Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(109)
“Welcome,” said Marchenoir, double-locking the large entry door behind them. “Forgive the state of things. Between roof leaks and the occasional raids by street unsavories, we’re not the library we once were. Did any of them harass you on your way here? The unsavories, I mean?”
“They kept their distance,” Munira said.
“Good,” said Marchenoir. “This city attracts unsavories, you know. They come because they think it’s lawless here. Well, they’re wrong. We have laws just like anywhere else—it’s just that the Thunderhead doesn’t spend much time enforcing them. We don’t even have an Authority Interface office here—can you believe it? Oh, but we have plenty of revival centers, believe you me, because people turn up deadish around here left and right—”
Munira tried to get a word in edgewise, but he steamrolled right over her.
“—Why just last month, I was struck in the head by a stone falling from the old Smithsonian Castle, went deadish, and I lost nearly twenty hours of memory, because the Thunderhead hadn’t backed me up since the day before—it’s even remiss about that! I keep complaining to it, and it says it hears me, and sympathizes, but does anything change? No!”
She would have asked the man why he stayed if he so disliked it here, but she knew the answer. He stayed because his greatest joy in life was to complain. In that way, he wasn’t all that different from the unsavories outside. It almost made her laugh, because even by letting the city limp on the edge of ruin, the Thunderhead was providing an environment that certain people needed.
“And,” continued Marchenoir, “don’t even get me started on the quality of food in this city!”
“We’re looking for maps,” Munira interjected, which successfully derailed him from his rant.
“Maps? The Thunderhead is full of maps. Why would you come all the way here for a map?”
Finally Faraday spoke up, realizing that Marchenoir was so wrapped up in his own misfortunes, he wouldn’t notice a dead scythe if he came up and gleaned him. “We believe there are some . . . technical inconsistencies. We intend to research the original volumes, and prepare an academic paper on them.”
“Well, if there are any inconsistencies, they’re not our fault,” Marchenoir said, taking the defensive. “Any error in uploading would have occurred over two hundred years ago, and I’m afraid we no longer maintain any original volumes.”
“Wait,” said Munira, “the one place left in the world that would have hard copies from the mortal age, and you don’t?”
Marchenoir gestured to the walls. “Look around you. Do you see any actual books? Any hard copies of historical merit have been dispersed to safer places. And the rest were deemed a fire hazard.”
As Munira looked around and glanced down adjacent hallways, she realized that, indeed, the shelves were completely empty.
“If you don’t have any actual books, then what is this place even for?” asked Munira.
He puffed up, taking on an indignant posture. “We preserve the idea.”
Munira would have continued to give him a piece of her mind, but Faraday stopped her. “We’re looking for the books that have been . . . misplaced,” he said.
That caught the librarian by surprise. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I believe you do.”
He then took a closer look at Faraday. “Who did you say you were again?”
“Redmond Herring, PhD, associate professor of archeological cartography at the Israebian University.”
“You look familiar. . . .”
“Perhaps you’ve seen one of my orations on Middle Eastern land disputes of the late mortal age.”
“Yes, yes, that must be it.” Marchenoir looked around the vestibule with vague paranoia before he spoke again. “If the misplaced books exist—and I’m not saying that they do—word of them must not leave this place. They would be scavenged by private collectors, and burned by unsavories.”
“We understand completely the need to be infinitely discreet,” said Faraday with such reassurance in his voice that Marchenoir was satisfied.
“All right, then. Follow me.” Then he led them beneath an archway where the words “KNOWLEDGE IS POW,” were carved in granite. The stone containing the letters ER had long since crumbled to dust.
? ? ?
At the bottom of a stairway, at the end of a hall, and at the bottom of an even older stairway, was a rusty door. Marchenoir grabbed one of two flashlights that were perched on a ledge and pushed on the door, which resisted his weight with every fiber of its being. Finally, it creaked open into what at first looked like some sort of catacomb—but there were no bodies hanging on the wall. It was just a dark, cinderblock tunnel that disappeared into deeper darkness.
“The Cannon Tunnel,” explained Marchenoir. “This part of the city has tunnels going every which way. They were used by lawmakers and their staff—I suppose to get around unseen by the murderous mobs of the mortal age.”
Munira took the second flashlight and shone it around. The sides of the tunnel were lined with stacks of books.
“It’s only a fraction of the original collection, of course,” Marchenoir said. “They serve no practical purpose anymore, since they’re all available to the public digitally. But there’s something . . . grounding . . . when you hold a book in your hands that was once held by mortal humans. I supposed that’s why we’ve kept them.” He handed his flashlight to Faraday. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said. “Mind the rats.”