The Book Eaters(87)
Most book eaters worked in Family-run firms, or other labor that required only minimal interaction with the rest of human society. Some had illicit businesses, like the Easterbrooks, using humans who did not ask too many questions. The knights, so far as she knew, did none of that.
“Up until two months ago,” Ramsey said, “every Family paid us a tithe to arrange and facilitate marriages. We also had a special arrangement with the Ravenscars, which is complicated, and nothing you need to know about.” He gave a series of signals to inspecting guards. “During this period of transition, we are living off savings to pay the bills. You might say.”
“They paid you a tithe because you are supposed to have no agenda of your own,” she said. “This looks like you’re just another manor. Just another Family.”
“Nonsense.” He revved the bike and drove through the gates, raising his voice so she could hear him above the grumble of engines. “A regular Family is bound by all sorts of rules, which we don’t have to follow. The knights have far more freedom and power than any of the patriarchs.”
“Stupid me,” she muttered into his back. “Here I was thinking you existed to serve.” No wonder the patriarchs were eager to shed the knights.
Ramsey and the other knights drove down a length of asphalt to an indoor garage, where they parked and dismounted. Cai was still fast asleep, bundled onto the back of someone’s motorbike. Devon squashed her urge to dash over and check on him.
As he helped her off the bike, Ramsey said, “Protect, not serve.”
“Pardon?” She had lost the thread of their discussion.
“You said we exist to serve. Not quite correct. We exist to protect the Families by ensuring their survival through the marriage system. Among other things. At the moment, losing the Ravenscars is our biggest threat, because we have lost the ability to control the dragons, and the knights will disintegrate if something isn’t done.”
“That threatens you, not them,” she said. “The Families are in early stages of testing their own fertility treatments, so marriages will be less and less strict with every generation. We can choose to have girls, whole generations of them if we want. Even if we hadn’t lost the Ravenscars and their Redemption, so what? Knights couldn’t have lasted forever. This has just sped things up.”
“Don’t be so short-sighted. We have plenty of use still.” He tucked a pair of bike gloves into one pocket. “Follow me, please. We are on a tight schedule and must cover a lot of ground.”
She took half a step toward Cai, sleepy but stirring in the arms of another knight.
“We’ll meet up with him again, at the end of your little tour.” Ramsey stepped in front, cutting off her view. “The quicker we do this, the quicker you see him again.”
The knight carrying Cai was already moving swiftly in the opposite direction. If he was not especially loving in his hold, he was at least competent and not unkind; head cradled, knees supported.
Devon clenched her fists, watching them disappear around a corner, then reluctantly followed Ramsey through another series of internal security gates and into the “castle” proper.
Family manors were all lush in one way or another. The Winterfields had lavish and stately decor; the Easterbrooks opted for contemporary yet expensive. Even the Fairweathers, old and debt-riddled as they were, had contained the remnants of extravagance in carpets and tapestries and chandeliers. Book eaters had a fondness for trappings. And books, naturally.
Nothing of that legacy showed in this compound. Concrete walls stood bare and gray; the tiled floor shone polished but plain. No lights, only darkness. No accommodations for human visitors or any nod toward human culture. Presumably they had books to eat, though none were on display. No unique book-scent, either. Devon wondered what grown-up knights consumed.
The hall branched into two directions. Devon was about to keep going straight when Ramsey caught her shoulder.
“Not that way.”
She let herself be nudged down the other corridor. “What’s down the other route?”
“Barracks and training. Nothing you need to see.” He put a hand on the door. “We’ll take a route through the dragon pens instead.”
“Pens?”
“An in-joke.”
In the corridor beyond were a series of cell doors, with viewing panels at head height. Some were open. Heart in throat, she stepped closer to peer through thick glass.
A solid white room, the walls and floors layered in white soundproofing. Not much space, eight feet on all sides. A white table with one white chair. Insanely bright white lights, which would be annoying even for a human, and was surely headache-inducing for an ’eater of any stripe. A youngish-looking dragon, eighteen or so, was dressed in all-white clothes and curled on an all-white bed, arms around his head.
“I don’t get it.” Devon stepped back, uneasy for reasons she couldn’t quite pinpoint. Nothing in the room had been unusually cruel, per se, and yet the sight of that cell made her teeth hurt. “What’s the point of this?”
“Extreme sensory deprivation.” Ramsey came to stand at her shoulder. “Sometimes melodramatically referred to as ‘white torture.’ We use it as a form of depersonalization therapy, to keep the cravings at bay.”
Something must have alerted the dragon inside. He raised his head and sat up, staring at them with wide, bloodshot eyes.