Declaimer's Discovery: The Spoken Books Uprising, #2

By D. T. Kane

"What do you mean, he knows our secret?"

Having survived the Acktus Trials and kept his secret safe—for now—Baz has returned to Erstwhile. But his rest is short lived when an unwelcome guest visits Torchsire Library, bearing news of a revolt amongst the Speakers in Fortune, Oration's wealthiest city. A special session of Oration's Congress has been called and Baz's master is selected to travel to Fortune and represent Erstwhile. Of course, Baz must go with him.

Suddenly, Baz has an opportunity to fulfill his promise to the Keepers of Tome—search Fortune for the prophecy that promises to free the Speakers of Oration from slavery. But circumstances quickly turn dangerous when Baz and his companions are attacked on route to Fortune. Baz finds himself at the center of a rebellion he's unsure he wants to join, but is equally unsure he can escape. And as if that wasn't bad enough, Baz discovers that the most powerful man in Fortune not only holds a secret that could destroy all of Oration, but also knows Baz's own.

Surrounded by enemies and friends he doesn't trust, can Baz survive, find the prophecy, and become the leader of an uprising?

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. T. Kane
• Release date: Apr 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781735069944

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Declaimer’s Discovery

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Prologue

READING BOOKS CAN GET you killed, Stephan, said Duke Joseef Gahlfet.

Stephan humphed from where he stood looking over the Duke’s shoulder. He continued staring at the page Joseef had set out before him on his writing desk.

"And permitting me to teach you to Scribe can get you killed, my good Duke."

Joseef’s shoulders stiffened. Don’t take such a tone with me. I have kept your secret, and this is how you speak to me?

Stephan sighed, stepping back. A delicate game he played, and sometimes he forgot the role he’d assumed.

My humblest apologies, Duke Gahlfet. Stephan gave what he considered an exaggerated bow, though Joseef would likely deem it merely sufficient. As Stephan swept his arm downward, his miento proxitory chimed like tiny bells. They were two sets of five rings, one for each finger, the rings connected by fine chain links. No one had ever bothered to translate their name out of the old tongue, likely because he was the only person in Oration who possessed a set of them.

Joseef glanced over his shoulder, a sour set to his plump lips. He hadn’t succumbed to sloth or gluttony like some of the other older Readers Stephan had encountered, but he still needed to rest after ascending the stairs that led to his chambers here at the top of Gahlfet Library.

Don’t patronize me, Stephan. I know you think yourself above me, though Scribes only know where you acquired such a notion. Maybe it’s those gaudy robes you wear. I know we like our bright colors here in Fortune, but really, you take it too far. But if you truly can teach me to pen a new Spoken Book, well... Well, I’ll accept nearly any degree of arrogance toward me in private, so long as you act the docile servant in public.

Yes, my Duke.

Hmmph. If you’re not careful, you’ll be giving my Speakers ideas. Bad enough you convinced me to propose legislation to give them a day of rest each week. Soon, they’ll be asking for wages if I’m not careful! Many of the other Dukes are already whispering that I’ve grown soft in my old age.

Not soft, my Duke. You’re just a realist. Men can only take so much before they begin to resist.

Joseef snorted derisively. Don’t quote Scrivnic rhetoric to me. The tale of Devanstare the Steadfast and his seven trials might be a famous one, but I’ve no wish to endure even a single trial just to help a handful of slaves.

Sometimes stories hold more truth than reality, Stephan replied, permitting just a hint of amusement into his tone.

That tongue of yours is going to get you in trouble, Stephan.

Yes, my—

Stephan cut off abruptly as the hair on his arms rose, a dread chill washing over his entire body. A moment later, a thump came from outside the door to the Duke’s chambers.

Oh, what now? Joseef asked. I thought I left orders not to be disturbed. Stephan, do go and tell whoever that is to go away.

Stephan schooled his face back to calm, though an anxious tension in his shoulders remained. There was only one thing that sensation could mean.

Of course, my Duke.

He strode out of the study, shutting the door behind him and stepping into the spacious living room that doubled as an entry hall to the Duke’s quarters. It was furnished in dark wood with jade inlays. Plants adorned the nearby tabletops, and the room even had a small fountain, burbling softly in the darkness. The sun had long since set, and most of the room’s drapes were drawn, leaving just a thin sliver of moonlight creeping across the floor. A mirrored stand lamp provided the only other light in the room, casting looming shadows about the space. Stephan approached the main entry door. He took a deep breath and prepared to draw power from the flames dancing in the lamp. Then he threw the door open.

