“Leave if it gets worse. And if not—”
“The cellar,” Mattin had finished for him, his shaking hands finally steadying, although his fretting carried him out of the room only moments after that. He’d get tea, possibly something to eat, then disappear into the stacks again. If guards did storm the library, they might never find him up there.
And if they did, then hopefully his family name would frighten them off.
Canamorrahadn’t, but their numbers were not great anymore. The Arlylian were plentiful enough that they could leave Mattin to his own devices in the Great Library, and angering them might be something Piya wouldn’t risk.
Tiiran reasoned this out as he finished his letters, and then, with nothing else to keep him in the office, went out to look for anything else that he could resolve.
He was fretting too; he recognized it now after seeing it in Mattin. He would leave and didn’t know if he’d return, and he couldn’t even tell the others. Although there was no one to tell that he could see. No fires were lit. Around the entrance, all lamps but one were out. The upper floors were silent.
He went into the rest area to put his notes in the tea cupboard to be found in the morning or perhaps many mornings from now. He had some cold dregs that Nikoly would have tutted over, but Nikoly was off seeing to details of their journey. He’d mentioned getting food for the journey, in case it was scarce with so many others traveling. Then they were going to pack up any necessary belongings together; Tiiran was not to wander about the palace alone and to wait in the library until Nikoly returned, which Tiiran had done.
Tiiran didn’t know when Nikoly would be back, but night would fall soon and at night, passage in and out of the palace gate was scrutinized with slightly more care even in times of peace.
He needlessly straightened the front desk, then stared at the empty copying tables, telling himself he was different from the Master Keepers. They had left the assistants and the library to fend for themselves and would not be welcomed back if he had any say in it.
“Fuck the fae and curse the Canamorra for ever starting this,” he whispered to himself, safe with no one to hear him but possibly the indifferent fae.
But his words punished the child for having a name, as Jola had been punished. When faced with that, Tiiran was almost grateful to not have a family. Of course, even without a noble name, Tiiran was potentially on the same chopping block as the Canamorra because he worked in the Great Library and had sense.
All the danger of noble blood without even the power or wealth. He muttered about it under his breath, knowing Orin would give him a stern look for that but be amused—or would have been amused, if the threat weren’t real.
And for what? Tiiran was one small librarian. He couldn’t save the library or the Outguard. He’d never be close enough to Piya to explain that without the two institutions that were meant to help rulers govern well, the country might as well fall to flames and ash. He doubted Piya was smart enough to see that on his own. Then again, he might, and might not care.
Tiiran had never even left the capital. To him, the parts of the country that were real were the library, the palace, and possibly some parts of the city around them. But the rest of it mattered to the others. Po and Amie had families. Nikoly had a clan head to serve, and sisters to love him, and mountains with storms he found beautiful. The Vahti were smiths, welcoming enough to even take in Tiiran, or so Orin claimed, and Orin wouldn’t lie about it. Lanth had died for the country, or an idea of it. So had the old queen, in a sense.
The palace might be viewed as representing the country. It was full of people; guards and scholars and nobles. Kitchen staff, carpenters, and stable hands. It had gardens bursting with plants from across many territories, and standing evidence of people long dead, like the remnants of the original walls, or towers built by past rulers and the bridges that connected one side of the palace to the other. It held rooms for nobles, and the Palace Guard and Outguard barracks, and the library.
Thatwas the history Orin thought Tiiran should know. The history Mattin loved.
Mattin cared for the country too. So did the fae, or so everyone kept insisting.
“Then where the fuck are you?” Tiiran asked them, not expecting an answer although there should fucking well have been one. Yet he waited in silence for too long, embarrassing himself.
“That’s what I thought,” he snarled, and started over to the doors to lock out any late visitors. Nikoly could knock, or, knowing Nikoly, use a key he’d borrowed from someone. “Once again, you shitheads have left me to—”
Tiiran stopped as both doors swung inward and two palace guards stepped inside just enough to hold the doors open in order to allow a third guard to enter.
Once the third guard was inside, the first two fell into step behind him. They were in shining, expensive-looking armor without a single dent. Their cloaks were embroidered, perhaps not as nicely as Nikoly’s robes and certainly not like Mattin’s, but far finer than Tiiran would have bothered with even if he’d had the coin.
Their leader, and he must be the leader, getting doors opened for him as even a Master Keeper wouldn’t dare demand, was about Nikoly’s height, and had a cloak no less expensive than the other guards’, although his seemed designed to actually keep him warm on cold nights of watch duty. Yet it was pristine, as if it had never been used for that purpose.
He paused to look over the space, as if surprised to see it darkened, and then noticed Tiiran.
He was armed, Tiiran belatedly noticed. They all were. Palace guards were permitted weapons, of course, but they generally didn’t come into the library, so Tiiran hadn’t ever considered their swords before.
Tiiran’s heart was racing, he noticed distractedly. His feet were still and solid and stuck in place.
He stood next to one of the copying tables and said not a thing as the trio of guards approached. Yet his anxious, restless body demanded he do something, so he shook out his robe. It was only when he glanced down to smooth away any wrinkles or pencil shavings that he noticed Niksa off to the side in the shadow of a tall shelf. Niksa must have been about to come out to talk to him when the guards had entered. His eyes were fixed on Tiiran, wide and frightened.
Tiiran turned quickly away from him, gesturing slightly as he continued to fuss with his robe to tell Niksa to stay where he was. Then he raised his head and wondered if his eyes were black, and if for once that would frighten someone who deserved it. At the very least, it should keep the attention of the palace guards on Tiiran and away from anyone else.
“You must be Tiiran,” the leader of the guards said as he came to a stop. He glanced over Tiiran’s head, Tiiran assumed to the banner. Hopefully that was what this was about.
Nonetheless, Tiiran twitched with some surprise at hearing his name said so confidently.
“Assistant Tiiran,” he agreed, then cleared his throat. “It took us some time to find rope to hang the banner, but we did get it up there eventually, uh, guard. I’m afraid I don’t know how the Palace Guard assigns rank.”
