Chapter Six #2
She stood as tall as many men and wore a velvet dress of silvery blue that caught what little light there was in the dim shop.
As she moved, the full skirt rippled about her legs like fine muscles under the skin of some sleek winter animal, like a marten or fox, and the hem lifted just a little to show silver slippers beneath.
A silver girdle encircled her slim waist, a belled reticule dangling from it, its tinkling setting the stale air of the shop astir.
And her face! Painfully pretty, with long-lashed blue eyes and a mouth shaped in a perfect bow, framed by yellow curls that showed a hint of copper.
Altogether, the lady reminded me of one of the porcelain dolls I had seen in Quell’s shop windows, and I felt the same childish urge to clasp her in my arms.
“Book Man,” she said in a sweet, low-pitched voice, a thread of condescension running through it.
“Milady,” he said, bowing low. “Please, come in. I trust you didn’t run into any difficulties outside?”
She waved a hand. “The Temple guards have already dispelled the rabble.”
The Book Man fussed about this visitor, leading her deeper into the shop, sweeping the dust from a wooden stool with his handkerchief, and making a show of offering her wine from a covered pitcher.
I watched as she accepted the cup he handed her and raised her thin, stenciled brows at it while his back was turned.
As quietly as I could, I shuffled forward on my hands and knees, making sure to stay hidden behind the stacks.
I knew the front of my dress would get even filthier, but I didn’t care; I just wanted to get a closer look at the beautiful lady, in the same way you crawl closer to a fire in the hearth.
I managed to get about ten feet from where she sat, while remaining concealed behind the bookshelf.
Milady swirled the wine in her cup, making a face at the film on its surface, and then put it down without taking a sip.
“Well?” she asked. “What progress on my little project?”
The Book Man fussed with his spectacles, attempting to polish them with the same handkerchief he had used to dust the stool, but only succeeding in smearing yet more grime on them.
“I have a possible lead,” he said at last, giving up and balancing the smudged spectacles on his nose. “There is a Temple, near the border …”
“Another Temple.” She sighed. “What is this, the third? The fourth?”
“Well, we always knew that it was likely to be held in one. Where better to hide it? The Priests wouldn’t want it to see the light of day, but they wouldn’t dare destroy it.”
Milady made a face of distaste. “Priests,” she said, and there was more contempt crammed into that one word than I had ever heard before. “When will you know for certain?”
“I have someone there now,” said the Book Man. “I haven’t heard anything from him yet, but I remain hopeful.”
Milady tapped her nails against her cup. “Hopeful.”
“Very hopeful,” amended the Book Man. He was still standing, his hands clasped in front of him, like a child who waits for punishment but hopes that he may yet be pardoned.
“As we were hopeful last time, and the time before that.”
“My information comes from a very trustworthy source.”
She sighed. “I suppose I can wait a few days more.” She put down her cup abruptly. “And my sister?”
The Book Man shook his head. “No word, I’m afraid.”
The woman stood, her skirts setting the dust to swirling again. The Book Man took a step back. “I thought you were the best,” she said.
“I am. I mean …”
“This has already taken far too long.”
“These things do take time. If you will allow me to …”
Milady set down her cup with a clatter. Some of the liquid sloshed out. “Time, sir, is not something we have in abundance. I have been patient for too long already. Nearly a week has passed—”
“My dear lady, a week is nothing.”
“—and the best you have to offer is vague platitudes.”
“It is not a platitude, Milady. I assure you that my contact is most assiduous in investigating …”
She strode back towards the door, and he followed. I could not quite see them now—I craned my neck as far as I could but could only see the bookshelves. I heard jingling as money changed hands.
“Our business is concluded,” said Milady. “For now.”
I took a quick step backwards—too quick. I nudged a pile of books with my heel. The sound was tiny—a minuscule shift—but Milady’s footsteps stopped.
“There is someone else here,” she said.
“No! No, there is no one,” said the Book Man quickly. I froze. After a long silence, I heard the jingle of the door to the bookshop opening and then closing again. I exhaled and stepped out onto the floor of the shop.
The Book Man still stood a few feet from the doorway, staring at it.
“Who was that?” I asked, breaking the silence.
