The City of Dreaming Books

  Those booksellers who still ventured some distance into the catacombs asserted that the Shadow King was nothing more than a monstrous parasite, a cross between an insect and a bat produced by the labyrinths’ unwholesome atmosphere, and that its sole aim was to destroy their precious books. Such was the booksellers’ version.

  Scientists, on the other hand, endeavoured to prove that the Shadow King was a very ancient life form that had finally made its way upwards from the nether regions of the cave system. Far from pursuing a definite objective, they declared, it blindly followed its animal instincts and attacked anything it encountered because it needed sustenance. Such was the scientists’ version.

  The Ugglies believed that the Shadow King would spell the end of Bookholm. They predicted that he would unleash a catastrophe so immense and all-encompassing that it would wipe the city from the face of the earth. Such was the Ugglies’ version.

  The children of Bookholm, by contrast, were convinced that the Shadow King was an evil spirit that made horrific noises in their clothes cupboards at night. Such was the demon-in-the-wardrobe version.

  The one point on which all agreed was that the Shadow King really existed. Whatever he was, whether phantom, animal or monster, many had heard him, some had been hunted by him and a few even killed by him. Those who had heard him likened his voice to the rustle of a book’s pages fluttering in the wind. As for those who had seen him, they were now dead.

  Many a Bookhunter’s bloodstained and horribly mutilated corpse had been found, often with tiny pieces of paper lodged in the hundreds of cuts inflicted on it. The popular explanation of this phenomenon was that the Shadow King slew his victims with a weapon made of paper, possibly with one of the so-called Hazardous Books. And sometimes, on exceptionally windless nights, the whole of Bookholm could hear his spine-chilling howls rising from the depths.

  Colophonius Regenschein, too, was firmly convinced of the Shadow King’s existence, but not, like most other people, of his fundamentally evil disposition. He even believed that this mysterious creature had once saved his life when he fell into a trap laid for him by Rongkong Koma. The latter had meant to crush him to death beneath a huge bookcase, but someone had thrust the massive piece of furniture aside before it could land on him. Although Regenschein’s saviour had disappeared by the time he scrambled to his feet unscathed, he felt sure it was the Shadow King.

  He had been obsessed with this living legend ever since. He aimed to prove his theory that the Shadow King was an intelligent, benevolent being, not savage and malign, by hunting and capturing him, but not in order to kill him or put him on show: he wanted to gain the Shadow King’s friendship and then release him.

  Regenschein had part of his house converted into a barred enclosure got up to resemble the catacombs, complete with subdued jellyfish lighting and book-lined walls. He believed that the Shadow King would feel at home there and become habituated to Overworld, and one day, when he had been submitted to thorough scientific research, he would be granted his freedom.

  In the last few pages of his book Regenschein described his preparations for the expedition and announced his intention of writing a sequel documenting his quest for the Shadow King. His research had led him to contact a collector and literary scholar named Pfistomel Smyke, who was reputed to have an extensive knowledge of the legends about the Shadow King and the books devoted to him. An acknowledged expert, Smyke was so taken with Regenschein’s project that he helped him as much as he could and invested some of his own money in it. It was Pfistomel Smyke’s old house in the heart of the city from which Colophonius Regenschein was said to have set off on his expedition into the catacombs.

  But the final words in The Catacombs of Bookholm had been written by his publisher. He appended a melancholy postscript in which he reported that Colophonius Regenschein’s descent into the catacombs from the home of Pfistomel Smyke was the last occasion on which the greatest of all Bookhunters had been seen. Sad to relate, my intrepid readers, his quest for the Shadow King was a venture from which he never returned.

  Mulled Coffee and Bee-Bread

  I shut the book and drew a deep breath. An explorer and adventurer, scholar and bibliophile - one who had, to crown everything, met a mysterious end in the service of literature . . . Colophonius Regenschein was indeed a hero after my own heart.

