The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Even to Larst's unlearned eye, the Library of the Masters was a thing of extraordinary beauty. High ceilings appeared to be held up by endless bookcases made of a rich dark wood. Unlike the dark, oppressive room of his imagination, it was flooded with light from the glass domes above them, through which he could see fluffy clouds lazily passing overhead.

"Amazing," he breathed.

Hawth nodded in agreement, clearly lost for words. They stood still, soaking up the quiet haze of gentle voices surrounding them.

"I thought it would be different. All dark, with candles and stuff," said Straw, folding his arms, as if standing amongst so many books made him uncomfortable.

"Me too."

Hawth shook her head. "No," she managed at last. "To light a room this size you've needed thousands of candles. Every book found be smothered in wax within a month."

Larst looked over at her and smiled. Hawth was just what he needed.

When she'd first turned up demanding to be allowed to come with them and kill the king, he'd been worried about her fervour. This kid, and she was a kid back then, was burning with hatred, so much so that it clouded everything else. She ranted using words he'd never heard before, and waving pamphlets as if a piece of cheaply printed paper could do anything against a regime that was built on ink.

He'd almost sent her home until he saw what was left of it. A broken up workshop, with a brother who needed help dressing himself, and a sister stirring the thinnest pot of stew he'd ever seen.

A sharp pain stabbed his heart to think of that girl waiting for her sister and sweetheart to return. He couldn't remember whether Hawth had written back home about Turnip. It was too late to ask now. Poor Heather.

"How many do you think are in here?" asked Straw.

Hawth picked a book off the shelf and heaved it open. It looked almost as heavy as her and she had to lean the top against the shelf to keep herself balanced. "Twenty names on this page. Only twelve the next." She flicked through. "There's got to be at least five thousand in here."

Larst looked up and started counting. Twenty rows, each ten yards long. And then there was the next set. On and on, in an endless reem of leather bound books. "There's got to be a million names in here, at least."

"It's not possible. How can the masters control so many people."

Larst had been wondering that too. He watched the librarians rushing back and forth, their arms stacked with those heavy tomes. Between the shelves were long tables, laid out with reading easels, each one featuring a red robed figure, whispering to themselves.

"Perhaps they don't need to," he said. "Why watch an entire family when just the father will do? You don't need a whole workshop either, just the foreman." Or an overlooked clerk, he thought privately. "Once they find out something, that's when you start watching everyone involved."

"That's awful," said Hawth.

"That's Serrador."

"Well not for long," came Straw's voice followed by a grunt of effort and a loud bang. He was pulling books down onto the floor, their covers bending back and their pages fluttering as they were dropped on top of each other. "You got a match? This place is so dry it'll go up in seconds. Just need to get some kindling, and I think I know exactly what to use." He grinned, opening a book and grabbing a handful of pages.

Hawth started forward. "No!"

He froze.

Hawth licked her lips. "I mean. We can't just destroy them. Not like this."

Straw shared a glance with Larst before turning back to her. "What do you mean? That's what we're here for. What did you think we were doing? Coming to have a nice little look and patting the masters on the back for a job well done?"

Hawth crossed her arms. "No. But we have no idea what might happen if we destroy these books. They are the basis of controlling an entire populace. The names in here are directly linked to people, real people, out there in the world living their lives. If we burnt that book you're holding right now, how do we know that five thousand people in Fellshire or some other place don't just drop dead?"

Straw stared at her, open mouthed.

"She's right," said Larst. "We don't know."

"Indeed," said the Chancellor. Larst spun around to find himself face to face with the bald man. He was followed by three librarians, all laiden with more ledgers than they could carry. "Not about people 'dropping dead' as the lady so eloquently put it," he continued, the sneer almost audible in his words. "But there would be untold consequences if even one single book was damaged. That's why we keep the door locked."

"And by consequences I presume you mean more than just you losing power," said Larst.

"Oh quite. All sorts of things may happen. Disorder, disease, famine even. And of course, war."

"War?"

"Haven't you heard?" The Chancellor smiled. "No of course not, you've been playing around as revolutionaries instead of actually ruling the country you had sought to take over. Yes, war. Since the untimely death of our dear monarch at the hands of Pryvian assassins, we have been forced to summon the Pryvian ambassador and hand him our declaration of war."

"Pryvian assassins? What are you talking about?" said Straw. "It was us, man. You know it."

The Chancellor tilted his head to one side.

"He's playing politics," said Larst. "And blaming the king's death on Pryvia."

The Chancellor smiled again. "Very good."

"You want to go to war."

The Chancellor adjusted his sleeves. "Oh, one never wants to go to war. But the Crown Prince has been making his reach felt now that his father is no longer compos mentis, shall we say. There has been word of an army being built in Tagen. One might call it a preemptive strike."

"Oh might one?" said Straw, mimicking the Chancellor's smooth voice.

"Now," said the Chancellor, eyeing them each in turn. "If you are quite done with your tour of our country's greatest treasure, perhaps you will allow me to get on with the business of protecting it."

He swept past, the struggling clerks stumbling along in his wake.

"Protecting it," spat Straw. "Who'll protect it from the likes of him, that's what I'd like to know."

"So, what now?" said Hawth.

Larst waited under the Chancellor and his lackeys were out of sight, and then looked over the books. "You heard the man. People don't drop dead if you destroy a name book."

He picked one up and weighed it in his hands, before turning, a maniacal grin twisting his mouth.

"Burn them. Burn all of them."

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[AUTHOR NOTE: Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up. After queueing four hours outside the Royal College of Art for their secret postcard sale, watching a three-and-a-half hour George Bernard Shaw play, clearing my garden of ivy, and then just this morning, facing the perils of an unexploded bomb left over from world war two... it's been an eventful few days.

Never fear though, the next chapter will be up at the end up the week! In the mean time, let me know what you think of this one, and please do vote if you liked it. It makes such a difference! It's thanks to you guys that I'm currently sitting in the top one hundred fantasy novels on Wattpad. Hopefully I don't slip down again by the time you read this!]