Chapter 4: The Universitorium
Zanther and Novanostrum sit at a table with a young woman and a bookish middle-aged man at a pub on the outskirts of the Universitorium, the Thirsty Scholast.
“There were all these monsters,” Zanther says, “fiercer than lions and uglier than Novanostrum--if that’s possible--and he was all like ‘zap!’ and ‘ka-pow!’ and shooting them with lightning. But they kept coming, so I had to step in and cut them down.
The young woman rolls her eyes and takes another sip of the wine in her glass. The bookish man studies the map, crinkling his eyebrows and stroking his beard.
“These characters resemble those used by the Nasonic monks who live deep in the Centripetal Mountains.”
“Can you read it?” Novanostrum asks.
“Few can read it. Only the most revered Nasonic monks are allowed to read and write the sacred text.”
“Well,” Novanostrum says, “this is supposed to be an institution of higher learning, is it not? Are you telling me there’s nobody here who can translate this for us?”
“I know a few philosophers who I’m sure would be happy to speculate about the meaning of the characters for you.”
Having shaken the last few precious drops of beer from his mug and into his open mouth, Zanther slams it onto the table. “I think we’ll pass on that.”
The scholast shrugs and rises from the table.
“So what do you think?” Zanther asks Novanostrum.
“He’s just one guy, and this is a big place. When it comes to texts, there’s one group of people who always seem to have all the answers.”
“The Librarians? I don’t know, Nove, those guys kind of give me the creeps. The way they hide under those hoods and roam from town to town, it just doesn’t sit quite right with me.”
“I dated a Librarian once,” the young woman says.
Zanther and Novanostrum pause in their conversation and look at her.
“Well?” Novanostrum asks.
“Well, what?” she asks.
Novanostrum clears his throat. “Are you going to elaborate, or did you simply feel the need to inject yourself into our conversation?”
“Hmph,” she says, standing abruptly and storming away.
Zanther cocks his head to the side, giving Novanostrum a quizzical look. “You don’t, er, date much, do you?”
“Simple-minded people irritate me.”
Zanther raises his hand, gesturing to the bar wench to order another mug of Dragon’s Leg. “But she was mine, and you scared her off.”
“Then you should thank me.”
“Thank you? For what? Are you out of your bonking mind?”
“You’re a taken man, now. Madra’s got you in her sights and she won’t be pleased if you’re off copulating with every tipsy missy who crosses your path.”
“Madra? She had me kidnapped and then tried to force herself on me. I don’t consider that to be the basis of a serious relationship.”
“Well, why not? She’s attractive, she’s a queen, and she likes you. What more do you want?”
“I don’t like a girl who can have me deheaded with a flick of her wrist.”
“Now you’re just nitpicking, Zanther--nobody’s perfect.”
Professor Sogbottom pulls a chunk of cheese from the bottom of his knapsack and hands it to Madra. She breaks off a piece and chews it slowly as the wagon grinds its way across the endless plains.
The wagon passes an odd cluster of bushes, and an arrow twangs itself into the wooden seat between them. Sogbottom puzzles over it for a moment before the realization hits him.
“Brigands!”
The next few eyeblinks are a blur as the old horse spooks and snaps itself loose, and the sudden lack of velocity sends Madra flying from the wagon. She lands face-first on the ground.
As she loses consciousness, the last thing Madra sees is Sogbottom lifting the seat of the wagon to grab a weapon. With her vision fading, she hears the whistling of volleys of arrows, and the frantic footstomps and screams of their assailants.
Zanther and Novanostrum are in the Penulpenulibris, the main library of the Universitorium and the third largest library in all of Upper Kleighton. The building is a huge, circular tower whose interior is lined with thousands upon thousands of books. A huge, rotating gear is attached to the ceiling, and hanging from this gear are rope elevators which scholasts and Librarians are using to access books hundreds of man-lengths above the floor.
“Nope,” one of the Librarians says as he hands the map back to Zanther, “we don’t have anything like that.”
“Nothing? No texts about Nasonic monks and their written language?” Novanostrum asks.
“Oh, sure, we’ve got lots of books about Nasonic monks, and a few of those books are dedicated solely to their written language.”
“So what’s the problem?” Zanther asks.
