The Lost Books

Alex’s stomach growled. He looked down at himself. He was dusty and disheveled and . . .

  Blast. There was a smear of horse dung across the front of his jacket. He tried brushing it off and ended up with horse dung all over his hands. Giving a shrug, he wiped his hands on his jacket and headed toward the center of Purslane, passing shops and people and wagons loaded with wheat and vegetables grown in the farmland that encircled the town. The weeklong harvest festival had just ended, and everyone was busy putting their gardens to bed, and storing food for the winter. A few people glanced at him. It wasn’t usual to see strangers in a little town like Purslane. Most people, Alex had realized after he left home, never went farther than five miles from the place where they’d been born. Even so, as far as the townspeople could see, he was just a scruffy-looking kid.

  Little did they know, Alex thought darkly to himself.

  He spared one last glance at the castle behind him. He hated leaving that locked room and its potential dangers. He’d tried to warn them, but he knew the duchess and the steward had not taken him seriously. And he hated leaving behind the four books he’d been reading. A book half read was a bother. Like a toothache. It niggled.

  There was nothing he could do about it now.

  As he stood there, he felt another wash of sorrow that Merwyn Farnsworth was dead. The old man had kept his secrets, and he’d been a little weird about bugs, but he had been kind to Alex.

  On Alex’s left wrist, the bracelet of letters itched, as it often did. He glanced down at them. Then he blinked and looked more closely. For the first time since the Red Codex had marked him, the letters were shifting, climbing over each other, rejumbling into a new order. For just a moment, a word formed.

  GO

  Then the letters shifted back into a jumble again.

  All right, that was snaky. “I’m going,” Alex said to the letters.

  But they didn’t spell anything back to him. With a shrug, he went on.

  When he arrived at the Purslane Inn, he had a bit of luck. Going through the front door, he found an unattended counter. On it rested a paper where guests could sign in; next to it was a pot of ink with a cap on it, and a metal-nibbed pen. With a quick look around, Alex pulled out the letter he’d stolen from the librarian’s desk; it had a second page with half a blank page under the queen’s signature. He tore the paper, taking the blank half and stuffing the rest of it into his pocket. Dipping the pen into the ink, he wrote a quick note, using the dowager duchess’s handwriting, which he had made a point of studying during his time at the castle.

  To the Inn at Purslane—

  To the bearer of this note provide all finest accoutrements, bed, dinner, breakfast, and supplies to see him on the road tomorrow. Send the bill to me at the castle.

  Signed,

  Dowager Duchess Purslane

  There. That should do it.

  No sooner had he set down the pen than the innkeeper, a stout woman with fiery red hair, bustled into the room, wiping her hands on a stained apron.

  “Well, what d’you want?” she asked impatiently.

  Alex took a quick glance at the note he’d just written. The ink was still wet. Surreptitiously, he waved it, trying to get it dry before he had to hand it over. “I’ll take a room for the night,” he said, “and the best dinner you’ve got.”

  “Hmm.” The innkeeper eyed him.

  Alex knew he looked a little rough around the edges, but he eyed her right back.

  “And you’ve got money to pay for this best room and fine dinner?” she asked dubiously.

  “Even better,” Alex told her, and held out the note, which hopefully wouldn’t smear when she took it.

  The innkeeper cocked her head and squinted down at the paper. “From the duchess.” She read on, muttering to herself. “Ack-coo-tree-monts, is it? Hmm. That’s the duchess’s signature, though. I suppose this seems in order.” She glanced up at him, and gave a suspicious sniff. “What’s that I smell?”

  “Yes, I smell like horse,” Alex said. “That’s because I’m a groom in the duchess’s stable.” He took off the stinky jacket. “I’ll need you to wash this for me.”

  The innkeeper stared at him.

  “Accoutrements,” Alex told her, putting into his voice every bit of confidence he had, every bit of I am on a special mission for the duchess and how dare you doubt me?

  The innkeeper blinked and then, slowly, she reached out and took the jacket, and Alex knew he’d won.

