This time, instead of entering the Library and standing stupidly still before the giant shelves of books upon books upon books (eha, there was something to being here that he liked), Dominicus stalked inside, chose a random aisle, and started looking at the titles. Half of those were in Old Ainjir, and the other half seemed to want to speak to some kind of to-do with Wulsh, or perhaps were about cooking – trade? – a lot of plants were mentioned – he wasn’t sure.
Anyway, it was the wrong books.
The other side of that set of shelves seemed to be an infinite list of uniform orders, going back into the untold depths of time (well, a long time for the Ainjir – Ainjir was not so old. His people remembered Comidras, a thousand years ago).
He pushed through that aisle and into the next aisle, and saw a continuation of some kind of supply requisition documents (why were they keeping all these?), and then strange spillage into perhaps personal diaries, or self-penned treatises by individuals he must assume were of Military Significance, or believed themselves to be (these took a long time to look through; he could divine no clear theme).
The next aisle (ignoring the growing sense that he had somehow held his eyes open too wide or for too long) featured a great deal about animals, another smattering of Old Ainjir, and then some texts that he at first assumed had been badly mauled by time but were in fact just written in the language of Adineh.
(He spent far too long trying to divine the half-erased titles before he realised this. No one, for the duration of his entire life, could ever learn of the fact that he thought he had understood at least one, perhaps two titles before realising he was trying to read another language. That was between him and God.)
He did make it through two more shelves before the way his head hurt and his eyes blurred made him stop. It wasn’t bad that doing so led him far enough into the stacks that he encountered the first set of breaks for tables for studying, which were thankfully deep enough that his embarrassing failure couldn’t be seen (if anyone but himself could recognise it as an embarrassing failure).
He sat quietly in one of the chairs, so as not to disturb the cadet sleeping face down in a tome two tables over and put his own face into his hands. The heels of his palms pressed gently into his eyes sockets, as if trying to hold his eyeballs in, and for some reason that made them feel a little better.
His skin, chapped from the hot water, smelled of the rancid soap of the kitchens and mixed poorly with the smells of cooking still wafting out of his uniform. Blessedly, he couldn’t feel it in the palms his hands, but it felt like turning his forearms the way he had was somehow stretching the skin, making it wildly itchy. He wanted to sink his head between his forearms and lay it on the desk, but any movement at all threatened to send him into frantic, useless scratching, and if he did put his head down, he would soon be the second cadet sleeping at these tables.
So he sucked in a cold breath and raised his head, vision spotty and swimming, and realised the sleeping cadet was Feichín.
He was actually standing over Feichín, hand raised to tap his shoulder, before he thought that perhaps he ought to let his roommate sleep. Feichín had been sleeping quite a lot. He obviously needed it.
Eha, he had been sleeping enough.
Dominicus tapped his shoulder and backed away to let him startle awake, somehow both frightfully surprised and still wearily slow-moving.
It was in this break he realised he probably should be letting Feichín sleep because Dominicus didn’t want to have to explain what he was doing in the Library to his roommate, but now it was far too late.
“Death,” Feichín muttered, hurriedly wiping his sticky face, glancing in despair down at the book, then sighing in relief that he had mostly managed to drool only on the table.
“Blood,” – these were very severe curses for Feichín – “Galen, what are you doing here?”
“I am at the Library,” Dominicus said, wholly unnecessarily, wishing he could die on command. “To Study.”
“Oh, haha,” Feichín’s attempted smile was wholly unconvincing, only making the bags under his eyes stretch enough to deepen, “yes, I suppose that is a silly question, isn’t it?”
Dominicus made a noise, which had been a response, cut off by the desire to not say anything else fantastically stupid.
And now they were stuck here.
“Yes,” Feichín said, coming more alive every moment and thus more able to apply his natural graciousness to smooth awkward conversation (did Dominicus have any other kind of conversation? It was getting hard to blame it on speaking in Ainjir making him sound stupid. So he was beginning to wonder). “Well, obviously I meant to be studying as well. Don’t know what came over me.”
“Are you not sleeping well?” Dominicus asked, wondering if he really cared, then furiously offended at his own wondering – of course he really cared! Out of the Ainjir he knew, Feichín was certainly among the least objectionable.
“Haha,” Feichín managed a weak grin, “it seems not, I suppose.”
But now Dominicus’ sluggish mind had surged quite past itself.
“You can help me?” he said-asked, nominally addressing Feichín.
After all, what was he expecting? A bunch of books with dicks on the cover?
