A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

“Truthfully? Those books weren’t even due to be inventoried yet,” Brevity admitted as he disappeared into the stacks again. “But it keeps him busy. How was Andras?”

“Well-informed. Patronizing. Per usual.” Claire began to tick through her head as she calculated where to begin with the disasters on the Library’s plate. “How’s the hero doing?”

“He’s wearing a pout that could curdle milk, but otherwise he’s bucked up. He just wants to be called Hero. Like, for a name.” Brevity poured a new cup of tea for herself.

“That’s… quite the literal affectation.”

“That’s what I told him in less fancy words.” Brevity lowered her voice as the cart emerged from a back aisle. “He sure seemed set on it. Said he thought it had a certain je ne sais quoi . And that’s when I put him on inventory.”

Claire nodded and waved Leto over. No use putting this off. “Well done, 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.

He caught it, gave it a careful heft, and sighted down the end of the blade. Claire took the moment to take silent stock of him. He certainly had the air of a hero, capable, with confidence that irritated like a hangnail. Still, Claire was more used to shelving characters than trusting them.

Hero cast an unreadable glance at her. “Adequate.”

“Excellent.” Claire waited until he’d stripped the blade’s sheath from the suit of armor and secured the weapon across his back. She started down the aisle again. “We need to get straight on a few things before we leave.”

“Is this where we swear to be true and loyal in the face of certain death? Your short acquaintance has already branded me.” Hero held up the wrist that had been stamped.

“Which is the only reason I’m bringing you along,” Claire said. That and a swashbuckling hero could not hurt their odds if that angel showed up again. Her little group needed him. That was an unfortunate fact he didn’t need to know.

“Not worried I’ll slip the leash again?”

“Oh, I’m sure you would try. I just trust my leash more.” Claire allowed him to catch up as they turned a corner. “I have no doubt you’ll do as I say, when I say. But I need you to swear to something outside of that.”

Hero sniffed. “No, thanks. I’ve reached my inconvenient-oath quota for the year.”

“I will make it worth your time.”

“I doubt that.”

Claire stopped. They could hear Brevity’s high, clear voice chattering at the far end of the aisle as books thumped around. “Inspiration.”

Hero narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You wanted your author to write her books. I happen to be on excellent working terms with the muses.”

“It seems to me that the Library’s relationship with the muses is more adversarial than collaborative.”

“Nonsense.” Claire waved her hand to cover the fact that his perception was entirely accurate. “We all care about the well-being of authors and books. Serve admirably on this trip, maybe I will suggest more focused efforts for young Miss McGowan.”

There was a gleam in Hero’s eyes that had not been present before. “What admirable service do you have in mind?”

“Protect them,” Claire said. Too quickly, too urgently. That was a misplay when dealing with a hero who seemed as contrary as a tomcat. She picked her next words carefully. “You’re duty bound to do as I say, but I cannot foresee how this ill-advised errand will go. If I am not there to command you, Hero, I want your oath that you’ll not abandon Brevity and Leto—or Andras, I suppose, though he can take care of himself. See they return safely to the Library, to the best of your ability.”