Yes, I was here for the purge. As I said, Abiditan and Sons has been on this block for more than fifty years. We were fairly compensated. I did not follow them to the incinerators, so I suppose I cannot personally affirm my stock disappeared into its flames. But I have no reason to think otherwise.
A barren place my shop seemed, back then! Thirty titles were released in the first year of the new era, the Holy Tome and some commentaries, biographies of Kiri and his companions, histories of the Rising—not very good ones, not very thorough, nothing like Arammadara’s magisterial work, but something at least. Each year the High Chapel has seen fit to release a few more, and by now the shop is nearly as full as it was before the Ascent.
Very nearly.
I would not think to question Ba‘l Melqart’s wisdom, but you can understand how a man in my position would mourn such a loss. I have heard that to the north of the city, along the endless plains, there are great herds of horned elk. Every third or fifth or seventh year a plague will infect some portion of them, drive them cancerous or mad, taint their meat, and in response a cull will be ordered. The men whose job it is to herd these creatures, to raise and breed them, they are the same men called upon to perform this grim task. I do not imagine they enjoy it, do you? It is one thing to lose a few every year to slaughter, as my library is depleted by sales. But to see all go at once, endless mounds of souring carrion . . .
Still they kill them. As I signed away my stock, every line, jot, and tittle. As I said, I am not one to question Ba‘l Melqart’s wisdom.
But we were speaking of the children’s consignment. I bought the library in its entirety, tip-to-tail, as it were. Not even a talent! A thing is worth whatever two parties will accept, is that not the case? The boys who brought me this library were smiling at the end of the transaction. And I? I was smiling twice so wide.
I have already mentioned the few I found particularly noteworthy. The rest were mostly poetry, with perhaps a few mysteries tossed in—but then, the true gourmet is one who appreciate variety. What sort of a person sits down over a meal of chicken and laments that it is not beef? And who would wish to live only off beef, anyway? There was nothing in particular about them that I can recall, no notes or bills, not even a particularly memorable inscription, if that is what you mean. Nor, I’m afraid, can I give you any idea of who purchased them. A large sale, or a very expensive one, I might make a note of, but for these small purchases? I do not keep those, I’m sorry to say.
Was there something else you wanted? I have all the time in the world for a slave of the God King, but there are many tasks requiring my oversight. . . .
I imagine you would know more of the White Isle than I. Children who pass the initial tests are taken east, where they undergo training in the seven perfections—rhythm, ear, voice, touch, body, word, and memory. Of a hundred that begin, only half attain the first perfection, and half the second, and so on and so forth. That small fraction who complete their training are entitled to the brand, and return to the city to serve as the God King’s memory.
How was that? Full marks?
That would be . . . the perfection of word? No, that’s the sixth. The fifth would be the perfection of body, then. Complete control over every muscle, from the bicep to the last joint of the hallux. As to what exactly that means, again, you would be better equipped to answer. I confess I am unclear as to what direction you . . .
A fascinating point, Amanuensis, though I struggle to grasp its relevance. I have been entirely candid, and thus your preternatural sensitivity toward falsehood, one acquired along with the perfection you mentioned, would not come into play.
Because it is a hot day, and I am an old man. Old men sweat.
I know nothing about that. I have no trade in prescribed books. Never, not once. I have not made a single mina off their sale.
* * *
Surely, mistress, you would not . . . it’s nothing, as I said . . .
* * *
Yes, by the Spire! I could not stand to see all of them go to the inferno. Not all of them. But I was not lying, not really! I don’t trade them. They are mine and mine alone; I keep them hidden in the back. The rest I could give up, but not these three. I have no children, and my parents died long ago. You asked me was I compensated, as if my stock was iron ore or bales of cotton or tins of jellied mutton. Can you compensate a man for the loss of his family? Can you compensate a man for the loss of his soul?
You would laugh if you saw them. A book of myths from when the Anathema first assumed her position, so yellowed and bent that you can barely read them. A volume of Jana’s poetry. Yes, you can buy a new copy, but you cannot buy my copy any longer. A new copy would not have been given to me by a dark-haired girl who I knew for one summer and never saw again. The last? Slough Bear and the Swampmen. It was the first book I ever owned. My father would sit me on his lap, and he would read a page, and then I would read a page, until one day there were no pages left to read.
What drunkard would have such fondness for his first bottle of wine, I ask you?
And there you have my full confession, congratulations. Shall I continue? Is the record of my blasphemies insufficient to condemn me before the High Chapel? Fine. I care no more for Ba‘l Melqart than I did for the Anathema. They were neither of them anything to me. My life was no different the day before the Ascent than the day after. I awoke—I ate breakfast—I sold my books—I ate dinner—I fell asleep. And far the larger portion of the men and woman who dance and cheer and sing in the streets this morning, you can hear them right now if you listen, far the larger felt the same way.
Now that I have revealed myself, debased myself, now that my head is on the chopping block, what is it you will demand? Money? I have little enough, though you are welcome to the till, and there is a small safe in back. There is nothing in the world that I would prize above my safety . . . or only three things.
But I don’t know! If you have such powers as you pretend, then you will see that on my face. I never met the woman, and all of her books are long sold. I have no idea what became of them, I swear! What is it you wish me to tell you?
Why would I have any idea who’s in your locket? Wait! If that’s what you want. Show it to me.
* * *
Excuse my laughter, Amanuensis. Yes, I recognize the image. You hardly needed to go through so much trouble. Look out my window and you might see her a dozen and a hundred times, staring from the icons and the placards passing by. It is her day, after all—Amata the benevolent, whose love was the rock upon which Kiri built. Amata who went up the Spire, but did not come back down.
(12): Nutesh
3:47 PM
Amanuensis? What . . . what a pleasant surprise to see you again! Though in fact I was on the way out. The parade is not for another few hours, but I had hoped to go early and find a decent spot to stand. Perhaps we might have this conversation tomorrow?
No, of course. Enter and be welcome.
I . . . I can look at it again if you wish, but I can’t imagine what good it will do.
As I said—her face means nothing to me. I wish I could be of more help.
* * *
Perhaps there is some dim resemblance, but simulacrums fade with time, and really I can barely make out more than an outline. The curves of the face, but . . . but only barely and still . . . she could be anyone.
And anyway, the icons are hardly . . . as I said, they . . . they do not do her justice.