A sudden, startled
thrill ran through me. I was not alone anymore. A long time had
passed. The sun had swung several hours across the sky. The quality
of the light within the library had changed. It had become a much
paler version of its morning self. Presumably the clouds had passed
away.
I did not jump or, I hope, show any immediate outward reaction.
But I did have to respond visibly to my awareness of the presence
of whoever was standing behind me. Perhaps it was his breath that
alerted me. The curry and garlic were strong. Certainly I never
heard a sound.
I brought my heartbeat under control, smoothed my features,
turned.
The Master of the Library, my boss, Surendranath Santaraksita,
met my gaze. “Dorabee. I believe you were reading.” At
the library they know me as Dorabee Dey Banerjae. An honorable
name. A man of that name died beside me in a skirmish near the Daka
Woods a long time ago. He did not need it anymore and I would do it
no harm.
I did not speak. The truth would be hard to deny if the Master
had been there long. I was halfway through the book, which was of
the bound sort and contained no illustrations whatsoever, not even
one Tantric passage.
“I have been watching you for some time, Dorabee. Your
interest and skill are both evident. It’s clear that you read
better than most of my copyists. Yet it’s equally obvious
that you aren’t of the priestly caste.”
My face was still as old cheese. I was wondering if I should
kill him and how I could dispose of the corpse if I did. Perhaps
the Stranglers could be framed . . . No. Master
Santaraksita was old but still hale enough to throw me around if I
tried to throttle him. Being small has definite disadvantages at
times. He had eight inches on me but at the moment that seemed like
several feet. And someone else was moving around at the other end
of the library. I heard voices.
I did not drop my eyes the way a menial should. Master
Santaraksita already knew I was more than a curious sweeper, though
a good one. I kept the place spotless. That was a Company rule. Our
public characters had to be morally straight and excellent workers.
Which did not make some of the men at all happy.
I waited. Master Santaraksita would decide his own fate. He
would decide the fate of the library that he loved.
“So. Our Dorabee is a man of more talents than we
suspected. What else do you do that we don’t know about,
Dorabee? Can you write, as well?” I did not answer, of
course. “Where did you learn? It has long been the contention
of many of the bhadrhalok that those not of the priestly caste do
not have the mental facility to learn the High Mode.”
Still I did not speak. Eventually he would commit to movement in
some direction. I would respond accordingly. I hoped I could avoid
destroying him and his brethren and stripping the library of
whatever might be useful. That was the course One-Eye wanted to
follow years ago. Never mind being subtle. Never mind not alerting
Soulcatcher to what was happening right under her nose.
“You have nothing to say? No defense?”
“A pursuit of knowledge needs no defense. Sri Sondhel
Ghosh the Janaka declared that in the Garden of Wisdom there is no
caste.” Albeit in an age when caste had much less
meaning.
“Sondhel Ghosh spoke of the university at Vikramas, where
all the students had to pass an exhaustive examination before they
were allowed to enter the grounds.”
“Do we suppose many students of any caste were admitted
who were unable to read the Panas and Pashids? Sondhel Ghosh was
not called the Janaka for nothing. Vikramas was the seat of Janai
religious study.”
“A janitor who knows about a religion long dead. We are
indeed entering the Age of Khadi, where all is turned upon its
head.” Khadi is the favored Taglian name for Kina, in one of
her less vicious aspects. The name Kina is seldom spoken, lest the
Dark Mother hear and respond. Only the Deceivers want her to come
around. “Where did you acquire this skill? Who taught
you?”
“A friend started me out a long time ago. After we buried
him, I continued to teach myself.” My gaze never left his
face. For a goofy old boffin, whose stuffiness was grist for the
mockery of the younger copyists, he seemed remarkably flexible
mentally. But then, he might be brighter than he seemed. He might
realize that he could buy himself a float downriver to the swamps
if the wrong words passed his lips.
No. Master Surendranath Santaraksita did not yet live in a world
where one who read and cherished sacred texts also cut throats and
trafficked with sorcerers, the dead and rakshasas. Master
Surenranath Santaraksita did not think of himself that way, but he
was a sort of holy hermit, self-consecrated to preserve all that
was good in knowledge and culture. This much I had discovered
already, through continuous observation. I had figured out, also,
that we might not often agree on what was good.
“You just wish to learn, then.”
“I lust after knowledge the way some men lust after
pleasures of the flesh. I’ve always been that way. I
can’t help it. It’s an obsession.”
Santaraksita leaned a little closer, studying me with myopic
eyes. “You are older than you seem.”
I confessed. “People think I’m younger than I am
because I’m small.”
“Tell me about yourself, Dorabee Dey Banerjae. Who was
your father? Of what family was your mother?”