  The poetry reading had ended long ago. The audience had dispersed and only a few tables were still occupied by a handful of customers drinking coffee or chatting together. One of them, seated alone at the table opposite mine, was unashamedly grinning at me. He was a Hoggling, a wire-haired, well-fed specimen of the breed wearing a black overcoat. He raised his coffee cup. ‘To Colophonius Regenschein!’ he said. ‘The greatest Bookhunter of all!’

  He screwed up his porcine eyes and winked at me. ‘May I stand you a mulled coffee?’ he asked amiably. ‘And a slice of bee-bread to go with it, perhaps?’

  I had no objection. I’d finished the book, my coffee pot was empty and I was hungry again. Any form of refreshment that didn’t deplete my slender purse was only too welcome. I thanked him and sat down at his table.

  ‘To what do I owe the honour?’ I asked.

  ‘Anyone who takes an interest in Colophonius Regenschein deserves a mulled coffee. And a slice of bee-bread.’

  He signalled to a waiter.

  ‘I had no idea he was such an interesting character,’ I said.

  ‘The most glamorous in the history of Bookholm, believe me. Will you be staying here long?’

  ‘I only just got here.’

  ‘I only just got here - a good title for a book,’ said the Hoggling, jotting something down on a notepad in front of him. ‘Forgive me, it’s an occupational disease of mine: I have a compulsion to think up saleable book titles. You’re from Lindworm Castle?’

  I sighed. ‘How did you guess?’

  The Hoggling laughed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sure it must get on your nerves, having your address tattooed on your forehead, so to speak.’

  ‘Oh well, there are worse things.’

  ‘There certainly are, especially when the address is such a distinguished one. Authors are highly esteemed in this city.’

  ‘I’ve yet to become one.’

  ‘I’ve yet to become one - another good title! Interesting. So you’re a talent on the point of bursting into flower. That must be the finest moment in any literary career. Your heart is overflowing with emotional vitality, your mind ablaze with ideas.’

  ‘Mine isn’t, I’m afraid. Those are stereotyped notions of the creative urge. At this moment, for instance, my mind is a complete blank.’

  ‘Why not write about that? Your fear of the virgin sheet of paper, your dread of becoming a burnt-out case before your time - a fantastic subject!’

  I remembered the manuscript in my pocket and couldn’t help laughing. ‘That’s a cliché too,’ I said.

  ‘You’re right.’ The Hoggling chuckled. ‘What do I know about writing? I’m only good at figures. Permit me to introduce myself: Claudio Harpstick, literary agent.’ He produced a business card and handed it to me.

  Claudio Harpstick

  Impresario • Literary Agent • Legal Adviser

  Legal and Mediatory

  Services of All Kinds

  We Complete Your Tax Returns!

  7 Cinnamon Lane, Bookholm

  ‘You advise authors?’

  ‘That’s my job. You need some advice?’

  ‘Not right now. I’ve yet to write anything I might need advice on.’

  ‘Give it time, give it time. Maybe you’ll remember my card when the moment comes.’

  The waiter brought our order: mulled coffee scented with nutmeg and huge doorsteps of rye bread liberally daubed with butter and liquid honey in which dead bees were floating. I stared at them in astonishment. Harpstick grinned. ‘A local speciality,’ he said. ‘It takes a bit of getting used to, but in time you can’t have enough of it. Rye bread warm from the oven spread with pepper
ed butter and honey with roasted bees in it. The bees are detoxified and have their stings removed prior to roasting, so don’t be afraid. They’re deliciously crisp and crunchy.’

  I picked up my slice of bread.

  ‘Take care for all that!’ Harpstick warned. ‘Once in a blue moon a bee’s sting hasn’t been removed. If the poison gets into your bloodstream you may be in for a few really nasty weeks of lockjaw and delirium. The bees are Demonic bees from Honey Valley, an exceptionally aggressive variety. Still, that’s one of the attractions of Bookholmian bee-bread: the subliminal danger, the hint of uncertainty - the buzz, so to speak. It helps if you chew slowly and watch out for stings. You get more out of it that way.’

  Gingerly, I bit off a morsel and chewed it with care. The bees tasted delicious, rather like toasted almonds. I glunked3 my teeth appreciatively.

