Chapter 33
Going back to the library after all that had happened to him since he’d been here last was eerie. Everything was exactly as it had been when Kip left. He walked past study tables with holes cut in the desktops for inkwells to rest, protecting them from being spilled. He passed down aisle after aisle of books, specially laid out to deal with the circular nature of this library, the bookcases themselves each slightly curved. This was only one of many libraries on Little Jasper, but it was the one that even first-year discipulae had access to, so it had been where he’d spent the bulk of his time.
A pang of nostalgia struck him, and he made his way to one of the desks. A stoop-shouldered nearsighted young scholar sat there. “Excuse me,” Kip said. “I’m looking for Rea Siluz.” The kind librarian had helped his studies of the cards and everything else. She’d also been the one who’d directed him to Janus Borig, the Mirror.
“Uh-huh,” the young man said. He turned back to his work. He had his own stacks of books and notes that he seemed deep in the middle of.
“Hey, I was—”
“There aren’t any books on Rea Siluz. If you have a problem with that, lodge it with the Office of Doctrine.”
“Huh?” Kip asked. “I’m not looking for a book on her, I’m looking for her. This tall, skinny, narrow face, dark hair? Usually works the late shifts?”
“Tell Timaeus very funny, and I hope his treatise rots in review.”
“I don’t know anyone named T—”
“Shh!” The librarian turned back to his own work.
Kip gave up. Maybe someone in one of the later shifts would know her. Weird, though. “I need access to the upstairs library,” Kip said.
“What year are you?” the librarian asked, peeved.
“I’m a Blackguard inductee.”
“Prove it,” the librarian said.
“Step out here for a bit,” Kip said. He cradled a fist in his other hand.
The man didn’t look intimidated in the least. “Accosting a librarian will get you banned from all libraries for a year.”
The cards spread in Kip’s hand:
Ram, the bully. “A year? Doesn’t sound so bad.” A little looming, a little violence threatened. A little bit of taking a young man’s physical weakness and rubbing his nose in it like dogshit. Smart Ram. “A year?” Kip said. “During war? And me a Blackguard, who might need this knowledge to fight? I don’t think so.” Lord Ram: “I’m a Guile. You think anyone’s going to punish a Guile for breaking your face? I could throw you off a balcony, and no one would say a word.”
And he actually considered playing each, or all. He stopped, disgusted.
Come a long way since Rekton, haven’t I? From powerless weakling to slaveholding bully. He had long known he was changing, but to this? Was this what he wanted to be?
“I’m sorry,” Kip said. “It was a jest, and a poor one, unworthy of me and unfair to you. I beg your pardon.”
The librarian looked at him as if a Blackguard apologizing was the oddest sight he’d ever seen. “Given,” he said. He shrugged. “Name?” he asked, fishing through his piles for a list.
“Kip Guile.”
The librarian coughed. “The Godsl— Ahem!” He shuffled his papers. Stopped. “Uh, you can go straight up, Master Guile,” he said.
But Kip had no joy in it. Godslayer. It was another burden, another expectation, like he’d done it once, so surely he’d do it again.
“Uh, question,” Kip said. He turned on a chagrined, charming smile. “Could I have just gone up without asking?”
“Of course. But if anyone is discovered in those libraries who is not allowed there, the penalties are severe. But we don’t guard the door or anything. I mean, it’s books.”
Good old Kip, ready to bash down doors—that were unlocked.
The first person Kip saw in the restricted library was Commander Ironfist. What?
“Commander! It’s great to see you!” Kip said. “I was kind of intimidated by the whole ‘restricted library’—”
The commander looked up sharply. “I’m working, Breaker.”
“What are you working on?” Kip asked eagerly.
“Breaker. Move on.”
Kip craned his head to see the title, and read aloud, “Mothers of Kings: An Unconventional Inquiry into Abornean Bloodlines? What’s that about? And all these others?”
“How far do you think you can run in twenty-four hours?” Ironfist asked flatly.
A dim light bloomed in Kip’s tiny, tiny brain: Warning, stupid! “Yes, sir!” he said, and retreated before he could hear any more words, which could only spell pain.
Kip moved to a desk where another luxiat five or six years older than him was studying. “Pardon me, can you tell me where the genealogies are kept?”
The young luxiat looked up. His eye twitched guiltily, like he was reading something he shouldn’t be. It was in some language Kip didn’t know, though, so he had no idea what it was. The young luxiat scowled and said, “You walked past it. Where that huge Blackguard is.”
Huge Blackguard? Commander Ironfist was legitimately famous. People on Big Jasper stopped and stared when they saw him, and not just because he was huge and handsome.
But the Chromeria was an enormous community, and to some, the famous people here were scholars or luxiats—people Kip had barely even seen. This young man would probably be as stunned that Kip couldn’t identify the six High Luxiats as Kip was that this luxiat didn’t know Ironfist. It was a little dose of humility.
Usually I need those more directly.
Anyway, much as Kip wanted to see the genealogies and family histories—how much time and blood had he spent getting access to those? It had been his original purpose in joining the Blackguard—he couldn’t go and sit down by Ironfist, not now. “Black cards,” he found himself saying. It just slipped out.
The young luxiat just looked at him. He looked somehow familiar, but it was probably just that everyone looked the same in those goofy robes.
“The heresy decks,” Kip said. Digging deeper, Kip.
“You young ones. You get access earlier than everyone else, and you still push it.” The young luxiat shook his head. “Those books are in the restricted library.”
“This is the restricted library,” Kip said. “Isn’t it?”
“You think there’s only one?”
“I did until just now.”
“Smarter than you look.”
“Huh?”
