Boyfriends and Other Minor Annoyances Read online

  For her part, Marcellia was both surprised and touched by the gesture. Her hands rose and curved gracefully to decline the offer, but paused. The little red fruits were truly tempting, and it was not as if they were a common treat back home where her godmother held sway... With a flutter of fingers, she thanked the serving girl and then very carefully performed the signs that would keep that young mind hazed and unquestioning. Marcellia did not wish to be interrupted in her work.

  She was toying with the red fruits when three people exited the inn, and then the sickly sweet little berries fell back to their bowl intact. Eyes the color of sleet collected and catalogued, taking in habits of movement and carriage, attitude and personality. The first, the dark-eyed blonde girl who wore homespun like it was a novelty, Marcellia had seen earlier in the day. There was a spring to that one's step to suggest agility, which she noted.

  The second was dressed so obviously as a witch, with black gown, oversized hat, and even a flying broom, that the woman in grey had to wonder if it were an act of some sort. No true witch could be that forward about her heritage, not in Bargoczy of all places. Also, though she knew witches came in many faces and figures, she was certain that none among them were of halfling descent. The girl was obviously a magic-user of some sort, but not a witch-born.

  The third... Marcellia's eyes narrowed at that one. He moved more like a thief, that halfling did, with furtive steps betraying a suspicious mind that could not bring itself to trust even his own companions.

  Marcellia wet the nib of her pen upon her tongue and made notes in her memory book. The pages absorbed the ink, spinning out intricate, filigreed letters in a reclusive language, only for them to disappear immediately from view. Out of sight, but never out of mind.

  The Great Library of Bargoczy was an edifice whose best days were long past, but still it stood, stately and proud, in the old town like a weathered and experienced professor. Its facade, wooden panels with a rose motif carved into them, had cracked and warped over the course of many hot summers, where they weren't scorched or shattered by the blows of siege weapons. Behind the floral effigies, its bones were stone and mortar, and it was this sterner stuff which let it prevail even as its surrounding subordinates eventually caved in to the dual threats of wood-bores and urban planning.

  The Roadie known variously as Mackie and Priscilla was familiar with the building, but only as a handy landmark whose bell-tower stood high above the neighborhood. It was widely said by the local thieves that there was nothing to steal between those walls, because everything of value was freely given away by the nutjobs who ran the place.

  She certainly didn't expect the insides to be the way they were. The wandering life left her without much experience with libraries, but she'd always assumed they'd be... quieter? Instead, as soon as she entered with those two princesses -- oddballs, they! -- her ears were assaulted by a dozen or more spirited debates, all running in tandem. Each table seemed to host its own crowd of scholarly misfits, surrounded by mountains of books and landslides of loose papers and scrolls.

  "Okay, strategy time!" said the first oddball, who'd introduced herself as Princess Cassandrella. The leggy, twitchy blonde twiceling didn't really match her idea of what a royal daughter should look like, but then again, who was she to judge? More than most, she knew the value of going incognito. That still did not change her opinion that something weird was going on with that one.

  The second oddball, the girl who looked like, acted like, and talked like a twiceling but was shorter than even a Townie, nodded at that. This supposed princess had rode in on her broom, though the guy at the front doors had sent her the screwy eye for it. Black hat, black cat, black dress; it was not a fashion statement most would make. "First things first," the shortie piped, "check the alchemy and natural philosophy books and see if we can figure out what it is that Prissy grabbed. That could tell us something about who wants it."

  The so-named Prissy winced at the nickname, but let it pass. Sure, she was paying, but it was hardly a buyer's market right now. "Well, rocks is rocks, right?"

  "Yes," said the shortie, "but that's only the beginning."

  Two hours and three dozen books later, and this Roadie was ready to call it the ending, too. Her brain was about turned to rock inside her skull, where it wasn't dribbling out her ears, and her butt was numb, too. It didn't help how the nearest group of natural philosophers were gabbing on about the different colors of sweet potatoes, of all things. Purple? Really?

