And so he continued to hesitate near the arching entrance to the library, peering around the dark places in his mind, recreating Yen. Soft updock accent, each syllable of each word carefully pronounced. Different from his own Southtown accent with its clipped words and clattery consonants, but familiar enough to him, easy to imitate. His father was supposed to be an up-River trader, himself a lover of the exotic. The trace of a smile lightened his brooding features as he remembered the little Mang statuette he had given Hezhi, the story he fabricated about how his “father” obtained it. Hezhi had loved it—how well he recalled that. Surrounded by a palace full of riches and servants, her eyes had genuinely flown wide in delight at a stone's-weight of brass cast in the form of a horse with a woman's upper body. How would she have felt had she known he took it from the shelf of a petty noble from the Swamp Kingdoms, just after ending the man's overly ambitious career?
The hallway was beginning to become crowded as midmorning absolutions approached. Gaudily clad nobles, prim maidservants, bodyguards, and austere counselors all mingled through the arteries of the palace. Elsewhere they were pooling in fountain rooms, praying to the River where he erupted into the palace itself.
He should leave the hall, he knew. It would not do for someone—from the priesthood, for instance—to recognize him. Especially not now, when the Ahw'en arm of the priesthood—those who investigated mysterious goings-on—must surely be active, searching for some trace of a certain vanished nobleman—the man whose clothes Ghe was currently wearing. The Ahw'en were often Jik, like himself. No, best he avoid crowds.
Thus, although not certain he was prepared, he stepped into the library, where few in the palace ventured.
It was, as he remembered, daunting. Mahogany shelves suffused the illumination from thick-paned skylights, swirled it about the room like cream stirred into coffee. Ghe was struck by the illusion that walls were hung with tapestries woven from the bodies of enormous millipedes, each segment of their bony armor the spine of a book. Most of the books were black and brown, enhancing this impression. The few that stood out—here a deep yellow, burgundy, indigo—these only suggested, somehow, that the great worms were poisonous. The books curled thus around a carpeted area in which several low tables stood, surrounded by cushions for sitting. Beyond, the shelves wandered back into the deep, narrow labyrinth Hezhi had named the Tangle. He remembered how effortlessly Hezhi had glided through the endless shelves of books, selecting first this, then that one for “Yen.” At first he had only pretended to pay attention to her talk of the “index” and the manner in which books were filed. Eventually, however, her enthusiasm proved infectious; knowledge was a weapon, and Hezhi had an arsenal at her command, one she seemed willing to share. He wondered now, belatedly, if she hadn't used that arsenal to defeat him; certainly she had used it to escape the city. But had she somehow found the pale stranger with his supernatural weapon in the pages of these books? Had she conjured him, like a demon, from some tome?
Ghan's desk was set apart, and behind it sat the old man himself, copying or annotating a bulky volume. He wore an umber robe, and his skin gleamed a peculiar parchment yellow, so that he seemed as much a part of the room as the ancient documents that filled it. His features were sharp—jagged, almost—harsh frown lines etched permanently in his flesh. Not a pleasant man, Ghe remembered. He had dreamed, on first meeting him, of slipping a knife into his heart. Later he had come to think of the scholar as brave—but he had never learned to like him.
Though Ghe was the only other visible person in the room, Ghan never raised his eyes to acknowledge him.
He approached Ghan timidly, as “Yen” might. The old man continued writing, obscure and beautiful characters licking from his pen onto the paper with astonishing speed. Ghe cleared his throat.
Ghan did look up then, his eyes hard pinpricks of annoyance beneath the wrapped black cloth that obscured his bald head.
“Yes?” he inquired testily.
“Ah,” said Ghe, suddenly not certain that his reluctance was entirely feigned. “Master Ghan, you might remember me. I am—”
“I know who you are,” Ghan snapped.
For a frozen instant, Ghe felt a stab of something like fear. Ghan's gaze seemed to tear away the brocaded collar and reveal his throat, his true nature. He was acutely aware of all of the things he had forgotten. Had Ghan ever known him to be a Jik?
“I'm sure you remember how to find your books on arches and sewers,” Ghan went on. “There is no need to bother me.”
Relief rushed from his feet, through his gut, up to the top of his head. Ghan was merely being himself, impatient and unhelpful. He still believed him to be Yen, the architect.
“Master Ghan,” he rushed out as the old man threatened to return to his work. “It has been some time since I have been in the library.”
“A few months,” Ghan replied. “A fraction of a year. Is your head not capable of holding information longer than that?”
Ghe shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, Master Ghan, it is. I…”
“Don't waste my time,” Ghan cautioned.
Ghe lowered his voice, willed his face into lines of distress. Inwardly he felt relief; he was now in complete control of the mask he wore, his worry evaporated into the stale air of the library. “Master Ghan,” he whispered almost inaudibly. “Master Ghan, I have come to ask you about Hezhi.”
Ghan stared at him for a moment, and something flashed behind his flat countenance, was mastered, and vanished. Ghe appreciated that; Ghan had a very well crafted mask, as well.
“Hezhinata,” Ghan corrected, adding the suffix to denote someone a ghost.
“Hezhi,” Ghe insisted softly.
Ghan trembled for an instant, and then the trembling reached his face and transfigured it, tightened it into fury.
“Darken your mouth!” he barked. “Don't speak of such things.”
Ghe persisted, though adding even more reluctance to his manner. “I believe you cared for her,” he said cautiously. “She was your student, and your pride in her was obvious. Master Ghan, I cared for her, too. We… she cared for me. Now she has gone, and everyone says she is a ghost. But I know better, do you understand? I have heard the rumors the priests whisper. I know she escaped the city, fled with her bodyguard.”
Ghan ticked his pen against the white page; Ghe noticed that the heretofore flawless document now had several irregular splotches of ink upon it. He knows! Ghe thought exuberantly. He knows where she has gone!
Ghan glanced away and then stared back up at Ghe.
“Young man, I can only caution you against repeating such things,” he said softly. “I know you cared for her. It was evident. But she is dead, do you understand? I'm sorry for you, but it is true. I myself am still in grief—I will be until the day I die. But Hezhinata is dead. She was laid in state with her ancestors in the vaults beneath the Water Temple.”
He glanced down at the ruined page and crinkled his eyes in exasperation. “If you need to use the library,” he said, “I will help you, as she would have. I will do that for her. If you do not want to use the library, then you must leave. I will call the guard if need be, and you will be embarrassed before your order. Do you understand?”
Ghan's eyes were mild now, but they were also inflexible. Ghe could think of no reply that might draw out more information.
“As you say,” he finally relented. And then, defiantly: “But I know.”
“Get out,” Ghan said, his voice as brittle and dangerous as broken glass.
Ghe nodded, bowed in respect, and left the library.