  “Have it ready for me by tomorrow morning,” he said. “Along with the supplies the duchess mentioned in her note. I’ll go into the dining room to wait for dinner.”

  With that, he breezed past her into the large common area. Finding a small table next to the inn’s row of front windows, he sat down and let out a relieved breath. The duchess, he guessed, would pay for his stay at the inn when the innkeeper sent her the bill. She wouldn’t be happy about it—rather, she’d be furious—but it couldn’t be helped, and she owed him that much, anyway, for almost four months of work.

  A waiter, a red-haired kid who had to be the innkeeper’s son, appeared and took his order for the finest dinner they had.

  “Where you headed?” the kid asked.

  None of your business, Alex thought. But the men-at-arms who might, possibly, come looking for him would ask at an inn like this, so he’d better lay his false trail from here, too. He told the redheaded kid the same lie about heading west to the border and taking a ship to Xan.

  “Uh-huh,” the kid said, looking bored.

  “And my name is Alexandren, in case anybody comes here asking about me.”

  The kid shrugged. As soon as he’d gone, Alex pulled out the letter he’d taken from the librarian’s desk—it was rather crumpled now, and the second page was torn in half, but the gilt edging was as shiny as ever.

  He’d seen the queen’s signature on the second page. The date at the top indicated that it had been sent less than two weeks ago. Eagerly, Alex started reading from the beginning.

  Librarian Merwyn Farnsworth

  Purslane Castle

  Extershire

  Aethel

  Librarian Farnsworth,

  It is with sadness that we report to you the death of Maeviss Clark, who had served us as Royal Librarian. She made it known that you, Librarian Farnsworth, were next in eminence to her, and should be appointed in her place, should anything happen to her.

  As you may know, the Royal Library, housed in the Winter Palace, is extensive, consisting of many rooms and innumerable books, texts, codices, scrolls, maps, diaries, tomes, and handwritten manuscripts. Certain parts of the collection may have not been properly cataloged in many years.

  In order to put the books into better order, and to guard them well, you are required to journey to Aethel’s Winter Palace to take up the position of Royal Librarian. Upon arrival, report to the Royal Steward, who will direct you further.

  We request that you make all haste to take up this position.

  By order of the Queen, Kenneret the Third

  Q. Kenneret III

  Another librarian, dead.

  Quite a coincidence, Alex thought.

  As far as he knew, the queen, who hadn’t been queen for very long, had never met Merwyn Farnsworth. She hadn’t even written the letter; that had been done, he guessed, by a secretary, or this steward person that was mentioned, and the queen had just added her signature at the end.

  The queen wanted Merwyn Farnsworth to report to the palace?

  Well, Alex thought, this was his chance. He would GO. If the queen needed a librarian, she was going to get one.

  4

  I must have added wrong, Queen Kenneret thought to herself. She looked over the column of numbers that had been submitted to her by the royal steward, who was responsible for . . . well, basically for overseeing everything in the Winter Palace. Housekeeping, hiring the servants, putting together the budgets, ordering supplies, and so on. The steward stood at attention four paces from her
desk. As always, Dorriss had not a gray hair out of place. She wore the uniform of the royal servants, a dress made of black silk with the kingdom’s seal, the bear, sword, and spade, embroidered in gold on her sleeve. At her waist she wore a belt, and hanging from it was a chatelaine, a chain with a ring of keys at its end that jingled every time she took a step. Behind the steward stood two footmen, wearing gold-and-black-striped waistcoats, and two secretaries holding files stuffed with important papers.

  “Carry the one,” Kenneret muttered, totting up the numbers again. “Nineteen, and twenty.” Setting down the pencil, she sat back from her desk. “Twenty thousand. It costs twenty thousand golds to heat the Winter Palace every year.” She allowed herself a brief moment of despair. Her uncle, Patchedren, would make an issue of the cost. Her uncle had been her regent until three months ago, when Kenneret had turned sixteen, which was old enough to rule the kingdom herself, he’d said. He often made issues of things, which wouldn’t be so bad, except that his issues too often made her seem thoughtless or weak.

