shocked. 'These charges are serious! You cannot hope to secure his release by bribing me.'
'I'm sure the charges will be serious,' Kurr said without a hint of irony in his voice. 'Who then do I bribe?'
'My captain will know. Wait here a moment.' The guard strode off down the corridor.
'So what now?' Farr asked. 'What's to stop them bleeding us dry, then refusing to release Leith and his father anyway?'
'Nothing,' the old farmer said, weariness blurring his voice. 'If I had a suspicious mind, I'd be tempted to think that they sought to make it difficult for us to remain in Instruere. I have a feeling that if our secret is not known all over the city by now, it will be within the next few days.'
Back down the corridor strode the guard, followed by his superior. Before he even reached Kurr and Farr he began lamenting the seriousness of the charges levelled against their friend, and how little he could do about it. Kurr shook his head. It looked like there would be many days like this ahead of them.
'This one is particularly dusty,' Phemanderac said between sneezes. It took him only a few moments to remember what it was he disliked about searching through old manuscripts: his allergies had returned, as strong as ever.
'That is because it is from the storeroom next on the list for transcribing.' The clipped voice of the Archivist came from behind a shelf of dilapidated parchments. 'It is possibly two hundred years since anyone laid hands on the volumes in front of you.'
Despite the dust, 1 was bom for this, the philosopher affirmed as he leafed through the first of this latest stack of leather-bound books. Forget the politics of nations: 1 am at home in storerooms deep under the ground. There is a music in these volumes, the music of the past; and 1 am one of the few who can hear it. But as he read, his thoughts wandered back to the events of the day.
These thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the Archivist, who set an armful of books down on the chair beside the philosopher. 'You missed these,' the beak-nosed Instruian said politely.
'They were at the back of the drawer. I myself have not seen them before. Perhaps they will be of some interest.'
Phemanderac cast an eye across them; then suddenly slammed shut the volume he was perusing and pulled the chair with the pile of books over to where he sat. 'Where did these come from?' he demanded.
The Archivist frowned. He appeared taken aback by the change in tone. 'As I said, these lay at the back of the drawer from which you took the previous manuscripts.'
'Yes, but where did they come from? How did they come to be in your archive?'
Gingerly the lean philosopher picked up the topmost book. A huge yellow sun setting behind a tall tower graced the aged leather cover.
'I do not know,' said the Archivist. 'The devices on the covers are unknown to me.' He hefted the second book, a thick tome; on it the silhouette of some giant flying bird hung in front of a full-orbed moon.
'But not to me,' Phemanderac murmured. 'Oh, not to me. My friend, what you have here may be more valuable than all the gold and silver in this city.'
'What are they?' the Archivist asked, his interest piqued.
'I have seen their like in the libraries of my home country; a set of ten volumes, of which five are missing,' came his slow reply. 'These, perhaps, are those five books.'
'Are you certain?'
'If I am correct, we should find on the covers of the other three books a tall blue wave breaking over a slender spire, a golden arrow with long red feathers, and two hands clasped in friendship,' Phemanderac recited.
As he spoke the Archivist spread the volumes out across the bench. Phemanderac drank in the books with hungry eyes.
'The five missing books,' he announced quietly. 'The Sun, the Mariswan, the Wave, the Arrow, and the Hands.' He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was hoarse with emotion. 'My life is complete.'
'You have other books like these? What makes them so special?' The
'I'm sure the charges will be serious,' Kurr said without a hint of irony in his voice. 'Who then do I bribe?'
'My captain will know. Wait here a moment.' The guard strode off down the corridor.
'So what now?' Farr asked. 'What's to stop them bleeding us dry, then refusing to release Leith and his father anyway?'
'Nothing,' the old farmer said, weariness blurring his voice. 'If I had a suspicious mind, I'd be tempted to think that they sought to make it difficult for us to remain in Instruere. I have a feeling that if our secret is not known all over the city by now, it will be within the next few days.'
Back down the corridor strode the guard, followed by his superior. Before he even reached Kurr and Farr he began lamenting the seriousness of the charges levelled against their friend, and how little he could do about it. Kurr shook his head. It looked like there would be many days like this ahead of them.
'This one is particularly dusty,' Phemanderac said between sneezes. It took him only a few moments to remember what it was he disliked about searching through old manuscripts: his allergies had returned, as strong as ever.
'That is because it is from the storeroom next on the list for transcribing.' The clipped voice of the Archivist came from behind a shelf of dilapidated parchments. 'It is possibly two hundred years since anyone laid hands on the volumes in front of you.'
Despite the dust, 1 was bom for this, the philosopher affirmed as he leafed through the first of this latest stack of leather-bound books. Forget the politics of nations: 1 am at home in storerooms deep under the ground. There is a music in these volumes, the music of the past; and 1 am one of the few who can hear it. But as he read, his thoughts wandered back to the events of the day.
These thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the Archivist, who set an armful of books down on the chair beside the philosopher. 'You missed these,' the beak-nosed Instruian said politely.
'They were at the back of the drawer. I myself have not seen them before. Perhaps they will be of some interest.'
Phemanderac cast an eye across them; then suddenly slammed shut the volume he was perusing and pulled the chair with the pile of books over to where he sat. 'Where did these come from?' he demanded.
The Archivist frowned. He appeared taken aback by the change in tone. 'As I said, these lay at the back of the drawer from which you took the previous manuscripts.'
'Yes, but where did they come from? How did they come to be in your archive?'
Gingerly the lean philosopher picked up the topmost book. A huge yellow sun setting behind a tall tower graced the aged leather cover.
'I do not know,' said the Archivist. 'The devices on the covers are unknown to me.' He hefted the second book, a thick tome; on it the silhouette of some giant flying bird hung in front of a full-orbed moon.
'But not to me,' Phemanderac murmured. 'Oh, not to me. My friend, what you have here may be more valuable than all the gold and silver in this city.'
'What are they?' the Archivist asked, his interest piqued.
'I have seen their like in the libraries of my home country; a set of ten volumes, of which five are missing,' came his slow reply. 'These, perhaps, are those five books.'
'Are you certain?'
'If I am correct, we should find on the covers of the other three books a tall blue wave breaking over a slender spire, a golden arrow with long red feathers, and two hands clasped in friendship,' Phemanderac recited.
As he spoke the Archivist spread the volumes out across the bench. Phemanderac drank in the books with hungry eyes.
'The five missing books,' he announced quietly. 'The Sun, the Mariswan, the Wave, the Arrow, and the Hands.' He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was hoarse with emotion. 'My life is complete.'
'You have other books like these? What makes them so special?' The
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