The first thing he noticed was the smell, an aroma like the aftermath of lightning having struck a steel rod, a sort of alkaline bitterness that he could taste as much as smell. Its source quickly became apparent. Duke Joseef’s massive guard—what did they call them? Harbours?—a broad, musclebound man with a scar across the bridge of his nose, was slumped against the wall opposite the door. His mouth was open in a silent howl, streaks of black running from his lips and up the sides of his face. His skin had shriveled like a dried prune, and one of his eyes appeared to have been burned away, a dark lump of carbon all that remained in the socket.

Oh, it’s only you, Stephan, said a relieved voice. Its owner was a dark-skinned man with a shaved head. He wore a black shirt and pants, and his short hair made apparent the dragon branded on his forehead. As the Speaker stepped into the doorframe, Stephan scowled at a Spoken Book bound in black leather tucked under his arm. Two other men appeared behind the first, one branded similarly to the man who’d spoken, the other wearing a narrow-brimmed hat with the scales of an Influencer crudely stitched onto the band.

Boukman, what do you think you’re doing? Stephan asked, trying to mask the relief in his tone with annoyance. Just a fool casting a spell—not nearly as bad as what Stephan had feared he’d find upon opening the door, though it was a serious problem in its own right. 

It’s starting, Stephan! It’s starting. Boukman’s tone was almost gleeful.

Starting? Don’t be a fool. The Warriors’ plans are weeks, maybe months, away from being ready. And besides, what do you intend? Rise against the one Library that’s shown any support at all for your cause?

The brightness in Boukman’s features faded. He glanced to his companions before turning back to Stephan with obstinance in his eyes.

Mauve moves too slowly, Stephan, and the wicked man who smiles is still evil. We will wait no longer. My brothers and sisters will suffer not another minute under the thumb of these Hoarders.

Shattered ink vials! Stephan rubbed at his temples with the thumb and middle finger of one hand. Here he’d been, attempting to push events as subtly as he could in the right direction, and these bumbling oryxes were going to ruin everything with their impatience.

Where did you get that Book? he asked, motioning at the dark tome tucked under Boukman’s arm.

Boukman glanced at the volume with satisfaction. Gahlfet’s youngest boy left it out in the Speaking Room when he went to dinner, told Jouard here to put it away for him. Ha! He practically handed us the opportunity to rise up. It was a sign from the Scribes, Stephan! We had to take it.

Which one of you Read the Murder?

What? Why does it—

Which one? Stephan dropped the tone of moderate civility he’d forced himself to assume since first coming to Gahlfet Library. Boukman flinched back, face paling. None denied Stephan when he used that tone.

I did. Spells of shadow don’t come off most others’ tongues quite right, but I’ve always had a bit of a knack for them, not that there’s often an opportunity for me to Speak them.

Enough of this, the third man—the one in the hat—said. He had the same shaved head, dark clothing, and Speaker’s brand as the other two. Do you mean to try and stop us, Stephan, or will you let us in? He drew a long knife from his belt and brandished it as if Stephan should be afraid. Instead, Stephan snorted at the weapon and went back to rubbing his temples.

A waste! What a blasted waste this was going to cause. He’d spent months groveling to Joseef at every turn, secretly teaching him to Scribe while also teaching these boys to Read, and now they were going to throw their lives away sure as if they’d slit their own wrists. But Stephan’s hands were tied. He’d already meddled far too much in the workings of the True Path. And, in all likelihood, Boukman would be following that Harbour he’d just killed to the grave before long, so stopping him wasn’t worth the effort anyway. These days, very few could Read a Murder from a Spoken Book of Shadow and survive for long. Not since an act of desperation all those years ago had corrupted the element of shadow.

It is not my place to question the direction in which the True Path takes you, Stephan said. If this is what you wish, I will not stop you. But know that I think it a fool act. One that will only hamper the others’ efforts.

Boukman once again looked uncertain for a moment, but his comrades were obviously far less concerned over Stephan’s opinion.

Don’t try to guilt us with your Scrivnic dogma, Jouard said. We make our own path, and it starts with butchering Joseef Gahlfet like the plump pig he is.

The resolve returned to Boukman’s eyes. He’s right, Stephan. Now, out of our way.

Stephan sighed. That was the problem with most men. You could only lead them so far before they had to make choices on their own. And most were too nearsighted to make the right ones.

