The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,35
but inventory needs to wait. We have new business. I am going to pull some supplies. Brev, I need you to take Leto here and prepare to shut down the wing.”
The muse nearly choked on her tea. “What?”
Claire began dumping the less necessary—and somewhat soggy—books out of her leather bag, and filling it quickly with an assortment of tools from her desk. “The entire wing. All books on lockdown. Nothing leaves. Jot a note to inform the muses. Earth is just going to have to deal with writer’s block until we get back.”
“But that’s—if we—” Brevity made a strangled noise in her throat. “Begging your pardon, boss, but you give an order like that, I need a story.”
Claire frowned as she ordered her pens in the bag’s side pocket. Brevity was a muse—a former, ex-muse, certainly. But it was the muses that would feel the blowback most keenly if the source of all unwritten stories was suddenly shut off. It was a tricky relationship between the Library of unwritten works and the muses that were tasked to inspire them. If the muses had their way, the Library would be empty, but that wasn’t the way creation worked. Sometimes inspiration was not enough. They would not take a closing well. “Get Hero up here, then. I’ve got no time to say this more than once.”
Once Claire had briefed the others on the existence of the Codex Gigas, the danger of the remaining pages, and Andras’s plan to seek Bjorn in Valhalla, she took a long draw of her tea, carefully watching Brevity’s and Hero’s reactions. Brevity’s mouth had made a silent “oh” before she schooled her face. Her eyes took on the same intense glint she got when wrestling with a particularly stubborn acquisition.
The newly dubbed “Hero,” on the other hand, had snorted at every opportunity throughout the tale, lips curling to express more disgust than concern by the end of it. “Why, again, are you haring off after a myth rather than leaving it to your betters?”
“Because there’s a chance that my betters would either start a war or make it so that the Library—and all the books inside, mind you—never existed rather than admit the thing still exists in the wild.” Claire took a peevish sip of tea. “I have no patience for politics. Whatever game went on with this codex before, we have a job to do.”
“We,” Hero repeated flatly, but Brevity brightened.
“That means you’ll be needing me, right?”
“I always need you, Brev.” Claire’s determination softened into a smile. “If that’s settled, every minute counts. Take Leto and get moving. Hero, you’re with me.”
Hero sulked silently after Claire through the warren of the Library’s storage rooms. Claire measured him in brief glances between checking and locking doors. His color was better, his walk steady and smooth. For a thing that had just been cut out of his own entity like an amputated limb, Hero was doing remarkably well.
Especially for a hero. In Claire’s experience, heroes of unwritten stories were often the most fragile. All that destiny and tragic backstory. It made it easier to force them into their books, but it left a sour taste in her mouth. Entirely useless. Nothing folded like a hero without a story. Even damsels were sturdier.
Hero grimaced as she turned a corner deep in the Library, selecting a book here and there. “Here I was thinking I’d be spending my near future developing a nice, boring dust allergy.”
“Buck up. There will be plenty of dust where we’re going,” Claire said. “Tell me, what kind of hero were you? More of a lover than a fighter?”
“Decidedly a fighter.” Hero preened his nails. “Never had much use for love in my story.”
“With cheekbones like that? I’m shocked.” Claire paused at the end of one of the aisles, eyeing the ornate suit of armor that decorated the endcap. Master craftsmen had unfinished works of art too, and the Library had a larger armory than one would expect. They were mostly elaborate work meant for noble showpieces but still well made. “Swords?”
“Rapier, preferably. I’m not a barbarian. But a well-balanced basket-hilted broadsword is comfortable enough.” Hero watched with obvious skepticism as Claire rapped on the suit’s knuckles. The suit loosened its grip on its weapon, and she grabbed the pommel of the ornate sword. Claire gave it a cursory inspection; it was sharp and covered in excessive filigree—just like Hero, really—but that was as far as her weapon discernment went. She tossed it underhand to Hero.