Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(37)
Its rebuilding was the idea of the Thunderhead, and it mobilized thousands in a massive construction effort, providing them jobs and purpose for fifty years. When the great library was completed, it was as close a replica of the original as could be built, on the same spot where the first library stood. It was meant to be a reminder of what had been lost in the past, and a promise that knowledge would never be lost again now that the Thunderhead was there to protect it.
Then, upon the library’s completion, it was seized by the scythedom to house its collection of scythes’ journals—the leather-bound parchment volumes that all scythes were required to keep every day of their lives.
As the scythedom was free to do whatever it pleased, the Thunderhead could not stop it. It had to remain content in the knowledge that the library had, at least, been rebuilt. As for its ultimate purpose, that could be left in the hands of humankind.
? ? ?
Munira Atrushi, like most people in the world, had a job that was perfect in that it was perfectly ordinary. And like most everyone in the world, she didn’t hate her job, nor did she love it. Her feelings lingered somewhere near the center.
She worked part-time at the Great Library of Alexandria, two nights a week, from midnight until six in the morning. Most of her days were spent in classes at the Cairo campus of the Israebian University, studying informational science. Of course, since all the world’s information had long ago been digitized and catalogued by the Thunderhead, a degree in informational science, like most other degrees, served no practical purpose. It would be a piece of paper framed on her wall. A permission slip to befriend others with similar functionless degrees.
But she hoped having that piece of paper might give her enough prestige to convince the library to hire her as a full curator once she graduated—because unlike the rest of the world’s information, the journals of the scythes were not catalogued by the Thunderhead. The journals were still subject to clumsy human hands.
Anyone who wanted to research the 3.5 million volumes of journals, collected since the first days of the scythedom, would have to come here—and they could come whenever they wanted, because the Great Library was open to the whole world, twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year. Yet Munira found that few people took advantage of its accessibility. During daytime hours, there was only a scattering of academics doing research. There were plenty of tourists, but they were more interested in the library’s history and architecture. They had little interest in the volumes themselves, except as backdrops for photos.
People rarely showed up at the library at night. Usually it was just Munira and two members of the BladeGuard, whose presence was more decorative than purposeful. They stood silently at the entrance like living statues. During the day, they provided more photo ops for the tourists.
While on her graveyard shift, she’d be lucky if one or two people showed up, and most of those who did knew what they wanted, so they never even approached her at the information desk. It allowed Munira to spend her time either studying, or reading the writings of the scythes—which she found fascinating. To peer into the hearts and souls of the men and women charged with ending life, to know what they felt as they went about their gleanings—it was addictive, and reading the journals had become an obsession for her. With many thousands of volumes added to the collection each year, she’d never run out of reading material—although some scythes’ writings were far more interesting than others.
She had read all about the self-doubt of Supreme Blade Copernicus before he self-gleaned; the profound regrets of Scythe Curie for her brash acts as a junior scythe; and, of course, the outright lies of Scythe Sherman. There was plenty to occupy her interest in the simple hand-written pages of the scythes’ journals.
On an evening in early December, Munira was deep into the steamy exploits of the late Scythe Rand—who seemed to have devoted much of her journaling to details of her various sexual conquests. Munira had just turned a page when she looked up to see a man approaching, his feet making no sound on the marble floor of the entry vestibule. He was dressed in drab grays, yet Munira sensed that he was a scythe by the way he carried himself. Scythes did not walk like ordinary people. They moved with a deliberate command, as if the air itself were required to part before them. But if he was a scythe, then why would he be without his robe?
“Good evening,” he said. The deep peal of his voice came with a Merican accent. He had gray hair and a well-trimmed beard that was on its way toward gray as well, but his eyes seemed youthful. Alert.
“Actually, it’s morning, not evening,” Munira said. “Two fifteen, to be exact.” She knew his face, but couldn’t say from where. For a moment she had a flash of memory. A spotless white robe. No, not white . . . ivory. She did not know all the scythes, much less all the Merican scythes—but she did know the ones with some level of international renown. She’d place him eventually.
“Welcome to the Great Library of Alexandria,” she said. “How can I help you?” She avoided calling him “Your Honor,” as was customary when addressing a scythe, because he was clearly trying to be incognito.
“I’m seeking the early writings,” he told her.
“Of which scythe?”
“All of them.”
“The early writings of all the scythes?”
He sighed, a bit miffed at not being understood. ?Yes, he was a scythe all right. Only a scythe could seem both exasperated and patient at the same time. “All the early writings of all of the first scythes,” he explained. “Such as Prometheus, Sappho, Lennon—”