I trust you’ll remember I tried to stop you while your bodies are being broken on the Conservator’s torture wheels.

Perhaps that had been too harsh. But Stephan was perturbed, and these men really were walking to their deaths. Partly, his anger was over the ruination of his work these men were about to sow. But another part of him lamented over his own effectiveness. For all he’d tried to do for these men, he’d failed them, and they would soon be paying the ultimate price for his shortfall.

With that potent mixture of bitterness and guilt swirling in his mind, Stephan didn’t bother stepping aside to let the men go about their grim task. Rather, he concentrated his elemental power, splitting his mind to focus on each of the five elements that made up all things. A moment later, he vanished from the room.

Part 1

Chapter 1

BLOOD COATED BAZ’S hands like honey on a hot summer day.

It’s not working!

Shut up and press harder! Leanna shouted back at him. Blood had sprayed through Baz’s fingers from the wound in the Retiree’s neck and soaked into her burgundy Conservator’s robe. Baz could feel the man’s pulse, a frantic pump against his palms. Leanna was rifling through a chest of ointments and bandages, though what she expected to find that could possibly aid the Retiree Baz couldn’t begin to guess.

The blood was a fire, burbling around Baz’s fingers. At first, he’d thought that only a metaphor to describe the warmth coating his hands, but several moments later Baz cried out in pain and fell away from the Retiree.

Bloody burning Books! He wiped his hands across his chest, smearing blood over the Torchsire sigil stitched on the breast of his dark robes. The wyrmtooth necklace he wore dug into his skin as his hands pressed over it, though he barely felt it. It was as if he’d stuck his hands into a forge and left them there, pain radiating from his palms and up his forearms. But when he looked back to the Retiree, he all but forgot his own pain. Baz couldn’t think of a curse virulent enough to describe the sight.

The man was no longer bleeding. Instead, steam gushed from the gash in his neck, shooting into the air as if from a kettle at the boiling point. The Retiree’s eyes bulged, and he gave a choked scream. His body twitched several times, then grew still, steam now rising from not only the wound in his neck, but from the openings at his shirt sleeves and pant cuffs as well, as if his whole body had just been pulled from a flaming pot. Leanna stopped rummaging in the chest of supplies and stared in horror.

What are you doing? Baz demanded, trying to ignore the pain in his hands. Keep looking, we might still be able to help him.

It’s over, Baz.

The voice came from over Leanna’s shoulder, and Baz instinctively turned toward it. Tax sat in a chair, the only one in the Library’s sub-basement so far as Baz had ever been able to tell. Tax’s mouth was set in a thin line, but he otherwise seemed remarkably calm considering what had just occurred. The linen wrapping around his eyeless sockets had recently been changed, seeming inordinately bright in the dim surroundings. Tiny specks of arterial spray stood out against the white fabric.

Baz opened his mouth to protest, but another glance at the Retiree’s unmoving body showed that his older brother was right. Gar had been the oldest of the Retirees by a good margin. He’d been salty and jaded, though it was for those very qualities that Baz had liked him. You always knew what you were getting with Gar. There were few other people Baz could say that about. But Gar had finally heard the sleeping Words and wouldn’t be waking again.

Leanna sighed and shut the chest through which she’d been rummaging, rubbing at her forehead.

Third one this month. I’ve never seen anything like it. And I heard there was a similar case over at Kolnar Library. Thank the Scribes it only seems to infect Retirees.

Baz glared at her. Leanna gave a quick glance to Tax and grimaced. Sorry, she muttered. I didn’t mean... Well, never mind. I’m going to go clean up, then call some guards for the body. She hoisted up the supply chest and walked into the murk of the sub-basement, toward her workshop by the stairs, avoiding eye contact with Baz.

With Leanna gone, the adrenaline that had been coursing through Baz’s veins subsided. He was still seated on the ground where he’d fallen after realizing Gar’s blood had actually been burning him. Now he allowed himself to lie back on the floor, letting out a long breath. Watching someone die was unnerving no matter the circumstances. Baz had far too much firsthand experience with it. But he’d never watched someone he actually liked die. His limbs felt like steel weights, and it took an effort not to shake.

Baz’s eyes were halfway to closing when he noticed one of Gar’s sleeves had been pulled partway up his arm, exposing markings etched on his skin. The blue and gold letters of Creation stood out in stark contrast to his white, bloodstained robes. For several moments Baz could only stare, but eventually he found his voice.

