some reassurances that sounded feeble even to me. The cavern shrank. When it came time to get down and crawl, I crawled. I told Swan, “Maybe it’s good, you being here after all. I’m starting to have little dizzy spells.”
“You hear anything?”
I listened. This time I did hear something. “Sounds like somebody singing. A marching song? Something full of ’yo-ho-ho’s.’” What the devil?
“Down here? We have dwarfs, too?”
“Dwarfs?”
“Mythical creatures. Like short people with big beards and permanent bad tempers. They lived underground, like nagas, only supposedly big on mining and metalworking. If they ever did exist, they died out a long time ago.”
The singing was getting louder. “Let’s get this handled before somebody interrupts.”
92
The pessimist in me was sure I would not be able to pull it off. If nothing else, the earthquake Swan mentioned would in some way have sealed the chamber of unholy books off from the rest of the world. If the chamber was not sealed off, then I would trip the only booby trap that Goblin had overlooked. If Goblin had not overlooked any booby traps, then the pickax would not be a protective key, it would be a trigger igniting the thousand secret sorceries protecting the books.
“Sleepy, do you know you talk to yourself when you’re worried about stuff?”
“What?”
“You’re crawling along there muttering about all the bad things that’re going to happen. You keep on and you’re going to convince me.”
That was twice. I had to get that under control. I did not use to do that.
The place where the Books of the Dead were hidden had not changed visibly. The pessimist in me worked hard to find a dangerous difference, though.
Swan finally asked, “Are you going to study on it till we pass out from hunger? Or are you going to go ahead and do something?”
“I always was a better planner than a doer, Willow.” I sucked in a peck of frigid air, took the pickax out of my waistband, intoned, “O Lord of Heaven and Earth, let there be no password that has to go with this.”
“Right behind you, boss,” Swan said, making a joke as he nudged me forward. “Don’t be shy now.”
Of course not. That would belittle Goblin’s sacrifice and memory.
I realized that my breathing had turned to rapid, shallow panting as I reached the point where Master Santaraksita had achieved flight. I held the pick in front of me with both hands, muscles protesting its weight, squeezing it so tight I feared I would leave my fingerprints etched upon it permanently.
A tingling began in my hands. It crept up my arms as I eased forward. My skin crawled and I developed severe goose bumps. I said, “You’d better hold onto me, Willow.” In case I needed yanking back. “In case you need the connection to the pick.” The shield was not rejecting me. Not yet.
Swan rested his hands on my shoulders an instant before the tingling reached my body. I began to shiver. Suddenly I had the chills and shakes of an autumn sickness.
“Woo!” Swan said. “This feels weird.”
“It gets weirder,” I promised. “I’ve got one of those agues where the chill goes all the way to the marrow.”
“Uh... yeah. I’m getting there, too. Toss in some joint aches, too. Come on. Let’s get that fire started and warm ourselves.”
Would fire be enough?
Once we moved forward another ten feet, the miseries stopped getting worse. The tingling on the outside faded. I told Swan, “I think it’s safe to let go now.”
“You should have seen your hair. It started dancing around when we were halfway through. It lasted only a couple of steps but it was a sight.”
“I’ll bet.” My hair was a sight anyway, usually. I did not offer it nearly enough attention and I had not had it trimmed in months. “Got anything to start a fire with?”
“You don’t? You didn’t prepare for this? You knew it had to be done and you didn’t bring-” ’ “All right, we’ll use mine. I just don’t have much tinder left. Didn’t want to use mine up when I could use yours.”
“Thanks a lot. You’re getting as bad as those two nasty old men.” Chagrined, he recalled that one of the nasty old men he meant had just completed his tenure with the Company.
“I learned from the best. Listen. I’ve been thinking about this. Even if we are past all the traps, the books themselves might be dangerous. Considering the way the brains of wizards work, it’s probably not a smart thing to peek inside at the pages. One look at the writings and you’re likely to spend the rest of your life standing there reading even if you don’t recognize a word-out loud. I recall reading about a spell that worked that way, once.”
“So what do we do?”
“You notice that all three books are open? We’ll have to come at them from underneath and tip the covers shut. So that they end up face-down. Even then we might want to handle them with our eyes shut when we go burn them. I’ve read about grimoires that had rakshasas bound into their covers.” Although nothing as exciting as that ever turned up in the library where I had worked.
“A talking book that can read itself to me. That’s what I need.”
“I thought Soulcatcher made you learn how to read when you were the king of the Greys.”
“She did. That don’t mean I
“I thought managing a brewery was hard work. You never shied away from that.” Being shorter, I took the job of sneaking up on the three lecterns. I used extreme caution. They might have been great actors but I was soon convinced that they could not see me coming.
“I like making beer. I don’t like reading.”
He should have been the one getting ready to burn books, then. I was suffering a crisis of conscience as troublesome as any of my crises of faith. I loved books. I believed in books. As a rule I did not believe in destroying books because their contents were disagreeable. But these books contained the dark, secret patterns for bringing on the end of the world. The end of many worlds, actually, for if the Year of the Skulls successfully sacrificed my world, others connected to the glittering plain must follow.
This was not a crisis that needed immediate resolution. I had my answers worked out already, which was why I was on hands and knees under the lecterns while suffering verbal abuse from an infidel who had no use for my god or for the Deceivers’ merciless Destroyer. I tipped the covers of the books shut while wondering if there was still some way the Children of Night could get to me.
“The covers appear to be blank,” Swan said.
“You’re looking at the backs of the books. I’m closing them so they’re face-down. Remember?”
“Hold it.” He held up a finger, cocked an ear.
“Echoes.”
“Uhm. Somebody’s out there.”
I listened harder. “Singing again. I wish they wouldn’t sing. Nobody in the band but Sahra can carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it. You can come on up here now. I think it’s safe.”
“You
“I’m still alive.”
“I don’t know if that’s necessarily a recommendation. You’re too sour and bitter for the monsters to eat. I, on the other hand-”
“You, on the other hand, are plain lucky that my god forbids me to reveal that the only thing interested in eating you would be the kind of beetle that flourishes on a diet of livestock by-product. Right there looks like a good place to start a fire.”
Swan was up beside me now. “There” was some kind of large brazier-looking thing that still had a few charcoal remnants in it. It was made of hammered brass in a style common to most of the cultures of this end of
