the bronze woman: her short-cropped, businesslike hair, her crook in one hand and sword in the other as she stood over a pack of cowering hounds. Just as he always spared the time to touch the corner of his eye in recognition as he passed the statue in the Venarium’s halls.
‘Do what?’ the Librarian replied, knowing full well the answer.
‘This is not a place of worship, you know,’ the clerk muttered, casting a sidelong scowl at his taller companion. ‘This is the Hall of the Venarium.’
‘And the Hall of the Venarium is a place of law,’ Bralston retorted, ‘and the law of Cier’Djaal states that all businesses must bear an icon of the Houndmistress, the Law-Bringer.’
‘That doesn’t mean you have to worship her as a god.’
‘A sign of respect is not worship.’
‘It borders dangerously close to idolatry,’ the clerk said, attempting to be as threatening as a squat man in ill-fitting robes could be. ‘And that certainly is.’
Technically, Bralston knew, it wasn’t so much against the law as it was simply psychotic in the eyes of the Venarium. What would be the point of worshipping an idol, after all? Idols were the hypocrisy of faith embodied, representing things so much more than mankind and contrarily hewn in the image of mankind. What was the point of it all?
Gods did not exist, in man’s image or no. Mankind existed. Mankind was the ultimate power in the world and the wizards were the ultimate power within mankind. These idols merely reinforced that fact.
Still, the Librarian lamented silently as he surveyed the long hall, one might credit idolatry with at least being more aesthetically pleasing.
The bronze statuette was so small as to be lost amidst the dun-coloured stone walls and floors, unadorned by rugs, tapestries or any window greater than a slit the length of a man’s hand. It served as the only thing to make one realise they were in a place of learning and law, as opposed to a cell.
Still, he mused, there was a certain appeal to hearing one’s footsteps echo through the halls. Perhaps that was the architectural proof to the wizards’ denial of gods. Here, within the Venarium itself, in the halls where no prayers could be heard over the reverberating thunder of feet, mankind was proven the ultimate power.
‘The Lector has been expecting you,’ the clerk muttered as he slid open the door. ‘For some time,’ he hastily spat out, dissatisfied with his previous statement. ‘Do be quick.’
Bralston offered him the customary nod, then slipped into the office as the door closed soundlessly behind him.
Lector Annis, as much a man of law as any member of the Venarium, respected the need for humble surroundings. Despite being the head of the Librarians, his office was a small square with a chair, a large bookshelf, and a desk behind which the man was seated, his narrow shoulders bathed by the sunlight trickling in from the slits lining his walls.
Bralston could spare only enough attention to offer his superior the customary bow before something drew his attention. The addition of three extra chairs in the office was unusual. The admittance of three people, clearly not wizards themselves, was unheard of.
‘Librarian Bralston,’ Annis spoke up, his voice deeper than his slender frame would suggest, ‘we are thrilled you could attend.’
‘My duty is upheld, Lector,’ the man replied, stepping farther into the room and eyeing the new company, two men and one visibly shaken woman, curiously. ‘Forgive me, but I was told this was to be a meeting of the Librarians.’
‘Apologies, my good man.’ One of the men rose from his chair quicker than the Lector could speak. ‘The deception, purely unintentional, was only wrought by the faulty use of the plural form. For, as you can see, this is indeed a meeting.’ His lips split open to reveal half a row of yellow teeth. ‘And you are indeed a Librarian.’
Cragsman.
The stench confirmed the man’s lineage long before the feigned eloquence and vast expanse of ruddy, tattoo-etched flesh did. Bralston’s gaze drifted past the walking ink stain before him to the companion still seated. His stern face and brown skin denoted him as Djaalman, though not nearly to the extent that the detestable scowl he cast toward Bralston did. The reason for the hostility became clear the moment the man began to finger the pendant of Zamanthras, the sea goddess, hanging around his neck.
‘Observant,’ the Lector replied, narrowing eyes as sharp as his tone upon the Cragsman. ‘However, Master Shunnuk, the clerk