《Disappointing and confusing》


 Victor writes letters (1)

    Victor did not like his job, and that made him feel like ingrate scum.


    He had no business being an assistant librarian at his age. He shouldn¡¯t have been able to afford lodging and food, yet he somehow was. And even then, the Guild insisted in paying half of his rent.


    And the library! It was a thing of wonder in itself, more than five thousand tomes, some centuries old.


    Truly, he was blessed. So why he still unsatisfied? He didn¡¯t need his family¡¯s help, unlike his older and more laborious siblings. He chuckled to himself. After imagining their righteous indignation, he didn¡¯t feel so guilty.


    ¡°Whatcha laughing at, boy?¡± asked the librarian, a wrinkly old man four times his age.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    ¡°I was thinking of ¡®The Giants¡¯, sir ¡± he lied.


    ¡°Bahaha! Was that the one with the goose?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I think so.¡±


    He lied. Why did he lie to such a kind man?


    ¡°Oh gods! The goose! Ha ha. He was a smart one, that¡­ doctor. Hum. Can¡¯t remember his name.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll go check.¡±


    It was because he was immature, of course. He was ignorant and mean, like a spoiled child. Next year he¡¯d be twenty, and he wouldn¡¯t feel so out of place anymore. He hoped. Two decades was a respectable age, right? No, it wasn¡¯t. His older brothers and sisters were not respectable at all. It was just enough to be considered an adult. Oh, of course he was already an adult, but in terms of life experience he was nothi...


    ¡°No need, no need,¡± the librarian interrupted his descent into loathing.¡±We can do that later, it is now time to rest.¡±


    ¡°But we just opened.¡±


    ¡°Precisely.¡±

 Victor writes letters (2)

    The dim orange light entering from the windows told Victor it was closing time.


    He heard Evard shoo away visitors and took that as his cue to start putting the books back in their shelves, smiling apologetically when he politely tapped on the shoulder of those who hadn¡¯t left their tables yet.


    ¡°Don''t worry miss, it¡¯ll be in the same place as always.¡±


    ¡°No, we¡¯re not selling.¡±


    ¡°Yes, others are allowed to read it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but one may only borrow two books at any given time.¡±


    As usual, it took a good while to get people to leave.


    A student of some sort pleaded while taking notes like a man possessed. Evard had to threaten to revoke his membership to get him to understand that he had, in fact, no right to remain within the premises.


    Victor was at this point trying desperately to find the other 25 volumes of an encyclopedia. He was sure he had left them all in one shelf, ordered by number. He eventually found them all, scattered throughout 25 different shelves, in two different floors. How this had happened in only one day was beyond him.


    A fairly high rank member of the Scriptorium whose name Victor couldn¡¯t remember came in just in time for his appointment, not a second too late nor too early.


    The Custodian of the Library (a pretentious title, librarian was just fine) pointed at the table where his Junior Assistant had piled all 26 volumes of the 4th edition of the Encyclopedia of Natural and Medical Sciences. After a quick look, the Senior Scribe realized that he had asked for the wrong collection; he had intended to request the 5th edition of the Encyclopedia of Natural and Mathematical Sciences. He sheepishly apologized, but didn¡¯t move a finger to help find the 29 books.


    If looks could kill, Victor would have committed homicide right then and there.


    Once only the librarian and his assistant were left, the old man sat down behind his desk. His usually jovial demeanor was gone.


    ¡°Victor, can you spare a moment?¡± his voice was cold, angry. Victor almost shat himself.


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°Here, look at this.¡±


    ¡°The notebook?¡±


    ¡°The one and only.¡±


    ¡°What about it?¡±


    ¡°This¡¯ll be a good practical experience. Tell me, what do you see?¡± Evard¡¯s tone took a gentler, expectant tone.


    Victor picked up the offending object, trying to figure out exactly what crime it had committed or been involved in. Skimming through he found nothing. No marks in the leather that bound it, nothing in the fourty or so pages. No weird cyphers, no stains, no sneaky doodles. After careful examination he said:Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°It seems to be completely blank.¡±


    ¡°Seems to?¡±


    ¡°It is blank.¡±


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t follow.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a smart lad, you¡¯ll figure it out.¡±


    It was old, well maintained and of great make, but he couldn¡¯t find anything out of the ordinary with it. Was it magical? No, he had no way of knowing that and Evard knew it. Why, it looked like of those he could buy in¡­ shit.