“Well,” Feichín was catching up, or trying to, “I would be delighted to be of service, of course, if I could…”
What did it matter what Feichín thought? He was a very measured cadet, very polished, very polite, very Discreet. He hardly said ‘fuck’.
“I am looking for…”
Shit. What was he going to say? ‘I’m looking for a bunch of books with dicks on the cover’?
“…ehhh…”
Feichín was looking at him, head slowly cocking more and more to the side as the uncertainty dragged on.
“…the… romances?”
Feichín blinked (Dominicus flinched).
“Oh, you mean like the Academy Romances?”
“The what?”
“You won’t find those here,” Feichín said, perfectly evenly, as he stood. “Rather too, er… popular for the Librarians, I imagine. Not very durably packaged anyway. Though I’m sure we could find someone collecting them from the city. Rather have to be braile-breith, I suppose…”
“I do not know what those are,” Dominicus said.
“Oh!” Feichín’s pale cheeks pinked. “Do forgive me for assuming. I would say, personally, often a bit too… er, well, detailed, but they really are rather the thing among cadets, you know, perfectly acceptable to be of interest… but I suppose you mean something a wee bit more literary?”
“I mean…” Dominicus had brought up his hands as if holding a ball, palms facing each other and slightly rotated them. He did not know what he was gesturing. This gesture did not call up any appropriate words for him to actually speak. He did not want to say ‘dicks’ to Feichín no matter how discreet he was.
“Well,” Feichín said generously, “we can start there.”
Deciding he would commit whatever transgression he was committing had loosened up Oisín’s tongue, but Cole rather wished he would shut up. If his babble had anything enlightening to suggest about what they were walking into, it would be another thing, but instead he seemed to be catching up on commonplace gossip and talking routine assignments and their gripes.
He hoped he might be able to hear around Oisín’s nonsense – after all, it was the Library, they weren’t speaking so loudly – or maybe persuade him to be less talkative by giving only grunted responses. Neither worked.
So they pushed through the looming, dark aisles of books made darker by a lowering sky dimming the light from the high windows, past scattered oases of tables and chairs, to a rarely-trod section in the middle-back of the room. Cole thought if he concentrated he could see the dust kicked up by their feet, but could not afford to take his eyes off the bauble of orange light at the end of the aisle, through which shadows lurched and passed and settled again.
A shadow turned and fixed on them, and as they approached, resolved itself into a shaggy, backlit head, soon joined by other figures.
Fate strike Oisín down, but there wasn’t a way for Cole to seem casually interested in the books on the shelves (he couldn’t even read the spines of the books on the shelves – it hadn’t been so dark that they picked up Library lantern when they came in) while Oisín participated in whatever secret meeting was going on. He also couldn’t come up with a reason quickly enough to excuse his following Oisín all the way down, since he couldn’t even tell what section they were in.
“Ho, Oisín, good to see you.”
“Who have you brought?”
Cole didn’t recognise those voices (but he didn’t expect to), so it wasn’t until they were squeezing themselves into the seemingly-accidental pocket of space between walls and shelves warmed by the light he realised just what kind of shit he had walked himself into.
Mathúin owned the shaggy shadow that had first greeted them. The Academy haircut hadn’t done him any favours – longer curls suited him – but with his chin pushed out like that, the glower on his face, and the wild brush of his hair he could pull off a kind of handsome country savagery.
“The Prep cadet’s dog,” Mathúin said, eyes fixed on Cole with disdain.
“Euhg–” said Oisín, also seeming to finally realize what kind of shit he had walked them into.
“Let’s not start off that way,” Cole said, genially – or, honestly, “I would hate to have to kick your ass.”
He surveyed. Mathúin he could probably take. Couldn’t rely on Oisín; he would probably bow out of any violence. The other three… four… five… six? The other six made it a rather bold claim.
But still, Mathúin flinched at the insinuation. Cole smiled.
“I’m only visiting,” Cole finished, touching idly at the nearest books on the shelf, and by doing so, turning his back to them. (A tripartite gesture, if they wished to interpret it so: 1) he turned his back because he wasn’t afraid of them (insulting); 2) he turned his back to demonstrate willing vulnerability (that he didn’t intend violence) 3) he turned his back to give them privacy to decide their next move (polite)).
“Anyone can come to these,” Oisín said, finding his voice again.
“Anyone?”
“Anyone?”
“Don’t know about an anyone who upholds the standard order…”
Somebody elbowed that last one before he could finish.
