Should a Door be Opened... Close it
Part 1 of 2 - My submission to the "Small and Scary" collaboration. with thanks to Garen Marie, Erica Drayton and Keith Long for organising and illustrating.
Baron Vastus Chollerford lingered well beyond his welcome; Maestre Belsay could see him from the corner of one eye, loitering; touching things he had no business with. Such is the entitlement of these…these nepoti. His jaws clenched their teeth to silent grinding.
“Have you nought of worth for me to do, Maestre?”
The Librarian continued with his writing, masticating on a fitting response, but before he could form it, the apprentice went on, his accent thick with courtly intonation, dripping with contempt like poisoned honey.
“Only…my noble Uncle swore to me that ‘neath your studied wings would I learn matters of great import. Informations exceeding gold’s measure in value…”
Maestre Belsay stiffened at his desk.
“...and yet, thus far, I have learned nothing but the count of these Librarian’s trinkets, whatever they may be…” he replaced a delicate scrying lens jangling on its brass plinth, “...and from you, Maestre, scarce a dozen words all week, and none of them with wisdom beyond Good day or Good ‘morrow.”
Maestre Belsay turned in his chair, setting on his face what he hoped was a stare of impassive superiority.
“Well? What say you, Maestre? Or do you consider me unworthy of any task within your office?”
At this moment, some insect chose to alight upon the side of Maestre Belsay’s face and, with perfect timing, sting him, causing him instinctively to slap his own cheek. The smack of it was worse than if Chollerford had administered it himself with a beaded falconry glove. The nepoti’s question, and its veiled threat hung, unanswered, as blood rose to Maestre Belsay’s face. He inspected his empty palm in defeat and looked about him for the offending creature amongst the motes that lazed through sunbeams piercing the dim interior of his chamber.
“Unseasonably early for wasps,” was the best he could manage, seeking to make light of it. Baron Chollerford snorted and set his hands on his hips, standing his feet slightly further apart to brace himself before belting out a forced laugh, each fake guffaw separated from the one before to exaggerate the mockery.
“Actually,” the Librarian interrupted the abuse, “there is a task that it would be an honour for even one of your high station to undertake.” Baron Chollerford was silenced. “As you will know, The Most Learned Inquisitor, our Good Maestre Guyzance, is in the care of the Sisters:Last. He grows weak and we fear he will not return to us. Long had he said this would be the case whenever next he fell ill, and so it has come to pass.” Belsay made the gestures of respect, and Chollerford, hesitantly, followed him.
“His aide has been sent to call for me to hear his Last and scribe it for the Records and to gather certain effects which, by tradition, must pass to me, as Inquisitor Expectans.”
Belsay smiled inwardly; no love was lost between him and the old Inquisitor and once his inheritance of the Office had been declared, all pretence had slipped away. It gave him satisfaction to think of this subtle slight and how it might show upon Guyzance’s face –that a young Baron, one of the hated “Pretenders to Intelligence” should be sent, instead of the Heir, to take down his Last for posterity; that a Right-hander, who barely knew which end of a quill was which, should collect the Satchel. It was doubly satisfying to send this smug nepoti as an errand boy to deliver the slight; it would place upon the Baron’s slack shoulders the burden of scribery, a skill he was unlikely to have mastered. Maestre Belsay imagined the rough scratchings and poverty of prose that would mark both Guyzance’s Last and Baron Chollerford’s shortcomings forever in the Records.
Baron Chollerford bridled, but could not refuse. The task was not without honour; a matter of Record and the first to which his name would be put. Yet he knew he had been manoeuvred slyly by the Librarian. He knew he was not equipped for the task and the Record would show it. It would be a worse shame than a branding in the stocks; it would taint the Chollerford name for generations.
Maestre Belsay regarded the Baron’s discomfort with no visible emotion. A lesson worth its gold-weight for you, nepoti: do not quest in the dark when you know not what lurks within it.
—--
From his cot, Maestre Guyzance smelled the thick scent of an aristocrat approach –ambergris and clove…if only they would bathe more frequently instead. He knew it could not be Belsay. He smiled weakly as he reasoned who it must be that had been sent in place of the spiritless Belsay.
