Sebill arrived at a door marked “Acquisitions.” The coachman escorted her to the door and gave it two hard knocks. It opened to reveal a miniscule butcher. The dwarf looked up at the coachman and noted Sebill. “Good! Good!” he said and ushered them into what looked like a carpenter’s workshop—only one in which the wood had bled when cut. “I commend you for your haste; we here are great appreciators of body magic, you know. You ought to be well paid for your effort. Do you need new horses?”
“They are well,” answered the coachman, “they’re of strong breed and can withstand the spells. With enough food and rest tonight they’ll have their stamina back.”
“They’re fine animals, an’t they?” the dwarf said affably, clearing tools off a table. He was joined by a greying female dwarf wearing an equally dirty apron. “Splendid!” she said. “Let’s get started. I’m Odea, he’s Hahm, in case he didn’t introduce himself.”
“Anton,” said the coachman.
Odea turned to examine Sebill. “Let’s get a look at you… Even better than I expected! Let’s get you on the table.” Anton stepped forward to help lift Sebill, but saw it was unnecessary as Odea, despite her size, moved Sebill to the dwarf-sized table without effort. Odea smiled, “She’s empty. No organs. I asked our clients in Nubia to clean her to prevent spoiling. Kept out of the sun the bodies can make the trip in adequate shape.” Anton nodded. Odea thought he seemed uneasy. “I’m sorry, did you know her?”
“No, no… I have no idea who she is, or why she’s important to the nobles. She doesn’t look like an aristocrat.” He paused, then motioned toward the door, “I have the rest of the delivery in my carriage.”
“Her blood I’m sure. Would you fetch that? Hahm needs to check it and make sure the anticoagulants held up. There are a number of naturally occurring blood thinners in just about every land, but ours are better. I have some theories about speeding the reactions to make the ink less corrosive, but that would require entropy mana which can be hard to come by…”
Outside, Anton gave the blood to Hahm and moved his horses into the shade. This was his first visit to the Luchuirp lands. He admitted to himself that he’d always been a little racist toward dwarves, but couldn’t think of any reason why. He looked at and admired the structure of the Catacomb Libralus; from what he'd heard he assumed it was nothing more than a one-trick curiosity shop. It was originally built as a catacomb open to all, until necromancers developed a habit of exploiting it, leading to the pejoration of the name “Free-Use Catacombs.” Later it was acquired by a wealthy polymath, who turned it into the institution that is now commonly nicknamed the “Catacomb Librarius.” Above ground it was a simple structure with short walls and an entrance adorned with regal arches and pillars.
Anton returned to the workshop to see Odea in the process of skinning Sebill. Incisions ran up the middle of her chest, along her collarbone, and above her hips. Odea was paring the fatty membrane holding skin to muscle as she pulled the skin upward. Anton groaned at the sight, which alerted Odea that he’d returned. She explained, her enthusiasm outweighing her sympathy for Anton’s uneasiness, “The skin’s in good shape. We use it all. Her back—because its smoother and thicker—will be tanned and used to make the cover. The rest we stretch into vellum for the pages.” Odea paused, Anton was staring at Sebill’s body. “It’s not pretty, I know. This is an honorable afterlife though. I used to do Golemcraft, but animating a golem is like rolling a stone down a hill—it's predictable, it’s all it does. Books are the perfect synthesis of form and function, body and spirit, mythos and logos. They are us in every way.” She put down her knife, and Anton sat on short ladder. Odea continued, “We can put any talent to use here. You practice magic?”
“I do some, just tricks to help my deliveries—speed the horses, hide my wares. Just dabblings.”
“Ice! Imagine what you could do with ice mana! We could add people from any corner of Erebus to our collection. You could make your fortune just transporting food to soldiers. Ah, if only we could get some…” Anton laughed. He’d thought of this before. Odea continued, “We use a range of magic here: body helps us transform the person, but that’s mostly handiwork; our diviners use spirit magic to contact the dead; and enchanters can infuse the books with special properties. Luckily we’re in a land where necromancy is outlawed, or we’d have a lot to worry about. Should I take you to see some of our collection?”
“Thank you,” he replied, “but I have to stable my horses first. I should find an inn.”
“Fine by me. I need to work and I can’t have distractions. Come back later for a tour.” Odea smiled, “Now get out of here.”
