Page 90 of The Book That Wouldn't Burn

“I’m sorry.”

Slowly he walked away.

Popular literature is wont to make considerable song and dance concerning the weight of a crown being greater than the sum of its constituent materials. But this is true of rank in general, of medals in particular, of many words, and especially of names. The word “gift” carries its own weight. Take an item of even moderate value and wrap about it some fraction of an ounce of festival paper—the scales will hardly flutter. Set the word “gift” upon it, and the person who receives it may stagger beneath the added burden.

The Secret to a Successful Saturnalia, by Soton Sloth

CHAPTER 40

Livira

Livira found herself looking side-eyed at Yute rather than ahead at King Oanold, which was a shame since she would have liked to have seen his expression. Yute’s was as blank as the statues that lined the path from the gates to the palace steps.

Silence had spread through the hall like blood on an altar stone. The hush had begun to settle as Livira had walked towards the throne and had become absolute in the moment Yute had declared her a librarian. Not a single person in that vast hall had so much as drawn breath since his declaration. Librarians should be used to silence, Livira thought, but this one was beginning to exert such tension that something had to give.

Livira looked at the king. Oanold’s mouth hung open, wet-lipped and too astonished for outrage. That changed when Livira’s gaze met the king’s: something new entered the two pale eyes sitting above the withered bags of his cheeks.

“No.”

“Your Majesty?” Yute had been waiting for this. He must have been, given the speed of his response.

“She’s a duster!”

Yute inclined his head. “She was born beyond our walls.”

“In the Dust.”

“As you say, Majesty.”

“She’s not fit to sweep the library’s aisles, let alone wear the white!”

“Her sweeping does leave a lot to be desired.” Yute nodded. “I will inform the head librarian of your opinion in the other matter.” He placed a hand on Livira’s shoulder and began to turn her towards the exit.

“Stop!” King Oanold raised his voice.

“Majesty?” Yute turned back towards him, the hand on Livira keeping her aimed at the doorway which now seemed a thousand miles away rather than a mere hundred yards.

Livira wanted to look but shared Yute’s sense that it would further enrage the man who could end their lives with a word. She listened and through the deafening hush could hear what might be the sound of a man chewing over his options. King Oanold owned the city. He owned the mountain and those that rose behind it. He owned the Dust and the cities beyond it. But he did not own the library. He commanded legions but not librarians. Why Yute had chosen to turn this technicality into a stick with which to beat and publicly humble the king, and why the other librarians had allowed him to do it, Livira had no idea. She had similarly little to go on when it came to guessing whether the king would let his pride overrule his common sense and take action. He could easily have them thrown in prison. He could execute them here and now. He could have Livira chained in the sewers where he clearly believed she belonged—though Livira’s investigations had revealed that nobody actually worked full-time in the sewers, that was just one of Malar’s tales.

The library was a fragile treasure though. Clutch at it too hard and you’d find yourself holding nothing but broken pieces. The librarians and their elaborate, impenetrable indexes kept Oanold from simply seizing what it was he so desired.

In an earlier, bloodier generation, King Oanold’s power would have stood upon the might of his sword arm, or his readiness to attack. His forefathers might have carved the path to his current position through the flesh of others, but Crath City was closer to a piece of clockwork than a weapon of war, its gears being political and societal; the aristocracy were the engine’s meshing teeth and in turn drove other wheels within wheels, all the way down to the labourers toiling in the streets. This system reached beneath the roofs of new factories in which the crafts once practised in individual shops and homes were carried out in regimented rows where hundreds worked shoulder to shoulder. None of this made the restraint that the king was forced to exercise easy but perhaps it made it inevitable since he could not have maintained his seat of power for so many years without having acknowledged the restrictions under which he ruled.

“Get her out of my sight,” Oanold said thickly, his cheeks flushing. “And tell the head librarian she is summoned to the palace in order to discuss this child’s future. And yours, Deputy.”

Yute made a low bow and Livira hesitatingly turned to follow his example though with far less grace. Once he’d straightened again, Yute began to walk towards the exit which now looked to be about a hundred miles away.

“Don’t run.” Yute touched her sleeve as she began to pass him. “We’re librarians and our office requires a certain dignity.”

We’re librarians. The idea that she was a librarian was ridiculous. But it seemed that it was true. At least for the time being. “What now?”

“Now we get you back to the library and Malar gets a chance to earn his salary.”

“He won’t be pleased,” Livira said.

“In my experience he never is,” Yute replied. “But he was badly in need of a purpose, and between us we’ve given him a big one.”

“I still think he’d prefer money.”

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