How shall I take the sting from Belsay’s pestilent bites? He wondered and sent his mind to focus on the weight of the hempen shroud along the length of his failing body; his skin ached with sensitivity. About him, Sisters:Last bustled with candles and a writing desk, vellum and ink pot. A stool was fetched and then taken away to be replaced with a velvet-cushioned chair. Nobody had expected aristocracy and the young Baron Chollerford stood in evident disgust until a more appropriate seat for his noble arse was found. He sat and cleared his throat, not knowing the proper salutation or address in such a situation; not used to having to address anyone with respect except his uncle. Maestre Guyzance, the Inquisitor, took the lead and the burden of politeness from him.
“Baron Chollerford! You do me such honour, old bookworm that I am, to come in place of that bothersome scrivener Belsay! You have brightened my Last like the summer sun. Come, approach me, you shall not fall ill; it is a wasting sickness, not a fever. Come…come, my voice is as weak as my bones; come close so that you hear my words clearly and my Last does not escape the pen.”
Baron Chollerford stood up and looked about, motioning with a wave of his bejewelled hand. Sisters:Last took the plush chair and moved it closer to the head of the cot and Chollerford sat again.
“I would not deign to take up your time, noble Baron, and so my Last shall be the shortest ever spoken. There is art in brevity, so let my message not be hidden in a forest of words. If you would take up your quill?”
The Inquisitor spoke, the sickness taking his voice like autumn wind through leaves, but his will to be heard was stronger and Chollerford had no difficulty understanding.
There are other realms than ours.
Closer than a hair’s breadth and further than the stars.
Should a door be opened: close it.
What lies beyond? We must not know it.
This Life of Mine, My Last: the truth within does show it.
Guard this realm and do not look beyond for power.
Chollerford dipped his pen to continue, but Guyzance stayed his hand; he had no more to say. Chollerford’s relief was palpable, the words were all well known to him; short and easily writ in Common and not a single word in Ancient.
“I have striven to understand great mysteries and magics, physics and engines and the world’s workings,” explained Guyzance. “But this learning is the one I choose… nay…must leave behind. I want it writ in Common, that everyone may comprehend it. I want it clear in the Records that I, Maestre Guyzance, Inquisitor, gave this knowledge to all as my Last.”
He beckoned the Baron show him what he had written on the vellum page, and nodded his satisfaction that every word was true.
“You leave a fair acreage bare for the Illuminati, Maestre.”
“Indeed, but make it known they must not obscure it with foliage and farting leverets! I know what those bored fools are wont to do with their merry paints and gilding!”
Chollerford laughed. He liked this old man far more than the taciturn Belsay.
“And now, I must entrust to you this final task: the passing of the Satchel. Do not be insulted, noble Baron, if I say that I do not trust you not to look within it - for which of us as a young man would not, if chance presented it, eh? But hear this: what is within is by design beyond the ken of any but the most sharply inquisitive minds. You would only be troubling yourself to try and follow it. Would I be wrong to assume that Ancient is not a script you are well versed in? I thought as much. And as for the key? What it opens is known only between the Inquisitor and the Heir. No other can find the lock, and within are things of value only to the minds of Librarians, and not in any measure of gold. Now, hasten back to the Librarium and pass this to the care of Belsay. Soonest done, soonest will your tiresome apprenticeship be over, hmm? I can read the boredom of it in your face, young Noble, but we all must serve a dull table from time to time.”
Chollerford took the heavy leather pouch in both hands. It smelled of the ages and was inlaid with ironwork, garnet beads and golden wire designs. He bowed, making the gestures of respect, only slightly out of order and felt buoyed by the words of the dying Inquisitor, even strangely proud to have performed this service. He turned to leave and as he did, Guyzance spoke again.
“Noble Baron…when you see Belsay, even though it may pain you, show him the respect that you have shown to me? Pass to him this message of encouragement, say to him: Hold fast to the truth of the Inquisitor’s Last. Tell him it, exactly as you scribed it for me. Tell him it is for the sake of all.”
