few people who liked good pastries might like books as well and he had made his way to the area around Hill Square. He had just walked by one of the bakeries mentioned by Lily and had noted that it was close to being a patisserie, but he decided he could always stop later.
He had turned the corner and was walking down a narrow side street, passing a felter’s shop, when he noticed that the next building had iron grates on the windows, and an iron-grated door, although the grated outer door was swung back and latched open. Above the door was a sign that read “Cooper.” That was what the faded and stylized letters seemed to signify. The windows were so grimy that he could see nothing, perhaps because there were no lamps lit within the building.
Yet, when Quaeryt slowed and peered through the open doors, he saw bookshelves, despite the pair of half barrels against each side of the entry foyer.
He stopped and considered. The bookshop, if it were indeed that, was well away from the harbor, but less than two blocks from Hill Square. It was also tiny, less than four yards wide, wedged between the felter’s and a cordwainer’s shop.
Finally, he shrugged and decided to enter, if cautiously.
When he stepped inside, Quaeryt was almost overwhelmed by the mustiness, an odor stronger than that in the dankest corner of the library of the Scholarium in Solis. He paused for a moment, then glanced at the shelves, then at the tall silent man standing at the back of the shop, who held a knife with a shimmering blade.
“Go ahead and look,” said another voice, one filled with age.
Quaeryt glanced to his right, locating a man with wispy white hair perched on a stool chair behind a high desk. “I’m sorry. Your guard took me by surprise. So did the sign for a cooper.”
“That’s all right. It’s better that most think it’s the place of a cooper who’s given up coopering. You’d be an outlander, even to come in here.”
“If no one comes in here…?”
“Oh … there are plenty of folk who’d like books. Most of them just don’t walk in. They send notes to a friend of mine, along with the coin, and Eltaar delivers them at night. These days, no one likes being thought much like a scholar.”
“Could you tell me why?”
“I can, and, unlike others in this fear-ridden city, I’d be pleased to tell you.” The white-haired bookseller gestured to a high-backed stool in front of his desk. “That is, if you would care to join me.”
As he saw the gesture, Quaeryt also noted that the bookseller wore tightly fitted gray gloves that ran from his fingertips up under the sleeves of the pale gray shirt and that there were whitish welts on the front of his neck, revealed but slightly by the high-collared shirt.
“I’d like to hear the story,” Quaeryt admitted as he moved toward the stool. He did turn the stool slightly, so that he could keep an eye on the guard out of the corners of his eyes.
“Stories here, you understand,” began the bookseller, “always begin with a phrase such as, ‘In the time of … whoever was famous, it came to pass that…’ I suppose every place has a phrase to signify a story.” A chuckle followed. “In the time of the first years of Lord Bhayar of Telaryn, a strong man became the head of the City Patrol of Nacliano, and that man’s name was Burchal. He had the strength of two men and the cunning of both a weasel and a fox, and like a serpent, he could strike from the darkness. At first, everyone rejoiced, because the Patrol stopped the loaders from soliciting bribes from the shipmasters and teamsters. They were also glad when the taprooms and cafés that drugged the sailors burned to the ground. No one was displeased when the number of beggars was limited to one on each pier, and only to those beggars missing arms or legs or eyes, and with each beggar being given but one day a week to beg…”
Quaeryt listened as the bookseller went through a listing of changes created by
He had turned the corner and was walking down a narrow side street, passing a felter’s shop, when he noticed that the next building had iron grates on the windows, and an iron-grated door, although the grated outer door was swung back and latched open. Above the door was a sign that read “Cooper.” That was what the faded and stylized letters seemed to signify. The windows were so grimy that he could see nothing, perhaps because there were no lamps lit within the building.
Yet, when Quaeryt slowed and peered through the open doors, he saw bookshelves, despite the pair of half barrels against each side of the entry foyer.
He stopped and considered. The bookshop, if it were indeed that, was well away from the harbor, but less than two blocks from Hill Square. It was also tiny, less than four yards wide, wedged between the felter’s and a cordwainer’s shop.
Finally, he shrugged and decided to enter, if cautiously.
When he stepped inside, Quaeryt was almost overwhelmed by the mustiness, an odor stronger than that in the dankest corner of the library of the Scholarium in Solis. He paused for a moment, then glanced at the shelves, then at the tall silent man standing at the back of the shop, who held a knife with a shimmering blade.
“Go ahead and look,” said another voice, one filled with age.
Quaeryt glanced to his right, locating a man with wispy white hair perched on a stool chair behind a high desk. “I’m sorry. Your guard took me by surprise. So did the sign for a cooper.”
“That’s all right. It’s better that most think it’s the place of a cooper who’s given up coopering. You’d be an outlander, even to come in here.”
“If no one comes in here…?”
“Oh … there are plenty of folk who’d like books. Most of them just don’t walk in. They send notes to a friend of mine, along with the coin, and Eltaar delivers them at night. These days, no one likes being thought much like a scholar.”
“Could you tell me why?”
“I can, and, unlike others in this fear-ridden city, I’d be pleased to tell you.” The white-haired bookseller gestured to a high-backed stool in front of his desk. “That is, if you would care to join me.”
As he saw the gesture, Quaeryt also noted that the bookseller wore tightly fitted gray gloves that ran from his fingertips up under the sleeves of the pale gray shirt and that there were whitish welts on the front of his neck, revealed but slightly by the high-collared shirt.
“I’d like to hear the story,” Quaeryt admitted as he moved toward the stool. He did turn the stool slightly, so that he could keep an eye on the guard out of the corners of his eyes.
“Stories here, you understand,” began the bookseller, “always begin with a phrase such as, ‘In the time of … whoever was famous, it came to pass that…’ I suppose every place has a phrase to signify a story.” A chuckle followed. “In the time of the first years of Lord Bhayar of Telaryn, a strong man became the head of the City Patrol of Nacliano, and that man’s name was Burchal. He had the strength of two men and the cunning of both a weasel and a fox, and like a serpent, he could strike from the darkness. At first, everyone rejoiced, because the Patrol stopped the loaders from soliciting bribes from the shipmasters and teamsters. They were also glad when the taprooms and cafés that drugged the sailors burned to the ground. No one was displeased when the number of beggars was limited to one on each pier, and only to those beggars missing arms or legs or eyes, and with each beggar being given but one day a week to beg…”
Quaeryt listened as the bookseller went through a listing of changes created by
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