indeed. Privately I called it the
Grimoire of the Lamb
, because it was otherwise untitled. It had somehow been shelved incongruously amongst some darker works at Alexandria—including Bast’s catskin collection of sexercises, which I now called
Nice Kitty!
This was the first time anyone had ever asked about the grimoire, however. The number of people who could speak Coptic today, including myself, was probably only a few hundred. I’d kept the book as a curiosity, but this man’s inquiry raised a whole new line of questioning.
“I might,” I said, and fished for more information. “Can you give me any more clues about what this might look like?”
“I have never seen it or read any descriptions of its physical appearance. But it was thought to have been in the Library of Alexandria at one time.”
Affecting my best clueless-American tone, I said, “Didn’t that burn down?”
“Yes, but the book I seek was removed prior to that.”
“It’s pretty old, then. Papyrus or parchment?”
“Parchment of unusual quality.” He’d nailed it. What was his source?
“It’s probably severely degraded by now; might be unreadable. Would that be a deal-breakerfor you?”
“No, not at all, sir,” he said.
I walked out from behind the tea station to the rare-book case on the north wall of my shop; the sale of something like this could ensure a profit for the year and maybe the next one as well, recession or no. Not that I couldn’t afford to take a loss. The sale of rare books and antiquities was just one of many get-rich-slow schemes I’d come up with throughout my very long life. The slow part was living until pop culture aged long enough to take on the luster of dignity and the physical product deteriorated to the point where it could whisper of a halcyon epoch before the buyer’s time.
My rare books were heavily secured for both the mundane and the magical world. I didn’t need to unlock the bindings and disable the wards just to check on the grimoire—I could look through the bulletproof glass. It was still there, sitting amongst my Egyptian goodies.
“All right, I have it. Thirteen recipes for lamb.”
“Excellent!” The excitement in his voice carried across the Atlantic very well. “How much? I can wire you the money immediately.”
“No, you’ll need to purchase it in person.”
A pause on the other end of the line. “Can you not ship internationally?”
“I can, but I won’t. This is a magical text. I don’t trust them to the mail.”
“Magical? It is an ancient cookbook.”
I couldn’t believe he was trying to play dumb now. I had that market cornered. “Mr. Elkhashab. Where did you hear of this book and where did you hear that I might have it?”
“Your store is world famous for antiquities,” he said, not answering either question. “I’m simply contacting as many rare-book dealers as I can.” I gave up trying to be patient. Normal customers don’t look for ancient Coptic texts that should have been burned long ago.
“Please do not insult my intelligence. Earlier you said you had heard that I might have it. So you were either lying then or you are lying now. I do not need to sell this book, Mr. Elkhashab. I am quite content to keep it, because I think we both know it is the only copy in existence. If you wish to purchase it, you will need to make a trip to the United States and negotiate with me in person. I will not deal with representatives, lawyers, or even familiars.”
He didn’t splutter or feign ignorance of familiars. He merely said in a stiff voice, “It will take me some time to get there.”
“I’ll be here,” I said, and then added, “Most likely,” since I didn’t know what kind of time he was talking about.
“Then I will see you soon,” he said, and hung up. I promptly forgot about him and prepared a blend of Creativi-Tea, since I had some fantasy role-players coming in for their weekly dungeon crawl, and the DM always wanted a little
Grimoire of the Lamb
, because it was otherwise untitled. It had somehow been shelved incongruously amongst some darker works at Alexandria—including Bast’s catskin collection of sexercises, which I now called
Nice Kitty!
This was the first time anyone had ever asked about the grimoire, however. The number of people who could speak Coptic today, including myself, was probably only a few hundred. I’d kept the book as a curiosity, but this man’s inquiry raised a whole new line of questioning.
“I might,” I said, and fished for more information. “Can you give me any more clues about what this might look like?”
“I have never seen it or read any descriptions of its physical appearance. But it was thought to have been in the Library of Alexandria at one time.”
Affecting my best clueless-American tone, I said, “Didn’t that burn down?”
“Yes, but the book I seek was removed prior to that.”
“It’s pretty old, then. Papyrus or parchment?”
“Parchment of unusual quality.” He’d nailed it. What was his source?
“It’s probably severely degraded by now; might be unreadable. Would that be a deal-breakerfor you?”
“No, not at all, sir,” he said.
I walked out from behind the tea station to the rare-book case on the north wall of my shop; the sale of something like this could ensure a profit for the year and maybe the next one as well, recession or no. Not that I couldn’t afford to take a loss. The sale of rare books and antiquities was just one of many get-rich-slow schemes I’d come up with throughout my very long life. The slow part was living until pop culture aged long enough to take on the luster of dignity and the physical product deteriorated to the point where it could whisper of a halcyon epoch before the buyer’s time.
My rare books were heavily secured for both the mundane and the magical world. I didn’t need to unlock the bindings and disable the wards just to check on the grimoire—I could look through the bulletproof glass. It was still there, sitting amongst my Egyptian goodies.
“All right, I have it. Thirteen recipes for lamb.”
“Excellent!” The excitement in his voice carried across the Atlantic very well. “How much? I can wire you the money immediately.”
“No, you’ll need to purchase it in person.”
A pause on the other end of the line. “Can you not ship internationally?”
“I can, but I won’t. This is a magical text. I don’t trust them to the mail.”
“Magical? It is an ancient cookbook.”
I couldn’t believe he was trying to play dumb now. I had that market cornered. “Mr. Elkhashab. Where did you hear of this book and where did you hear that I might have it?”
“Your store is world famous for antiquities,” he said, not answering either question. “I’m simply contacting as many rare-book dealers as I can.” I gave up trying to be patient. Normal customers don’t look for ancient Coptic texts that should have been burned long ago.
“Please do not insult my intelligence. Earlier you said you had heard that I might have it. So you were either lying then or you are lying now. I do not need to sell this book, Mr. Elkhashab. I am quite content to keep it, because I think we both know it is the only copy in existence. If you wish to purchase it, you will need to make a trip to the United States and negotiate with me in person. I will not deal with representatives, lawyers, or even familiars.”
He didn’t splutter or feign ignorance of familiars. He merely said in a stiff voice, “It will take me some time to get there.”
“I’ll be here,” I said, and then added, “Most likely,” since I didn’t know what kind of time he was talking about.
“Then I will see you soon,” he said, and hung up. I promptly forgot about him and prepared a blend of Creativi-Tea, since I had some fantasy role-players coming in for their weekly dungeon crawl, and the DM always wanted a little
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