That would be perfect!” A broad smile split Bronwyn’s face.

Auvek frowned. “Why don’t you just move out?”

“My aunt has control of all of my money until I reach
one-hundred-eighty-three years old.”

“One-hundred-eighty-three?
That’s a
pretty arbitrary number,” Auvek replied, frowning slightly. “Are you sure she’s
not just telling you that?
Most of the time you have access
no later than a hundred-fifty.
Remind me before you go and I’ll give you
my Uncle Percival’s card. He’s a lawyer. He’ll probably know.”

“Don’t worry about it! My birthday is tomorrow.” Bronwyn
smiled broadly. “Soon I’ll be free!”

“Happy birthday!”
Auvek exclaimed.
“Er… early.
Maybe we can do something tomorrow to
celebrate.” He glanced at his watch. “Shoot! It’s almost ten. I have to open.
Want to finish beating those rugs for me? They go in Simon’s room.”

“Sure! But I have to leave before dark.” Bronwyn replied,
and the two young booksters skipped down the stairs.

*****

POMEGRANATE
CITY STAR
CHAIR RIZINSKI IN ORBIT

By
Sauvignon Pincer, journalist

Currently, Chair
Rizinski is in orbit around Sagitta on the famed home base for all interstellar
travelling ships, Meteor II. As part of his new reign, Chair Rizinski is making
it clear that all factions of his government need to be honest, upright, and
admirable, as is dictated in the Pomegranate City Law Council Manila Folder. He
is taking tours of the facilities and his staff is taking in-depth looks at the
operations of Meteor II; a financial audit, employee background check, and
equipment inspections are required for each department.

The famed Samson
Lebron welcomed Chair Rizinski with two starched lines of Meteor II operators,
and took him directly to the famous Eye of God Window in the main gate of
Meteor II. This window arcs over the entire room, and on the right day, the
view spans from Liera’s fiery rays to the brilliant stars that shine through
the dark vacuum of space. Samson Lebron airs his popular radio show,
A Quark’s Life
, every Friday on MRLT.

*****

“I mean,
it’s
fine and all,”
Salve’s boss said, slapping the paper in front of him. He stood a little over
6’2” and had the girth of an award-winning pumpkin. “I guess people want to
know what Rizinski is doing. But I’m looking for real stories! Get me something
juicy! Like a raw steak dipped in a lemon and garlic sauce with a sprig of
parsley on the side! I want something delicious and hot and steamy—something
rare and beautiful! This is fine, fine, fine, but I want more!”

“Okay,” Salve said. “Um, I heard about some windows smashing
up by Oliphant’s bookstore and Pete’s Clocks.”

“There’s nothing there! You always chase after nothing
stories! Reynolds said it was a security device. That is as interesting as a
burned corn husk left after a thrilling barbeque of marinated chicken kabobs
with peppers and onions and… mandalle fruit bits!”

“What do you want, then?” Salve shook his head, annoyed both
by the conversation’s lack of direction and the never-ending food metaphors.

“Go out into the garden of the city, like a handsome young
farmer, and dig up a thrilling, exhilarating, spicy potato plant—like little
nuggets of treasure.”

“Potatoes aren’t spicy,” Salve said.

“Just go!” his boss thundered, pounding the desk with his
fist.

Salve turned on his heel and burst through the doors into
the bright sunlight.

“I have a good job, but sometimes it’s more frustrating than
anything else,” he muttered to himself as he walked down the street. A few
moments later, after he had finished ranting in harsh whispers about his
irritating boss and “those bloody food metaphors,” he found that his feet had
taken him in the direction of
William
Oliphant,
booksellers
. All around
him, shop owners had boarded their windows and were putting out signs to let
customers know that they were still open. The glass-makers must be overloaded
with work.

“Pete!” he called to the owner of Pete’s Clocks. Pete was a
well-known businessman and highly respected among all classes of people. He was
taping a sale advertisement to the boards that covered his front windows.