Page 36 of The Book That Wouldn't Burn

Livira eyed the bed then went to sit at her desk. The quill, the ink, and the blankness of the paper called to her as they had called every evening. The light’s constancy seemed to exhort her to stay awake, as if the unsleeping library wanted company through the solitude of the night. She took the feather and dipped the split end. Her lettering was still crude. Meelan called it a child’s writing—which wasn’t a particularly cutting insult given that they were all children. L-I-V-I-R-A. She wrote her name. Names were all well and good but what fascinated her was that her thoughts could spill out onto the page and somehow be trapped in these marks, like frozen speech, waiting as long as you liked for someone to release it with their eyes. Arpix had told her there were books in the library that were thousands of years old. And not just one or two, but legions of them. So many that there must, Livira thought, be pages within their covers that had waited a thousand years to be seen again. And the magic was that just by running her eyes over those squiggled letters the thoughts of some long-dead author would wake within her head.

Livira laboriously spelled out k-i-n-g and then e-m-p-e-r-o-r and drew a box around both of them. Then she wrote b-o-x and drew a box around that too.

She woke to Jella’s knocking, finding her face on the desk. Levering herself up she detached the sheet of paper that had glued itself to her cheek, and found it covered in words and boxes. Boxes within boxes. The largest one the same shape as her room.

—

Livira watched Master Logaris prowl between the tables of the more senior trainees, dispensing advice and admonishment in equal measure. In the weeks since her arrival he had seldom strayed near the table she shared with the four newest trainees. From time to time he would cast a suspicious glance their way. Occasionally he would throw a tightly crumpled ball of paper at Jella’s head—he had yet to miss—and indicate by aiming a scowl from beneath bushy eyebrows that she was to close her mouth and open her book. The paper balls themselves bore meditations on silence in Triestan, the language Jella was supposed to be learning, and a translation was expected by the close of day.

When not teaching Livira, the others worked on their second, third, or—in Arpix’s case—fourth language. Jella said that teachers fluent in the tongues came in from time to time to improve the trainee’s skills, but none had visited since Livira’s arrival.

In fact, the classroom received almost no visitors at all. Perhaps once or twice a week someone would come with papers for Master Logaris to sign, or a boy would bring fresh writing supplies, or a messenger would arrive to summon away one of the most senior trainees for some task. Once an elderly woman in a light grey robe arrived from the scriptorium with a newly bound book for Logaris’s inspection.

When, at the very end of a long day, the door opened—this time without the customary knock—Livira looked up expecting another such interruption and was instead surprised to find herself looking at a man she recognised. A man nearly as tall as Heeth Logaris though with barely half his width. A man whose frock coat, waistcoat, and trousers were all the darkest grey, offset by the whiteness of his wig, and whose lapel sported a gold disc. A single dark eye scanned the room, the other covered by a crimson eyepatch.

“Algar.” Livira muttered his name. The man who had called her a blunt instrument, laughed at her talents, and refused her when Yute had suggested her for the diplomatic service. The man who had wagered against her becoming a house reader when her ambitions were far more lofty. “I hate him.”

The four closest heads swivelled her way.

“How do you know Lord Algar?” Jella hissed, amazed.

“From the Allocation Hall.”

Meelan, who had said nothing all day, now snorted. “The only hall you might see Algar in is the fifth.”

Livira said nothing, straining and failing to hear any word of the conversation between Algar and Master Logaris, both standing by the door, heads bowed together.

“You were tested in the fifth hall?” Meelan persisted.

Master Logaris glanced their way then returned his attention to Algar, his face grim.

“Who is this Algar then?” Livira muttered.

“Lord Algar,” Arpix said, “is old money. Part of the king’s household. Albeit a rather minor member. His father spoke for the king in foreign courts and Algar has inherited the position. Some notable wars both started and ended in such discourse during his father’s tenure.”

“All Algar’s done is find out what happens when you use figures of speech with Gathians,” Carlotte said.

“Carlotte!” Arpix admonished her.

Carlotte spread her hands. “I heard he told a Gathian prince that he’d rather be poked in the eye with a sharp stick than sign the trade deal as it stood.”

“That’s not true,” Jella said.

“Well, it’s what I heard.”

Arpix re-established control. “The point is that he’s a big deal and rarely attends anyone’s allocation. If he was there, it must have been for someone special.” For some reason he looked at Meelan.

Meelan, who tended to glare most of the time, narrowed his eyes, redoubling his normal intensity, and turned away to study his work. Livira half expected the parchment to curl up and start smoking.

Algar swept from the room and ribbons of muted conversation fluttered among the trainees. Master Logaris looked at Livira and her companions, contemplating, and then with a weight of purpose on his broad shoulders he strode towards them.

“This is bad,” hissed Jella, saying out loud what Livira was already thinking, although she had no real grounds for her conclusion. “He looks like—” Jella’s mouth closed with a snap as the master drew near.

Master Logaris loomed above them and set both skull-crushing hands on the table. Livira found herself marvelling at the smooth baldness of the man’s scalp in contrast to the explosive bushiness of his eyebrows. Somewhere in the library would be a book that explained why baldness never seemed to claim eyebrows. She shook her head, forcing herself to concentrate on what he was saying. The lack of sleep had set her mind to wandering of late and she resolved that tonight she would go straight to her bed after the evening meal.

“Well, little Yuteling, have these brats taught you anything?” Logaris fixed his pale eyes on Livira.

“Yes.”

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