“The Universals’ Register,” he explained. “We’d forgotten where it was—the letter from the Trustees sent us into quite a panic, as you might imagine.” He pushed it across the counter to Connie and handed her a heavy, goldnibbed ink pen. In front of her lay a nearly blank page ruled into columns. It had only a few entries:
Suzanna Caldicott, 1703
Gilbert Hollingsworth, 1742
William Blake, 1793
Martha and Millicent Applethrop, 1850
James Proud, 1899
Reginald Cony, 1921
Connie felt ashamed of her clumsy round handwriting in comparison to her predecessors’ fine copperplate flourishes. Mr. Dove took the book back, blew on the page to dry it, before locking it in the box.
“Well, Miss Lionheart, arrangements for you are a little unusual. You are welcome to refer to works in any of the sections on this floor, but you also have access to a special reading room up there.” He pointed to the dome above with his spindly index finger. Connie saw that there was a gallery running around the lantern, bordered by a white railing.
“How do I get up there?” she asked.
“With this.” He handed her a second key, this one with a fob in the shape of a four-pointed star, attached to a length of turquoise satin ribbon. “The door is over there. I think it leads to the stairs.”
“You think?” interjected Horace.
“Indeed so.” Mr. Dove smiled apologetically. “As Miss Lionheart will find out, only universals are allowed up there. No one has been in for years. The door-ward will not let us pass.”
Horace raised his eyebrows. “It sounds as if it might be a bit dusty then. Well, you’d better make a start, Connie. You have only a few hours before I have to come back to fetch you.”
“But why the door-ward?” asked Connie. “What’s up there that needs guarding?”
Mr. Dove smiled again. “You are better placed to tell us the answer to that question than anyone still alive, Miss Lionheart.” He leaned forward. “Though from the catalog of books we have, I should say there’s some pretty dangerous information up there—stuff that only universals can do. When the Trustees said that you were to be given access to this room, some of our members,”—he gave a derisive sniff—“argued strongly that you should not be allowed up there unsupervised. They only gave in when we pointed out that they would be eaten if they tried to accompany you.”
“Eaten?” Connie asked in bewilderment.
“But you’ve no need to worry—you’re a universal. No one’s going to have you for supper.”
This wasn’t very comforting. Connie fingered the key nervously as she set off through the rows of desks to the door in the far wall. She always hated being singled out and the short walk to the universals’ entrance suddenly seemed a very long way. As she passed, a few readers looked up from their books, nudged their neighbors and, like a ripple spreading across a pool, soon the whole room was buzzing with excited whispers. Connie hurried forward, tripping in her haste to get out of sight.
When she reached the small door, she paused, surprised to find that it had no keyhole, only a brass handle in the shape of a compass. She turned it, and the door swung open smoothly.
That was odd, she thought, if it was open all along, why the key?
She stepped across the threshold into the dark stairwell beyond. Steep stone steps, bordered by a handrail carved like a twisted snake, led upward into the gloom. She groped around the wall for a light switch, but there wasn’t one.
Hardly anyone has been up here since the invention of electric light, she thought grimly.
With no light to help her, she resolved to use the rail as a guide up the stairs. She stretched out her hand to touch it.
“Aargh!” She jumped back several paces with a smothered scream.
The handrail was alive.
Her touch had roused the door-ward. The twisted end unfurled with a golden glow to reveal the head of a python with jaws that looked as if they would have no problem swallowing Connie in one gulp. The head slithered to her feet, its forked tongue testing the air a hand’s breadth from her sneakers. Now Connie understood why the librarians had not dared to venture up the stairs. With the unblinking eyes of the snake boring into her, she doubted she would be able to summon the courage to pass it.
“May I go up?” she asked, her voice a whisper.
The snake continued to stare at her.
She took a step forward. It reared up, jaws wide, tongue flickering, fangs exposed, hissing like water dropped on hot coals.
“Okay, obviously not then,” she said, retreating until her back was pressed against the entrance.
Perhaps she should show it the key? Maybe that was some kind of pass?
She held the key out, but the snake’s head now danced above her ever closer; she could feel its dry breath on her cheek. Connie struggled to contain a sense of rising panic; it felt as if a knot of snakes had just untwisted in her stomach.
She was a universal—she was allowed up here. She willed herself not to make a bolt for safety, but her hand was already groping for the door knob.
Then another voice spoke inside her head: So what would a universal do, that others could not? Connie only had to think for a moment. She had to do the last thing she wanted and risk an encounter with the snake. Stretching out her hand still holding the key, she touched the top of the snake’s diamond-patterned head.
Key. Mouth.
Like a snake bite, the two words struck her hard and fast in the pit of her stomach; she knew now exactly what the door-ward wanted. Gingerly, she ventured her hand into the open jaws of the snake, expecting at any moment to feel them close upon her. She dropped the key into its mouth.
