The Book Eaters(92)
“Settled in his room. I gave him the tour and he picked a place to his liking.” Mani offered a wary smile. “Thought I’d come and find you, to spare you the effort of searching up and down for us.”
“That’s very kind,” Devon said, head still whirling. “Please do lead on.”
Mani nodded. He got up and hobbled out of the kitchen and into the corridor. Then up a set of stairs she’d not yet seen, toward the “newer” wing of the house. New, in this case, meant it had been built in the 1700s, instead of the 1200s, like the rest of Traquair—a fact that Devon found amusing when Mani explained it to her. Fairweather Manor had seemed impossibly old when she was young, but this place had a good five hundred years of history on her childhood home.
“I’m glad I could catch you, by the way,” Devon said, keeping a sharp eye out for other ’eaters. “I wanted to apologize again for how I screwed you over twenty-two years ago. I truly did think you were just an exciting guest.”
His face fell, perhaps lost in unhappy memory. “And as I said before, don’t be sorry. I can’t hold a grudge against a child who knew no better, and who intended no malice. In any case, you’ve had your share of suffering, from what I’ve heard of your story.”
“What about your story?” she prompted as they reached the second level. “How did you get here? What happened in between?”
A couple of mind eaters came around the corner, chatting in low voices. Mani gave them a respectful nod, and Devon did the same. Neither sibling took any notice of them, carrying on with their animated conversation.
When the brothers were gone, Mani said quietly, “I was sent north to Ravenscar Manor along with a small clutch of other humans, all shepherded by knights.” He paused on the landing to rest for a moment, leaning hard on his stick, before reorienting himself down a long, lushly appointed hallway. “In those days, Weston still needed human subjects to help synthesize Redemption.”
Devon stopped in her tracks. “Come again?”
“Ah. Has no one here told you yet?” Mani cocked his head, gaze shrewd behind the bottlecap glasses. “The patriarch who first developed Redemption worked out that mind eaters must be feeding on some component present in human brains. Because he was a rather clever fellow, he figured out how to isolate that component in chemical form, giving us the drug we have today.”
“That’s incredible,” she said, utterly floored. “Also, absurdly simple. Why has no one else discovered it?”
“Probably because the other Families think like book eaters, while mind eaters have the benefit of a more personal angle on the problem,” Mani said. “And it simply never occurred to any book eaters to just ask mind eaters. Your folk can be curiously blinkered in that way. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“All that to say, Weston kept me locked away for many years, brought me out only for blood draws and various extraction procedures on my brain.” He gestured at his right leg. “Weston also had me hobbled, to make sure I couldn’t run off.”
“That’s awful,” she said, appalled. “Are humans still a part of the process? It sounds hellish.”
“It was unpleasant,” he said with the flat neutrality of someone who has become accustomed to trauma, “but it ended after four years, finally, when Weston cracked a fully artificial process for Redemption. Thank the gods! Every aspect of the drug is synthesized now, with no need for human input.” Mani began walking again. “Mind you, that meant I no longer had a purpose.”
Devon trotted after him, feet soundless on the emerald-hued carpets. “Why did he keep you alive? If that’s not rude to ask.”
“It’s not. I was well educated, with a background in law and media. Weston preserved my life to use me as a proxy for anything that required writing. The one thing he couldn’t do himself. I wouldn’t say we became friends—that would be impossible, given the power dynamic and what he’d done to me already—but we understood each other. He was a cold man, yet truly brilliant in his way.”
“That’s not saying much. Intelligence is easy for book eaters.”
“Rubbish,” Mani said reproachfully. “Information is not intellect. Computers can contain entire books, too, but they’re not considered intelligent yet. It is one thing to have a repository of data, and quite another to use it, let alone creatively. Weston could do both.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” It struck Devon that she did not see herself as particularly intelligent. Not when he phrased it like that.
“Anyway, I was Weston’s scribe for sixteen years in total, and learned an enormous amount about your species in that time.” A self-deprecating smile ghosted his lips. “I’ve been writing a book about the history of ’eaters, though God knows whether it will ever see the light of day. Even if Killock were inclined to let me publish, who would believe anything in it?”
“It’s an incredible story,” Devon said, with sincerity. “Did you have some kind of arrangement with Killock, after he took over?”
“After Killock removed Weston and the other book eaters, I was spared, providing I was willing to accept Killock’s leadership.” If Mani found such a tenuous existence stressful, it didn’t show. Perhaps he had become adept at masking himself in a house of predators.