The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Seventy-Four

Eleven pairs of eyes blinked at the Chancellor out of the darkness as he entered the Red Tunnels.

"Gentlemen," he said.

One of them broke rank and ran to the door, closing it and throwing the bolt across and plunging them all into darkness.

"Light," ordered the Chancellor. Being cast into darkness was one thing, but sharing it with eleven jumpy subjects was quite another.

There was some shuffling, and eventually the clank of a lantern being opened, and its yellow light pouring out into the cramped confines of the tunnel.

The Chancellor gave a brief glance over his shoulder. "Key," he said holding it up. He could feel the man's shaking hand as he took it from him. There was a solid clunk as the door locked. He waited until the key was returned to his hand before turning back to the cowering men.

"Well?" he said, as none of them proposed a reason for their presence.

They looked between each other, each silently daring the others to step forward. By general consensus, the tallest - a man of forty years or so, wearing glasses that reflected the lantern light - was elected their speaker and he took a step forward, with the aid of an encouraging push applied to the middle of his back from the others.

"My Lord Chancellor," he said, clearing his throat before and after. He then paused so long, the Chancellor wondered whether that was the entirety of his speech, but at last, the man spoke again. "We tried to stop them. I swear before all the gods that we did everything we could, but we are not soldiers, merely librarians."

"Did you not swear an oath, before taking your position in the Master's library, that you would protect the name books with your lives?"

The speaker's throat worked hard, as if trying to swallow a massive stone. His glasses slipped a little down his damp nose, and he pushed them back up, blinking from behind the round frames. "That was nothing we could do in the face of... Chancellor, they were barbarians. What type of civilised man would burn a book?"

The others nodded in agreement.

"A civilised man may not burn a book, but a man bent on creating a new civilisation may well burn thousands," said the Chancellor. The librarians shivered at his words.

"I do not call that civilization," said their speaker.

"No, I don't suppose you would. But we are not dealing with men of learning, like your good selves."

"Yes, well..." said the speaker, standing straighter. "You can't expect more from northerners. They're not like us."

"No, they are not," agreed the Chancellor.

The speaker nodded. He was growing in confidence now that the blame had been shifted away from his party. "Animals," he said, spitting onto the ground.

The Chancellor raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"It was a dreadful thing, that they should come into the Name Library, brandishing weapons."

The librarians shared worried glances. One of the younger ones strained so hard to avoid the Chancellor's piercing gaze that he had a coughing fit.

"I see," said the Chancellor. "Please explain to me how you could not stop three, unarmed, personages from attacking the very heart of Serradorian government."

The young one continued coughing, his face growing redder by the second. "Will someone provide him with a handkerchief?" said the Chancellor, sighing. There was a general scuffle as the librarians ruffled their robes in search of the appropriate accessory. Eventually, one rather stained looking scrap of cloth was handed over to the boyish-librarian and he buried his face in it gratefully.