The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Forty-Eight

"Thirsty?" said Larst, looking up from his maps.

Straw sidled into the room, massaging his shoulder, and eyeing up the library. After hours hefting several thousands books had left him more than a little bruised, the site of all these ones made him feel very uncomfortable.

"Gasping," he said, at last when he realised that the books weren't planning to launch an attack at him on behalf of their fallen brothers. He didn't know how Larst could stand to be around them.

"There's wine over there," said Larst, pointing to a small table by the window.

Straw strode over and picked up the decanter and peered inside, giving the dark contents a suspicious sniff before pouring himself a glass. "Wine, eh? Is that what we're drinking now?"

Larst sighed. "You know it makes the servants uncomfortable when you ask them to do anything differently. They have all these rules." Straw nodded his head and Larst carried on. "The footman must make a request with the drinks master, who in turn will go to the head steward to ask for the key. He will then watch the wine steward as he fetches the bottle from the cellar, and bring it to the buttery, but will not pour. That is the job of the head steward, who needs to taste it before the footman places it on a silver tray and brings it back up here for the likes of me and you to drink." He raised his own glass and drained it.

"I didn't realise we were here to change the ways of servants."

"We're here to change the ways of everyone."

"You know what I mean."

Straw wiped the black soot from his lips before drinking. The cool glass was soothing on his cracked lips, though he didn't think he'd ever get used to drinking out of these delicate cups. He couldn't pick one up without fearing he would break it in his big hands, and there was no taste of metal to add any body to the flavour of the wine.

"It go alright, then?" asked Larst, in that infuriatingly calm manner of his.

Straw nodded and poured himself another helping. "Yup."

"You burnt them all?"

Straw paused, letting Larst wait for him to drink again before answering. Done, he slapped his lips together and sighed. "The capital's ledgers. As we agreed."

"Yeah," said Larst, shifting in his chair. "I think it was you who agreed that one. I wanted you to burn the whole library."

With great care, Straw set his glass back on the tray. "We will, but not yet. Hawth was right. We don't know what will happen with all the names gone. Best to start small."

He looked back over to find Larst staring at him. "What?"

"You shouldn't..." said Larst, raising his eyebrows and leaning back in his chair. "You can't let yourself be distracted by your feelings for Hawth."

Straw felt the heat rise to his cheeks. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I need you committed to the cause, and not worrying about what Hawth is going to think of you." He sighed. "Don't get me wrong, we need Hawth. She's quicker than both of us put together. She saw the patterns in the ledger. She knows what the masters can do. But she also lives in a story. She think that there's some perfect happy ending waiting for all of us, and we need to remember that there's no such thing as perfection. Only the hope of something better. I know you like her. But this can't go on. That whole business with Turnip nearly got us all killed. We're not out of danger yet. There's no room for you to feel jealous right now."

Straw tried very hard to swallow, but he seemed to be having trouble with his throat. He couldn't make a sound. The silence between them grew as taught as a wire. From somewhere in the room came the tick of a clock. For a fleeting few seconds Straw wondered who was keeping it wound. Were the servants really still rushing around, taking care of clocks and ornaments as if the court was still in situ?