Dark and dusty, the room. Broken slats formed stained walls and middling rugs were tossed soggily over ever damp spots on the cold stone floor. At the back of the room sat a table and on the table sat a candle. Its pale flame was the only illumination in that dark corner of the ruined room; nonetheless, the shadow it cast was a long one, and a dark one.
The tabletop was strewn with parchment, crumpled or otherwise, all scarred with scribbles, indecipherable symbols, apparent nonsense. His small hand trembled slightly as it traced charcoal scratches over dry, thirsty paper, edges baking and curling up in the proximate heat of the candle. The lines, the waves, they were indistinct, as though that hand struggled to reproduce the motion of ripples in a pond on a particular day. From memory.
"Big loads o' talk 'bout town, sir," spoke a man toward the front of the room. "Aye, sir, whole big loads o' talk. Folks all 'cross town are turnin' out their book bags."
The hand paused, the charcoal pencil rested. The hooded head turned to listen more closely.
The man swallowed and opened his mouth to continue, then closed it again. Then opened it, only to close it once more. He didn't know how to talk to the little man at the table. His sort traded in dirty, broken rooms like that one, but the man at the table, drawing by the dim light of candle and memory, he didn't belong in that sort of room. He belonged up, up, up with the folk that got fleeced when they stumbled into dirty, broken rooms. Robbed and beaten and left to drag themselves back to the orderly world they knew. But the seated man was comfortable here, and the cut of his robe and the poise of his bearing were not dragged down by his lowly environs, rather the room had an august atmosphere, a permeating feeling of heavy drama. But it was darker, too, and the darkness seemed richer.
He hadn't found the book. He hadn't found the girl. Why'd I come? he asked himself. Got nothin' to say, so why'd I come?
"Won't waste no more o' yer time, sir. I'll jus' be goin'. Soon as somethin's worth sayin', I'll be right back. Yessir." He turned his hunched frame and took a step toward the door.
The slow, deliberate sound of the charcoal pencil resumed.
The nervous man stopped. "Jus' one more thing. A big roe's lookin' fer a girl, too. Same one, seems like. Makin' noise."
The man at the table once again half-turned toward the other man. His head shook, almost imperceptible beneath the hood, and he turned back to his work. He crumpled the page before him in a fist and tossed it to the side, then waved his hand.
"Yessir," he said, hoping in vain to fill that horrible silence. "We'll find 'er first, no doubt. First thing, it is. And the book! The girl and the book! First thing, we've got 'em. Yessir, we do. Yessir..." he droned on as he left.
The hooded figure's pencil set to cutting and bruising the off-white surface of a fresh sheet of parchment. Those figures too would disappoint.Â
How many thousands of times had the book been read?Â
Countless.
How many times had its pages been reproduced?
None.
-----
Styrm had hurried, but scrounging together the gil he'd promised took longer than he'd hoped. Longer than he had.
Still, it would be several hours yet before the sun tried to peak through the city's foggy veil.
More folk seemed to be scurrying about that night. Or maybe fewer. One or the other.
"Ruttin' mess..." he murmured as he stepped through the door and turned up his gaze to the table he'd left hours before.
The tabletop was strewn with parchment, crumpled or otherwise, all scarred with scribbles, indecipherable symbols, apparent nonsense. His small hand trembled slightly as it traced charcoal scratches over dry, thirsty paper, edges baking and curling up in the proximate heat of the candle. The lines, the waves, they were indistinct, as though that hand struggled to reproduce the motion of ripples in a pond on a particular day. From memory.
"Big loads o' talk 'bout town, sir," spoke a man toward the front of the room. "Aye, sir, whole big loads o' talk. Folks all 'cross town are turnin' out their book bags."
The hand paused, the charcoal pencil rested. The hooded head turned to listen more closely.
The man swallowed and opened his mouth to continue, then closed it again. Then opened it, only to close it once more. He didn't know how to talk to the little man at the table. His sort traded in dirty, broken rooms like that one, but the man at the table, drawing by the dim light of candle and memory, he didn't belong in that sort of room. He belonged up, up, up with the folk that got fleeced when they stumbled into dirty, broken rooms. Robbed and beaten and left to drag themselves back to the orderly world they knew. But the seated man was comfortable here, and the cut of his robe and the poise of his bearing were not dragged down by his lowly environs, rather the room had an august atmosphere, a permeating feeling of heavy drama. But it was darker, too, and the darkness seemed richer.
He hadn't found the book. He hadn't found the girl. Why'd I come? he asked himself. Got nothin' to say, so why'd I come?
"Won't waste no more o' yer time, sir. I'll jus' be goin'. Soon as somethin's worth sayin', I'll be right back. Yessir." He turned his hunched frame and took a step toward the door.
The slow, deliberate sound of the charcoal pencil resumed.
The nervous man stopped. "Jus' one more thing. A big roe's lookin' fer a girl, too. Same one, seems like. Makin' noise."
The man at the table once again half-turned toward the other man. His head shook, almost imperceptible beneath the hood, and he turned back to his work. He crumpled the page before him in a fist and tossed it to the side, then waved his hand.
"Yessir," he said, hoping in vain to fill that horrible silence. "We'll find 'er first, no doubt. First thing, it is. And the book! The girl and the book! First thing, we've got 'em. Yessir, we do. Yessir..." he droned on as he left.
The hooded figure's pencil set to cutting and bruising the off-white surface of a fresh sheet of parchment. Those figures too would disappoint.Â
How many thousands of times had the book been read?Â
Countless.
How many times had its pages been reproduced?
None.
-----
Styrm had hurried, but scrounging together the gil he'd promised took longer than he'd hoped. Longer than he had.
Still, it would be several hours yet before the sun tried to peak through the city's foggy veil.
More folk seemed to be scurrying about that night. Or maybe fewer. One or the other.
"Ruttin' mess..." he murmured as he stepped through the door and turned up his gaze to the table he'd left hours before.