Mathúin pushed past Oisín, his hand sliding onto the shelf at Cole’s eye-level, casual lean betrayed by the intensity of the glare through which he called Cole’s gaze to his.
Oh – so he was afraid.
“Wouldn’t have thought it in your field of interest, Second,” Mathúin said.
“Almost anything can be interesting if compellingly argued,” Cole replied.
“Well, that is kind of the point…” one of the other cadets murmured.
“Shut up!” spat another.
“But we’re not part of some conspiracy…”
“A shit conspiracy, if so.”
“Wouldn’t he be good,” squeaked another of the cadets, voice trailing as all eyes in the circle turned to fix on him, “...to have on our side?”
“There’s not really sides, is there?”
“How could he be on our side?”
“He’s clearly on whatever side feeds him best.”
“Well, but technically, anyone who at least listens to the ideas is welcome.”
“Yeah,” Oisín added, casting a sidelong glance back at Cole, “and technically there’s more reason for him to be on our side than theirs.”
Cole did his best to mentally convey the idea to his dear roommate that if Oisín went any further down that line of reasoning he, too, would be spitting teeth by the end of this.
Thankfully, he shut up.
But Cole was also rapidly realising this whole venture had been a mistake. The interest of finding a little secret club couldn’t sustain itself if the club itself was as stupid and petty as the non-secret clubs. Besides, being talked about as if he weren’t there was quickly wearing on him, and this last was very nearly a step too far (as lightly insulting as the other cadets’ language had been, being lightly insulted by low-ranked cadets wouldn’t ultimately damage his reputation, unlike insinuating kinship with them).
“There shouldn’t be sides, in the end.”
“Yes, but NOW–”
“Regardless of sides, I don’t trust anyone who spends that much time with nobles.”
“We all technically spend that much time with nobles –
“Not all Prep cadets are noble–”
“–and anyway, eventually, we will need at least some nobles on our side.”
“Not sure I want to be on a side with them.”
“He does their bidding,” a rather daring cadet in the back said, leaning against a shelf and glowering.
“Yeah,” said Mathúin, keeping that direct and challenging gaze on Cole. “Not sure we could trust you to stay on our side.”
Mathúin danced dangerously close to impugning Cole’s honour, and, of course, implying he was a mere servant to the Prep cadets’ whims was rather insulting on the face of it. Cole could let this evolve into a ruckus.
But where was the advantage in beating a bunch of low-ranking book club members? Mathúin, maybe, was worth taking down a peg if only because he caused so much trouble, and probably in teaching him a lesson the rest would be cowed (though a couple of them looked ready to take their dear leader’s place should he fall, rather too readily – Cole recognized the look). But what was the real danger?
Perhaps more importantly, what was the real benefit?
In his plan to slowly rise to the top of the class hierarchy, he included establishing that his rule would be different. Though he was still very comfortably placed, and had no intention of seizing control any time soon, the plan meant he had to establish a pattern of behaving differently when challenged.
They never would be so mouthy to Aspen, for fear he would simply crush them. Lin wouldn’t have even feigned interest in low-born, low-ranked cadets’ doings in the first place. And if he had stumbled upon them, Lin never would have let it get this far, much less tolerated insinuations.
So what would Cole do? What would cool, unconcerned, unreactive Second do?
“So are there sides?” Cole asked, brows raising innocently.
“I don’t think it’s wise to deviate from the theory which tells us…”
“Oh, bugger your theory, there’s always sides.”
“But there can’t be, ideologically, because–”
“Ideology isn’t winning battles.”
“Nobody is talking about battles here.”
“Yet.”
“This is supposed to be about finding a different path from what has guided us in the past, and that includes the idea that resolution can only be found in hierarchy and battles–”
“Well, there’s definitely going to be a hierarchy.”
“I just don’t know how things work without SOME hierarchy.”
“That’s the whole Fate-fucked point, you nits, we’ve got to figure out HOW to operate without hierarchies–”
“Oh, and you’re going to tell us all how that works?”
“Maybe! If you won’t just take a second to THINK–”
“Sounds hierarchical to me.”
“Sounds like somebody’s on top of the hierarchy to me.”
“He’s not saying that, you fucking MINERS–”
“Ooo, now that’s class aggression.”
“It’s all coming out.”
“Self-superior SHEEP-HERDERS–”
“GUYS,” Mathúin barked, silencing the group.
Rather than turning their attention back to Cole, however, faint but rising conversation filled the air.
“…one of my favourites, though you can’t say it’s not rife with Old Gods bandying about…”
Two cadets emerged into the bubble of light, one stopping mid-gesture, passing a book from the collection in his hand into the stack weighing down the arms of The Midraeic.