  Well, there was nothing else to be done—they would simply have to stop heating parts of the palace, even though the harvest festival was over and nobles and courtiers from all over the kingdom had started descending on the palace to spend the winter doing what nobles and courtiers did. Namely feasting, gossiping, carrying on secret intrigues, and challenging each other to duels. Why couldn’t they all just stay home until spring?

  Ugh, and her bottom hurt from sitting on this uncomfortable velvet chair for the past four hours. And her crown—the simple gold circlet, for daily use—was giving her a headache.

  When she opened her eyes, the steward was bowing deeply. “The numbers don’t lie, Your Majesty,” she said formally.

  Kenneret straightened. She let her usual mask of imperturbability settle over her face. “Of course they don’t,” she said coolly. “For the good of the people—” It was always best to begin her proclamations that way. “For the good of the people, we authorize a reduction in the heating expenditure for the palace.” Standing, she leaned over the wide, polished expanse of her desk and handed over the papers she’d been studying.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the steward said.

  “We will start a fashion this winter for wearing wool and furs,” Kenneret said, using the royal we that made her every pronouncement seem too formal. “So our courtiers don’t get cold.”

  “Very good, Your Majesty,” Dorriss said, and turned to hand the papers to one of the secretaries.

  With a sigh, Kenneret sat down on her sore bottom. She was queen. Surely she could get a better pillow for her chair. But she did not squirm. Her back didn’t even touch the chair—that’s how straight she sat. “Will that be all, then, Steward?” she asked.

  “There are two more things, Your Majesty,” Dorriss said, turning away from the servants. “Yes, you may go,” she said to the two secretaries, who, after bowing deeply, received a nod of dismissal from the queen. Dorriss pulled a letter from the file of papers she held, and scanned it. “This, Your Majesty, is from the military school at Starkcliffe. They are expelling your brother.” She glanced up. “Again.”

  Kenneret stifled a groan. Her brother, Charleren, younger than her by a year, was far, far more trouble than he was worth. The school had kicked him out before—and they’d taken him back because she had insisted. After all, she was queen. “When does he arrive?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain calm.

  “In a few days, Your Majesty,” Dorriss answered, after scanning the letter again.

  “Very well.” Carefully, Kenneret placed the tips of her fingers along the edge of the shiny surface of her desk. She made herself notice the swirls in the polished wood, its deep honey color. Details. They were important. They kept her grounded, steady, even when she wanted to rip off her crown and run screaming with exasperation from the palace. She took a long, steadying breath. “We believe you said there were two more things requiring our attention?” she asked.

  “Ah, yes, Your Majesty,” Steward Dorriss answered. “It is about the new royal librarian, who has just arrived. I think . . .” Her lips pursed. “It may be best if Your Majesty meets him.”

  Kenneret sighed. She wasn’t getting out of this chair anytime soon. “Very well.” A library was a burden. Like an ancient, sickly maiden aunt, of little interest to anyone, but it did need a keeper.

  Dorriss turned to give orders to one of the footmen to fetch the new royal librarian.

  “What is his name again?” Kenneret asked.

  “Farnsworth, Your Majesty,” Dorriss answered, her face carefully blank. At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, she turned. “Ah, here he is.”

  The librarian entered her office. Kenneret blinked and tried not to stare. He was not at all what she had expected. He was young, for one thing, even younger than she was by at least a year, she guessed. The same age as her brother. Tall, though. Pale-skinned, with badly cut blond hair, a long nose, wearing a shirt that had once been white, with a shapeless brown jacket over it, and trousers that were a little too short, as if he’d grown taller since he was given them.

  “Your Majesty,” Dorriss said, her voice uninflected, “may I present Librarian Merwyn . . . ah . . . Farnsworth, most recently librarian to the Dowager Duchess of Purslane Castle in Extershire.”

  Now was when he should bow. But he didn’t. He just regarded her levelly, with narrowed gray eyes.