It’s the tattoos, isn’t it? What’s happening, some sort of infection?

Tax’s demeanor remained unchanged, hands folded in his lap.

I’m not certain. His brother’s tone was a steady baritone, cutting through the dim surroundings. If sound could be seen, Tax’s voice would appear like a beacon on a dark night. But I’m careful to heat my needles before Scribing upon any Retiree’s flesh.

Well, it can’t be a coincidence, Baz said, sitting back up. You heard Leanna. Gar makes three, all going the same way. And they’ve all had your tattoos. You should stop.

Tax shook his head. Even if my Scribing is the cause, I don’t think any would wish me to cease. I can’t offer them much, but the tattoos provide at least a taste of the justice many of us desire. A small bit of rebellion against the Readers. And for every one person who has perished, seven or eight show no ill effects.

Baz looked up to the ceiling. But they can’t even see what you write. For all they know, you’re Scribing curse words on them.

Don’t be crass, Baz. You needn’t be able to see to have hope. Faith is all it takes, and if I can give even one person a reason to keep going, then I will. What else can I do?

Baz had been about to ask what the Retirees could possibly have to hope for beyond their next hot meal, but Tax sounded so earnest that Baz let the remark die behind his teeth. Who was he to criticize his blind brother, to whom he owed so much? 

You think you could have saved him? Baz asked, seeking a new topic. If you had a Book of Creation, I mean?

For the first time Tax showed some sign of consternation, head dropping to conceal a frown. I don’t know. Perhaps, but it’s difficult to say without being able to...

His voice trailed off, but Baz knew what he’d been about to say. Without being able to see what had happened.

I do know I’ll miss Gar. He was more stubborn than even you, Baz. But he was a survivor, and full of wisdom if you knew how to talk to him. It will be even lonelier down here without him.

As an excuse not to look at Tax, Baz wiped his hands over the sub-basement’s grit-covered floor in a futile effort to remove some of Gar’s blood. He grimaced from the pain of the burns and stopped. Tax had always been stoic about his maiming at the hands of Deliritous and his brute of a Harbour, Rox. But Baz had always known how alone his brother felt down here in the darkness, and lately it seemed to be growing worse, as if he were impatient for some sort of change. Tax hadn’t given any of the other Retirees more than a single tattoo thus far, but after seeing the first few on his arms, Baz had demanded to see the rest of his brother’s body. Tax had given himself dozens, until his arms and upper body seemed more ink than skin. Was it possible Tax wasn’t being entirely honest with Baz? That he was hoping the tattoos might eventually provide him a way out of his dark prison, as they had Gar and the other Retirees who’d died?

The thought of losing his brother was more frightening even than his memories from the Acktus Trials, now more than three months past. And many of those memories were bad enough to keep him up at night. He’d killed people. And worse than that, he’d actually helped Deliritous, the very man who had sentenced Tax to his life of unseeing isolation. And then there were the voices...

Baz, are you all right? Tax asked. No, of course you’re not. Your hands, how selfish of me. Going on about missing Gar while you’ve burns that need tending. Come here.

Baz’s cheeks burned. Tax thought he was being selfish, after all he’d been through? But there was no arguing when his brother had that note of concern in his voice. For a long time, Tax’s tendency to treat him like a child rather than his brother had irked Baz to no end. But lately, Baz had realized that it gave Tax some little relief, a small bit of purpose to his otherwise empty days. And while Baz would never admit it to Tax, it was also nice to have at least one person in the world who actually cared for him. With another grimace at the pain from his burns, Baz pushed himself to his feet and moved to stand before his brother.

Let me have your hands, Tax said.

Baz dutifully held them out, and somehow Tax found them immediately despite his lack of sight. He probed them gently, nodding to himself each time Baz flinched in discomfort.

It’s not too bad, Tax finally said. Was that a hint of relief in his voice? Baz’s cheeks heated again in the face of his brother’s compassion. The Brief should be able to heal this without issue.

The Brief. He meant the small Spoken Book that Ehma had given to Baz after he’d saved her from the insane Marla Kolnar. He’d read the volume in its entirety to Tax more times than he could count, though it’d taken him an eternity to get through it the first time, as the Book was in Creation and Baz had zero experience Reading the language. He’d had to sound out every Word and strain to remember pronunciations he’d heard in the Retirees’ songs.

