Not many people knew that the Penmark Academy had a satellite library in Port Oramar. The Dreydan Authority shared a river border with Farhold and they were, in theory, peaceable allies. But the High Lords of Farhold – those who weren’t being paid to overlook the place – would have shat a collective brick if they’d learned it. They weren’t here, and Rose was. She pushed her chair toward the building by way of the side path. It was bumpier than she’d have liked, but the alley wasn’t wide enough for her chair, so here she was, sneaking into a magical library by way of the second most obvious entrance. ‘Well,’ she thought grimly, ‘at least mages aren’t known for being well prepared or anything.’
But she had a few tricks up her sleeves and a few others stashed underneath her cushion. The chair was, of course, a wash. Yes, it made her seem like less of a threat to most people, but she also stood out rather obviously and it wasn’t as if she could swap it out for another one like a quick disguise. Even in a city this size there wouldn’t be more than three or four people moving about on wheels, and odds were slim any of them looked much like her.
The night watch was moving up the street. She paused for three slow breaths. If they turned toward her, the plan was probably a bust. They’d remember having seen her. But the sluice sound of their light armor and the wobble bob of their lantern crossed the next street up and began to move in the direction of the docks. Rose let out a sigh of relief and turned toward the side door before her luck ran out on her, pulling her fur collar up against the night chill as well as for some proof against her profile.
The door was a paneled affair with an iron lock place and press handle in the shape of an arching cat. It was stained like oak but was probably made of the more common alder of the nearby woods. That was important information. She’d have a much harder time of it if she didn’t know what the parts were made of. Above the door hung an indigo sign with inlaid brass letters that read, “Bibliothica Calica”. The library of the sky, or something like it. It wasn’t the books they hid from the rest of the citizens of Port Oramar, it was their ties to the Mage’s academy of Penmark. As a result, she noticed no crystals or sigils worked into the door, despite her careful search. All that meant, of course, was that there was nothing on the outside. On the other hand, there was a second sign, much less grand in its wood and paint, that had left her to believe that this was the correct door for her infiltration. It read, in the much lower tongue of the common folk, “After house deliveries here.” Seemed likely that mages looking to avoid detection probably didn’t want to blow up couriers. Plus, this door was wide enough for her chair to get in easily, and the only other door as wide was, inconsiderately, in the front of the building up 15 marble stairs beneath gas lamps.
Rose took one last breath and for perhaps only the four hundredth time that day, considered turning and leaving. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ she thought. ‘You don’t owe her anything. She’s a terrible fucking mother. Work a few jobs and send your sister a heap of cash with a note conveying your sympathies.’ It was a reassuring fantasy. And then, letting out the breath and uttering a brief prayer to the benevolent gods of the east, she reached out and touched the iron lock.
She’d seen a dozen iron locks of similar make earlier in the day, and it took only a moment to suss out the make of this one to the point where she would twist it. With the lock firmly in her mind she closed her eyes and rewrote it. Iron to iron, to keep it simple. She didn’t want to damage the door, so she pictured, as clearly as possible, a simple iron box with a handle on her side. There was a pulse from within her head, like she’d squeezed her eyes shut too tightly. A brief rumble echoed in her ears, but it passed without any lingering effects. She relaxed and opened her eyes, unsurprised to see the box where the lock plate had been before. She reached out and slid it out of the bolt, leaving it exposed like the last tusk in the head of an elderly hog. She reached in and pushed it to the side, satisfied with the soft noise it made. She pushed the door inward.
The door, it should be noted, could have learned a thing or two from the bolt. It did not move with a soft whisper, but with a whine. It was a baby sister who didn’t want to wake up and do chores wailing from beneath her blanket. It could have been louder, but not by much. “Traitor,” she whispered.
She waited a moment, but the alarm wasn’t raised. No responding screams or alarms or blast of arcane energy came. So, she wheeled herself forward, remembering belatedly, to thank those benevolent eastern gods. “Chip chip, easties.”
The door led into a large storage room, but as soon as Rose shut the door behind her, the light from outside was shut out with it and she was plunged into darkness. Some dim light came from the hall beyond, but she couldn’t risk knocking over boxes and making even more of a racket. She looked down at a spot she couldn’t see on the floor and focused her sight upon the area. A pinpoint of light erupted from the middle as Rose drew forth her focus and that light spread to two oblong areas, overlapping in the middle, with distinct and hard edges. Rose was looking from inside her own eyes, so she couldn’t see the cones of light that projected out from them, but she knew how it worked.
A moment later, the light flickered out and Rose had only a moment to brace herself before the headache hit. It was an abrupt stabbing behind and around the eyes that left her feeling like she was spinning and falling. If she hadn’t been sitting in a chair, she would have believed it. Instead, she grabbed at the frame and squeezed, as she usually did when this happened. It has been too much too soon. It was several long breaths before the headache …. well, it didn’t pass exactly, but it did simmer down to a mild irritation. At least it hadn’t been a bleed. She knew what mages could do with her blood. Or, at least, she’d heard a few rumors and those were enough to make her want to keep it all on the inside.
As the pounding passed, she reflected. The light was brief, but she thought it had been enough. There was a stack of pine crates to her right. She could smell the wood. It would be tight, but she could make it to the door and out without causing any chaos and so she did so, slowly pushing the door open. There were beeswax candles lighting a few parts of the halls outside, revealing red carpets and dark wood lining the panels of the light painted plaster walls, themselves just a hair off white. She hated to risk the halls, but she couldn’t do this without exposing herself at some point. The wheels of her chair gave a soft shudder as she rolled onto the carpet: a small mercy. Much less noise. She eyed the walls and ceilings, as well as the dingy-looking paintings of famous smart people of history dressed in their high-necked best. No crystals, glowing or otherwise. No arcane runes or patterns that she could detect, unless they were under the paintings or the wood. She was probably safe on the ground floor anyway. What she was looking for, according to the drunk scribe she’d spoken with three nights ago, would be on the second floor. That’s where she was likely to run into magical whatsits.
