Swords & Dark Magic - By Jonathan Strahan Page 0,140
when Laszlo and Casimir skidded to a halt before a single tall figure.
“I see you two aspirants have chosen to favor us with a dramatic last-minute arrival,” said the man. “I was not aware this was to be a drama exam.”
“Yes, Master Molnar. Apologies, Master Molnar,” said Laszlo and Casimir in unison.
Hargus Molnar, Master Librarian, had a face that would have been at home in a gallery of military statues, among dead conquerors casting their permanent scowls down across the centuries. Lean and sinewy, with close-cropped gray hair and a dozen visible scars, he wore a use-seasoned suit of black leather and silvery mail. Etched on his cuirass was a stylized scroll, symbol of the Living Library, surmounted by the phrase Auvidestes, Gerani, Molokare. The words were Alaurin, the formal language of scholars, and they formed the motto of the Librarians:
RETRIEVE. RETURN. SURVIVE.
“May I presume,” said Molnar, sparing neither aspirant the very excellent disdainful stare he’d cultivated over decades of practice, “that you have familiarized yourselves with the introductory materials that were provided to you last month?”
“Yes, Master Molnar. Both of us,” said Casimir. Laszlo was pleased to see that Casimir’s swagger had prudently evaporated for the moment.
“Good.” Molnar spread his fingers and words of white fire appeared in the air before him, neatly organized paragraphs floating vertically in the space between Laszlo’s forehead and navel. “This is your Statement of Intent; namely, that you wish to enter the Living Library directly as part of an academic requirement. I’ll need your sorcerer’s marks here.”
Laszlo reached out to touch the letters where Molnar indicated, feeling a warm tingle on his fingertips. He closed his eyes and visualized his First Secret Name, part of his private identity as a wizard, a word-symbol that could leave an indelible imprint of his personality without actually revealing itself to anyone else. This might seem like a neat trick, but when all was said and done, it was mostly used for occasional bits of magical paperwork and for bar tabs.
“And here,” said Molnar, moving his own finger. “This is a Statement of Informed Acceptance of Risk…and here, this absolves the custodial staff of any liability should you injure yourself by being irretrievably stupid…and this one, which certifies that you are armed and equipped according to your own comfort.”
Laszlo hesitated for a second, bit the inside of his left cheek, and gave his assent. When Casimir had done the same, Molnar snapped his fingers and the letters of fire vanished. At the same instant, the polished wooden doors of the Manticore Gate rumbled apart. Laszlo glanced at the inner edges of the doors and saw that, beneath the wooden veneer, each had a core of some dark metal a foot thick. He’d never once been past that gate, or any like it—aspirants were usually confined to the reading rooms, where their requests for materials were passed to the library staff.
“Come then,” said Molnar, striding through the gate. “You’ll be going in with two other students, already waiting inside. Until I escort you back out this gate, you may consider your exam to be in progress.”
Past the Manticore Gate lay a long, vault-ceilinged room in which Indexers toiled amongst thousands of scrolls and card-files. Unlike the Librarians, the Indexers preferred comfortable blue robes to armor, but they were all visibly armed with daggers and hatchets. Furthermore, in niches along the walls, Laszlo could see spears, truncheons, mail vests, and helmets readily accessible on racks.
“I envy your precision, friend Laszlo.”
The gravelly voice that spoke those words was familiar, and Laszlo turned to the left to find himself staring up into the gold-flecked eyes of a lizard about seven feet tall. The creature had a chest as broad as a doorway under shoulders to match, and his gleaming scales were the red of a desert sunset. He wore a sort of thin quilted armor over everything but his muscular legs and feet, which ended in sickle-shaped claws the size of Laszlo’s stilettos. The reptile’s cloak was specially tailored to part over his long, sinuous tail and hang with dignity.
“Lev,” said Laszlo. “Hi! What precision?”
“Your ability to sleep late and still arrive within a hair’s breadth of accruing penalties for your tardiness. Your laziness is…artistic.”
“The administration rarely agrees.” Laszlo was deeply pleased to see Inappropriate Levity Bronzeclaw, “Lev” to everyone at the university. Lev’s people, dour and dutiful, gave their adolescents names based on perceived character flaws, so the wayward youths would supposedly dwell upon their correction until granted more honorable