Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

It had been her home for most of her adult life-first as a student, later as an associate professor. Though she was extremely talented and knowledgeable in several fields of arcane artifice, prejudice against her youth had prevented her from securing a position as a full professor. Her ego chafed at the lack of recognition, but at least that granted her time to conduct her research free of the university’s watchful eye.

She strode briskly up the tower’s main steps. Metal gates parted silently at her approach, allowing her access to the courtyard beyond. A few students sat on benches or on the grass, studying from textbooks or talking quietly with one another. They paid little mind to Norra as she strode past them, entering the lower levels of the library. She continued onward through darkened stacks, pushing open the door to a small side office and stepping inside. A middle-aged man in a scholar’s dumpy gray robes looked up from his reading with a start, nearly knocking over the lamp on his small desk.

“Norra?” he said, shocked. “Is that you?”

“I won’t deign to address such a stupid question, Petra,” she said. She set her bag on the floor and sat on a stool across from him.

“I see your trip has not softened your demeanor,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you again after your quarters were found empty.” His eyes widened as he spoke. He shifted nervously, as if he expected her to leap at him at any moment. Petra Ghein had been a junior librarian at the university as long as Norra could remember. He was always a nervous man, but at least that made him reliable. He didn’t have the courage to turn on her.

“Honestly, I didn’t expect to come back,” she said.

“I feared as much,” Petra said. “A gentleman named Baron Radcul has been sending messengers to ask about you. They’re rather rude. Something about a debt. He sends a man once a day. I think Master Larrian is beginning to get annoyed.”

Norra looked around the office, distracted. “Do you have anything to drink, Petra?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, chuckling. “How else am I to be expected to deal with the students at end of semester?” He reached under his desk and took out a long-necked wine bottle and a sturdy metal cup.

Norra ignored the cup and took the bottle, drinking from it directly.

“You seem upset,” Petra said, watching her guzzle the alcohol with mild astonishment.

She looked at him coldly and took another drink.

“Stating the obvious; I know it annoys you,” he said. “Perhaps I can be of help?”

“You can start by not telling anyone you saw me here,” she said, “and maybe by helping me put some reagents together so I can craft myself a cap of disguise.”

“Norra, what’s going on?” Petra asked. He picked up the cup and held it out to her tentatively. She poured some of the wine into it, and he sipped nervously.

“I never told you why I was going to the Frostfell,” she said. “I know you think it was some sort of archaeological research, but it wasn’t. I knew what I was looking for. I went there expecting to die for a cause.” She smirked bitterly. “As it turns out, I didn’t.”

“Fantastic,” Petra said. His sudden grin faded when he noticed her dark expression. “Isn’t that good?”

“Good in some ways, bad in others,” Norra said. “I was so sure I wouldn’t come back, I used it to my advantage. I squandered every resource I had funding that trip to the Frostfell. I borrowed a lot of money I can’t afford to pay back.”

“This Baron Radcul, presumably, is a creditor?” Petra asked.

“The worst kind,” Norra said. “He was a brutal mercenary during the Last War. When the War ended, the Brelish army owed him a lot of money. Boranel settled the debt by awarding him some holdings on the Droaam border.”

“The land of monsters?” Petra asked, wincing at the name. “Boranel must not have liked Radcul much.”

“Probably not; rumor has it he was a vicious killer,” Norra said. “Radcul turned the snub into a victory by leasing his properties to House Orien, helping them establish the Droaam trade route. He made a ridiculous profit, left his son to look over his holdings, and bought private estates in Sharn. Now he makes a comfortable living arranging independent loans for the desperate at ridiculous rates of interest.”

“A usurer,” Petra said.

“And a vindictive one,” she said. “If I wasn’t using magic to obscure myself from detection and scrying, he probably would have found me by now. I don’t even want to think about how much I must owe him by now.”

“Well, you should be safe enough while you’re within the university,” Petra said. “Master Larrian would not take kindly to his staff and students being threatened by a glorified street thug.”

“We won’t even need to bring Master Larrian into this,” Norra said. “I can take care of myself. I’ll figure out a way.”

“Is there no one who can help you?” Petra asked. “Friends? Family? Any of your old friends in Zil’argo?”

Norra paused, her lips on the mouth of the bottle. She hadn’t even considered paying off the debt legitimately. It seemed so unlikely. “I have a friend in House Cannith,” she said. “Well, not exactly a friend, but an ally. I don’t know if he would help me. If he did, it would only be exchanging one form of debt for another. At least Dalan is more merciful than Radcul.”

“I don’t want to see you hurt, Norra,” Petra said, hand shaking as he sipped from his cup. “If there is anything I can do to help …”

“If you’re talking about money, forget it. I know how much Larrian pays the junior staff,” Norra said. “But you can help me with some research.”

“Research?” Petra said, perking up like a pet offered a treat.

“Do you remember a man named Ashrem d’Cannith?” Norra asked.

“Of course I remember old Ash,” Petra said, smiling. “I was proud to assist him during his brief stay at Dalannan. You were the one who referred him to us, as I recall, during the brief period you were writing for the Chronicle.”

“Yes,” Norra replied.

“Ah, yes,” Petra said. “I remember now.”

“He was looking for information on the Draconic Prophecy,” Norra said. “I knew Morgrave had a large archive. Could you show me some of the books he researched while he was here?”

Petra looked at her archly. His usual scatterbrained nervousness was gone. He sat straight and composed, his eyes showing the slightest hint of insult. “My records are entirely complete, Norra,” he said. “I can show you every book Ashrem read.”

“Every one?” Norra asked, impressed. “After all these years?”

Petra nodded. He finished his cup of wine and stooped down in his chair, pulling a stocky filing cabinet out from under his desk. He thumbed through the contents for several moments before drawing out a thick book labeled with the year in question. Every page was covered with small, cramped handwriting.

“That can’t possibly be a record of every volume withdrawn from the library,” Norra said.

Petra looked at her frankly. “Well, that would be useless, wouldn’t it?” he asked. “Most of our volumes are extremely valuable references. They can’t be withdrawn from the library. This is a record of every book read, by every attendant, for any length of time, for the last fifteen years-the duration of my service here.”

“How can that be?” she asked.

“You ask me for my help, and then declare my help impossible?” Petra asked, hurt. “Suffice it to say, while not as talented as yourself, I do have some skill with wards and artifice. Magic can do more than make a tower fly or hurl a bolt of lightning, you know.”