Somehow, though, his illiteracy hadn’t seemed to impact Tax in the least, as his brother had memorized nearly every word of the Brief by the time Baz had gotten through it the first time. He suspected Tax had insisted on each subsequent reading more for Baz’s education than for Tax’s own enjoyment. Which made no sense. While Tax was a Tri, able to draw power from any of the three languages of the Trinity, Baz had only ever shown an affinity for Destruction. But a bit of indulgence was the least he could do for his brother.

Tax murmured a few lines in Creation, the Words touching Baz’s ears like a solemn hymn sung to the Scribes. A chill passed through his hands, and the pain of the burns was gone. Tax hadn’t even bothered to take the Brief out from within the folds of his robes, having Spoken the healing spell perfectly from memory. With anyone else, Baz would have called that foolhardy. A single slip in your diction could be disastrous when Speaking a spell. But his brother had been a master Speaker even before losing his sight, and though he’d gone ten years without Speaking a single spell of power, once Baz had read him the Brief it seemed, if anything, that Tax’s skills had only increased. As if he’d never stopped Speaking at all.

There, his brother said. Should be all better, now.

Thanks, Baz replied, hands still tingling. His fingers were still sticky with drying blood, but the angry red of the burns was gone. I should go clean up, and see if Leanna needs any help.

Tax’s head moved to one side, a smile touching his lips. Indeed. Go see her.

Don’t give me that smile of yours, Tax.

If anything, his brother’s grin only grew. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Baz. Now go on. I intend to stay here a while and say a few words for Gar. No one else is going to.

That dispelled any anger Baz felt toward his brother.

All right. I’ll be back later.

You always are, Baz. Thank you.

Baz swallowed and found he could only nod in response. Which, of course, was a completely useless gesture in the presence of his blind brother. But words escaped him in the face of his brother’s misplaced gratitude. What had Baz done to deserve it? Living his life while Tax languished down in the depths of the Library.

Baz left his brother sitting with Gar’s corpse and strode off through the dark of the sub-basement, toward Leanna’s workshop.

Chapter 2

LEANNA’S BACK WAS TO Baz as he entered. She was stooped over a wash basin, scrubbing at the stains on her robe. The workshop had grown more cluttered as of late. Stacks of Spoken Books sat on the long workbench against one wall. With Deliritous’s victory in the Trials had come increased attention on Torchsire Library, which meant more supplicants seeking spells, which meant Books losing their power with more regularity and requiring Leanna’s restorative services. The Book Dragon statue still sat on its high shelf above the workbench, and it brought the hint of a smile to Baz’s lips, despite the rather depressing conversation he’d just had with Tax.

I still don’t believe you, you know.

Leanna had apparently given up trying to wash the blood from her garment while he’d been considering the statue. She now stood facing him with arms folded beneath her breasts, following his gaze toward the statue. Her attempted washing had left her robes wet and clinging to her skin. Baz cleared his throat and feigned interest in a speck of dust on one of the ever-glowing lamps hanging from the ceiling.

Yes you do, Baz replied. They hadn’t discussed it much in the months following his return from the Trials, but he knew exactly what she meant. How else could I have known exactly what the Book Dragon told you?

She pursed her lips. I haven’t worked that out yet. But how could you have completed the Trials all on your own without Deliritous?

I wasn’t alone. I had Rox. And I told you, I just got lucky. Found that Book in a rusty box beneath some rubble. Was in and out of the ruins in less than a day.

And it just happened to be a Book that cures blindness?

Baz could only shrug. The funny part was, the secret that was likely to get him killed—that he could Read—had played no role at all in his completing the Trials. But he couldn’t very well reveal that an entire underground society of free Speakers existed beneath the ruins of Tome’s once great Library. Not after he’d agreed to aid their leader in exchange for his freedom, even if he did think the task Madame Scrivener Tessa had asked of him to be utter madness, which he absolutely did.

Why would I lie?

Leanna continued to glare at him, but after a moment her lips curved upward, eyes taking on a dangerous glow in the light of the ever-glowing lamps. And was it just Baz, or was she puffing out her chest just a bit more than she had been moments before?

To impress me, of course, she said.

Baz tried to blurt out several denials all at once, the end result being he choked on his own tongue. He began coughing with such intensity he had to grab the workbench, gasping to catch his breath. Still, it was almost worth it to hear the resulting laugh that his outburst produced from Leanna.

Why, Baz finally managed, would I possibly want to impress you? The weeks I was away from you were the happiest I’ve ever had. All you do is insult me and try to make me clean your workshop.