  Her fingers strayed again and again to her pockets, fiddling and fidgeting with whatever hid within them. Some were simple curios, mementos of fun now finished. Others were more utilitarian, bundles of suspicious natures and ampules of unpredictable effect. As Mackie, she'd made regular runs on the black markets for items that many alchemists couldn't officially or legally touch. Unfortunately, she'd used up all the good stuff on the last job and all the frantic chases that followed.

  There was still one trick up her sleeve, though she kept it in an inner fold of her belt sash. Old Uncle Gunny had gifted it to her a few years ago, or at least hadn't demanded that she return it. The simple gold band, sized perfectly for a Roadie's finger, had been a boon to her burgeoning professional career.

  It was a ring of invisibility, but one of the cheaper ones, probably made by a Townie artificer in training as a practice run. There was nothing wrong with it, per say, because it definitely turned her see-through, but there was a catch. The darn thing only worked right when no one could hear her, and at times it seemed like she had the luck of a lizard in getting around quiet-like. If she'd just been a bit more circumspect when making the snatch, hadn't set the ruddy stones in that pouch to clicking, then none of the ladies would've known she was there.

  But she did, and they had, and now she was sorta stuck here, looking at books with wriggly little letters in lines like worms crawling and writhing on the page.

  "Excuse me, but is this seat taken?" The voice was loud and large and very high above her head. Craning up to look, she could make out icy blue peepers and a yellowish brown mane in braids, but then she lost her balance and fell over backwards.

  "Mistress Heyerwif?" cried Cassie. The leggy weirdo hopped from her seat like her bottom was spring-loaded, glomping onto this new person so hard that any normal-sized person would've felt something crack. Even a twiceling might've winced.

  The owner of the blue eyes and braids was not normal-sized, or a twiceling either. This lady was so big, she might count as a thriceling, the Roadie figgered. Enough to make the half-orky back at the inn feel small, for sure.

  So... who the heck was she?

  "Anyone remember who this is?" Uncle asked the girls. "It's only been four weeks since you last saw her, our time."

  Four heads huddled to compare notes while Tim watched on blankly. Of the girls, Helen was usually the one who was best for the little details, but she was still off in the powder room, so consensus required some debate. Finally, Claire waved her hand and said, "This is the librarian lady from the school, right? Um, what's she doing here?"

  "Are you asking in character?" said Uncle.

  "Er, sure." Claire reached for her dice. "Um, diplomacy roll?"

  "As it turns out, Mistress Heyerwif is more than happy to chat. Every summer, she visits a different city's great library to see what she can learn. This year, it's horticulture in Bargoczy."

  A huge, illustrated encyclopedia of flowers was spread wide upon the table like the jaws of a jungle predator. The princesses gathered around and made appreciative noises as Mistress Heyerwif spoke. "Ja, milady was wishing to expand the botanical gardens, and Mistress Madonell, she wanted to know more about what flowers we had, and..."

  "Er, skyooz me," said the halfling thief. "Ya wouldn't happen to know 'bout magic rocks or nothin' like that?"

  "Ja, ja, I think I should," said the librarian. "But, who might you be?"

  Straightening her jacket a bit, she replied, "Priscilla Ade--"

  "This is
Prissy!" Cassie announced happily. "She's supposed to be attending Lady Amberyll's, but stuff happened so she couldn't and now we're helping her with a problem so could you help us please?"

  "Ja, I suppose..." Mistress Heyerwif's eyes had that glazed look so common to those who talked with the chattery moon princess too long. "Rocks, you said?"

  "Yup." Furtively, the reluctant Prissy extracted the pouch from its hiding place. A single pebble was placed on the table top, a pale oblong thing with a tapered end and faint ridges.

  Mistress Heyerwif held it between two long fingers, nodding and muttering strange words to herself. "Ja, eg veit detta..." Plopping it back into its bag, she returned the lot to its current owner. "This library won't help you," the tall woman announced. "It is excellent for plants und growing things, but not so good for such as this."

  "Can you tell us what it is, at least?" Bianca asked.