A week had passed since Anton delivered Sebill. He’d gone north to meet a Calabim rendezvous who took the carriage, leaving Anton with a horse. Now returning to the fortified city, he spent the evening at a public house, waiting for nightfall. He made his way back to the Catacomb Libralus and to the door marked “Acquisitions.” He knocked. If Odea answered he’d have an excuse for being there. If she didn’t, then things would be according to plan. He picked the lock and slipped inside. There was barely any light and he waited for his eyes to adjust. The tables were cleaned and the tools put away. A door in back opened to a lantern-lit corridor.
When he entered the main hall he realized he’d underestimated the age and grandeur of this place. He thought the library at his former mages' guild was large, but he’d never seen this many books. The hall was lined with shelves of books in every skin color, all facing out. Numerous corridors descended into the catacombs, all filled with books. Anton despaired when he wondered how he would find a single book in all this, until he saw years inscribed above the corridors’ arches.
He entered the most recent corridor, which had just started to be used in the last five years. He walked straight to the end of the row. A small engraving was underneath the last book. Some Malakim name; the book was too dark anyway and had a tattoo of a lion on the cover. The second-to-last book was a pale tan, like a dry meadow. The engraving underneath read “unknown” and named the year of death. The book before that was greyish green and had a single horn jutting out from the spine. He picked up the tan one. It was about two hands tall and a little less wide. The cover was soft—it was leather after all. The spine was sturdy. Bone? He imagined it was her sternum, and thought of her breasts, one skinless, the other just dead. He opened the cover and ran his finger along the inside spine. The pages were sewn to the cover using string made of brown hair. There was writing on the first page, in ink that was still reddish and had not faded into brown. It said:
My dear Ain—You'll never read this, but please know that I love you eternally. A chill shook him. He tucked Sebill’s book into his pack and returned to the main hall.
He looked at the dates above the arches, and walked down the next corridor. Both sides of the corridor were lined with books facing each other. A jumble of names grew in his head as he scanned the engravings.
“Are you looking for something, Anton?” He spun to see Odea in the middle of the corridor. She looked relaxed; he tried his best to. Her apron was gone and she was dressed comfortably, striking Anton as quite pretty.
“Um… yes. A book. A book of... my grandfather.”
“Anything else?”
“…No.”
“What was his name?”
Anton glanced toward the main hall to see if Odea was alone. “Gerard Cormand.”
“I know of him! Quite the revolutionary in his day. Did you know him?”
“I didn’t. My father opposed his politics and left the city, taking his family along. I was born on a farm.”
“Your grandfather was murdered before the revolution ended, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. I have to know that it wasn’t… father.”
“Your grandfather is here,” she pointed farther down the corridor. Anton cautiously followed her lead. “Our diviners enjoy limited success in becoming a writing tool for the dead, allowing them to make a final statement.”
“The dead write?” probed Anton.
“We ask them if there’s anything they’d like to say. They’re usually thinking about what they would have done differently in life, so they’re full of advice. They might eulogize themselves, or tell their entire life’s story—we give the diviners a short vacation to recover after those. These are good souls, mind you; we don’t even want to know the dangers of making an
unscrupulous book.”
“That woman,” thought Anton, “what has she done to make her so valuable to the Calabim?”
“Victims of murder usually have something to say…” Odea stopped walking and motioned toward a book, smaller than Sebill’s and paler.
Anton said, “Would he have named his killer?” Odea didn’t answer, and Anton lifted his grandfather’s book. He opened it and read:
I liked the fleshy sins best. He turned the pages: blank. He sighed deeply, and put the book down. Odea took a step back. “Are you going to return the other book too?”
Anton faced Odea with a widened stance. “No. I’m sorry, but I’m stealing it.” He held a knife at her eye level and took a slow step toward her.
“I can’t stop you,” she said calmly. “This is a mistake though. These books are extremely dangerous in the wrong hands. They must never leave.”
“I know. Your ‘clients’ haven’t given me any choice though.” They circled each other in a cautious dance. Seeing the main hall clear, Anton left through the front door.
Outside the city walls, Anton snuck to his horse, mounted her, and pointed her back north. He hadn’t ridden far when a sudden strong wind, or that’s what it felt like, threw him off his horse, spilling his pack. He saw in the dark the looming shape of a gargoyle, its wings blocking the light from the city. He ran, and would have died on the spot if it weren’t for his haste spell. Instead, he died at the forest’s edge a short length away, while the Book of Sebill remained beside the road.
Our heroine
or what's left of her
will return in
The Necronomicon