A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

It was much the same reason that Claire was taking the risk herself, so she couldn’t find much fault. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not one of your apprentices. I’m coming.” Andras’s smile was mild, but Claire knew when the demon’s mind was made up.

“Stubborn.”

“A requirement when dealing with humans.”

“So it seems.”

Andras had a demon’s care for order and justice—that is to say, none at all. For the first time, Claire wondered exactly what his real motivations were for setting her on this path, let alone coming himself. Andras could have just as easily advised from the Arcane Wing; in fact, staying behind the scenes, subtle and withdrawn, was just Andras’s preference. A tactic he’d tried to impart to Claire, but she’d always preferred doing her own work.

She trusted Andras, despite his being a demon. He’d protected her, taught her, cared for her. She would not have held on to the Library if he hadn’t stepped in and guided the way thirty years ago. Still. She trusted him, but she didn’t pretend to understand him.

Perhaps exposing him to the angel would shake loose more than just clues about the book. She forced a smile. “All right, but I will do the talking.”

Ales barely touched, the group disbanded from the table. Claire ducked toward the back with Andras while Brevity shoved cakes in her pockets and began a loud round of drink buying and shoulder slapping to cover their exit.

THE FROTH ON THE ale was good. By rights, a pour that resulted in a head like that should have flattened the taste of the beer, but the drink was a crisp relief beneath the soft foam. Like Vikings, angels had a good appreciation for an excellent brew. There was a reason monks brewed ale to supplement their monasteries.

Ramiel was surprised to find he enjoyed Valhalla, though he was certain enjoyment wasn’t part of Uriel’s plan. The plan, of course, was to bust down the doors of the realms, find and confront the librarian, and get out before an interrealm grievance could be filed. The paperwork for that would be atrocious.

They’d been lucky to find Hell’s representatives so fast. They’d been unlucky, however, to find them in the arena, fighting with cleverness and heroics, two things that were certain to endear them to Valhalla’s residents immediately.

Uriel had threatened to start glowing, a very bad sign, until Rami had coaxed her into a back corner and explained they needed a new approach. It’d taken some talking to make her see the logic.

Contrary to Uriel’s speech, Heaven was not set above Valhalla, Hell, or anywhere—all the after-realms maintained a careful, if grudging, balance sustained by the fuel of belief and the flow of souls to each realm. Realms of similar purpose were often most harmonious, but all of them were sovereign. An incident here, between two paradise realms, could upset all of it for centuries. Thankfully, the Light of God had eventually calmed down enough for them to formulate a new plan: gather information on Hell’s activities and apprehend its representatives the moment they isolated themselves from the realm’s warriors.

Uriel, of course, had taken up a very visible and glowering guard by the front entrance. She’d made no effort to fill in Valhalla’s master of the guard, an old warrior named Ragna, on what brought them there, declaring Heaven’s business was no one else’s if they were acting within the rights of the treaty. Even a formal stance couldn’t hide the repulsed looks Uriel cast at the Vikings.

To be fair, the residents of Valhalla appeared to quickly develop the same sentiment toward her. Rami saw how companionable smiles quickly fell to suspicious frowns over their ale. Uriel had never had patience for the souls that chose other realms, worshipped other gods, and once again Rami wondered why she’d left Heaven for this. Hunting was primarily a game of information, and there would be no information to be gained without the goodwill of Valhalla’s denizens.

She did, at least, serve as an admirable distraction. He had told Uriel that he would sweep the hall for other exits and then promptly left her to her self-righteous watch.

It hadn’t taken long to find out where Hell’s servants gathered. The librarian and her champion were still missing, but Rami recognized the bewildered-looking young man who had accompanied her on Earth. He was with a pair of companions, a demon and a spirit he couldn’t identify but who radiated curiosity and sticky fingers.

But it was the boy who seemed the oddest of the group. He was changed, now with the pointed ears, red eyes, and sharp pale cheekbones of a minor demon, not the harmless human he’d presented himself as before. It riled Rami—further proof that all souls in Hell were liars—but he made no move to confront them. Patience was also a virtue in Heaven.

Which is how he found himself in a publike room near the rear exit of the longhouse, virtuously enjoying a mug of dark ale. It appeared to be a keg room, one of many, considering Valhalla’s infinite supply. But in front of the old barrels a high table had been set up, with several stools to form a makeshift bar. The crowd was small, an eddy in the greater raucous sea of the main hall, but it appeared even Valhalla had introverts. It was a welcome pause from the chaos of the party.

In a strange way, he felt comfortable here. These mortal souls were strange with their hairy bodies and unfamiliar gods, but they were soldiers ; Ramiel could understand soldiers. He had quickly gone to work plying them with just enough ale and cheerful aggression to justify conversation.

According to the others, the visitors from Hell had arrived shortly before the angels, and with no treaty recognized, they’d been immediately challenged to combat. They’d been forced to oblige, claiming they sought audience with the storyteller. That was good, because it meant they likely did not yet have what they’d come for. Rami didn’t have a clue how Valhalla was tied to that dangerous bit of paper, but it bought him time.

It was simple to survey the impression they’d made—most had been impressed with the champion’s courage and skill, if not necessarily his appearance. “Too smooth. He’ll freeze his chin off,” one soul with a particularly impressive red beard had grumbled.

Rami also discovered, to his surprise, that even more admiration had begun to coalesce around the librarian.

“Not a bonny lass, course. Someone should tell her t’ smile,” grunted a bald and tattooed man with an ax strapped shoulder to torso. “But she got good and bloodied. And put down Uther with a word, imagine! Handy trick, that.”

“Sommat a Freyja-touched in that one. Good thing the naked babe they called a champion had her to mind ’em,” another said, bringing about another rather telling round of speculation about the fighter’s looks.

“If you say so.” It was hard not to let judgment lace his voice. The librarian seemed just as arrogant and unrepentant as every other servant of Hell he’d encountered. He could not parse the idea of honor being attributed to anyone consigned to that realm.

“Puts a man in mind o’ what stories a teller like that could tell,” added the squat, walking beard on his other side. “Or what she could do with a proper weapon. Mark my words—lass like her’s got spirit. I’d love to get her in the ring.”