Much to his displeasure, Cole realised immediately he was having Reactions.
“Well, fuck, let anybody in, why don’t you?” one the theorists snorted.
“Excuse us,” the Ainjir cadet said primly.
“No, no, this is ideal!”
For various reasons, everyone (except Cole, struggling to look away – his back was definitely not being turned at this moment) in the circle turned to the excited cadet who explained:
“Midraeics were there when this all started…”
The eruption of noises – some scandalised, some disbelieving, some doubtful, some curious – was enough that they all abuptly quieted themselves back down to Library-level speaking voices, like opening a door to a crowded party and suddenly shutting it again. Albeit the conversation remained, regardless of volume, a complete babble of overlapping words, utterly incomprehensible to any but the speakers.
Or maybe that was just what was hitting Cole’s ears, because he very much wasn’t listening to it any more.
Perhaps thirty long seconds into staring at The Midraeic, Cole realised The Midraeic was staring back at him. As always, it was difficult to tell what was in that impassive face, except perhaps the tingling sense up Cole’s back that he was about to be attacked.
This was very stupid. He felt very stupid. Even the feeling of being stupid couldn’t quite overcome the feeling of tension (that’s what it was, or that was all that he was going to acknowledge about it) that came with being stumbled upon mid-conspiracy by this asshole, whose personal conspiracy seemed to be to make Cole’s life difficult.
This, of course, was upsetting because it was interfering in his ability to project cool, uncaringness to this gaggle of losers, who, he had to admit, did not seem as interested in his inner dilemma as they were in arguing with one another. So that was good.
He then became extremely worried The Midraeic somehow sensed his inner dilemma, which was another wholly stupid thought brought on, Cole rationalised, by the fact that The Midraeic did almost nothing every time they met except fuck up whatever Cole was trying to do.
Was Cole planning a nice relaxing day, sitting back in classes and telling jokes? The Midraeic would challenge his jokes with serious ideas. Was Cole planning practising particular aspects of the grappling move they had learned in a laid-back set of short, purposeful bouts? The Midraeic would make sure he fought for his life, every time. Was Cole enjoying the pleasant weather in a moment of privacy? Could he really afford to be doing anything but studying? The Midraeic was rapidly catching up to the Prep cadets in academics. Blood and Honour, arguably The Midraeic was even fucking up his fucking, because classes were making him too tired for the rigmarole of finding partners and too sore for anything much more intense than the quick work of mouth or hands.
Maybe he could fuck up what The Midraeic was trying to do? But what he trying to do?
Cole thought through a whole scenario – going over, pulling one of the books out of his arms, reviewing it, saying something devastatingly topical and provoking (did he want to get his ass kicked? Maybe he sensed The Midraeic wouldn’t try to kick his ass in the Library, but why he was so sure of that he wasn’t certain – anyway, unlike with Mathúin there was reason to fear The Midraeic actually could kick his ass) – before he actually looked at the book The Midraeic’s Ainjir friend still held hanging between them and read the title.
Far from the studied gesture he had imagined, Cole stepped over and took it out of his hands.
“The Berwedunn Cycle? Quite grim reading – do you not prefer Carrie Oarwhi? I’ve just been reciting it.”
“There’s so much skipped,” said the Ainjir cadet – brown-haired, round-faced, looked at if he could get a few more hours of sleep a night but with a bright turn to his brown eyes now they were speaking on a friendly subject.
Those brown eyes did slide over to The Midraeic (he was still staring – glaring? – Blood! What a stare!) before he returned them to Cole and went on.
“I think we’re rather after the whole pattern, you know – all the bits that get cut for a rousing song.”
“Still, it’s quite stilted, the old style, unless you’re really good with the mid-Ainjir.”
“Or hearing it,” the cadet nodded along, with a polite tip of his head in Cole’s direction. “A good recitation can carry you along, but a good recitation takes some skill.”
“This is not a book club!” Mathúin broke in.
“It kind of is,” one of the others gestured sheepishly at one of the chairs, which was, indeed, piled high with a variety of pamphlets, broadsides, and volumes.
“Theory is important,” he muttered before Mathúin’s glare and the jostling of the other cadets silenced him.
“This is not your book club,” Mathúin clarified, returning his gaze to the interlopers.
The cadet who had come with The Midraeic – who still had nothing but stare, Sweet Mercy’s Nipples – had let his eyes glide over the chair of literature and decidedly turned away.
