(no subject)
“They say the fourth try is blessed,” the Hand who instructs her in Magic tells her at breakfast that next morning.
She mutters a soft affirmative, and soon gathers her plates to deposit in one of the serving carts and walks to the library.
The Hand caring for the books looks up when she enters and she says, after glancing around to make sure no one is studying, “I am in need of entrance to the archives.”
“Yes, Haras-uquara,” he says, handing over one of the burnished keys. “I believe young Pani took his breakfast early, so he should already be down there.”
“My gratitude to you and your shared knowledge,” she replies in kind, pushing some of her hair behind her ear and taking the key.
Through the archway to a sturdy metal door made a thousand years ago (and kept in perfect condition) that she unlocks carefully and relocks behind her, down a short stone staircase in a cylinder of brick, to a landing on sheer rock and another doorway that she lays a hand against and speaks a word, before unlocking it and closing it behind her (re-locking and speaking another word with her hand against its surface).
The caverns that hold the archives are the deepest, for they are the largest, and the best secured because of the stored knowledge and living spaces below. The House has fended off sieges from below ground twice over the past millennia, and they have a long enough memory to defend it.
Finally she reaches the heavy drop-door, which no group of men could lift on their own without many House-taught wizards lending them strength, and calls through a small barred partition.
“Is there a Hand below?”
“What?” Comes the startled response. “Oh, yes-well, there’s me-who wants to come to the archives?”
“One who wishes to preserve the knowledge of Uquar,” she replies, with patient exasperation.
She can hear him make his way to the crank, below, and spin it a few times, easily.
The drop-door lifts off of its lintels straight into frame above it, and Helen scampers through and down the ladder as it closes back off.
“Hello, Haras-uquara,” says the man in spectacles with amiable deference, as he settles back into the chair in front of his desk-in front of him some type of vase, several large books from the library, and many sheets of paper. “I am trying to prove the relationship between the artwork of the Era of the Sands and the poetry of the Ni.”
“…Which is none,” Helen supplies, eyeing the Three Fingers suspiciously through a space in her hair.
“Of course. But it will hopefully let them leave me alone long enough to find a subject I can actually turn into my research to be a full fist,” he replies with a small, quick smile that disappears as rapidly as it shows. “I heard you were thinking of serving down here, Haras-uquara? What work might you wish to do?”
She shrugs, suddenly unsure.
“Maybe if I leave you alone long enough you’ll find out,” he continues gently, after several moments pass. “Explore as you wish.”
She mutters a soft affirmative, and soon gathers her plates to deposit in one of the serving carts and walks to the library.
The Hand caring for the books looks up when she enters and she says, after glancing around to make sure no one is studying, “I am in need of entrance to the archives.”
“Yes, Haras-uquara,” he says, handing over one of the burnished keys. “I believe young Pani took his breakfast early, so he should already be down there.”
“My gratitude to you and your shared knowledge,” she replies in kind, pushing some of her hair behind her ear and taking the key.
Through the archway to a sturdy metal door made a thousand years ago (and kept in perfect condition) that she unlocks carefully and relocks behind her, down a short stone staircase in a cylinder of brick, to a landing on sheer rock and another doorway that she lays a hand against and speaks a word, before unlocking it and closing it behind her (re-locking and speaking another word with her hand against its surface).
The caverns that hold the archives are the deepest, for they are the largest, and the best secured because of the stored knowledge and living spaces below. The House has fended off sieges from below ground twice over the past millennia, and they have a long enough memory to defend it.
Finally she reaches the heavy drop-door, which no group of men could lift on their own without many House-taught wizards lending them strength, and calls through a small barred partition.
“Is there a Hand below?”
“What?” Comes the startled response. “Oh, yes-well, there’s me-who wants to come to the archives?”
“One who wishes to preserve the knowledge of Uquar,” she replies, with patient exasperation.
She can hear him make his way to the crank, below, and spin it a few times, easily.
The drop-door lifts off of its lintels straight into frame above it, and Helen scampers through and down the ladder as it closes back off.
“Hello, Haras-uquara,” says the man in spectacles with amiable deference, as he settles back into the chair in front of his desk-in front of him some type of vase, several large books from the library, and many sheets of paper. “I am trying to prove the relationship between the artwork of the Era of the Sands and the poetry of the Ni.”
“…Which is none,” Helen supplies, eyeing the Three Fingers suspiciously through a space in her hair.
“Of course. But it will hopefully let them leave me alone long enough to find a subject I can actually turn into my research to be a full fist,” he replies with a small, quick smile that disappears as rapidly as it shows. “I heard you were thinking of serving down here, Haras-uquara? What work might you wish to do?”
She shrugs, suddenly unsure.
“Maybe if I leave you alone long enough you’ll find out,” he continues gently, after several moments pass. “Explore as you wish.”