    ¡°Did we get scammed?¡±


    ¡°I did.¡±


    ¡°When did this happen?.¡±


    ¡°It does not have a number so...¡±


    ¡°A year or less.¡±


    ¡°Fuck the Tyrant. Fuck him and his worthless dogs!¡±


    ¡°May his guts rot. Regardless, we had and still have more than we are legally allowed to, so we can¡¯t rely on our inventory.¡±


    ¡°Fetch me the purchase records. You know where they¡¯re hidden?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Are we going to cross-reference them with the list of books being currently lent out?¡±


    ¡°Of course, and then we¡¯ll have to look for each and everyone of those that are supposedly in here.¡±


    It took them two hours until they finally figured it out, thanks to the less than ideal distribution of the books. Victor swore to himself that if he ever saw someone misplace a book again, he would rip their fucking head off.


    ¡°Its ¡®Gilman''s journal¡¯. Who¡¯s Ghilman?¡±


    ¡°Bugger me if I know. Who did we buy it from?¡±


    ¡°The Guild Master''s son.¡±


    ¡°THAT LITTLE SHIT!¡±


    ¡°Fuck him. Still, he is the boss¡¯ son. Should we pursue this any further?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have a talk with his father, but I¡¯ll bet ya this month¡¯s salary nothing will come out of it.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°Just go home and get some sleep. There¡¯s nothing you can do about it.¡±


    Somewhat hungry, quite thirsty and very pissed off, he cussed under his breath the whole way to the inn. It was a dark, cloudy night, and with darkness came the cold. Victor quickened his step, eager to get shove something down his gullet and go to bed.


    Half an hour later he could hear his destination. He was closer. He started jogging.


    Two minutes after hearing it, he could smell it. Victor was almost there. He took a deep breath, and immediately regretted it.


    The Punchy Boar was, to put it mildly, a very strange looking structure.


    Four (and two thirds) stories tall, the part-ancient building had a very particular charm; it had history. Around two hundred years ago old Zecond (or Zecond the First, as Victor called him in his head) had come from across the sea, escaping from war and famine. Through sheer hard work he had risen from the mud and acquired what was at the time a nearly-worthless shack where a rat wouldn¡¯t be caught dead, turning it into a thriving business. Or so did old Zecond (the Sixth) tell Zecond the young and any unfortunate bystanders on a daily basis.


    Each generation of Zeconds would add something to the structure, be it slapping a new floor on top of the existing ones, annexing a nearby building, putting new windows in strange places, or radically reinventing the concept of basement.


    Some walls had been whitewashed, some hadn¡¯t. Some were brick and mortar, others stone and wood. The exterior of the third floor was darkish pink where the paint hadn¡¯t fallen off, half of the first floor was bare brick (but only on the outside), and the lower third of the fourth floor was white in the outside and green in the inside . The second floor had windows that faced east and west. The first, north and south.


    Whenever he entered, Victor felt that the place was somehow more real than the rest of the world.


    Innumerable trophies and knick-knacks adorned the walls and ceiling; rusty old weaponry, animal pelts, small portraits, colorful paper lanterns, potted plants, a dreamcatcher, a kite, the oldest kiteshield in existence.


    His favorite one was located in the fourth floor: a piece of rope from which hung several broken mugs, two spoons, and a copper whistle shaped like a very ugly dove.


    All the tables were full. Of course they were. He pushed and shoved his way to the bar counter, which was also full. Many more were standing, waiting for a seat.


    ¡°I¡¯d rather go to sleep, than stand around for an hour,¡± he thought. ¡°I have water in my room.¡±


    Victor dreamt of bathing in moonlight. He was perfect, the pinnacle of creation, the last thing there would ever be. It was a good dream. Right when the stars were descending to kiss the ground he stood upon, he woke up. It was at that very moment that his mood went to shit.

