‘We can provide some information,’ it said. ‘You need but ask to check out the volume.’
‘And the cost?’
The skull seemed to smile, if that was possible. ‘Cheap.’
‘My soul?’
The smile deepened.
‘No, thank you,’ I said, shuddering.
‘Very well,’ the Curator said, drifting away.
Suddenly, lamps on the walls flickered to life, lighting the room. The lamps were little oil-filled containers that looked like the kind you’d expect a genie to hold in an old Arabian story. I didn’t really care; I was just glad for the light. By it, I could see that I stood in a dusty room with old brick walls. There were several hallways leading away from the room, and there were no doors in the doorways.
Great, I thought. Of all the times to give away my Tracker’s Lenses . . .
I picked a door at random and walked out into the hallway, immediately struck by how vast it was. It seemed to extend forever. Lamps hung from pillars that – extending into the distance – looked like a flickering, haunting runway on a deserted airfield. To my right and to my left were shelves filled with scrolls.
There were thousands upon thousands of them, all with the same dusty, catacomb-like feel. I felt a little bit daunted. Even my own footsteps sounded too loud as they echoed in the vast chamber.
I continued for a time, stepping softly, studying the rows and rows of cobwebbed scrolls. It was as if I were in a massive crypt – except, instead of bodies, this was the place where manuscripts were placed to die.
‘They seem endless,’ I whispered to myself, looking up. The pockets of scrolls reached all the way up the walls to the ceiling some twenty feet above. ‘I wonder how many there are.’
‘You could know, if you wanted,’ a voice whispered. I spun to find a Curator hovering behind me. How long had it been there?
‘We have a list,’ it whispered, floating closer, its skull face looking more shadowed now that there was external light. ‘You could read it, if you want. Check it out from the Library.’
‘No, thank you,’ I said, backing away.
The Curator remained where it was. It didn’t make any threatening moves, so I continued onward, occasionally glancing over my shoulder.
You may be wondering how the Curators can claim to have every book ever written. I have it on good authority that they have many means of locating books and adding them to their collection. For instance, they have a tenuous deal with the Librarians who control the Hushlands.
In the United States alone, there are thousands upon thousands of books published every year. Most of these are either ‘literature,’ books about people who don’t do anything, or they are silly fiction works about dreadfully dull topics, such as dieting.
(There is a purpose to all of these useless books produced in America. They are, of course, intended to make people self-conscious about themselves so that the Librarians can better control them. The quickest way I’ve found to feel bad about yourself is to read a self-help book, and the second quickest is to read a depressing literary work intended to make you feel terrible about humanity in general.)
Anyway, the point is that the Librarians publish hundreds of thousands of books each year. What happens to all of these books? Logically, we should all be overwhelmed by them. Buried in a tsunami of texts, gasping for breath as we drown in an endless sea of stories about girls with eating disorders.
The answer is the Library of Alexandria. The Librarians ship their excess books there in exchange for the promise that the Curators won’t go out into the Hushlands and seek the volumes themselves. It’s really a shame. After all, the Curators – being skeletons – could probably teach us a few things about dieting.
I continued to wander the musty halls of the Library, feeling rather small and insignificant compared with the massive pillars and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows and rows of books.
Occasionally, I passed other hallways that branched off the first. They looked identical to the one I was walking in, and I soon realized that I had no idea which way I was going. I glanced backward, and was disappointed to realize that the only place in the Library that seemed clean of dust was the floor. There would be no footprints to guide me back the way I had come, and I had no bread crumbs to leave as a trail. I considered using belly-button lint, but decided that would not only be gross, but wasteful as well. (Do you have any idea how much that stuff is worth?)
Besides, there wouldn’t be much point in leaving a trail in the first place. I didn’t know where I was going, true, but I also didn’t know where I’d been. I sighed. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a map of this place anywhere?’ I asked, turning back to the Curator who followed a short distance behind.
‘Of course there is,’ he said in a phantom voice.
‘Really? Where is it?’
‘I can fetch it for you.’ The skull smiled. ‘You’ll have to check it out, though.’
‘Great,’ I said flatly. ‘I can give you my soul to discover the way out, then not be able to use the way out because you’d own my soul.’
‘Some have done so before,’ the ghost said. ‘Traveling the library stacks can be maddening. To many, it is worth the cost of their soul to finally see the solution.’
I turned away. The Curator, however, continued talking. ‘In fact, you’d be surprised the people who come here, searching for the solutions to simple puzzles.’ The creature’s voice grew louder as it spoke, and it floated closer to me. ‘Some old women grow very attached to a modern diversion known as the “Crossword Puzzle.” We’ve had several come here, looking for answers. We have their souls now.’
