Swordmaster

A Scribe's Duty

A curator of knowledge. A master of the pen. A Scribe.

I couldn't have asked for a more fulfilling job.

Enver stepped into the main foyer of the Abydon archives. The usual scents greeted him – ink, parchment, knowledge. Stone bookcases stretched nearly as high as the building itself, holding tomes and scrolls older than Abydon itself. As Head Scribe, it was his duty to ensure that the history of his nation was preserved for future generations.

And so he made sure that once every moon, each and every document, tome and scroll was inspected. Those that were found in poor condition were transcribed. The shelves were then dusted a warded against pests. Because of these efforts, all the knowledge that surrounded him could serve to enlighten those, young and old, for millennia to come. The thought of it was humbling.

Enver hurried across the variegated stone floor, passing the colossal statue of Abydon's crest that lorded over the bookcases. The double-doors on the eastern side of the room led to the nerve centre of the archives.

Rows of heavy wooden desks stretched the length of the room, and his juniors were up and down like worker bees, going about the day's business. His own office was at the back, though he much preferred to work up Ridivan's chambers.

"Good morning everyone," he greeted. "How are we looking today?"

Ishamail, his best Junior, popped his head from behind the stack of books on his desk. "The King sent in some documents to be archived. I believe they're proposals that were approved a while back." He raised the documents in question.

Enver took his gloves from his pocket and slipped them on before giving the pages of scrawl a quick scan, a grimace tugging the corners of his mouth. "Could you rewrite those please? I'll take them to the relevant parties to be resigned. No offense to whoever transcribed them, but their handwriting is atrocious."

"Right away, sir." Ishmail saluted him before going about his assigned task. Only the scratching of quills and the turning of pages followed their exchange.

Enver retired to his office, grimacing at the mountain of work on his desk. Most of it was notes that were sloppily scribbled and needed to be rewritten by steadier hands. He relieved himself of his jacket, sat behind it all, and gazed out the lone window at the garden beyond. Flowers and leaves were unfurling to bathe in the early morning sun, and insects chirped and sung.

I wonder what Ridivan is doing? Probably locked in Council meetings. Listening to demand after demand sent in by the people. Listening to rejections of said demands. Watching the Council members clash and butt heads like wild animals. No one was ever satisfied it seemed.

And when Enver went home for the day, he'd hear how ridiculous it all was. How no one could come to a consensus. And then they'd go to the tarry to drown their sorrows in booze and merriment.

He had it a little easier, as quill, ink and parchment didn't fuss, didn't demand. And with that encouraging thought in mind, he went about his work, getting lost in the scratching sounds of his quill, the tangy smell of the ink and the elaborate lettering filling the page.

A knock on the door pulled him from his task. "Come in."

Ishmail stepped inside with parchment in hand. "Sorry to bother you sir, but these were mixed up in the documents sent by the King." He handed over two sheets of parchment. "They haven't been signed."

As Enver looked over them, his heart skipped a beat, but he did his best to hide his shock. The first was a draft proposal to expand the size of the King's personal guard, enough to cover him and Ridivan, along with the King... and Queen. The second was a list of eligible candidates from both the castle and city guard.