—-
In the corridor outside, Chollerford called to one of the attending Sisters. “He seems of hearty temperament for a man so close to death?”
“The sickness came swiftly, sire, wasting his bones before our eyes; his mortal time is come. When the body nears its end, the Soul rejoices. Soon it will become one with the Always and so his spirit lifts to greet the never ending day. This is the way of things.”
It was a much more sombre nobleman that returned to the Librarium with his burden. A quartet of Discipuli escorted him to the Porticus Ocultorum where Belsay, Inquisitor Expectans had retired. He awaited the commencement of the Hand of Days, a period of mourning that began when the iron hand of the Sisters:Last was loosed from its chains. The single skyward-pointing finger of the huge metal hand would swing down to point towards the earth when any Noble, Maestre or Magi left the final care of the Sisters. The Records would be inscribed and the vellum Last of whomever had died would be stitched in place.
Belsay rose this time when the Baron entered. Their roles were changed from those they had performed that same morning. Belsay wore the carmine robes now and Chollerford had donned his family regalia, forsaking the tunic of apprenticeship; his master was elevated and so the indenture was ended. He presented the Satchel, bent one knee, curt and swift, then stood back.
“The Inquisitor bid me speak to you the words of his Last, which I have enscribed upon the vellum,” he said, with as sombre tone as he could muster, before repeating verbatim the short passage. Belsay’s eyebrows raised.
“And that is every word of his Last? Those scant few lines?”
“Indeed. And he bid me encourage and entreat you, on his behalf, to pay close heed to them, and to honour his message ‘For the sake of all.’ He said it was the most important message of his long life of work.”
Belsay pondered this a moment, then smiling with grace he returned the Baron’s curt bow and placed the Satchel within the candled sconce that was it’s home. He would open it soon enough.
“If I may… it does read as a warning, Maestre. Wouldn't you say?” Belsay did not reply, but stroked his chin.
“If my part is played in full, then, I shall depart,” said the Baron, with another brisk bow of his head “I thank you for bestowing this honour upon me. It is not one I ever thought my bellicose Family would wear, and I am proud that my first Record should be this.”
“And I thank you, noble Baron. Your deeds today will be forever a matter of the Records. It will sit well with your Family to have scribed the Last of such a treasured Inquisitor and not a drop of life spilled.”
The two men parted, both feeling much more satisfied with themselves than when the day had begun. Belsay ushered out the Discipuli and sat in the throne-like chair that would soon be his right to occupy. He smoothed his hands across the textures of the Satchel, fingers playing over it with the anticipation of possessing its secrets. Sweet wine was called for; how he had craved the right to taste it once again. At the same time, Baron Chollerford strode from the Librarium’s sanctum, cutting a rude diagonal across the carefully raked garden of the cloister. White pea gravel sprayed out like spital from beneath his boots and a smile curled at one corner of his mouth. Once saddled on his waiting steed, he felt within the breast of his robes to check that something still lay safe within.
Guyzance had read him well; of course he had opened the Satchel! Within it there had been a modest tome: “Haec Vita Mea est: Acta S. Inquisitoris” was the legend marked in gilt upon its face: the Inquisitors Journal. Full of dense Ancient and diverse drawings indeed…but, as Chollerford had flicked impatiently through it, there had fallen out from between the last few pages an envelope, sealed with the black wax of the Librarium…
Belsay was unable to wait for the Hand to fall on Guyzance before he opened the Satchel, and as he did, he noticed that the secret seal was already broken; flakes of black wax were evident. The Satchel was defiled.
Chollerford! Surely he would not…
Shaking, Belsay withdrew the Inquisitor’s Journal, tracing the Ancient on its cover and whispering its translation: This Life of Mine: Sacred Journal of the Inquisitor. Next, the pouch of spun gold chain that held the Key was withdrawn. All was as it should be - both book and key were present, but all the same, he felt suspicion.
No matter…there are ways to know if anything has been removed.