 Victor writes letters (3)

    The common room was almost empty. Out of 20-something tables only four were occupied, all of them with seats remaining. Never before had he been able to see what the Punchy Boar¡¯s floor looked under all that sawdust and filth. In the year or so he had spent in the inn, this was by far the quietest morning. Was it Rest Day already?


    He asked the sleepy-eyed barmaid currently shambling in his general direction.


    ¡°Hey Anna. What day is this?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Is it Rest Day?¡±


    ¡°Think so. Dunno. I¡¯m too tired to remember.  Anyway, I¡¯m gonna go get some shuteye. Lia¡¯ll bring you some grub in a minute. Goodnight Vic.¡±


    ¡°The night is already over.¡±


    ¡°Fuck off, you know what I meant.¡±


    When Lia brought him his breakfast he asked the old cook the same thing.


    ¡°No, Rest Day is the day past tomorrow. Can¡¯t blame you for asking though, this is the worst business day we¡¯ve had in half a decade.¡±


    ¡°Is it that bad?¡±


    ¡°It is far, far from enough to make us go bust, but yes.¡±


    Victor groaned his displeasure between mouthfuls of bread and some fish-like creature with way too many teeth.


    ¡°Say kid, aren¡¯t you late for your job?¡±


    ¡°Mrrhhrm¡± He washed down the last of his breakfast with a swig of beer. ¡°Sorry. What time is it?¡±


    ¡°The bell tolled eight a good while ago.¡±


    ¡°Fuck!¡±


    Victor took a last sip of the vaguely alcoholic barley juice, and sprinted out the door like a man possessed. He could hear the old matron yell a question at him, but all he understood was something about a square.


    When he first arrived to Banno Victor felt a strange combination of fear and elation. For the first time in his life, he was free to decide his own fate. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    As sheltered kids generally do, he decided the best way to express his freedom was to drink. So he decided to have beer for breakfast because he could. By the time he got tired of it the innkeeper, his wife, the cooks and the waiters had already assumed that he just loved to have ale for breakfast. He felt so embarrassed that he would rather die than admit he didn¡¯t enjoy it in the least.


    Victor reflected on what it meant to be an adult when his bladder started getting dangerously full halfway to work.


    He was both worried and relieved by the street¡¯s near emptiness. On one hand it meant that he could piss in an alley. On the other hand, it made him feel bad about his lack of awareness about the local customs. Or politics, he wasn¡¯t sure. The square was nowhere near his workplace, so he couldn¡¯t go take a peek and asking a random stranger would just be awkward.


    The Scribe¡¯s Guild was packed.


    People were coming and going like there was no tomorrow, many of which he was quite sure weren¡¯t even scribes. Victor put two and two together and grimaced. He may be oblivious to his surroundings, but he wasn¡¯t that stupid.


    The Guilds had somehow fucked up, the Lord (or maybe his retainers) couldn¡¯t calm the masses, and now something probably bad (for his job stability, not for the overwhelming majority of the population) was brewing in the plaza.


    With a bitter taste in his mouth, he took a deep breath and walked in.


    Evard greeted him almost immediately, to both his joy and consternation. Again, he wasn¡¯t stupid. If the old mage charged with caring for the library was near the door, it meant they were quite scared of an imminent attack. Or maybe overreacting.


    Who was he kidding, he was talking about the Scribes Guild. Of course they were overreacting.


    ¡°Are you okay, kid?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad to hear that.¡±


    At least he wasn¡¯t going to be reprimanded for his late arrival. Hooray.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t know?¡±


    Shit. He just had to go and open his mouth, now he had no excuse for being late.


    ¡°No. I tried to see what was happening in the plaza, but on the way there I realized I was going to be late, so I turned back and ran.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no shame in being afraid, kid. I am too.¡±


    Somehow, lying had made Evard open up. Wonderful. Fantastic. Just what his conscience needed.


    ¡°EVERYONE. TO THE MAIN HALL,¡± someone yelled.


    ¡°Hurry up kid, they¡¯ll snatch up all the best seats.¡±


    Victor couldn¡¯t help but just stare dumbfounded at the librarian¡¯s face. The librarian stared back.