He started, then seemed to remember who I was, and smiled a close-lipped smile.
“A seeker of knowledge,” he said. “As you are. Those who seek the rarest, most valuable volumes are often … fanatical about them.” He shook himself a little, seeming to gather himself again. “Come along, my dear. Let me show you where you can wash, and we can begin our search in the morning.”
On the way, he gave me a tour of the shop.
“The spellbooks on the upper level are the least valuable—volumes that have been copied many times, inscribed with the simplest enchantments. The farther in, the rarer and more valuable they become. Part of my job entails repairing such volumes as required, or even enhancing them, to the best of my ability, to strengthen their power. I am a scholar and not an artist, however, despite my affinity”—he didn’t seem to notice my stiffening at the word—“so my abilities are limited. Ah, here we are.”
He unlocked one of the doors and ushered me in to the room beyond. “This is where I keep the more valuable tomes. These are for sale to anyone with enough coin. I have another collection, however, in the basement, that is more … exclusive. And not for sale save under exceptional circumstances.”
“Can I see those also?” I asked.
He paused. “I assure you, your book is not among them.”
“I’m just … interested.”
“Well. We shall see.” His step was eager, almost youthful, as he went to the shelf and pulled a volume free. “Look at this one, my dear. Bound in linen over the wood boards, with decorative embroidery. Pretty, isn’t it?”
The embroidery seemed rather lackluster to me, but I nodded.
“Note the illuminations, too. I don’t know how many studies have been done on the contribution of illuminations specifically to the vigor of a spoken spell, but these are exquisite, and one can only imagine that they must prove of benefit.
And here …” He withdrew another tome. “Calfskin, with pearls inset.”
“What kinds of spells are inside these books?”
“Oh, all kinds. But I presume you are asking if they are more … significant than those in plainer volumes. The brief answer is yes, these do tend to be spells that have, ah, larger-reaching consequences. Sometimes a practitioner will have their favorites privately bound together, for ease of transportation, but would you believe that some of these contain only one spell in the entire volume? That is how complex and lengthy they can be.”
“It is hard to imagine,” I said, running my finger along the ranked spines, feeling the subtle change in texture between the bindings. “Which are the best materials, do you think?”
“Well, I do prefer leathers to clothbound. Vellum for the interior, naturally. Of course, the most powerful spellbook of all is said to be one that is bound in the skin of its writer or creator,” he added lightly.
My stomach turned over as I looked up. “What?” I said, barely above a whisper.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” said the Book Man, his eyes widening.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you. It is purely theoretical, of course.
One hears stories of books bound in human skin, but in reality it would make a very poor binding.
The technical term is anthropodermic bibliopegy—rather a mouthful.
In practice, our poor human skin is rather thin and, quite apart from the ethical objections, wouldn’t wear well.
There has been some interesting—and ghoulish—speculation as to whether it would make a difference if one used the skin of a magic practitioner as opposed to someone with no innate ability—make a difference to the raw power of the spellbook, that is.
” He adjusted his spectacles. “I have heard tell of experiments that mix the blood of practitioners into ink that have had some interesting results, but nothing conclusive.”
Why did this unsettle me so? Of course it was an unsettling subject, but it felt like a familiar horror—as if I had heard something of its like before. I felt my Hair bristling across my scalp, and even my hands felt strange—as if they were pressed against something warm and pulsing.
“Why on earth would anyone do those things?” I said.
“Power, my dear. Some people will do anything for a little more power.”
“It seems like any power that would come from using … that to make a spellbook would bring bad luck more than anything.”
“Interesting you should say that,” said the Book Man.
“I do recall there was some debate about whether a magic practitioner would have to consent to the process in order for their powers to, ah, augment the book, as it were. A more … coercive approach would result in its diminishing instead, they surmised. All speculation, of course. It’s hard to imagine any circumstances under which a magic practitioner would consent to something like this. ”
“Unless they were dead already,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose it would be possible for someone to, ah, bequeath their body to the research. Interesting.”
“Is that the sort of thing you have in your basement, then?” I asked.
There was a frosty silence. The Book Man removed his spectacles, rubbed them clean of an imaginary smudge, and replaced them.