“You will not have heard of them.” I considered
refusing to elaborate. But Dorabee Dey Banerjae did have a story. I
had been rehearsing it for seven years. If I just stayed in
character, it would all be true.
Stay in character. Be Dorabee caught reading. Let Sleepy worry
about what to do when it was time for Sleepy to come back
onstage.
“You denigrate yourself overmuch,” Santaraksita said
at one point. “I may have known your
father . . . if he was the same Dollal Dey
Banerjae who could not resist the Liberator’s call for
recruits when he raised the original legion that triumphed at Ghoja
Ford.”
I had named dead Dorabee’s father already. I could not
take that back now. How could he know Dollal, anyway? Banerjae was
one of the oldest and most common of traditional Taglian surnames.
Banerjaes were mentioned in the text I had been reading till
moments ago. “That may have been him. I never knew him well.
I do recall him boasting that he was one of the first to enroll. He
marched off with the Liberator to defeat the Shadowmasters. He
never came back from Ghoja Ford.” I did not know much more
about Dorabee’s family. Not even his mother’s name. In
all Taglios how could it be possible I would encounter anyone who
remembered the father? Fortune is indeed a goddess filled with
caprice. “Did you know him well?” If that was so, the
librarian might have to go—just that would make my exposure
inevitable.
“No. Not well. Not well at all.” Now Master
Santaraksita seemed disinclined to say more. He seemed worrisomely
thoughtful. After a moment he told me, “Come with me,
Dorabee.”
“Sir?”
“You brought up the university at Vikramas. I have a list
of the questions the gate guards put to those who wanted to enroll.
Curiosity impels me to subject you to the same
examination.”
“I know little about Janai, Master.” If the truth
were told, I was a bit shaky on the tenets of my own religion,
always having been afraid to examine it too closely. Other
religions do not stand up to the rigorous application of reason,
for all we have things like Kina stalking the earth, and I really
did not want to find myself stumbling over any boulders of
absurdity protruding from the bedrock of my own faith.
“The examination was not religious in nature, Dorabee. It
tested the prospective student’s morals, ethics and ability
to think. Janaka monks did not wish to educate potential leaders
who would come to their calling with the stain of darkness upon
their souls.”
That being the case, I had to get into character very deeply
indeed. Sleepy, the Vehdna soldier girl from Jaicur, had stains on
her soul blacker than a shadow of all night falling.
A sudden, startled
thrill ran through me. I was not alone anymore. A long time had
passed. The sun had swung several hours across the sky. The quality
of the light within the library had changed. It had become a much
paler version of its morning self. Presumably the clouds had passed
away.
I did not jump or, I hope, show any immediate outward reaction.
But I did have to respond visibly to my awareness of the presence
of whoever was standing behind me. Perhaps it was his breath that
alerted me. The curry and garlic were strong. Certainly I never
heard a sound.
I brought my heartbeat under control, smoothed my features,
turned.
The Master of the Library, my boss, Surendranath Santaraksita,
met my gaze. “Dorabee. I believe you were reading.” At
the library they know me as Dorabee Dey Banerjae. An honorable
name. A man of that name died beside me in a skirmish near the Daka
Woods a long time ago. He did not need it anymore and I would do it
no harm.
I did not speak. The truth would be hard to deny if the Master
had been there long. I was halfway through the book, which was of
the bound sort and contained no illustrations whatsoever, not even
one Tantric passage.
“I have been watching you for some time, Dorabee. Your
interest and skill are both evident. It’s clear that you read
better than most of my copyists. Yet it’s equally obvious
that you aren’t of the priestly caste.”
My face was still as old cheese. I was wondering if I should
kill him and how I could dispose of the corpse if I did. Perhaps
the Stranglers could be framed . . . No. Master
Santaraksita was old but still hale enough to throw me around if I
tried to throttle him. Being small has definite disadvantages at
times. He had eight inches on me but at the moment that seemed like
several feet. And someone else was moving around at the other end
of the library. I heard voices.
I did not drop my eyes the way a menial should. Master
Santaraksita already knew I was more than a curious sweeper, though
a good one. I kept the place spotless. That was a Company rule. Our
public characters had to be morally straight and excellent workers.
Which did not make some of the men at all happy.
I waited. Master Santaraksita would decide his own fate. He
would decide the fate of the library that he loved.
“So. Our Dorabee is a man of more talents than we
suspected. What else do you do that we don’t know about,
Dorabee? Can you write, as well?” I did not answer, of
course. “Where did you learn? It has long been the contention
of many of the bhadrhalok that those not of the priestly caste do
not have the mental facility to learn the High Mode.”