Leanna shook her head, still chuckling. You’re impossible, Baztian. She flashed him a smile. But it wouldn’t kill you to admit that you don’t despise me all the time.

It most certainly would, Baz retorted, still out of breath. Tax taught me to be honest. I will tell no lies. Baz held up his hand as if swearing an oath.

Leanna’s smile faltered, and she looked away from him. We’re going to need to talk about him at some point, you know.

Baz’s own smile faltered. Talk about Tax? Don’t know that there’s much to say. He’s same as he has been for the past decade.

Leanna glowered. Come on. You think I haven’t noticed what he’s done to his body? His arms are more ink than flesh. Or the mark on Gar’s arm? The Retirees are the blind ones, not me.

It’s harmless, Baz said, once more using the ever-glowing lamp as an excuse to look away from Leanna.

Harmless? Leanna replied. A Speaker who can write is far from harmless, Baztian.

He’s suffered his punishment already, Baz said, the words coming out more harshly than he’d intended. It’s not as if he can Read.

That’s the only reason I haven’t mentioned it to anyone yet.

You wouldn’t. Baz took a step toward her.

Leanna cocked an eyebrow at him. And what would you do if I did, Baztian? Each day I flip an empty page at it, I risk my standing with the Conservatory. I could be promoted to Journier in a few years’ time if I continue to serve faithfully. But if anyone were to discover what I’m concealing... She shook her head.

Please, Baz said, turning from the lamp to look into Leanna’s deep purple eyes. Give me a chance to speak with him first.

She held his gaze, eyes like the ice caps on the Daggers. But she broke eye contact first and sagged against the workbench, looking upward with a sigh. "Fine. But someone will find out eventually if nothing’s done. I already can’t believe that the Duke hasn’t yet commented on how much his ink expenses have gone up. Sure, there’ve been more Books in need of restoration lately, but not enough to explain the ink I’ve supposedly been losing. I don’t know how your brother does it. I lock my stores at night before leaving, yet somehow he still manages to get to them."

Sorry, Baz muttered. How did Tax get his hands on all that ink? As much as his brother sometimes acted as if he weren’t blind, Baz had seen him attempt to walk around once or twice, and it pained him down to his very soul, watching him shuffle about with hands extended before him. Baz doubted Tax could even find his way to the workshop, much less break into it.

For that matter, he’d no idea how Tax had learned to write so well despite being blind for over ten years. It wasn’t as if there was anyone who’d be willing to teach him. Anyone from the lowliest Reader to a Duke or Duchess who was caught teaching a Speaker to Read would find themselves hanging from the gallows within a sunrise.

I’m not looking for an apology, Baztian. Not a spoken one, anyway. Words are worth less than copper bits unless they’re written in a Book. Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if I’d take any joy seeing Yeltax in trouble. You know, before his Retirement, he and I were... It was difficult to tell in the dark, but had Leanna’s face reddened? Well, I’d just started here at the Library, and he was very helpful showing me around and... She trailed off again. Just don’t think I’d relish having to denounce him. I do care what you think of me, even if you won’t admit the same of me.

Part of Baz knew that warranted a like-kinded response. He didn’t need Leanna to like him—he didn’t need anyone to like him—but he also didn’t care for the idea of her not liking him. Wow, what an idiot he was, thinking in such circles. She was, after all, the only person aside from Tax who’d ever been something that even resembled friendly to him. He opened his mouth to tell her that—

Ah, there you are. One of Torchsire Library’s guards stopped at the foot of the stairs, panting as if he’d run a long way. He was newly hired, and Baz didn’t know him. With the increased funds from Deliritous’s Trials victory, the Duke had been able to hire a full complement of guards, all outfitted in fine, starched uniforms in the Library colors. The guard’s coat even had genuine buttons, gleaming in the light of Leanna’s lamps. Likely they were brass—Baz doubted the Duke would have wasted gold or even bronze on guard uniforms—but they looked impressive all the same.

Oh good, Leanna said. You’ve come for the body.

The guard’s eyebrows rose. Body? I don’t know about no body, Conservator Leanna. The Duke sent me personally to find the two of you. Your presence is urgently requested in the Receiving Room.

Both of us? Baz and Leanna said together, sharing a troubled glance.

Yes. Now if you’ll come with me, it’s already taken me longer to find you than the Duke will have liked.