Belsay took fresh parchment and quill, and by means of a particular cypher confined to his memory, the Journal revealed, letter by letter, where he should seek the lock that fit the key. The answer surprised him, but then he nodded to himself Of course! Sitting back he scratched at a soreness on his cheek, recalling the sting, the slap and the laughter that followed. I will have some measure of satisfaction from you yet, young Baron…He winced and drew back his hand sharply–a spot of blood on his finger from the tiny sting. He would call for a tincture from the Sisters:First in the morning. Tiredness took hold of him. The Lock would wait; with luck the Hand would fall for Guyzance in the night and he could proceed without breaking the Traditions any further.
Belsay’s wish is granted: the Inquisitor breathes no more. Sisters:Last gather him up in the hempen shroud and a dozen of them carry him down to the coolness of the underground river. There, the funeral barge waits. It will carry him to the Isle of the Sisters:Always. Above, the Hand is unchained. It creaks as the careful balance is undone: a single sphere of lead removed from the lower crucible and dropped into the upper. The pull of the Earth does the rest and with a rush of air the arm sweeps down, the hand booms once against the drum of layered nosserine hides and the iron finger points the way that all flesh must depart.
Despite an ache in his bones, Belsay woke and washed with the sun as he always did. A retinue of Discipuli attended him, bringing news of the passing of the Inquisitor together with the mortar board of office and trimmings of regalia to dress him .He had taken the carmine robes already, but none mention it. The mortar board is a dull thing, Belsay has always thought that; black and plain, little more than an upturned soup bowl of starched felt. The shining lacquered plate which crowns it and faces the sky is the only part to differentiate the wearer from any other scholar. Today, Belsay must officiate the start of the Hand of Days, but first there is time for the Key. He bids the Discipuli leave him; he will choose his Aide another day.
The Porticus Ocultorum is the most sacred part of the cruciform Librarium. It sits as the centre of a cross formed by the four wings of the building. In another realm, it would be described as a Cross of the Knights of Malta, but here, the cross has a different pedigree.
Belsay took the satchel and left his chambers through a hidden door to the Scala Mus, the Stairway of the Mouse, which rises between the lower Library of the Earth and the upper Library of the Stars. A secret way, narrow and dark, without windows nor any need for them because it leads to only one place; at least, that is what Belsay had always thought. He counted seventy seven steps until, in the painful brightness of the calcis lamp, a procession of the Sisters:Always appeared in crisp shadows of bas relief upon the wall. Sisters:Always –the pilgrims who pass between the earth and stars –escorting the worthiest of the dead. The frieze shows them bearing a body, but its likeness was carved in wood and not into the stone. Belsay pressed it and it opened inwards to reveal a keyhole…
In the Chollerford palazzo, the young Baron paced in frustration awaiting his porcine uncle’s descent to breakfast; he has a favour to ask and knows that, when feasting, his uncle is at his most receptive. The twin concubines, whose names he can never twist apart, await their master, readying his place at the table, bringing close to his plate the rich dishes he prefers. It sickens the Baron, their part in the cycle of consumption. The two boys pick at fruits; one of them eyes the Baron with obvious hunger which the Baron parries with a look that promises nothing. For all his vanity and ambition, the Baron finds his Uncle’s banishment of his wife –blood sister to the Baron’s blood Mother –dishonourable. A smirch upon the Chollerford name; a name that his uncle inherited by marriage alone, and marriage won through bloodstained gold at that.
During the night, he broke the wax on the Inquisitor’s stolen papers, hoping for some advantageous secret to be revealed, but finding only frustrating and incomprehensible scribings in Ancient. He needs a translator; a Librarian, but one that he can bind to oaths of secrecy; one within the family. For this, he needs the favour of his Uncle; only his Uncle has the status to break a Librarian from the pledge, for if the papers reveal from whom the Baron stole them, the Librarian could not be permitted to return.
He hears the chaffing swish of silk between his Uncle’s fat thighs as he waddles into the room, snorting up the aroma of honeyed meats. With a jangling wave of gold-laden arms, he dismisses the guards and aides and sits between his cooing boys. The Baron bows and takes a seat, putting away his disgust and forcing out a smile to better serve his purpose.
