undying legion 01 - unbound man Read Free Page B

sufficiently desperate or impoverished to overlook that detail, could an unregistered scribe hope to make a living — and even here, those who used Arandras’s services were looked down upon by those who could afford better. Even the illiterate poor had their pride, and Spyridon was a city of learning. The city of the Library.
    No, there was no reason at all why a man in Arandras’s position would not want to be a member of the Library. Assuming, of course, that being a member of anything — belonging to anything — was in any way acceptable or tolerable.
    “I’m sorry,” Arandras said, as pleasantly as he could manage. “I’m sure the Library is a very fine establishment, with many very fine members. But I have no interest in joining their ranks.”
    The words took a moment to sink in. Onsoth blinked at Arandras, bemused; then the scowl returned and a flush spread across his face. “They said you were a stubborn one,” he said. “Like a mule, yes? One who doesn’t know what’s good for him? Well. If you will not see reason then this city has no place for you. You will abide by the rules laid down by the Library, or we will scour you from this place like the filth you are.”
    And there it was. The implicit made plain. The threat, unveiled for all to see.
    Gatherer take you.
    “You are engaged in illegal apprenticeship,” Onsoth said. “Illegal apprenticeship! Your penalty will be determined by the all guilds’ arbiter in ten days —”
    “I contest the charge.”
    “Do you?” Onsoth was already red; now he began to purple. “Do you, now? Are you really —”
    “Yes, I am.” Arandras scowled, no longer bothering to hide his contempt. “The boy’s not even as tall as this desk. The charge is ridiculous, and you know it. You want to take it to the arbiter, you go right ahead. Go and see him now, why don’t you, and leave me in peace.”
    Onsoth glared at Arandras in fury, fists clenching and unclenching, jaw working, speech deserting him at last.
    Arandras pointed to the door.
    The official gave a sudden, vicious smile. “Look at you. King of your own scrapheap. Ten years from now, twenty, here you’ll be, just the same, lording it over the world from your pathetic little sty.”
    Arandras kept his face immobile, but Onsoth seemed to sense he’d hit a nerve. He leaned over the desk, his voice soft and spiteful. “And what will you think to yourself then, hmm? When you look back at a life spent pissing in the dust, scratching out words for the other swine? What will you think when you realise you’ve spent your whole damn life down here in the shit?”
    Arandras was on his feet before he knew it, his face a hair’s breadth away from the other man’s. “Get the hells out of my shop.”
    Onsoth straightened, satisfied, and gave a mocking bow. “As you say, your majesty.” He paused at the door, offering Arandras a final smirk, then disappeared into the dusty street.
    Breathing heavily, Arandras lowered himself into his chair, hands flat on the desk before him. What do you know about it, you bastard? There was no shame in the work he did here. Besides, this wasn’t forever. Someday his side-business with Mara and the others would pay off. They’d find a relic worth enough to see them all set up for good, and that would be that.
    Perhaps, if the Weeper was kind, someday soon.
    •
    It was not until a second courier stopped by a few hours later that Arandras remembered the bundle of letters left by Grae. The new messenger was a man from the East Mellespen Syndicate, and his delivery consisted of a single letter. Only one of Arandras’s regular clients carried on a correspondence with anyone that far to the northeast, and indeed, the letter was addressed to Leff, the ditch-digger, in the spidery writing of the scribe hired by his sister. Arandras laid it aside.
    Most weeks saw the arrival of three or four deliveries, each of which might consist of anything from one letter to more than a dozen.