  She stared back at him and felt an instant antipathy. Who did he think he was, not even bowing to the queen? “You are Merwyn Farnsworth?”

  He flinched just the slightest bit as she said the name. She noticed such things—she had to, because people never ever told a queen what they were really thinking. He didn’t like his name, she guessed. Or . . . it wasn’t his name at all.

  “Yes, I’m Farnsworth,” he answered. “Not Merwyn, if you don’t mind. Alex. I go by my middle name, Alexandren.”

  “We are pleased to welcome you to the Aethel Winter Palace, Librarian Farnsworth,” she said formally.

  “Thanks,” he answered. He glanced aside at the steward. “What happened to the previous librarian?” he asked.

  “She died,” Dorriss answered.

  “Yeah, I got that,” the boy said impatiently. “It was in the letter. But how did she die?”

  “Of old age, I believe,” Dorriss said. It was, after all, her job to know such things.

  “She just fell asleep one day and didn’t wake up?” he asked. “Is that it?”

  “That is,” Dorriss said dryly, “in fact, it.”

  The boy looked intent. “Was she holding a book when it happened?”

  Dorriss frowned ever so slightly at the question. “I do not know.”

  “Huh,” the boy said, and absently rubbed his left wrist.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Do you have the letter that we sent you?” Kenneret asked, trying to get a better sense of who he was. “The one inviting you to serve us as the royal librarian?”

  “We?” he asked abruptly. “What we? What us?”

  Kenneret caught her steward’s eye. At her nod, Dorriss answered for her. “Her Majesty uses the royal we. It is a reminder that Her Majesty, the queen, speaks not just for herself, but for the crown and, indeed, for the kingdom.”

  To Kenneret’s surprise, the boy nodded seriously. “Right. I get it.” And then he gave her that level, searching look again, as if he was trying to see past the we to I. To her.

  She didn’t like it. “The letter?” she prompted.

  The boy pulled a crumpled paper from the pocket of his rather ragged jacket and held it out to her, stepping closer so he could reach across the desk.

  As she took it, she noticed that he had some sort of tattoo around his wrist, but even stranger, his fingers were calloused. And, he had lines of scars, faded to white, across the backs of his knuckles. She knew scars like that—her brother had them, too. People got them from training with the sword. Not just blunted practice swor
ds, but real ones, with sharp edges.

  What kind of librarian had advanced sword training?

  She glanced at the paper, and indeed, it was the letter her steward had sent to Castle Purslane requiring Merwyn Farnsworth to take up the position of royal librarian. She tapped the edge of the paper against the polished surface of her desk. “So . . . you are a librarian,” she said.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Dorriss said pointedly. “That is the proper form of address when speaking to the queen.”

  He frowned, hesitated, and then said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “What, in your opinion,” Kenneret asked, “is a librarian’s duty?”

  “Librarians look after libraries,” he answered. And then added, “Your Majesty.”

  “And what does that involve?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Cataloging the books. Keeping the books locked up.”

  “That does not sound particularly interesting,” she murmured, still tapping the letter on her desk, because she could see quite clearly that it annoyed him. “It seems to us, Merwyn Alexandren Farnsworth, that you are more suited to being a swordsman than a librarian.”

  He gave her an inimical look. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Your Majesty,” reminded Dorriss softly.

  “Libraries are dangerous,” he went on as if Dorriss had not spoken. “Books are dangerous. A book is more dangerous than any sword.”

  Interested, Kenneret leaned closer. “And a librarian is more brave than any soldier?”

  “That’s right,” he answered promptly, as if he’d had this argument before.

  Hmm. She suspected he was being purposely overdramatic about books—which were strange, yes, but not actually dangerous—so that she’d give him the job. And she didn’t believe for a second that he was who he claimed to be. He was too young, too scruffy, too obnoxious. Still, he sounded educated, despite his northern accent, and she did need somebody to keep the books in order, or at least dusted, until her steward found somebody more appropriate.

  “We will give you a chance to prove yourself,” she said. “Until the end of the month.”