There was nothing for it but to follow the man. Baz spared another glance for Leanna. She didn’t return it, but he did notice her biting at her lower lip. She had to be thinking the same thing Baz was—the secret was out, Duke Octavinal had discovered the truth of Deliritous’s supposed Trials victory, and he intended to take care of the only two people alive who knew of it.

Chapter 3

LEANNA AND BAZ FOLLOWED the guard until they exited onto the main level of Torchsire Library. The guard hadn’t offered any further explanation of why they were being summoned, and it wouldn’t have been proper to ask. Speakers did as they were told, and while Conservators were, in theory anyway, much closer to an equal footing with Readers, in practice all but the Master Restorers were expected to demonstrate obsequity in the face of a Reader’s will.

The guard led them down the austere, gray stone hallways of Torchsire Library, stopping before the set of tall oaken doors that led into the Receiving Room. He stopped at the threshold and motioned for them to enter, apparently not intending to go with them.

Probably afraid to face the Duke for taking so long to find us. Baz glanced at Leanna. She had schooled her expression to calm neutrality, and she started forward without him. Alone, Leanna was pleasant enough, but when it came to official matters, she was all proper and procedural. There was nothing for Baz to do but trail after her.

The Receiving Room was where the Duke had spent the majority of what had been, until quite recently, the Library’s rather limited funds. The room was narrow and long, burgundy carpet leading down its length to a dais at the far end. Silken banners in wine and gold hung from the walls to either side. Ordinarily, each would have been the same, bearing the burning torch and Book that were Torchsire Library’s sigil. However, now every other banner was deep blue edged in gold, a Book stitched at its center with a feathered quill on its cover. The symbol of the Great Library at Tome. At least, it had been before Oration’s great capital had fallen to ruin during the Burning three hundred years prior. Now it was a relic, a trophy to be displayed by the reigning champion of the Acktus Trials.

There were a great many people gathered in the chamber as Leanna and Baz approached the dais. The Duke, of course, occupied the single towering high-backed chair on the platform. Octavinal Torchsire, always a leering crinkle about his eyes, surveyed the room from his perch, the coldness of his stare falling just short of contemptuous. His maimed hands were gloved in dark leather and folded in his lap, though the odd angles at which his fingers jutted made it impossible to totally overlook his handicap. A wide-brimmed hat the color of dried blood with several feathers sticking from it covered his balding scalp. It was pulled low, lending a suggestion of anger to his glare that made Baz begin to fidget with his hands.

Behind the Duke’s chair stood four individuals. One was bald, stout, and so thoroughly muscled that he seemed incapable of relaxing his shoulders. A leather mask with slits for breathing covered his nose and mouth, and his Harbour’s razor was slung from a strap over one shoulder, its jagged edge seeming to snarl at whoever looked at it.

The other three figures were dressed in nondescript black robes and chained to the wall behind the dais. They were distinguished only by the brands on their foreheads, each one different, marking the trio as Speakers belonging to one of each of the branches of the Trinity—Creation, Destruction, and Influence. Two had linen wrapped around their eyes just as Tax did. The third, the Influencer, instead wore darkened spectacles, blinders that prevented him from seeing.

Deliritous—courtesy solely of Baz’s efforts—had returned from the Acktus Trials with a Book that could restore sight to the blind, and the Duke’s Influencer had been, thus far, the only individual upon whom the Book had been used. Scarring at the edges of the spectacles was still visible from where the man’s eyes had originally been burned out. Baz tried not to look at him. The scars unnerved him, but more than that, he knew the anger that would show in his own eyes if he dwelled on the fact that, although he had retrieved an instrument that could restore Tax’s sight, he stood powerless to use it.

Besides an assortment of Torchsire guards scattered through the room, each wearing the same uniform as the one who’d summoned Baz and Leanna, there were two other trios in the room. One, unfortunately, Baz knew all too well. The other, Baz had never seen before.

To the Duke’s right stood Deliritous Torchsire, first of his name, heir to the Library, and Trials champion. He was accompanied by his Creator, Delida, and his Harbour, Rox. Deliritous was arrayed in a new coat in bright purple trimmed with gold, and matching pants. White stockings rose nearly to his knees, and the ridiculous outfit was topped off by a hat so large it made Rox seem small. A red feather was stuck in the hat’s band, contrasting with Deliritous’s long, yellow hair, which was tied into a single tail that ran down his back.

