“I presume,” says Mulaghesh, “that that would be the passage of our mysterious opponent.”
Shara fights to concentrate: there are many paths of footprints, none of them completely clear. Their trespasser must have paced the aisles many times. “We need to look for any sign of tampering,” she says. “Then, after that, we need to look and see if anything’s missing. I would expect that if there’s anything missing, it’d be something from these pages, since these are the records that interested the Restorationists. So”—she flips through the pages—“we’ll want to look at shelves C4, C5, and C6.”
“Or he could have just randomly stolen something,” says Mulaghesh.
“Yes. Or that.” Thank you, she thinks, for highlighting the futility of our search. “We all have a light, don’t we? Then let’s spread out, and keep an eye on each other … and we’ll get out of here as fast as we can. And I don’t think I need to say this, but do not touch anything. And if something asks for your attention, or for your interference … ignore it.”
“Would these … items really have minds of their own?” asks —Sigrud.
Shara’s memory supplies her with a litany of miraculous items that were either alive, or claimed to be. “Just don’t touch anything,” she says. “Stay clear of all the shelves.”
Shara takes shelf C4, Mulaghesh C5, Sigrud C6. As she walks down her aisle, Shara reflects on the age of this place. These shelves are nearly eighty years old, she thinks, listening to the creaking. And they look it. “The Kaj never intended for this to be a permanent fix, did he?” she whispers as she looks down the aisle. “We just kept ignoring it, hoping this was a problem that would go away.”
Each space on the shelves is marked by a tiny metal tag with a number. Beyond this, there is no explanation for the contents, which are beyond random.
One shelf is occupied by most of a huge, disassembled statue. Its face is blank, featureless, save for a wriggling, fractal-like design marching across the whole of its head. Taalhavras, thinks Shara, or one of his incarnations.
A wooden box covered in locks and chains wriggles; a scuttering noise comes from within, like many small, clawed creatures scrabbling at the wood. Shara quickly steps past this.
A golden sword shines with a queer light above her. Beside it sit twelve short, thick, unremarkable glass columns. Beside these, a large silver cup with many jewels. Then mountains and mountains of books and scrolls.
She walks on. Next she sees sixty panes of glass. A foot made of brass. A corpse wrapped in a blanket, tied with silver twine.
Shara cannot see the end of the aisle. Over fifteen hundred years, she thinks, of miraculous items.
The historian in her says, How fortuitous the Kaj thought to store them all.
The operative in her says, He should have destroyed every single one of them when he had the chance.
“Ambassador?” calls Mulaghesh’s voice.
“Yes?”
“Did … you say something?”
“No.” Shara pauses. “At least, I don’t think I did.”
A long silence. Shara surveys a collection of silver thumbs.
“Is it possible for these things to talk in your head?” asks Mulaghesh.
“Anything is possible here,” says Shara. “Ignore it.”
A bucket full of children’s shoes.
A walking stick made of horsehair.
A cabinet spilling ancient parchments.
A cloth mask, made to look like the face of an old man.
A wooden carving of a man with seven erect members of varying length.
She tries to focus, but her mind keeps searching through all the stories she’s memorized, trying to place these items in the thousands of Continental legends. Is that the knot that held a thunderstorm in its tangle, and when untied brought endless rain? Could that be the harp of a hovtarik, from the court of Taalhavras, which made the tapestries come alive? And is that the red arrow made by Voortya, that pierced the belly of a tidal wave and turned it to a gentle current?
“No,” says Sigrud’s voice. “No. That is not so.”
“Sigrud?” says Shara. “Are you all right?”
A low hum from a few yards away.
“No!” says Sigrud. “That is a lie!”
Shara walks quickly down the aisle until she sees Sigrud standing on the opposite side of a shelf, staring at a small, polished black orb sitting in a velvet-lined box.
“Sigrud?”
“No,” he says to the orb. “I left that place. I am … I am not there anymore.”
“Is he all right?” calls Mulaghesh.
“Sigrud, listen to me,” says Shara.
“They died because”—he searches for an explanation—“because they tried to hurt me.”
“Sigrud …”
“No. No! No, I will not!”
In the velvet box, the glassy black orb rotates slightly to the left; Shara is reminded of a dog cocking its head: Why not?
“Because I,” Sigrud says forcefully, “am not. A king!”
“Sigrud!” shouts Shara.
He blinks, startled. The black orb sinks a little lower in the velvet, like it’s disappointed to lose its playmate.