  Mistress Heyerwif grimaced. "Little one," she said in reply, "have you ever known me to simply tell when I could instead facilitate? For is it not written, 'Tell a girl the truth und she shall not hear it all, but teach her how to find it, und she shall never forget'?"

  "I dunno, is it?"

  "But of course, und much else of wisdom besides, if one can discover the right pages." The librarian had a pleased smirk on that towering face of hers. "Und so, I shall show you where to search."

  Bianca cast her eyes across the wide reading room, full of busy, chatty students of the mysteries of life. "I thought you said this place was no good for that kind of thing?"

  "Ja, ja, which is why," said the librarian, "we shall be using my library."

  They moved to a smaller table, one with comfortable seats with high armrests. Bianca and Prissy shared a cozy padded bench, rather than get lost in the cushions of a chair made for someone more of a size with Mistress Heyerwif. The little witch was reminded of rumors that the librarian was a half-giant, and from her current position closer to the ground, such gossip seemed all the more likely. When they joined their hands in a circle, hers was swallowed up by the lady's enormous mitt.

  "Feels like one of Grammy's seances," Prissy remarked. "Gonna be liftin' the table or crackin' your toe knuckles?"

  "No." The syllable stretched and distorted as it left Mistress Heyerwif's throat, turning into a long, ripply echo that made the world around them shimmer and bend. Windows appeared in mid-air, letting in pale blue light to wash across the open space, and walls rose up between them. From high above, row upon row upon row of bookshelves hurtled, crashing into the floor with the force of a butterfly's fart. In the center of it all, their little table gleamed as picayune motes of light danced across its surface.

  "You may let go now, children," said the librarian. "We are here."

  "Where is 'here'?" asked Cassie. Her nose was wiggling. "It doesn't... er, I don't... The smells are all weird!" she cried.

  "Ja, my apologies. Scent is the hardest stimulus to work in, und most do not notice." Mistress Heyerwif stood like a pillar to the heavens and led the girls around. "This place, it is not real, ja? A memory hall, with every book I have ever read, und maybe a few more, besides. I inherited part of it from my old instructors," she explained. "We are all sitting in Bargoczy Library still, but we feel like it is real. One second there, maybe half an hour here? No feeling hungry, thirsty, or tired, so good for research. Go, go." A hand the size of a dinner platter waved them on. "Find your answers while I add to my collection." With that, the oversized librarian ambled off to the botany section.

  "Well..." Bianca murmured, head still reeling from the experience. "Shall we find a book?"

  Helen had finally returned from what had to have been one epic journey to the ladies' washroom, fraught with peril and excitement, though her face looked more constipated than anything else. "You okay, kiddo?" Uncle had to ask.

  "Yeah." Nothing else followed the syllable.

  "Ready to share what Gwen's up to?"

  "No." There was nothing to follow that one, either.

  Uncle shrugged. "Well then, we still have Selvi's and Flora's excursions. Which of you wants to go first?"

  Three quick rounds of rock-scissors-paper later, and it was decided. Shelby cleared her throat and began. "Selvi's got a personal delivery to make..."

  Selvi Khan's-daughter was used to frightening and perilous tasks, or so she'd thought. Hadn't she as a child accompanied her father on his campaign against the Hunga rebels? Attended the summer training camps of the high steppes? Won the championship in the notoriously brutal al-sâkhar junior leagues? Escaped the confines of her school and spent the last few weeks living a life of adventure?

  So why was she this nervous, walking down a simple road in the sunshine with flowers lining the way?

  It was too alien, she decided. That was part of it. Selvi, in her steppeland garb and blatantly orcish ancestry, had no place here. A hundred years before, she knew, the Palachkit had crashed through the northern marches to lay claim to large sections of the Hundred Kingdoms, including the city formerly known as Baragoccia, and the reason they'd done that was because her own great-grandfather had annexed the land of their ancestors. Every third face in this city bore the Palachkit mold, of pale brown hair and tilted eyes. Selvi's own mother had roughly the same features, but where Vissani Khan's-wife showed only love for her daughter in her eyes, all these strangers saw only a hated ancestral enemy.

