The Last Smile in Sunder City (The Fetch Phillips Archives #1) - Luke Arnold Page 0,5
by those who had founded it. For the first couple of decades, the only inhabitants were the workers who spent their days smelting iron, firing bricks and laying foundations. As the city found stability, those who finished their employment were less inclined to leave, so they set up homes and businesses. Eventually, Sunder needed leadership separate from the factory so they elected their first Governor: a Dwarven builder named Ranamak.
Ranamak had come to Sunder to advise on construction, and never got around to leaving. He had all the skills that Sunderites valued: strength, experience and affability. He was a simple fellow with a fine knowledge of mining so most locals agreed that he was the perfect leader.
After twenty years, most of Sunder City was still satisfied with Ranamak’s service. Business was booming. The trade roads were busy and everyone’s pockets were filling up. It was only the Governor himself who believed his leadership was lacking.
Ranamak had traveled the world and he knew that Sunder was in danger of becoming obsessed with production and profit while overlooking the other areas of life. He feared that the culture of the city was being neglected and wanted to find a way to give Sunder City a soul. In the midst of his struggles, he met someone who existed completely outside the realms of productivity.
Sir William Kingsley was a controversial character at the time; the disgraced son of a proud Human family, William turned away from his duties in favor of a nomadic life. He read, he ate, he wrote and he practiced the oft-reviled art of philosophy.
Kingsley came to Sunder spreading poems and ideas, and somehow he found his way to Ranamak’s table. Legend says that sometime between their fourth and fifth bottle of wine, Sir William Kingsley was appointed Sunder City’s first Minister of Theater and Arts.
Over the next three years, taxes were raised to cover the cost of Kingsley’s creations: an amphitheater, a dance hall and an art gallery. He funded the Ministry of Education and History, which went about building the museum. Ranamak and Kingsley transformed Sunder from a workplace to a vibrant metropolitan city over a handful of years. Then, a mob of angry taxpayers brutally murdered them because of it.
These days, Sunderites all seem to hold the same opinion of the event: it had to happen, they’d gone too far, but the Kingsley years made the city what it is today and everyone is proud of what they accomplished.
On the anniversary of his assassination, to honor his service, the people of Sunder built the Sir William Kingsley Library, a grand redwood building perched on a small rise at the eastern end of town. A short uphill walk revealed a bronze statue of mighty Sir William himself. He was a round-faced, jolly-looking fellow with no hair. In one hand was a book, in the other a bottle of wine. Beneath the statue was a plaque with the iconic verse from his most famous poem, The Wayfarers:
The spark will breed the fire,
And the fire take the track.
We move forward through the mire,
But we can’t go back.
The library was one of a few wooden buildings that had survived Sunder’s habit of unexpected combustion. Before the Coda, while the fires were still flowing, the pits ensured free heating and energy for every member of the population as long as you didn’t mind a portion of the city going up in smoke once in a while.
The isolated position of the library had kept it safe. Mostly. Nearby flames had warped the timber frontage with enough heat to streak the golden brown with charcoal black. There was a dated charm to the stained-glass windows, arched frames and pointed spire; it was strangely spiritual for a place designed to house old books.
I like books. They’re quiet, dignified and absolute. A man might falter but his words, once written, will hold.
The large doors slid open with the sound of a yawning bear and the chalky aroma of old paper filled my nostrils.
The interior of the library looked more like someone’s private collection than a public building. The aisles had been shaped to accentuate the architecture of the room, creating an intricate labyrinth where no path went where you thought it would. I would have happily spent the day foraging for the perfect paperback to stuff into my back pocket but, for a change, I had a job to do.
It was clear that the rest of the city didn’t share my passion for the library. Only after