    ¡°Ha ha ha!¡±


    ¡°BAHAHA!¡±


    Edvard laughed. Victor laughed. They pushed and shoved their way to the main hall. When a fat fur merchant wearing so much jewelry it hurt to look at protested, the Custodian of the Library just stuck out his tongue and kept going.


    The merchant looked at Victor, the anger making his face redden at a frightening pace. Victor smiled sheepishly. And the most magical thing happened: the man laughed. He laughed so hard he fell on his ass and had to be helped up, wheezing and coughing and still laughing.


    The woman who helped him giggled. The scribes laughed. Everyone in a ten meter radius laughed.


    The glorified cartel was a wonderful place to work in.

 Victor writes letters (4)

    The Guildmaster''s face was grim and his tone serious:


    ¡°I believe the overwhelming majority of us know the reason for this meeting. However, a small number might be unaware of it, or lack some parts of the story. As I do not wish to repeat myself, pay close attention:


    Yesterday afternoon it was discovered that a few dock workers, whose names and addresses will be provided later¡± The Scribes¡¯ Guild Master glared a now very pale, young-ish alchemist apprentice who lowered his hand at speeds the world¡¯s best athletes could only dream of ¡°were running a racket in warehouse 14, swapping the high quality grain our brewer associates buy for old, smuggled product and selling it on the black market. Some of that disreputable, filthy rye was sold to a brewer whose identity will not be disclosed, to protect them and their family.¡±


    Murmurs of approval spread through the crowd. Victor did not like where this was going.


    ¡°As a result, a single batch of no more than 500 liters was made with some contaminated materials.The tiny, practically undetectable mold which had plagued a few handfuls among tons of grain was of incredible toxicity, such that the trace amounts contained within said batch were enough to render it mildly poisonous.¡±


    Victor made an active effort not to laugh at the blatant falsehood, succeeding after remembering what was going to happen to those labeled traitors.


    ¡°The batch arrived to the city a week ago, and yesterday some of the weaker, sicklier drinkers started to show symptoms of poisoning. The masses went insane, never minding the fact that in order to be dangerous, you¡¯d have to drink an inordinate amount of the stuff. Imperial scum decided to ride the wave of anger...¡±


    Victor dozed off, his fear muted by tedium. If he kept listening, he might start to believe their bullshit. All this nonsense was giving him a headache.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡°... and that is all we know so far. Any questions? No? Good. I now give place to whom we¡¯ve elected to guide us in this time of strife. I want an applause for the one and only, Tanner¡¯s Guildmaster!¡±


    The crowd cheered. No one better than that old crone to deal with violent affairs.


    Victor really did not like his chances. Oh, the brewer would not be punished, and business would not suffer much in the short term. But that was if and only if the Guilds still had the authority of the Lord behind them, something sure to change in the long run.


    If the Imperials were to capitalize on the opportunity (and they¡¯d be stupid not to), annexation was a certainty within the next decade.


    These people were delusional enough to think they could oppose a fucking empire. They could keep remembering the ¡°good¡± old days all they wanted - it didn¡¯t make a difference to the rapidly expanding Empire. In fact, it might even be what the Emperor wanted, to keep them from doing anything that might actually empower them.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine with that. We are quite horrible.¡±


    The Tyrant was deserving of his name, just not for the reasons the Guilds claimed. Victor knew the life of the average citizen was greatly improved under the Empire. Hells, the fact the Guildmasters were using the term was a recognition of their own weakness. Thirty years ago they wouldn¡¯t have had to consider the rest of the peasantry their equals .


    People hated the Lord, and they hated his backers. ¡°Owners would be a more appropriate term¡± , Victor thought.


    They would probably offer no resistance to annexation. After all, what did a farmer care about? Taxation and security. They wanted to eat, and not be killed. The Lord taxed them to starvation, forced them to work his fields during harvest season, and sent troops only if it was worth the investment, generally after the damage was done. The Emperor taxed a lot, which was a whole lot less than the Lord, sent patrols preemptively on a regular basis, and did not force them work anyone else¡¯s fields during harvest season. Because he was not an idiot.


    The Guilds thought they were very smart keeping things off the books, while purposefully ignoring that having to show their books to anyone was a very recent development. The citizenry was demanding reform, and the Guilds had to obey.