Tales From Earthsea by Ursula K. Le Guin

some years before. There were people of the Hand there whom he trusted. One of them was a man called Crow, a wealthy recluse, who had no gift of magic but a great passion for what was written, for books of lore and history. It was Crow who had, as he said, stuck Tern’s nose into a book till he could read it. “Illiterate wizards are the curse of Earthsea!” he cried. “Ignorant power is a bane!” Crow was a strange man, wilful, arrogant, obstinate, and, in defense of his passion, brave. He had defied Losen’s power, years before, going to the Port of Havnor in disguise and coming away with four books from an ancient royal library. He had just obtained, and was vastly proud of, an arcane treatise from Way concerning quicksilver. “Got that from under Losen’s nose too,” he said to Tern. “Come have a look at it! It belonged to a famous wizard.”
    “Tinaral,” said Tern. “I knew him.”
    “Book’s trash, is it?” said Crow, who was quick to pick up signals if they had to do with books.
    “I don’t know. I’m after bigger prey.”
    Crow cocked his head.
    “The Book of Names.”
    “Lost with Ath when he went into the west,” Crow said.
    “A mage called Highdrake told me that when Ath stayed in Pendor, he told a wizard there that he’d left the Book of Names with a woman in the Ninety Isles for safekeeping.”
    “A woman! For safekeeping! In the Ninety Isles! Was he mad?”
    Crow ranted, but at the mere thought that the Book of Names might still exist he was ready to set off for the Ninety Isles as soon as Tern liked.
    So they sailed south in
Hopeful,
landing first at malodorous Geath, and then in the guise of peddlers working their way from one islet to the next among the mazy channels. Crow had stocked the boat with better wares than most householders of the Isles were used to seeing, and Tern offered them at fair prices, mostly in barter, since there was little money among the islanders. Their popularity ran ahead of them. It was known that they would trade for books, if the books were old and uncanny. But in the Isles all books were old and all uncanny, what there was of them.
    Crow was delighted to get a water-stained bestiary from the time of Akambar in return for five silver buttons, a pearl-hilted knife, and a square of Lorbanery silk. He sat in
Hopeful
and crooned over the antique descriptions of harikki and otak and icebear. But Tern went ashore on every isle, showing his wares in the kitchens of the housewives and the sleepy taverns where the old men sat. Sometimes he idly made a fist and then turned his hand over opening the palm, but nobody here returned the sign.
    “Books?” said a rush plaiter on North Sudidi. “Like that there?” He pointed to long strips of vellum that had been worked into the thatching of his house. “They good for something else?” Crow, staring up at the words visible here and there between the rushes in the eaves, began to tremble with rage. Tern hurried him back to the boat before he exploded.
    “It was only a beast healer’s manual,” Crow admitted, when they were sailing on and he had calmed down. “‘Spavined,’ I saw, and something about ewes’ udders. But the ignorance! the brute ignorance! To roof his house with it!”
    “And it was useful knowledge,” Tern said. “How can people be anything but ignorant when knowledge isn’t saved, isn’t taught? If books could be brought together in one place . . .”
    “Like the Library of the Kings,” said Crow, dreaming of lost glories.
    “Or your library,” said Tern, who had become a subtler man than he used to be.
    “Fragments,” Crow said, dismissing his life’s work. “Remnants!”
    “Beginnings,” said Tern.
    Crow only sighed.
    “I think we might go south again,” Tern said, steering for the open channel. “Towards Pody.”
    “You have a gift for the business,” Crow said. “You know where to look. Went straight to that bestiary in the barn loft . . . But there’s nothing much