I frowned, eyeing the thing.
‘Many would rather give up what remains of their lives than live in ignorance,’ it said. ‘This is only one of the many ways that we gain souls. In truth, some do not care which book they get, for once they become one of us, they can read other books in the Library. By then, of course, their soul is bound here, and they can never leave or share that knowledge. However, the endless knowledge appeals to them.’
Why was it talking so loudly? It seemed to be pushing up against me a bit, its coldness prodding me on. As if it were trying to force me to walk faster.
In a moment I realized what was going on. The Curator was a fish. If that were the case, what were the shoes? (Metaphorically speaking, of course. Read back a few chapters if you’ve forgotten.)
I closed my eyes, focusing. There, I heard it. A quiet voice, calling for help. It sounded like Bastille.
I snapped my eyes open and ran down a side hallway. The ghost cursed in an obscure language – my Translator’s Lenses kindly let me know the meaning of the word, and I will be equally kind here in not repeating it, since it involved eggbeaters – and followed me.
I found her hanging from the ceiling between two pillars in the hallway, letting out a few curses of her own. She was tangled up in a strange network of ropes; some of them twisted around her legs, others held her arms. It seemed that her struggles were only making things worse.
‘Bastille?’ I asked.
She stopped struggling, silver hair hanging down around her face. ‘Smedry?’
‘How did you get up there?’ I asked, noticing a Curator hanging in the air upside down beside her. Its robe didn’t seem to respond to gravity – but, then, that’s rather common for ghosts, I would think.
‘Does it matter?’ Bastille snapped, flailing about, apparently trying to shake herself free.
‘Stop struggling. You’re only making it worse.’
She huffed, but stopped.
‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’ I asked.
‘Trap,’ she said, twisting about a bit. ‘I triggered a trip wire, and the next moment I was hanging up here. If that wasn’t bad enough, the burning-eyed freak here keeps whispering to me that he can give me a book that will show me how to escape. It’ll just cost my soul!’
‘Where’s your dagger?’ I asked.
‘In my pack.’
I saw it on the floor a short distance away. I walked over, watching out for trip wires. Inside, I found her crystalline dagger, along with some foodstuffs and – I was surprised to remember – the boots with Grappler’s Glass on the bottoms. I smiled.
‘I’ll be right there,’ I said, putting the boots on and activating the glass. Then, I proceeded to try walking up the side of the wall.
If you’ve never attempted this, I heartily recommend it. There’s a very nice rush of wind, accompanied by an inviting feeling of vertigo, as you fall backward and hit the ground. You also look something like an idiot – but for most of us, that’s nothing new.
‘What are you doing?’ Bastille asked.
‘Trying to walk up to you,’ I said, sitting up and rubbing my head.
‘Grappler’s Glass, Smedry. It only sticks to other pieces of glass.’
Ah, right, I thought. Now this might have seemed like a very stupid thing to forget, but you can’t blame me. I was suffering from having fallen to the ground and a hit to the head, after all.
‘Well, how am I going to get up to you, then?’
‘You could just throw me the dagger.’
I looked up skeptically. The ropes seemed wound pretty tightly around her. They, however, were connected to the pillars.
‘Hang on,’ I said, walking up to one of the pillars.
‘Alcatraz . . .,’ she said, sounding uncertain. ‘What are you doing?’
I laid my hand against the pillar, then closed my eyes. I’d destroyed the jet by just touching the smoke . . . could I do something like that here too? Guide my Talent up the pillar to the ropes?
‘Alcatraz!’ Bastille said. ‘I don’t want to get squished by a bunch of falling pillars. Don’t . . .’
I released a burst of breaking power.
‘Gak!’
She said this last part as her ropes – which were connected to the pillars – frayed and fell to pieces. I opened my eyes in time to see her grab the one remaining whole piece of rope and swing down to the ground, landing beside me, puffing slightly.
She looked up. The pillar didn’t fall on us. I removed my hand.
She cocked her head, then regarded me. ‘Huh.’
‘Not bad, eh?’
She shrugged. ‘A real man would have climbed up and cut me down with the dagger. Come on. We’ve got to find the others.’
I rolled my eyes, but took her thank-you for what it was worth. I walked over as she stuffed the boots and dagger back in her pack, then threw it over her shoulder. We walked down the hallway for a moment, then spun as we heard a crashing sound.
The pillar had finally decided to topple over, throwing up broken chips of stone as it hit the ground. The entire hallway shook from the impact.
A wave of dust from the rubble puffed over us. Bastille gave me a suffering look, then sighed and continued walking.
10
You may wonder why I hate fantasy novels so much. Or, maybe you don’t. That doesn’t really matter, because I’m going to tell you anyway.