Sword of Destiny

When he awoke, the city was alive with noise. The heat on him suggested it was near to midday, if not early afternoon, but there was no way to tell. Not while he was still face down in vomit.

To be fair, the sick had now dried, and he was tempted to stay there indefinitely. If he didn’t move, the pain stayed quiet. Feet moved horizontally and absently in front of him; the busy patter of shoppers and self-important people. None noticed Jossie. None noticed the near-to-death ten-year-old laying at the side of the road. Why would they? They were busy.

He reached out for the ruined carcass of his book and tripped a woman in a long colourful robe – a fashion which was perversely imported from Mandari Ahan. She hopped herself to rights; spun around; looked right at him; and scowled.

“Watch it.”

Most likely she thought he was a drunk. A ten-year-old drunk. Looking at him, what was there to help? He was beyond help. He couldn’t blame her. There was no point in any case. The anger swelled deep within, but on the outside, to the world that mocked him, he was maudlin. Sad. What good could come from an outburst? And besides; he didn’t have the right. He was lowest of the low.

It was definitely mid-afternoon by the time he dragged his sorry carcass into the library. He recognised the librarian at the front desk, the snake-thin man peering over pretentiously small spectacles. He was the post-noon clerk, and they weren’t on good terms. The clerk welcomed him as he would any other visitor.

“Good afternoon. Please make sure to keep the noise down.”

He tried to respond with words, but only a faint hiss seeped out, spittle flying randomly. He held up the battered book, and when the librarian recognised its state, Mother herself seemed to rain down her godly magnificence. The clerk would punish this sacrilege.

“How dare you disrespect―”

“Leave him alone. Can you not see that the child is in a state?”

The librarian snapped his head around and stretched himself to his full height. But he was quick to recede, being as he was subservient to the new arrival. Then again, in this place, everyone was subservient to the new arrival.

The clerk coughed. “I was about to suggest that he should not be permitted entry in that state, but―”

“That’s not what I mean, idiot. He’s been beaten up.”

The new voice materialised next to him, closely followed by a body. And it was a strange gangly body with odd protrusions in any place it was possible. He was Bulge, the head librarian, and he was a friend; if friend was the right term. In fact, the head librarian was his only near-friend if truth be told, so he should grab that label even if he doubted its truth.

Bulge laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and challenged the junior librarian with his gaze. The other man peered defiantly over those pathetic spectacles, trapped into silence by the natural order of authority. Bulge was king here. The clerk shook his head and tutted.

“Look at the state of this book.”

“It is a copy, fool. Anyone worth their scholarship should see that straight off. I do not let Jossie leave with anything of value because, unfortunately for the poor pup, this is a frequent occurrence.”

The junior librarian squirmed where he stood. “He looks like he deserves it to me.”

For a moment, Bulge’s mouth formed a hard ‘O’, but nothing came out except his tongue, which just lolled. The head librarian scratched at the bloated curve of the stomach – how the man’s name was earned – and promptly turned and marched down the hall, beckoning him. The desk clerk was left sneering after them, albeit with a submissive veneer.

It was a great building, the library; simple and solidly built. So much of Triosec was temporary, rushed, and infected with premature decay, but the library was a shining exception. A box of a building, it was lined with regiment after regiment of polished wooden shelves, each heaving with books; scrolls; parchments; leather wallets; tomes; journals; rolled maps; and just about everything in-between. Well-oiled roller-steps lived in each aisle, and between the ranks of literature, fine reading seats were placed with precision. They were often vacant.

There was also a gallery about the higher part of the library which housed some of the finer collections, and this was now where he sat whilst Bulge tended to his wounds. It was testament to the frequency of the beatings that Bulge moved with a practised hand and barely a question. The librarian was not trained in healing, but he was experienced nonetheless. They had been here many times before.

“Was it the Animals again?”

Bulge didn’t like to call them the Farmyard Friends when their acts were so ghastly. He nodded quietly.

“You must tell your father.”

He wanted to reply that his father didn’t even notice that he was home unless he got under people’s feet. He wanted to say that his father was more likely to join Beef in the beatings, and that he was better off limiting himself to the attentions of the juveniles. He wanted to eloquently lay down the reality of his life, but that was unfortunately not what came out of his mouth.

“Ny-oh goo—” His power over language had been beaten from him.

“What about your brothers?”

That was depressing. What Bulge was suggesting as remedial action was actually a contributing element. He almost gagged at the memory of his brother’s meek and fetid appearance. Bulge looked straight at him, nodding subtly. It remained unsaid between them.

Noise disturbed them, which was probably good. Best to avoid awkward questions. He looked at a gallery even higher than where he and Bulge were sat, and there was someone there. He had never seen that place anything but silent in the past, but stood there now was a man. He was a magnificent man too, a man of authority, and his identity was obvious. That was the Royal Gallery, and that man was therefore the King of Delfinia.

He instinctively tensed and puckered his arse. That reflex would never leave him. The King shook his head subtly and turned his eyes away. Then he looked back, not impressed.

Beside the King was a young man of a similar age, but the gulf between the two of them was inconceivable. The King’s companion was everything he was not, and it was quite clear that the young man was the Prince of Delfinia. A prince. That was amusing in a way, that the entire span of social class was represented in this small space. He wanted to smile just a bit, but equally, he didn’t want to offend his king. Or his prince. He had nothing to thank them for, but he wasn’t an idiot.

Bulge shuffled beside him. “Aye, the King is in today. Pain in the crotch that is for all involved. Keeps us from our damned jobs.”

Was that really the librarian’s attitude towards his king? Bulge smiled, winked at him, and just stared at the monarch. It was a stand-off of sorts, a challenge between the magnificent ruler and the man they called Bulge for all the wrong reasons. Even Bulge’s loose-sack robes couldn’t hide his ridiculous shape. It was no contest really.

But the librarian didn’t care, and that was awesome. He liked his friend Bulge, but in that moment, he utterly adored him, thinking of him in the same shade as Queen Delfin herself. And she was the greatest revolutionary of them all.

Bulge was the father he’d never had, and the librarian was even standing up to the King on his behalf. That was amazing. The monarch moved away from the balustrade, turning his back on them, ending the exchange. The prince smirked and followed his father into the hidden luxury of the Royal Gallery, but there had been something else in those young royal eyes too. It was fleeting, but it was also powerful. He would remember that look.

“Whass he doon he-e.” Not exactly eloquent, but Bulge seemed to understand.

“Planning war. That’s all he ever does.”

“Wa-urr ’gainsht oo?”

“The Mandari invaders. Always the Mandari.”

It had been a stupid question really. But then he scrunched up his face and furrowed his brow. War, in a place of books? That didn’t make sense.

“Oh it makes perfect sense, young Jossie.” Had Bulge just read his face? “Conflict is as much about the thinking as it is about the doing, and what better place to think than here. Silence is an idea’s best friend.”

That resonated. He had always loved the silence. It was a time when he could be entirely himself, and perhaps he was even slightly smart with it; ideas flowering that others might not find. He was certainly passionate about things, and he didn’t like to consider that there were limits to his quiet reflection. But war? Here? War was such a potent concept that it didn’t seem like it should have a place in this sanctuary of reflection. But Bulge wouldn’t lie. What would be the point? He couldn’t let go of the thought.

Oil passed over a particularly deep gash and he winced. Damn but he wished he could expand his smarts into the real world. If only he could teach himself to fight. He looked longingly at the Royal Gallery and turned to Bulge with a question. He didn’t get a chance to speak before Bulge cut in.

“I thought you’d never ask. Come with me.”

And he did. He flicked through the books to which Bulge had directed him, and the bruising faded from his thoughts.