Arcanum Part 22

"f.u.c.k."

"Sorry, Under-librarian?"

One of the returning pairs of searchers had materialised in front of him while he'd been thinking, and Thaler just stared at them like they were ghosts, or trolls, or the ghosts of trolls.

"Under-librarian? Are you feeling all right?"

Thaler seemed to have lost the power of coherent speech. All that would come out was a series of noises, ending in "f.u.c.k" again.

"We ... we didn't find anyone," said the librarian, and he looked at his colleague.

Thaler blinked like an owl. His heart was racing, and he'd gone both hot and cold at the same time. He could think of only one thing.

"The unicorns are all dead."

"Under-librarian? What do you mean?"

"The unicorns. They're dead. Of course they are. I should have known." He smacked his hands hard against the tabletop and made the inkwell jump. He looked up at the two men, by now convinced he was having some sort of fit. "What a fool I've been."

He reached out, took another sheet of parchment, and then, gripping his pen, began to write. When the librarians started to edge away, he fixed them with fever-bright eyes.

"Stay. No. Different instructions. Can either of you ride a horse?"

One of them tentatively raised his hand, as if he were back in the apprentices' school. "Sort of. It's been a while."

"Good man." Thaler stopped writing mid-sentence and took a third note from the roughly cut pile. "Take this to the prince's stables; come back here with a horse. The fastest that the stable-master has left."

He scribbled out a requisition order without the certainty it would be honoured, sealed it, and handed it over.

"Under-librarian, what are you going to ask me to do?"

"Right now? Run."

Something about his mood was catching. The librarian left at a faster clip than Glockner would ever have managed. To the one left, Thaler gave another task.

"Find Under-librarian Thomm. If he's incapacitated in any way, give him all due aid. But bring him here as soon as you can. It's important."

"Where should I start?"

Thaler didn't know. "Start with the beer cellars, move on to Gentleman's Alley. After that, I don't know. Use your imagination."

"Yes, Under-librarian."

When the man had gone, Thaler continued to write his first letter, scribbling away and dipping the pen nib as necessary. It was necessary often, and he realised that he was rambling now. He thought he'd better finish.

"Can the Order still act?" he wrote.

Have they already solved this problem, and are they wilfully denying the prince the benefit of the solution, or are they now powerless? Be careful, my friend, whichever it might be.

Your faithful servant, Frederik Thaler Under-librarian.

He folded it, dripped wax on the join and pressed the seal to it. Now, if only Buber could read it was a gaping hole in his plan, transmitting written information to an illiterate. Instead, he was going to trust a man he'd barely been aware of before today to deliver the most important message he'd ever sent.

None of anything that had happened since that first sign of darkness was what he'd expected to be doing, so why not this? Why not entrust his life, and possibly the life of his friend, to someone who merely shared a vocation with him? Thaler didn't want Buber, nor himself, to get on the wrong side of the Order. By all the accounts he'd read in the last day or two, being well connected wouldn't save either of them. And, unlike Buber, he wasn't directly a prince's man.

The hollow ring of hooves on stone made him sit up. The first of the two librarians he'd sent out was leading a horse along the front of the portico, and Thaler hurried out from behind the desk to meet him.

It was still raining; perhaps not as heavy as before, but still a p.i.s.s-awful day to be out in.

"I'm sorry. But there is no one else," he said, before realising just how young the librarian actually was. Just out of apprenticeship, probably by only a year or two. "Was there any trouble?"

"I gave the stable-master your note, and he told me to take whatever I wanted." He smiled uncertainly at Thaler from under the hood of the waxed cloth cloak he'd borrowed. "Where am I going?"

"First: what's your name?"

"Librarian Braun," he said, then hesitated before adding, "Ernst Braun."

"Right. This is a little complicated, so I want you to listen carefully." Thaler held the letter out to Braun, who turned it over in his hands and saw that it was blank apart from the seal. "I need you to take that letter to the huntmaster, Peter Buber, and him alone. If it looks like you can't do that, destroy it at once. Without reading it."

"Without reading it. Of course." Braun nodded, and put the letter in one of the leather saddlebags. "A secret, then."

"When ... no, if ... oh, you know what I mean. The huntmaster can't read. So you're going to have to read the letter to him. Then give him the letter and try to forget everything you've just heard."