Still I did not speak. Eventually he would commit to movement in
some direction. I would respond accordingly. I hoped I could avoid
destroying him and his brethren and stripping the library of
whatever might be useful. That was the course One-Eye wanted to
follow years ago. Never mind being subtle. Never mind not alerting
Soulcatcher to what was happening right under her nose.
“You have nothing to say? No defense?”
“A pursuit of knowledge needs no defense. Sri Sondhel
Ghosh the Janaka declared that in the Garden of Wisdom there is no
caste.” Albeit in an age when caste had much less
meaning.
“Sondhel Ghosh spoke of the university at Vikramas, where
all the students had to pass an exhaustive examination before they
were allowed to enter the grounds.”
“Do we suppose many students of any caste were admitted
who were unable to read the Panas and Pashids? Sondhel Ghosh was
not called the Janaka for nothing. Vikramas was the seat of Janai
religious study.”
“A janitor who knows about a religion long dead. We are
indeed entering the Age of Khadi, where all is turned upon its
head.” Khadi is the favored Taglian name for Kina, in one of
her less vicious aspects. The name Kina is seldom spoken, lest the
Dark Mother hear and respond. Only the Deceivers want her to come
around. “Where did you acquire this skill? Who taught
you?”
“A friend started me out a long time ago. After we buried
him, I continued to teach myself.” My gaze never left his
face. For a goofy old boffin, whose stuffiness was grist for the
mockery of the younger copyists, he seemed remarkably flexible
mentally. But then, he might be brighter than he seemed. He might
realize that he could buy himself a float downriver to the swamps
if the wrong words passed his lips.
No. Master Surendranath Santaraksita did not yet live in a world
where one who read and cherished sacred texts also cut throats and
trafficked with sorcerers, the dead and rakshasas. Master
Surenranath Santaraksita did not think of himself that way, but he
was a sort of holy hermit, self-consecrated to preserve all that
was good in knowledge and culture. This much I had discovered
already, through continuous observation. I had figured out, also,
that we might not often agree on what was good.
“You just wish to learn, then.”
“I lust after knowledge the way some men lust after
pleasures of the flesh. I’ve always been that way. I
can’t help it. It’s an obsession.”
Santaraksita leaned a little closer, studying me with myopic
eyes. “You are older than you seem.”
I confessed. “People think I’m younger than I am
because I’m small.”
“Tell me about yourself, Dorabee Dey Banerjae. Who was
your father? Of what family was your mother?”
“You will not have heard of them.” I considered
refusing to elaborate. But Dorabee Dey Banerjae did have a story. I
had been rehearsing it for seven years. If I just stayed in
character, it would all be true.
Stay in character. Be Dorabee caught reading. Let Sleepy worry
about what to do when it was time for Sleepy to come back
onstage.
“You denigrate yourself overmuch,” Santaraksita said
at one point. “I may have known your
father . . . if he was the same Dollal Dey
Banerjae who could not resist the Liberator’s call for
recruits when he raised the original legion that triumphed at Ghoja
Ford.”
I had named dead Dorabee’s father already. I could not
take that back now. How could he know Dollal, anyway? Banerjae was
one of the oldest and most common of traditional Taglian surnames.
Banerjaes were mentioned in the text I had been reading till
moments ago. “That may have been him. I never knew him well.
I do recall him boasting that he was one of the first to enroll. He
marched off with the Liberator to defeat the Shadowmasters. He
never came back from Ghoja Ford.” I did not know much more
about Dorabee’s family. Not even his mother’s name. In
all Taglios how could it be possible I would encounter anyone who
remembered the father? Fortune is indeed a goddess filled with
caprice. “Did you know him well?” If that was so, the
librarian might have to go—just that would make my exposure
inevitable.
“No. Not well. Not well at all.” Now Master
Santaraksita seemed disinclined to say more. He seemed worrisomely
thoughtful. After a moment he told me, “Come with me,
Dorabee.”
“Sir?”
“You brought up the university at Vikramas. I have a list
of the questions the gate guards put to those who wanted to enroll.
Curiosity impels me to subject you to the same
examination.”
“I know little about Janai, Master.” If the truth
were told, I was a bit shaky on the tenets of my own religion,
always having been afraid to examine it too closely. Other
religions do not stand up to the rigorous application of reason,
for all we have things like Kina stalking the earth, and I really
did not want to find myself stumbling over any boulders of
absurdity protruding from the bedrock of my own faith.
“The examination was not religious in nature, Dorabee. It
tested the prospective student’s morals, ethics and ability
to think. Janaka monks did not wish to educate potential leaders
who would come to their calling with the stain of darkness upon
their souls.”
That being the case, I had to get into character very deeply
indeed. Sleepy, the Vehdna soldier girl from Jaicur, had stains on
her soul blacker than a shadow of all night falling.