In an instant, the snake turned and slithered swiftly up the steps. There was nothing to do but follow. Connie kept close on its tail, guided by the pale golden glow that shone from its scales. The light grew stronger, turning from bronze to white, as she climbed up. Moments later, she stepped out of the stairwell and onto the sunlit floor of the lantern gallery. It was like entering a bath of sunbeams after the darkness of the winding stair. Light poured in through the high windows over the tops of the bookcases; blue sky could be glimpsed breaking through ragged gray clouds. The snake was now curled in a tight spiral by the door, its eyes closed, a long blue ribbon hanging from its mouth like a bizarre tongue.
Connie heaved a sigh of relief. She had made it.
Peering hesitantly over the rail (she did not like heights), Connie saw Horace and Antonia down below looking out for her. She gave them a wave to show that she had survived the encounter with the door-ward, and they turned to go—Antonia heading to the northern quarter, Horace to the exit to rejoin Hugh at the boat show.
Connie stood back and surveyed her surroundings. So, what had the great snake been set to guard? What secrets were there for her to discover?
The outer circle of the wall was lined with tall bookcases. Connie scanned them quickly and pulled out particularly attractive volumes at random, in the process disturbing clouds of dust as Horace had predicted. She found that they corresponded more or less with the sections downstairs. The eastern shelves were stocked with manuals on flying; one particularly beguiling volume showed the recommended stance to be adopted by a human companion on the backs of a bewildering number of winged creatures, accompanied by a long discussion of balance and maximum load. To the west, she paused over a giant bestiary of 1603, full of vibrant woodcuts of animals from all over the world. She recognized the unicorn and the dragon quite easily, but spent some minutes puzzling over an illustration of one very improbable creature until she deciphered its name as “elephant.” Smiling to herself, she thrust it back and turned to consult the inner ring of low bookshelves that ran around the railing.
With a rush of excitement, she realized at once that these books contained the dangerous knowledge of which Mr. Dove had spoken—for they were devoted to the Art and Science of the Universal, as one title put it. She pulled o
ut this work eagerly and studied the contents. She recognized the name on the spine: Suzanna Caldicott, one of her predecessors who had also passed the door-ward.
Some of the described techniques she already knew—the shield and the sword, for example, though from the pages given over to both these subjects, she saw that she did not yet know the half of it. There were many other tools listed in the index, all given names drawn from armor and weaponry: the helm, hauberk, lance, to name a few.
She stood for a moment with the book weighing heavily on her palm. There was far more to learn about being a universal, a vast and as yet untapped potential in her gift—a world of weapons and tools, both deadly and defensive. Here she was surrounded by the knowledge of her kind. It was the nearest she would get to talking to another universal, as they were all long since gone. This room was the key to becoming who she really was.
Her heart fluttering with eagerness, she sat down at a small round table and began to read.
Introduction
Welcome, my fellow universal, to a new world of knowledge—a place like the Americas to us dwellers in the old world, full of wonders as well as dangers. Take heed of what is written in these pages so that you may avoid the errors of the past.
I have devoted my life to the study of our craft, sorely feeling the lack of any guidance when I first assumed my mantle as leader of the Trustees. I pray you will benefit from my labor.
The most important thing that you must know when setting out on your voyage of discovery is that universals are weak. Without our companion creatures, we are nothing. We can defend ourselves, but nothing more. Even the humble snail with its shell can claim as much. Think upon this when the privilege and power of your status makes you boastful.
Connie looked out of the high window and watched the clouds sail by. This felt so true. She had always seen herself as feeble compared to others. Suzanna Caldicott now confirmed it.
I. Of tools
The implements of our company were first identified by our forefathers and mothers not long after the birth of the Society. Their names take the coloring of that chivalric age. Mental tools can take any shape. It is their use, and not their title, that matters.
There are two kinds of tools belonging to a universal:
First, and most important to the wellbeing of the universal, are the defensive implements: shield, helm, and their like. These lie in the universal’s mind. They are the key to controlling contact with your companions. Without these, the descent into madness is swift and unstoppable. History is littered with examples of members of our company who have failed to learn these skills and fallen into insanity. Study hard so that you may not be the next.
Connie thought of Godiva’s warning against voices in her head and delusions. Her great-aunt was partly right then—her gift could lead to madness.
A few defensive tools, such as the hauberk, are the result of harmonious co-operation between universal and creature. In them, you become one with your companion and take on the properties that make them what they are.
Connie picked up her pen and began to take notes, underlining each tool in heavy black ink.
Many universals have devoted their time to the learning of the weapons of battle, such as sword, arrow, and spear. Be warned: it is these tools that enable us to reach beyond our puny selves and manipulate those around us, but in them lies great danger. We only act as channels for the power of others—we are not the power itself. If we take where we are not welcome, we will pay. Many fear us now; if we abuse our gift, they will reject us, turning us from the king among them to the leper beyond their gates.
Some hours later a distant bell rang below on the main floor of the library, warning her that her time was almost up. She was deep into a chapter about mental exercises for controlling shared thoughts—the helm—and was reluctant to stop. She was trying to imagine what it would be like to use this tool, thinking through the process of using the helm to defend a mind against invasion by another, a useful alternative to the shield. Could she take books out? she wondered.