“But not by much, apparently.” The luxiat closed his book. He still looked tense. “Sorry. Look, you’re a Blackguard inductee, I can see that. That doesn’t give you access to everything. Heretical materials and forbidden magics are off-limits to everyone except the Colors and those they’ve given special permission. The black cards are black because they’re heretical, ergo…”
“Ergo, books about them are in the heresy section.”
“In the restricted libraries, but close enough.”
Kip saw that this wasn’t going anywhere. More permissions? He’d just been talking to the White. He could have asked her. She would understand his interest in the black cards, at least, but that was no guarantee that she would think he should have access to them. And what was he doing here anyway? Trying to find scandals to destroy Klytos Blue? Who knew if his father even needed that done anymore? Too late, Kip. Again.
Gavin was being held on a pirate ship. Doubtless the pirates would be treating him well—he was the Prism, after all—though Kip figured they’d have to be keeping him blindfolded or something to keep him from ripping them all to pieces with his power. Still, who knew when he would be back?
“What’s your name?” Kip asked.
“Quentin. Sorry. Quentin Naheed.” Nervous type, Quentin was. Seemed to have a hard time looking Kip in the eye. Oh well, scholars.
“Nice to meet you, Quentin. How do I show that I have permission?” Kip asked.
“You’re just going to go get permission?” Quentin asked, smiling as if he thought it was kind of cute that Kip thought it would be so easy.
Kip didn’t answer. Didn’t much like grinning condescension.
Quentin shook his head, giving up. “I’ll be right back.” He walked to one of the librarians’ desks and rummaged through a drawer, making small talk with the woman there. He came back and handed Kip a small square of red parchment.
Kip quickly filled in the relevant blanks, and as Quentin watched him, perplexed, he walked over to Commander Ironfist. “Can you sign this for me, sir?” He handed him the quill, already dipped in ink.
“Breaker, do you know how many ways I could disable you with this quill?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you want to find out?”
“Only if that knowledge is academic rather than experiential, sir.”
The corner of Ironfist’s mouth twitched, but it might have been Kip’s imagination.
“This will make you go away,” Ironfist said. It wasn’t a question.
“Instantly, sir.”
Ironfist signed it, barely glancing at it. “Breaker, fortune favors the bold … but don’t be bold with me again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kip went back to grab his things and ask for directions to the forbidden libraries. Quentin answered, seeming stunned that it had been so easy for him. “Hey, uhm, Quentin, thanks. You’ve been a big help.”
“My, uh, my—I can’t believe you just—”
“I know, it’s not fair. Try not to hate me. My family is kind of a bunch of … Well, we’ve got it better than we deserve. Hey, what do you study? Can I grab a book for you while I’m in there that might help you? I couldn’t let you leave the library with it, of course, so I’d have to be here while you used it, but if I can help…”
“That sounds really danger—fantastic! I’d really appreciate that. I, I study all sorts of things. I’m, I’m a polymath.” He blushed. His eyes flicked up to Kip’s, then away, and he spoke in a rush. “Sorry, I’ve been working on getting over false humility, but it’s really—anyway, I’ve studied first-century saints; I’ve memorized everything on Alban and Strang, and their commentaries. Transitional rituals from the time of Karris Shadowblinder. A little on alternate histories. Your eyes are glazing. The memorization of all those commentaries usually gets some res—it’s five volumes—no? Doesn’t matter.”
He’d studied all sorts of things? That sounded potentially useful. “Anything modern? Or is that too danger-fantastic?” Kip smirked, though, to show he was teasing.
“By modern you mean contemporary?” It was a real question, though, and Quentin seemed to forget his awkwardness as their conversation moved to his territory.
“I didn’t realize there was a—”
“Sorry, pedantic. Structures of persistent tribal hierarchies in Abornea? Um, modern martyrs? Kind of thought my own path might take a missional turn for a while there, not to mention martyrical. Temple construction techniques?”
“I don’t suppose you know anything on modern genealogies? Noble families from now and during the False Prism’s War?”
“No.”
“Mm.” It had been too much to hope, Kip figured. Like Orholam would simply send him exactly the one scholar who knew everything he wanted to know. He was more surprised how easily he’d called it the False Prism’s War. Growing up in Tyrea, they’d called it the Prisms’ War. Kip hadn’t chosen to call it the False Prism’s War to fit in; it hadn’t even been a choice. This place was changing him. “You seem familiar. Have we met?” he asked.
Quentin shook his head, blinked, froze, suddenly shy again. What a strange boy. “I don’t know. It’s possible. Please don’t take offense, but I don’t really pay attention to Blackguards.”
That was fair. Kip didn’t think he’d really looked a luxiat in the face in all the time he’d been at the Chromeria. He had a thought. Quentin had said that he’d memorized impressive amounts, and he’d clearly been given permission to study whatever he pleased. That had to be unusual, so he must be highly favored. Perhaps not so unlike Kip—though Quentin had earned what privilege he had. “Tell me, Quentin, you’re probably famous in your circles, right?”
“I wouldn’t call it famous—blight and rot! There it is again. False humility.” He sighed. “In my limited circles, yes.” He flushed again. “And sorry for swearing.”
“How long did it take for them to try to sweep you up into their politics?”
“What? Who? Sorry, I don’t understand.”
“The luxiats. Whoever’s over you.” Kip could tell Quentin knew exactly what he was talking about, though.
“The magisterium is Orholam’s hand on earth. It’s not politicized like other institutions,” Quentin said. Nervous. Defensive.
For a moment, there was a choice. To Kip the Lip, or not. And then Kip said, “A liar. Huh. That’s too bad. You seemed like you could have been a friend. Good life to you, Brother Naheed.”