“Ahhh…young Vastus! Most hungry, but yet…most ascetic Baron. And dear Nephew…what favour do you seek of me, to bring your company to my breakfast table?” His uncle’s voice is thick and filthy as a gutter slick; the sound of it oozes from his puckered mouth which is sunk into the flab of his face like it has been punched inwards.
In the Chamber, between the Earth and the Stars, Belsay stood before a Sacris-Functionalis: a chest, hewn from a single cube of urk-wood. The doors open outwards from the front and bowls and niches carved into it on all sides mark out ritual patterns for alchemy and magic. Between some run gold wire and others, inset glass tubes. On top of it, on its altar stone, Belsay has placed the contents of the chest: two square glass plates, fastened one atop the other with brass clips, and another journal. This book is small and unadorned; a Journal written in the Inquisitor’s dense handwriting.
8th day of the 4th Month. Saint Nicholas’ eve
I took possession this day of a most curious artifact. Rasthemonesi, Wanderer, has returned successful from travels to the East that have taken him beyond the Realm for eight and one half months. The rumours have proven true; at least, the artifact did exist, but what to make of it? What magic or alchemy will it serve? A most fantastical and unique quality is promised and I am almost fearful to unlock the reliquary, but God is Knowledge, Knowledge is God. In this journal I shall each day record the forty nine Inquiries. The thing must be tested according to the Orders.
9th day of the 4th Month. Saint Nicholas’ day.
Inquiry: the First.
Examination of the reliquary reveals it to be fashioned from two equal squares of mirrored glass, their mirrored surfaces placed to face each other. Four brass screw clips fasten them securely together. Chinnery has brought to me a mouse, a bird and a lizard and each has been placed with the reliquary under a glass bell for two turns of the sandglass with no ill effect apparent, although they will not touch it; each creature moves to the extremity of the glass bell to avoid it.
10th day of the 4th Month. Burning of the Saint.
Inquiry: The Second.
The animals still live. They are dispatched for divination of health by the Sisters:First.
On unscrewing the brass fastenings, a faint excitation of the skin is felt, but not painful. Gloves prevent the sensation. The upper layer of glass is removed revealing the artifact. As reported, it is a circular piece of some unknown material. In size, it makes a circle not greater than a single hands’ span with outstretched fingers. It is exceptionally thin, presenting less depth than a sheet of finest parchment. In colour, it is an intense black, blacker than a pool of pitch; a black the like of which I have not ever seen. It reflects no light; however when observed in darkness there appears to be within it, if the gaze is not averted, pin pricks of light akin to distant stars deep inside it. A most curious thing. It emits no discernable odour or magnetism of repulsion or attraction.
Belsay put down the journal and unscrewed the brass clips, noting the sensation on his finger tips. The Artifact was exactly as described –an utterly black circle, like a pool of liquid, resting precisely on the mirror below, perhaps a thumb’s width of glass as a border. He bent closer to look at the darkness of it; sure enough, there was an impression of almost invisible pricks of light swirling deep within it, like the midnight sky from the observatory atop Mount Crator, but yet even more intensely black. He re-ignited the calcis lamp and held it close to see if a brighter light would reveal more, shine into the darkness, but it did not. Instead, the reflection cast by the mirror on the ceiling held a perfect black circle as if the artifact had consumed the lamplight entirely. He picked up the journal and read on.
11th Day of the 4th Month. Feast of the Martyr.
Inquiry: the Third.
The Order of Inquiry bids me not touch the specimen with my own hands, curiosity or no, so again mouse, bird and lizard are brought. Each is placed in turn under a bell glass with it. None of them will approach the artifact; their repulsion from it is marked –each seems desperate to escape from their glass prison.
