The dog didn’t agree.
“You’re right,” Alfred heard himself arguing, his own inner being as rebellious as his limbs and appendages. “If I had all those problems to solve, where would I turn? To the wisdom of our people. Wisdom recorded in there.”
Well, the dog demanded, bored with sniffing at the door, what are we waiting for?
“I can’t get inside,” Alfred said, but the words came out a whisper—a halfhearted, faint, and ineffectual lie.
He knew how to get in without being detected. The idea had come to him, suddenly, last night.
He hadn’t wanted it to come. And when it did, he’d told it in no uncertain terms to go away. But it wouldn’t. His stubborn brain had gone right ahead making plans, examining the risks and deciding (with a cold-bloodedness that shocked Alfred) that the risks were minimal and worth running.
The idea had come to him because of that stupid story told by Bane’s nurse. Alfred caught himself hoping irritably that she’d come to a bad end. She had no business telling such nightmare tales to a susceptible child. (Never mind the fact that Bane himself was a nightmare personified.)
Thinking about that tale, Alfred had found himself remembering Arianus and the time he’d lived at the court of King Stephen. One memory led to another memory, and that led to another, until his mind had carried him, without him being aware of where he was headed, to the time the thief broke into the treasure vault.
Money is water, on Arianus, where the life-sustaining liquid is in short supply and is, therefore, considerably valuable. The royal palace had stockpiles of the precious commodity, kept for use in times of emergency (such as when the elves succeeded in cutting off the water shipments). The vault where the barrels were stored was located in a building behind the palace walls, a building of thick walls and heavy bolted doors, a building guarded day and night.
Guarded—except on the roof.
Late one night, a thief, using a most ingenious system of ropes and pulleys, managed to make his way from a neighboring roof to the top of the water vault. He was drilling through the hargast-wood timbers when one gave way with a shattering crash, literally dropping the unlucky thief into the arms of the guards below.
How the thief had proposed to get away with enough water to make this dangerous feat worth his while was never learned. It was assumed he had accomplices, but, if so, they escaped and he never revealed them, not even under torture. He met his death alone, accomplishing nothing except to ensure that guards now patrolled the roof.
That and he’d provided Alfred with a plan for breaking and entering the library.
Of course, it was always possible that Samah had enveloped the entire building in a magical shell, but, knowing the Sartan as he did, Alfred considered it unlikely. They had considered runes politely advising people to keep out sufficient protection and they would have been, had not Alfred’s wayward feet flung him inside. The Councillor had strengthened the magic, but the thought that anyone (much less Alfred) would have the temerity to deliberately enter a place he’d been commanded to avoid would be unthinkable.
It is unthinkable, Alfred thought miserably. I am corrupt. This is insanity!
“I … I must get away from here . . .” he said faintly, mopping his forehead with his lace cuff.
He was firm, resolved. He was going to leave. He didn’t care what was in the library.
“If there is anything—which there probably isn’t—then surely Samah has an excellent reason for not wanting stray scholars to poke at it—although what that reason could be is beyond me—not that it’s any of my business.”
This monologue continued for some time, during which Alfred made up his mind to leave and actually turned around and started down the path, only to find himself walking up it again almost immediately. He turned back, started home, found himself walking to the library.
The dog trotted after him, back and forth, until it grew tired, flopped down about halfway either direction, and watched Alfred’s vacillation with considerable interest.