  The path was always clear before her, but never did she feel less welcome.

  Not far from the city gates, the Order of the Rose kept a chapterhouse. At one time, the order had been synonymous with the army of Baragoccia, its knights providing the leadership and strength of arms to back it up. Those days were long past, and the khan's daughter had wondered why the Palachkit overlord of the city, the Ataman, even allowed it to continue.

  The part of her which had sat at her father's knee and heard him discuss matters with his satraps already knew the answer: to provide some semblance of continuity, of bridging past and present through tradition, while calmly rubbing past defeats in the face of the conquered. Thus the Order was allowed this one redoubt, to provide its services to the old town, where most were still russet-topped Baragocci, but with a Palachkit overseer and strict limits on budget. Yesterday's lions were that day's disgruntled lapdogs, and all could see it.

  So when the half-orc barbarian marched to their front gate, the banner of the order hanging from a pole in her hands, it got the sort of attention one might expect. Before she reached the iron spikes of the portcullis, two knights had moved to bar her entry. "State your name and purpose!" came the challenge.

  "I am Selvi of Clan Dungivadim!" she roared back. "Come to return an item lost to its proper place!" She held the pole high, letting the battered cloth flow freely in the breeze. Its faded rose was plainly visible. "So, who should I speak to?"

  That won her the proper response, and ten minutes later she was seated at an elegant beechwood table, receiving tea with the Knight Commander. Why tea, one might wonder, but again her father's instruction led her to a conclusion. This was a formal, polite meeting, but one that was gauged to be as alien as possible to the guest.

  Selvi made sure to hold her pinky finger out as she sipped from the delicate teacup. For once, she was happy to have attended Lady Amberyll's Academy for Young Ladies and its etiquette lessons, because not only could she confound her hosts with her good manners, but also compliment them on the Darchalat leaf they'd used to brew the tea. Out of politeness, she did not mention that it was still a lower grade than was her usual, or that it needed a lump of yak butter to improve the taste.

  The order's archivist was the sort of young man who looked like he'd been born old, with a sallow face, bulging eyes, and a hairline that had retreated so far that it was now falling off the back of his head. He was examining the old banner, running his fingers along it with a gentle passion that would have made any lover he might have had supremely jealous. "Yes, yes..." he said, enthralled. "It is legitimate. The banner of the
order's eighth levy, lost at the Battle of Myrthran, supposed to be borne by a daughter of the final king, himself. Her name..."

  "Rosina Garlinda Tatannus, third daughter of the king, or at least that's what she said." Selvi sipped her tea some more to hide her grin as her hosts reacted.

  The Knight-Commander was a tall, narrow man, all sinew and cord, and his moustache reminded her of the Eastern Palach guards in her father's army. She had to resist the urge to give those two dangling twirls of hair a good tug. "Young, er, lady. Ahem," the man said through the copious bristles, "what do you mean by that?"

  "I mean," replied Selvi, "that poor Rosina got stuck hauntin' the moor for a hundred years, hopin' to get the kinda battle she got cheated outta when she was alive. Someone stabbed her in the back," the half-orc stated, eyes fixed on the commander and his reaction, "and that sorta thing really ruins a lady's mood, yanno?"

  "Stabbed in the back..." the archivist was muttering, but the Knight-Commander just scowled.

  "What evidence do you have of that?" the moustache demanded.

  "Nothin'," Selvi said, "except for that banner your man's pawin'. After I beat Rosina in honorable combat, the only thing left was that old scrap. Thought I'd do right by it, so here I am. Thank you again for the tea; it was good." The khan's daughter pushed her seat back and made like she was going to leave.

  "Just one more question," came the expected interruption. "Did this supposed phantom have a blade with her?"

  "Who, Rosina? Yeah, she had a knightly sword, impressive quality. Said it was dwarf-forged, and I believe her." Selvi did stand up then, stretching her legs. "She called it the Starsinger, I think. Beautiful form to it."