And then! A most incredible occurrence! I took up with tongs the lizard, being the slowest of the three animals, to place it upon the artifact. It writhed horribly, as if in pain as I brought it near and then on releasing it to drop onto the black surface, it vanished before my eyes! At first I thought it must have jumped from the Sacris chest and hid in some crevice. Next I took up the mouse by its tail and, observing more closely this time, dropped it upon the artifact - whereon the mouse fell into its depths and vanished as if into some profound hole. An impossible magic! I took up the bird next in gloved hands to test that my eyes had not deceived me. Holding it with one hand, I placed it upon the artifact, but as its tiny claws touched the surface, they too vanished. It was as if there was nothing there - the feet of the bird disappeared, and the more of the bird I pushed down into it, the less of the bird remained visible. Startled, I withdrew the bird which seemed excited with fear but otherwise complete. On repetitions, the result was the same and I was most careful not to touch it.
Thinking as logically as I could about this hole without visible depth, I opened the door of the chest, expecting perhaps to see within it the mouse and the lizard, somehow fallen through solid stone and wood - but the chest was empty.
Belsay put down the journal and leaned in to stare at the black circle. He felt drawn to touch the gleaming blackness, but pulled back his quivering hand and leaned away.
In the Sanctum of the Sisters:Always the body of Guyzance rested in a cold granite niche. The Mortuaris is chilled with ice brought in huge barge-loads from the glaciers that calve into the Farfjords; the bodies of those preparing for eternity must rest here for a Hand of Days before they travel to the sky. The Sisters are troubled. The body of the Inquisitor bears marks of an illness they have never seen. Sisters:First are called for their knowledge, and hushed comparisons of their numerous tractatis medicae are made, but the wasting of the body is like nothing encountered before. It seems as if the corpse continues to whither and hollow out from within.
“Could you not ask me for new armor, or a nosserine war steed? Something more befitting a young noble? What earthly use have you with a Librarian, and a mere Discipulus at that? And why would you have me drag our Cousin from his pledge, out of all of them? It took gold to put him there, you know. Have you and he pledged cock-tryst, eh? Is that it?” The Baron’s Uncle snorted a laugh and pounded the table with his meaty fist.
The concubines’ eyes flicked between the Baron and their master in sudden alertness.
“Can your lust not be spent elsewhere, Nephew? I never placed you for a…”
“—NO, Uncle! It is naught like that. I have acquired a relic…from a wager with the cards. I am promised it has great value, but it is beyond my reckoning. If the truth of it can be proven, then I can acquire more…many more. Cousin Corbis can divine the worth of it and by the familiar oath be bound to keep our secret. What say you?”
Intrigued, and tempered with dark meat and figs, his Uncle assented and guards were sent. A few hours later, Corbis was brought, confounded, to the Baron’s chambers and welcomed with mead and sweet pastries, which he declined.
“How find you life in the Librarium, good Cousin?”
“Well enough, noble Baron.”
“Vastus, call me Vastus and I shall call you Corbis, as once we did in our childhood. Happy times, those?”
Corbis blinked at him. “My recollection does not accord with yours, Baron; but then this quarter of the city escaped the worst of the Varkine siege. Tell me, do you visit your mother’s stone? She was very kind. I never see you there.”
Sensing pleasantries would serve no purpose, the Baron turned about and went to his strong room, returning with the stolen papers. “I will not deceive you with this task, Corbis, and I call for juramentum familiaris. Your house owes fealty and you may not refuse.”
Corbis’s head drooped and then he shook it. He reached for the mead and filled himself a glass and drank it down.
“I shall have no more need of my vows, eh, Vastus, if I read your game right. Will I keep my head upon my neck at least, once this task is done for you? Will you tell me that and let me make my peace?”
Vastus placed the papers on the table. “Tell me what these are; what they mean, and of course you shall live. We are family. Now give me your hand and swear the juramentum.”
To be continued… Part 2
With thanks to
for dreaming this whole thing up (yet again!) - the legend that brings us Top in Fiction TiF index for the collection
and
for organising and illustrating this wonderful collaborative fiction event.
This is totally immersive. You must have this entire world and its doings inside your head somewhere. In which case, I do hope you'll stick with this campaign setting because I like it.
And this is an excellently written and intriguing story, with deliciously drawn characters. When's part 2?
Your imagination is fantastic, Nick. You do pull us in. Great characters, too.