Beside the Torchsire heir, Rox couldn’t have seemed any more spartan. Clothed all in gray, save for the brown leather of his Harbour’s mask, Rox practically blended in with the room’s stone floor. He stood just behind Deliritous, arms folded across his massive chest. Like the Duke’s Harbour, he had a razor slung over one shoulder on a leather strap that showed the patina of years. The weapon was folded into its shortened iteration, such that the handle and blade were adjacent to one another, only its jagged edge exposed. But with a quick release of a mechanism and a snap of the wrist, the weapon could be extended to twice its length, exposing the straight-edged blade opposite the jagged side. Baz had seen what the weapon could do when it contacted a man’s flesh and thoroughly wished he hadn’t.

Delida regarded Baz with unmasked contempt as he approached the dais. She’d never liked him, though in that she wasn’t unique. All the Library’s Speakers actively sought to keep away from him, lest they be associated with the brother of a Speaker who’d learned to Read. But ever since Baz had returned from the Trials, Delida’s dislike had turned to downright hatred. Despite Deliritous’s pledge to relegate Baz to utter disuse after Baz had blackmailed him to keep secret his ability to Read—as if Baz was some tool that could be placed upon an upper shelf and forgotten—Baz had become Deliritous’s most-used Speaker.

It had come as no surprise that seemingly everyone in Erstwhile desired the services of the Reader who had returned victorious from the Acktus Trials. Each year, the champion’s Library gained a certain notoriety, particularly amongst the Illits who depended on the Readers to provide everything from mended clothing to food to fixing squeaky hinges. But what had taken both Baz and Deliritous completely by surprise was that such desire also included not just Deliritous’s services, but Deliritous’s services in tandem with the winning Speaker. That increased demand meant increased prices, and in the Library of Duke Octavinal Torchsire, gilts and silvs drove all decisions. So any time a Destructive Speaking was sought, it was Baz who did the Speaking, repeating the Words Deliritous Read to draw the power from the Library’s Spoken Books.

Of course, that meant Delida, who was Deliritous’s favorite in more ways than one, had ended up being the one relegated to a dusty shelf, hastily cleaned off only when a Creationist was needed and the Duke was too busy to use his own. Her eyes drilled into Baz like only an enraged woman’s could. He pointedly did not look her way.

Opposite Deliritous stood another trio of Reader, Harbour, Speaker. The Reader’s clothing rivaled the Duke’s own for finery: a pale blue silk jacket trimmed in white; a pair of billowy trousers in the reverse combination, white trimmed in blue; and tan riding boots speckled with mud. A wide-brimmed cavalier hat was settled at a slight angle upon his head, one side of the brim pinned up with a golden ornament and not one, but three feathers—two white and one bright blue—sticking from the unpinned side. Over his right breast were stitched three oak trees, one atop the other two, forming a triangle. A single oak tree was the sigil of the City of Fortune; three meant that the man was not only from the city on the Ocean Vast, but also—

Ah, Conservator Leanna, you finally answer my summons.

Leanna curtsied to Duke Octavinal. Unless you were desirous of a beating, or worse, you showed respect when the Duke was around. Still, seeing her demonstrate such formality seemed out of place. Baz was far more used to her punching him in the arm and calling him names than seeing her pander to men in power. Not that Baz could criticize. He bowed to the Duke as well, though Octavinal hadn’t even acknowledged Baz’s presence. It wasn’t that Baz didn’t have pride. He just valued his continued breathing over his self-worth.

My good Duke, Leanna said. I came as soon as I received it.

And are you a Conservator or a harlot, coming before me dressed so?

Leanna glanced down at her still-wet garments. They were modestly cut, a high neck and long sleeves, but the damp cloth clung to her in a way that strongly implied what lay beneath. Baz felt his face heat, and he opened his mouth to tell the Duke to leave Leanna alone and just what he could do with those feathers in his—

No matter, the Duke said, waving a deformed hand. His face took on the look of one who’d just sucked on a dozen lemons and was preparing to partake of the thirteenth as he turned to the Reader in the three-feathered hat. This is Duke Farston Leamina, Chair of the Triumvirate Congress.

Baz’s eyebrows rose, his planned outburst forgotten. He tried to stay as far away from politics as he could, but it was impossible not to know that, outside the ruling Tables of each Triumvirate city, the Congress was Oration’s most powerful body. And when it came to matters involving Books and Speakers, it was the final authority on national policy, ensuring uniformity of treatment—or mistreatment as the case might be—of Speakers and