  ‘Really excellent,’ I said.

  ‘Try the mulled coffee,’ said Harpstick. ‘It’s the best in the city.’

  I took a sip. The hot, strong beverage suffused my stomach with an agreeable sensation of warmth. The blood shot to my head, rendering me slightly euphoric.

  ‘There’s a good dash of ushan in it - that’s a fifty-five per cent proof spirit from the DeLucca district - so treat the coffee with caution too,’ Harpstick said with a chuckle.

  I nodded. I had never in my life drunk anything stronger than wine. Fifty-five per cent! These city folk certainly knew how to live. Far from home and slightly tipsy, I felt wild and free.

  ‘Were you personally acquainted with Regenschein?’ I asked, loquacious all of a sudden. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘I was invited to several parties at his home, so I was able to admire his library. I was present when he returned from his first expedition and collapsed before our very eyes, and also when he went in search of the Shadow King.’

  ‘Do you believe he’s dead?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I hope so for his sake. Nobody knows exactly what goes on beneath this city’ - Harpstick stamped the floor twice - ‘but one thing’s for sure: it isn’t very pleasant. Regenschein disappeared five years ago. He’s entombed in books, so to speak.’

  ‘Good title,’ I blurted out. ‘Entombed in Books.’

  Harpstick stared at me in surprise.

  ‘True,’ he said, jotting it down on his notepad. ‘If he’s still alive,’ he went on in a low voice, more to himself than to me, ‘he’ll have been down there for five long years. Not an enviable fate.’

  ‘You believe in all those legends?’ I asked with a smirk. ‘The Shadow King, the Fearsome Booklings, Shadowhall Castle and so on?’

  He looked at me gravely.

  ‘No one in this city doubts that things exist down there which Bookholm would be better off without,’ he said. ‘Lawlessness, anarchy, chaos. Don’t run away with the idea that we spread these rumours to attract tourists. Just imagine what we could make of the catacombs if they were fully accessible! Eighty to ninety per cent of the city is unexploited - out of bounds and controlled by who knows what weird creatures. You think that’s desirable from a commercial point of view? Far from it!’

  Harpstick was growing agitated. His face registered genuine indignation.

  ‘On the other hand, we can’t shut our eyes to what keeps happening there. I’ve seen a few of those who have ventured into the catacombs and made it back to the surface again. People with limbs torn off, people covered with bites and incapable of doing more than scream or babble inanities before they died. One of them drove a knife into his heart before my very eyes.’

  Harpstick’s porcine eyes were unnaturally big and bright. They seemed to look right through me at the frightful scene he had just recalled. Feeling embarrassed, I sipped my coffee and stared at my distorted reflection in its surface.

  Harpstick gave himself a little shake and swigged at his own cup. Then he leant over, punched me playfully on the arm and grinned.

  ‘But enough of that. Bookholm has its good sides too. What brings you to our city?’

  I didn’t feel like talking about my sad bereavement.

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ I said.

  ‘I see. A publisher?’

  ‘No. An author.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What has he published?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Aha, then you can’t fail to find him.’ Harpstick gave a jovial laugh.

  I briefly debated the Nocturnomath’s warning. Then I fished out the manuscript.

  ‘This is a short story of his.’

  ‘Fine, that’s almost as good as a calling card. May I see it?’

  I hesitated for a moment, then handed it over. Harpstick began to read. Unobtrusively, I leant forward so as to study his reactions. He betrayed no emotion at all, humming softly to himself. He read quickly, joylessly, with the corners of his mouth turned down, like most people whose profession entails a great deal of reading. I searched his face for signs of amazement or enthusiasm but could detect nothing of the kind. Halfway through the story he broke off and stared at me uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Why are you looking for him?’

  ‘Surely you can see why?’

  He gave the manuscript another glance.

  ‘No. Have I missed something?’

  ‘Don’t you find the writing exceptional?’

  ‘Exceptional in what way?’

  ‘Exceptionally good.’

  ‘This? No.’ He handed the manuscript back.

  I was speechless.