"Under-librarian, isn't that going to be, well, difficult?"

"Yes. But it's a piece of fiction that we'll all try very hard to maintain. Buber will know what to do after that. Come back here, and as far as it's in my power, which is very little, you'll be well rewarded for your trouble."

"And where will I find the huntmaster, Under-librarian?"

"Good question. He's riding with the prince, so it shouldn't be too difficult. Between here and Simbach on the via, firstly, and east after that. I know I'm asking a great deal, but if Buber gets it in time, this could be of critical importance to the palatinate."

Thaler spread his hands wide. There was nothing more he could say. Braun more or less competently got his foot in the stirrup and lifted himself onto the back of the horse.

"Good luck, Mr Braun," said Thaler.

Braun beamed down from the saddle. "This is the most exciting thing anyone has ever asked me to do. I won't let you down, Mr Thaler."

24.

"A librarian?" Buber bent back over the bowl of now-lukewarm water and scrubbed at his arm. Everything was b.l.o.o.d.y: the water, the container, the block of hard yellow soap, the towel, even the stubby brush he was using to sc.r.a.pe his skin raw. Most of the blood wasn't his, but he was continually finding new cuts buried under the grime.

The carter the ex-carter now, since steering a magically propelled wagon seemed to be a profession wanting a practice stood just inside the door of the barn and wrung his hands nervously. "A librarian, Master Buber."

"And he doesn't want to talk to anyone else?"

"No, Master Buber. Just you."

Buber looked down at his nails, those that he had left, and they were black crescents. He'd have to use something else other than the brush to get that out. A quill would do or, ironically, a pen nib.

"Then you'd better send him in."

There was very little hay left in the barn, and only some straw. Which was only to be expected after the pa.s.sage of winter, but it left few places for the men to sleep. It was also cold, and it was damp cold at that. There was a fire, but it was in the house, and he didn't feel like company. Not unreasonably, he'd decided that all men were b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, himself included. Mean, petty, vicious b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. And the women: one woman in particular had shown savagery beyond mortal comprehension.

He had the urge to run, barely restrained by his bone-deep weariness.

"Master Buber?" The voice was different, younger.

Buber glanced around to see a mere slip of a boy, shoulders wet with rain. The crude lantern he carried made the droplets shine. But then, the librarian's lantern was no cruder than the one he was washing by.

"Yes."

"Under-librarian Thaler sent me. He said it was important."

"Did he now?"

"Yes, huntmaster. He wrote you this letter." He produced it with a flourish.

Buber tried to dry his hands on the towel, but it was already wet and dirty, so he stopped and just let them drip on the beaten-earth floor. "Let me see."

The messenger brought the sealed letter over to him, and held up the outside of the parchment for him. It was blank.

"You know I can't ...?"

"Yes, Master Buber. Mr Thaler explained all that to me: I'm to read it to you, in private." He hesitated. "You are alone?"

"Yes," said Buber. "I'm very alone. I'll keep washing other men's blood off. Bring your lantern close so I can see better."

The librarian did so, and sat on an upturned manger before he cracked the wax seal and unfolded the creased letter. He tilted the words to the meagre light and cleared his throat.

"To Huntmaster Peter Buber, from Under-librarian Frederik Thaler, by the grace and authority of His Highness Prince Gerhard V of Carinthia: greetings." The librarian stopped. "Oh."

"There's no reason for him to know. In fact, it might be an idea for you to ride back as fast as you can with messages for the White Fortress and the mayor. Have you got pen and ink?"

"Yes, Master Buber, and paper, in case you wanted to send a reply to Mister Thaler."

Buber stopped scrubbing for a moment and rested his hands in the bottom of the bowl. "What's your name?"

"Braun, sir."

"Read the letter, Mr Braun." Buber picked up the brush once more, and listened to Thaler's words, relayed through the voice of the librarian.

"I have urgent news from Juvavum. The lights have gone out in the library, causing some small confusion, but that is not the worst of it. It appears that all magical lights have ceased working across the city, along with all wagons, fountains and consequently the fresh and foul water systems. Extrapolating further, it is most likely that the barges have stopped this is true, Master Buber: when I crossed the river, the quayside was in chaos, and a barge was stuck sideways across the supports of the main bridge."