Picking up the volume, she moved to the stair. On her approach, the snake sprang into life once more and hissed a warning, blocking her exit with a furious weaving dance.
“I think I’ve got my answer,” Connie said to herself, beating a hasty retreat to put the book back on the shelf.
Once she was bookless, the snake had no objection to guiding Connie down the stairs with its eerie copper glow. At the bottom, it opened its mouth and dropped the key at her feet before returning to its vigil, curling around the handrail and becoming as still as if it really had been forged from metal. Relieved to be getting out of there in one piece, Connie picked up the ribbon, closed the door behind her, and returned to Antonia by the desk.
“Well?” asked Mr. Dove curiously, holding his wrinkled palm out for the key.
“A bit fierce, isn’t he?” she said, handing it over still damp from the snake’s mouth. Antonia looked mystified, but Mr. Dove gave a grim smile and locked the key back in the box with the universals’ register.
“We call him Argonaut.” Seeing Connie’s expression, he continued, “It’s our little joke, you know. Long ago, Jason and his Argonauts got past one of its kind to steal the Golden Fleece. The great snakes have made up for it since by never sleeping on watch. But we librarians like to remind the door-ward of Jason, just to keep him in his normal good humor, which no doubt you enjoyed today.”
“Yeah,” Connie muttered to Antonia, “I’ll never complain about paying a library fine again.”
Horace joined them in the entrance hall. Over his shoulder, Connie could see her great-uncle outside, sunning himself against the old stone dragons, looking up at the building in wonder.
“I hope you’ve learned something today,” said Horace as they signed themselves out.
“Yes, loads of things, thanks,” said Connie, showing him her fat notebook. “I only wish I could try them out. I know I won’t really understand them until I do.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” Horace replied, his broad smile beaming at her. “I was thinking that you might have learned that where there’s a will, there’s a way.” She looked at him blankly. “What I mean is that where you have a will to do something, a way will be found. A universal cannot be kept from her destiny.”
“Ah, Miss Lionheart, I heard that you were in the building.” Mr. Coddrington, the assessor who had originally refused Connie membership in the Society, glided stealthily from behind a pillar to intercept them on their way across the foyer. A tall, thin man with limp brown hair, he had the look of a plant kept in a dark room, straining to grow toward the light. Connie’s party stopped.
“Oh, it’s you,” Horace said, his normally genial voice laced with disdain. “How’s the New Members Department treating you?”
“Same as usual,” Mr. Coddrington replied evasively, his eyes still fixed on Connie. “I wondered if I might have a brief word with Miss Lionheart. Alone.” He attempted a pleasant smile that was truly painful to behold.
Horace glanced at his watch. “If Connie doesn’t mind, I suppose we have a few moments.” Connie wished he had not said this, wished he had given her a decent reason to excuse herself, for now her head was full of the last time Mr. Coddrington had spoken to her “alone”: the rush of wings, the terror of being swept away by a black dragon and taken to Kullervo.
“Good. If Miss Lionheart would not mind stepping this way into my office, I have something I would like to ask her.”
Connie was too shy to be overtly rude to him. She followed Mr. Coddrington down a tiled corridor leading off the entrance hall. There were many doors opening on either side, some ajar, giving her a glimpse into the administrative heart of the Society, but she was too preoccupied by what Mr. Coddrington might want with her to take much in. The assessor paused by a closed door marked “New Members Department,” unlocked it, and ushered her inside.
There were three desks in the room but no occupants. Two desks were piled high
with files, adorned with children’s pictures and potted plants. One desk was meticulously tidy—not a stray paperclip in sight—with a pale gray blotter set squarely in its gleaming center and an in-tray in one corner. Behind the desk on the wall, it was another matter: a huge map of the British Isles was covered with tiny pins, each color-coded for one of the companies and bearing a number.
“It is fortunate that my colleagues are out assessing,” Mr. Coddrington said, nodding at the two untidy desks. “Please have a seat.”
Connie sat down nervously in a low chair across the desk from him. Avoiding his gaze, her eyes drifted to the map. She realized with a jolt that on the spot marking Chartmouth there was single silver pin—the only silver one on the whole map.
“Oh, yes, I like to keep tabs on everyone,” he said with a wintry smile. “Literally, that is. Each pin is cross-referenced to my filing system with a note of date assessed and eventual allocation of companion species. They are all filed in one of my cabinets.” He nodded at four metal filing cabinets standing along one wall. “I did not know what to do with you. Your entry is still here, waiting to find a home.” He picked up a thin piece of paper from his in-tray, the only thing in it, holding it between his finger and thumb, before dropping it back down. “I suppose I will just have to get a new cabinet for you, won’t I?”
Connie was not sure what she was expected to say to this, so she said nothing, her eyes now straying to the despised piece of paper that recorded her membership details.
“Actually, it is about this that I wanted to talk to you, Miss Lionheart.”
Filing cabinets? Connie had lost track of what he was saying.
“I was wondering if you could give me any idea of just how many of you there might be out there—to help us adjust our systems to cope with the burdens you will place on them.”
“Me?” Connie stared at him. “How should I know?”