The Librarian motions them closer and speaks in a low voice. “They were all written by philosophers.”
Novanostrum sighs. “Would it be possible for us to speak to the Libros Majorum about this?”
All chatter in the Penulpenulibris dies, and two dozen angry eyes focus on Zanther and Novanostrum. The Librarian puts both his hands on Novanostrum’s shoulders.
“Nobody speaks to the Libros Majorum!” he hisses.
“Fair enough,” Novanostrum says.
“There’s nothing for it,” Zanther says, “we’ve got to go to the source of the scribbles.”
The Librarian’s expression softens. “The Nasonic temple is outside the village of Zweissergrund.”
Zanther and Novanostrum nod their thanks before exiting through the thick, oaken door and into the muggy street. Tipsy scholasts stagger by in twos and threes. A young man empties the contents of his stomach in a nearby alley.
“What do you think that was all about?” Zanther asks.
“The Libros Majorum is the one in charge of the Librarians. Some say he’s a wizard of the First Circle, a man not to be trifled with. Rumors of his power are what allow the Librarians to travel unmolested between the kingdoms of Upper Kleighton, transporting their books. There’s a legend of a Darrinian king who once had two Librarians put to death for trespassing in his lands.”
“And what happened to this so-called king of legend?”
“The day after the Librarians were deheaded, a book was found on his throne, a book bound in flesh. The text within the book was said to be twelve hundred pages of tiny text--the inner monologue spanning the king’s entire life. The text was written in blood.”
“And you actually believe this?” Zanther asks, raising his eyebrows.
Novanostrum shrugs. “It’s possible there is no Libros Majorum and the Librarians created the legend themselves as a means of protection. However, the fact that the Darrinians and Crucifers give the Librarians such a wide berth leads me to believe the Librarians have some kind of power backing them.”
Madra awakens to find a cloth wrapped around her forehead and the horse reattached to the wagon. Sogbottom has a few scrapes and bruises, but appears to be otherwise intact.
“What the High Hell happened?” she asks.
“It was the most curious thing,” Sogbottom says, “they’d surrounded us, and I thought for sure we were about to be murdered, but before they could step in and deliver the coup de grace, they all turned on their heels and fled. Something must’ve filled them with a holy terror, because they never even looked back.”
Madra gives Sogbottom a puzzled look. She can’t see directly behind the rapidly-progressing wagon, but if she could, she might be able to make out a cluster of bloody bundles, barely visible within the tall grasses. Closer inspection of these bloody bundles would reveal that they are men, grasping their knees, eyes frozen wide in terror, their throats each slit from ear-to-ear.
Sogbottom whistles cheerfully between swigs of his tonick. He offers it to Madra, but s
he refuses.
In the distance, far in front of them, Madra can see the outline of a long, flat structure with a bell tower in its center. Surrounding this structure are smaller buildings, pubs and houses and other, smaller towers.
“So that’s the Universitorium?” Madra asks.
“It is, indeed. The epicenter of scholastic endeavors, the source and origin of any and all knowable knowledge. I used to teach there, you know.”
“You don’t teach there now?”
“Every now and then I teach a class, but with the expansion of their Philosophy department, it’s getting harder for the rest of us.”
“Oh? What did you teach?”
“Originally, I taught Musick Theory before the course was reassigned and recurriculated into Philosophy of Musick. I then taught a course concerning the prophesies of ancient peoples, but that course was also reformulated into Philosophical Prophesy. Finally, I taught a course in alchemy, but when the directors told me they would cancel my class unless I could produce the Philosopher’s Stone, I resigned, choosing instead to focus my alchemic efforts towards the concoction of tonicks to ease the mind and refresh the spirit.”
“I see.”
“What about you, young Miss, where did you matriculate?”
“I had private tutors. My father was always worried about my safety, so I wasn’t allowed to travel much when I was younger.”
“That’s unfortunate. Well, if nothing else, you are traveling now,” Sogbottom says.
“True, but I wish the circumstances were better. I’m not sure what I’m going to do if I am unable to find my friends.”
Sogbottom smiles. “The world’s a big place. There are always opportunities to make new friends.”
Madra frowns. “That holds true for enemies as well.”