Rolling up toward the main (and only) staircase, past a painting of a surly looking dwarven matron with a thicker beard than Rose’s father, she had a second stroke of good luck. The stairs were also carpeted. There was no way she’d get her chair up wooden stairs without making a racket and waking the whole block. Granted, she’d have really preferred a counterweight lift or a good friend to haul her up, but this would have to do. She backed herself up against the bottom stair and began to make the slow and tedious climb, stopping briefly on each step to adjust her weight and make sure that she was steady before heaving herself up to the next step using a combination of raw strength on the wheel and one arm hooked into the banister. She knew that if she slipped she would, at best, make a lot of noise bouncing down the stairs, and at worst wind up wheels over teakettle with angry mages charging her.
By the time Rose heaved herself to the top of the stairs and onto the second-floor landing, she was exhausted. Not only were her arms deeply pissed at her, but she was out of breath, with sweat dripping from her ears to her neck. She paused to catch her breath and that was, of course, when she heard him. “Er … who are you?”
Rose turned her head and beheld a truly confused looking young man. He was human, like her, but ruddier. Overly ruddy, if she were honest. He was sweaty as well, though he had certainly not been hauling anything up the stairs. He had a piggish nose and a bland face. “Shit”. That’s all Rose had time to get out. She had to act fast before he could summon forth some magical theorem or other. Her vision narrowed to just the space between his eyes. She focused so tightly on it that she could differentiate between the angle from her right and left eyes. And in doing so, she became acutely aware of when a third angle, between the two and slightly higher, became available to her for a brief moment. Blast. A flash of violet and a burst of light in that spot told her that she’d hit exactly where she wanted and the boy – she could appreciate now that he was basically a boy, probably not much older than her little sister – slumped to the ground, his eyes rolling back into his head. In a panic she angled the chair to stop him sliding down the stairs. She didn’t want him to break his neck for the crime of running into her in the hallway.
In unconsciousness, the boy didn’t look a lot different. Same blank expression, same open mouth. Perhaps she should have tried the con. Well, it was too late now. At least she’d been right about his magical threat. He was wearing the sort of bland green and brown robes that she assumed these folks put on at night when the doors were locked, but the more obvious indication was the necklace. A simple metal chain with a boring flat setting, but it contained a softly glowing blue crystal no larger than Rose’s pinky nail (and she gnawed them short). Not knowing how long he’d be out, she reached down and pulled it over his head. It only got tangled in the hood for a moment before it came free. She thought for a moment before tossing it to the bottom of the stairs. If she were caught here, she didn’t want to have that on her. No telling what it could do, magically, but practically it would definitely add burglary to her existing crimes of breaking, entering, and blasting a dopey young man with a metaphysical bolt. That last one wasn’t a specific crime, but assault ought to cover it.
He’d come from the hall on the right, since that was the only direction without a closed door, so she had no choice but to drag him in that direction. After a moment’s struggle she had him laid over her lap. He smelled of cold sausages, cheese, and some sort of a vanilla scented foot mold. The latter was strongest in the middle, and she tracked it down to a leather pouch filled with brown pods of a cloying odor. It joined the necklace at the bottom of the stairs for more practical reasons, landing with a pah.
Around the corner to the right was a toilet room, with a candle still lit within. ‘Must be where he came from. Poor kid. I hope he got to wee first.’ Rose found that she couldn’t possibly get through the door with both him and the chair. She wasn’t sure she’d have made it through without him, honestly. These wizards clearly did not have many visitors like her. She was just able to shove him in. He grumbled the smallest bit as he rolled into the room, his head coming to rest on the footrest for the toilet like he was taking a strange nap. Rose puffed hard, giving her breath the smallest of a metaphysical push to blow out the candle from the door. “Good night, stinky. I hope I don’t see you in the morning.”
Rose sighed and turned to face the hall away from the toilet. It bore a striking resemblance to the downstairs hall, but narrower, with less light. No paintings of stuffy old politicians here, but there was a lovely landscape. Striking orange sunset on a cloudy sky, cascading blue waterfalls, and an island city of stone and metal in the middle of it like a temple for giants. She recognized the Sundered Citadel from descriptions and other paintings. It was a favorite of young artists because of the strong dwarven angles, the history of war and conflict, and the fact that it was now so packed full of orcs that nobody could get close enough to tell if they got the details wrong.
To the right of the painting was a closed door, but the sign above proved to be paydirt. “The Finean Algwion Memorial Library”. Rose had no idea who Finean Algwion was. She suspected he must have been some relation to the Dutchess of Algwion. She was some fancy noble from the Dreydan Authority, but was born and raised here in Farhold, not too far from where Rose was now. She was the most likely reason this library existed in the first place. This door, unlike the one from the outside, was probably real oak, though it was painted a nice shade of rose. It was adorned with carvings of candles and the sun as well as some ornamental etchings, all of it embossed with metals. And, of course, the center of the candle was an orange crystal. She wasn’t sure if it glowed during the day, but it was glowing now, and she could faintly make out that glow extending into a few of the metal bands as well. The ward. Finally, she’d gotten to the hard part.
Leave a Reply