If Buber had given it much thought, he would have expected all that. If the hexmasters' magic had gone, if the bridge at Simbach had all but vanished, their own wagons left idle, then why not everywhere else?

"I know this. At least, none of this is new. What else does he say?"

Braun retraced the words. "Then it occurred to me that there was a pattern. Your discoveries in the forests of Carinthia were directly related to today's events. The sudden reluctance of the hexmasters to appear before the prince, or ride with him to war, and other seemingly trivial incidents suddenly all made sense. It has become clear to me that the source of magic, whatever that might be, has been dissipating for some time, and that the Order of the White Robe must have been, at the very least, aware of the possibility that this day's events would transpire, even if the timing was in question. That neither you nor I were informed does not exclude the prince having foreknowledge of the event, but consideration of his actions regarding the Teutons leads me to believe that he is acting without full command of the facts."

"Not quite," said Buber. "But no reason to make allowances for the boneheadedness of those who lead us. Like all warnings, they come too late. Go on."

"You must, as a matter of urgency, apprise His Majesty of the situation, so that he can best decide his future course. Juvavum is quiet but tense for the moment, but the militia are more conspicuous by their absence, as are the Order themselves. There is no reason for lawlessness, but when did lawlessness need a reason?" Braun looked up. "There is a little more."

"Give me all of it."

"Can the Order still act? Have they already solved this problem, and are they wilfully denying the prince the benefit of the solution, or are they now powerless? Be careful, my friend, whichever it might be. Your faithful servant, Frederik Thaler, Under-librarian." Braun folded the letter shut. "That's it, though I can read any part of it again, if you'd like."

"No, no. That's clear enough." Buber wiped his hands on his undershirt and slumped into a pile of hay. It smelt of warm summer sun and tiny fleeting flowers. He could close his eyes and fall asleep, right there, and hope they never found him in the morning when the time came to move on.

"I'm supposed to forget the contents now, and never mention them again."

"It's probably better that you do," said Buber lazily. "No good can come from remembering such things."

"What are you going to do, Master Buber?"

"There's probably enough there to get me pressed for treason, though I'll be in good company. The whole Order of the White Robe will be under the same slab as me, though if they want to include Thaler, they'll need a bigger rock." The hay was p.r.i.c.king him through his clothes. It was ticklish, and he rolled this way and that to push himself deeper.

"Do you really think ...?" Braun opened the letter again and re-read the offending paragraphs. "I don't see what you've done wrong."

"I relied on the Order to tell the prince about something I found. I shouldn't have: I'm a prince's man and that's where I owe fealty. I served two masters, and I was wrong. I was scared of the hexmasters. And now look where we are, without a prince and almost entirely without magic." Tiredness washed over Buber in waves. "If I'd have known. But then again, who knew? Not us mundanes, that's for sure."

"There are only three people who know what this says. You could burn it." said Braun, helpfully.

"Yes. I could." It was no use. Buber roused himself, dragging himself to his feet and brushing the hay from him. "But I could also do my duty one last time. Hand me the letter."

Braun held it back. "Or you could run."

Buber reached out and pulled the letter away. "I could do that too. But this is something that Felix needs to know. What he does after that is up to him: he is the Prince of Carinthia."

Braun tried one last time. "Mr Thaler speaks very highly of you."

Momentarily lost for words, Buber traced his finger along the pen strokes that made up his name. "I'm lucky to count him as a friend. My mind is made up, though. You should join the men in the stables, see to your horse, get something to eat. I imagine you'll be riding back hard in the morning. I'll go and do what I have to do."

He took his lantern by the end of its chain, where it was the coolest, and left the barn.

Braun was right. He could turn one way, and no one would see or hear from him again. Or he could turn the other, and let the dice fall where they may. That was what Nikoleta had said before Obernberg. That had worked out well.

Buber let the cold night wind chill his damp body and stir his clothes with its gustiness. He shrugged his tall, spare shoulders, and trudged to the farmhouse, entering through the kitchen to the room beyond. Both were banked with strongly burning fires: they should have been comforting, but all he could see in the flames were twisting bodies.

He was suddenly aware that the second room was full of people, and they were all staring at him gazing into the heart of the fire.