He took the stack of books from the startled Midraeic’s arms and with a practised, cold geniality said, “We were simply browsing the section, do pardon the interruption.”
“Another noble poking his nose in.”
This was said with enough hostility that the Ainjir cadet paused.
The mood had turned in the book club, theorists falling back while the more… practical cadets pushed forward.
“It is a bit suspicious,” Mathúin said. “Two of them showing up at once.”
Now it was three, potentially four if Oisín took their part, versus six, which was at least better odds, particularly if The Midraeic joined the fight (confusing feelings shot into Cole’s gut thinking about that; he wasn’t at all sure what that was about, but this was no time to dwell on it).
“Awfully underused section to be wandering,” said a cadet sitting on the arm of a chair, rotating and testing his wrists, showing the size of his fists.
The Ainjir cadet with The Midraeic, however, looked wearily terrified. Cole gave him some credit despite the fear; it was clever of him to free up The Midraeic’s hands should the fight come to pass. And he didn’t know what side Cole would take, after all, and that was reason enough for concern.
Perhaps he also didn’t realise that any fight in the Library was bound to be interrupted; the Librarian wouldn’t tolerate it. Equally, it was a guarantee the Librarian would bring all power down upon the heads of anyone who disturbed the peace of the place – so it really wasn’t so much the brewing fight as the escape that was of concern. Cole had confidence in his ability to escape if it was him alone, but frankly, there weren’t that many ways out of the Library, and even fewer ways that would conveniently hide a large group of people. It was the easiest place to get jumped leaving on campus, barring certain classrooms and whole territory of the Second Years.
Everything was feeling very stupid again.
“Yeah,” said another cadet, who rose to Mathúin’s flank, matching his cross-armed, shoulders-raised posture of intimidation. “Who reads this superstitious trash anyway?”
Honour dictated Cole should probably be focused on Mathúin, who had insulted him more than a few times already, but it was hard to care. Clearly the Ainjir cadet and Oisín were both doubtful allies and doubtfully of use as allies, should there be a fight. Who knew what The Midraeic thought about anything, or would do about any of it. Quite frankly, the only one Cole had to give any thought to fighting at this moment was The Midraeic, and even more frankly, it was hard to tell if that was just some kind of frenetic survival instinct simply fixating on the greatest threat to his well-being.
At the end of the day, he hadn’t intended to do any fighting, and indeed, indulging in a fight would rather mar the evening.
So Cole took a risk.
“I read this superstitious trash,” he said, replacing the book he had taken and pulling another from the stack in the Ainjir cadet’s arms. “Gods or not, it’s rather useful, actually. Perhaps the influence isn’t always clear in later material, but half the old generals write like they’re in one of these. Can’t understand their Tactics without understanding their allusions. Sort of makes sense he would, too, don’t you think?”
Cole tipped his chin at The Midraeic, whose serious countenance seemed to indicate he wasn’t entirely sure this statement weren’t some kind of insult. But he didn’t react, and that was good enough for now.
“And he’s hardly noble,” Oisín added, pointing to The Midraeic’s companion.
“His family’s got the land around my town,” said one of the other cadets.
“Well, yeah, but you also said his family’s half homeless because their Baron stopped extending credit and started repossessing everything to make up for tax shortfalls after the last sickness. That’s part of why you’re here.”
The Ainjr cadet, still pale, gave a half-hearted laugh. “All we’ve really got is the land.”
“You run sheep now,” the cadet who had identified his landowner status said, slightly embarrassed either for himself or his much-fallen landlord. “Your family, anyway.”
“And I’m not interested in your little book club,” Cole said, snapping shut the book he had been perusing and laying it on top of the stack in the now wholly red-faced Ainjir cadet’s arms. “Especially if most of what you’re fighting about is who is noble enough. Sweet Peace, as if I don’t hear enough of that.”
The vast majority of the skulkers took this blow rather seriously, looking away or at each other, shame-faced.
Mathúin looked even more pissed.
“Oisín, thanks for walking with me,” Cole said lightly, “have fun at your book club.”
Though Oisín stuttered something behind him, Cole had already turned and caught the brown-haired cadet’s eye, in a look inviting him to take this opportunity to leave. Persistent embarrassment fought with the flood of gratitude into his expression. Cole felt a little bad about abandoning Oisín, but leaving him would mean someone was in place to dissuade any pursuit.
Mostly, however, as they turned to walk away, perfectly peaceably side-by-side, his thoughts fixated on anticipating The Midraeic’s next strike.