  ‘I’ll let you in on a secret,’ said Harpstick. He looked around furtively and lowered his voice as if about to make some compromising confession.

  ‘That story may really be exceptionally good. It may also be the worst trash ever written. If there’s one person utterly and completely incapable of judging which it is, it’s me. I can’t tell good writing from a slice of bee-bread. I dread to think how much great literature I’ve held in my trotters without realising it. You want to know what really interests me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied politely.

  ‘Bricks.’

  ‘Bricks?’

  ‘Bricks and mortar. I adore bricklaying. Every evening I go out into my garden and build a little brick wall. It’s my way of unwinding. Next morning I knock it down, the following evening I rebuild it and so on. I love the smell of damp mortar, the fresh air, the exercise, the aching muscles. I get nice and tired, that’s why I sleep so well.’

  I nodded.

  ‘In my profession it isn’t a question of telling good literature from bad. Really good literature is seldom appreciated in its own day. The best authors die poor, the bad ones make money - it’s always been like that. What do I, an agent, get out of a literary genius who won’t be discovered for another hundred years? I’ll be dead myself by then. Successful incompetents are what I need.’

  ‘That’s honest of you.’

  Harpstick looked at me anxiously.

  ‘Have I been too honest?’ He sighed. ‘I’m far too quick to speak my mind - it’s my weak point. Many people find the truth hard to stomach.’

  ‘I’m determined not to let the truth spoil the pleasure I take in my work,’ I said. ‘Writers have a hard time and very seldom get their due, I realise that.’

  ‘An admirable attitude. Stick to it and you’ll save yourself a lot of grief. Me, I’m good with people. That’s my principal asset. I’m as good at dealing with sensitive authors as I am with hard-nosed publishers. I’m like a lubricant: almost unnoticeable and invisible but ubiquitous and indispensable. Nobody thinks I matter and plenty of people despise me - even a few of my best clients! - but the printing presses wouldn’t roll without me. I’m the oil in the works.’

  Harpstick took another hefty swig of coffee and dabbed his lips.

  ‘This could be the finest short
story in Zamonian literary history,’ he said, tapping the manuscript. ‘It could also be the maunderings of an untalented hack - I’ve no idea. I can read the words but I can’t assess them. To me, every manuscript is the same: blah-blah-blah, just words strung together, nothing more. It could be my wife’s shopping list or the most exquisite poem by Photonion Kodiak, I couldn’t care less. And do you know what that means to someone in my profession? It’s a boon. If I were capable of it, I might fall in love with this story, just as you have, and devote my life to tracing its author. I might even find him and make an unsuccessful attempt to market him. Then I wouldn’t do what I’ll be doing tomorrow morning, which is to secure Sandro Trockel a lucrative contract for three more books in his Illiterate series.’

  I was familiar with Trockel’s work. His books, which contained no text whatsoever, bore a large, simplified line drawing of some object or animal on every page. They were extremely popular with illiterates and sold in vast numbers.

  ‘I may possibly - possibly - be able to help you even so,’ Harpstick went on. ‘I can give you the address of an antiquarian bookshop in the city centre. The owner is Bookholm’s foremost expert on manuscripts. Here.’

  He handed me another business card. It read:

  Pfistomel Smyke

  Qualified Literary Expert and Antiquarian

  The ‘Golden List’ a Speciality

  Graphological and Typographical Analyses

  333 Darkman Street, Bookholm

  ‘Pfistomel Smyke?’ I asked in surprise. ‘You mean . . .?’

  ‘Exactly. The person from whose premises Regenschein descended into the catacombs. One of Bookholm’s most distinguished citizens. His shop is really worth seeing. Pay him a visit and you’ll be setting foot on historic ground.’

  ‘I’ll make a point of it,’ I said.

  ‘Go there tomorrow. He doesn’t open till noon and closes early as a rule. The antiquarians in the city centre can afford to indulge in such whims. Take a look at his stock while you’re there, it’s truly unique.’

  ‘Many thanks for the advice - and, of course, for the delicious snack.’