I HAD NEVER BEEN on the fourth floor. It smelled different from the books I was used to, though perhaps that was some kind of olfactory hallucination brought on by the places the room evoked. There were racks of rolled-up charts in tubes bound with ribbon, and high ceiling hangers of vast maps drawn on parchment, vellum, and leather. It made me think of standing down by the docks and watching the ships bound for strange and foreign parts.
I studied the various maps and associated deeds and bills of sale, monitoring the way the borders fluctuated by date. Those shifting dotted lines told a tale of steady conquest, a military snatching beginning quickly and dramatically, then turning into the slow rolling sprawl of the last century and a half. The Mahweni territory shrank and pushed into the dry west under the gaze of the watchful Grappoli, while Bar-Selehm swelled like a gorging leech. I saw the Lani’s token independence from the whites who had brought them from their homeland dry up entirely as they became absorbed by the city, and the fracturing of the old Mahweni kingdoms as some tribes assimilated, and others did not.
And then, about forty years ago, it all stopped. The borders solidified, the military incursions and rebellions evaporated as diplomacy, politics, and institutionalized tolerance became the watchwords of the day. Unrest persisted in pockets, and there were occasional demonstrations that turned into riots and police actions, but for the most part the maps grew quiet, even the restless and expanding city growing sleepy with all it had consumed.
But then, a week ago, something had happened. In fact, it looked like somethings, since all the trades were separate and apparently unconnected, but the coincidences could not be ignored, though the map refused to explain them. This was a single event. It had to be. But, I thought, as I hastily scribbled down some notes and rough charts, the sales made no sense.
One was a patch of lush mudflat on the edge of one of the river’s tributaries, while another was a square of rocky crag in the mountains overlooking the city. One raggedly shaped parcel included a piece of coastline, while another was an arid bit of semidesert. There were eight deals in all, totaling no more than a hundred square miles, scattered around the land to the north and west of the city, none of them connecting, all of them traded within the last week by the Mahweni council to an independent development company calling itself Future Holdings. The deals were all signed by the man Mnenga had dismissed as a profiteer, Farrstanga Sohwetti, head of the tribal council.
I was on the brink of a realization. I could feel it. But I did not know what it would be and knew that to find it I needed to learn more about the Glorious Third. I wasn’t sure why, but the prospect frightened me.
CHAPTER
27
THE LIBRARY’S BASEMENT WAS a warren of narrow corridors between floor-to-ceiling cages. The silence was oppressive, so that my footsteps on the varnished hardwood made me feel clumsy and obvious, but as I neared the storage hold for the Glorious Third, I heard something beyond my own movement: the grunting of incautious exertion and the dull thud of something falling. There was a muttered curse, and then what sounded like the shuffling of papers.
I moved quickly and, rounding the corner, saw a man with his back to me, bent at the waist and muttering irritably. He was black, and broad shouldered. On the opposite wall of the cage where he was working was a navy blue jacket trimmed with gold and crimson. A soldier’s jacket.
I straightened up, ignoring the ache of my battered back and shoulders as I took on the stance of a corseted lady. “Excuse me,” I said.
He turned hurriedly, startled, dropping some of the papers he had gathered into his arms, and struggled to his feet. “Yes?” he said, looking me up and down, his gaze lingering on my bruised face. “Can I help you with something?”
He had a tiny scar above his right eye.
“I’m sorry,” I said, all bashful smiles and a voice I had borrowed as best I could from Dahria. “I realize you are not employed here, but I wonder if you might be of assistance.”
He looked momentarily puzzled by the juxtaposition of my aristocratic Feldish and my Lani appearance, then recovered something of his gallantry. “If I can,” he said.
“That’s sweet of you,” I replied, dropping my eyes and pressing my hands together at my waist girlishly. “I’m looking for the storage records of the Glorious Third.”
He blinked and smiled, albeit a slightly baffled smile, and said, “You’ve found them. They’re here. But they aren’t open to the public at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, that is a nuisance,” I said with a petulant scowl. “Not sure what I’m going to do now.”
“What is it exactly that you were hoping to find?” he asked.
I put my hands to my face. “It’s my senior project!” I exclaimed.
“Your…?”
“Senior project!” I shot back, as if it should be obvious, my voice rising and developing an emotional crack.
“You’re in school?” he asked, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Clock Street Girls’,” I said, dropping the name of one of the city’s most exclusive preparatory schools as if it were an old apple core.