The Search for the Red Dragon - James A. Owen [34]
The bird wore glasses on the end of a giant, dusk gray beak, and a tight-fitting cleric’s vest. Charles half expected to see spats on its feet as well.
“Ho, Solomon,” Artus said. “How goes the work?”
“It go-go-goes as it go-go-goes,” the crow replied in a voice that sounded like a willow branch being swished through a pile of dry leaves. “We fi-fi-files the books, and no-no-note the files, as we have b-b-been doing these muh-muh-many centuries, oh King.”
“Well done, my good, ah, bird,” said Artus. “I need to ask: Have you a catalogue of myths, dating back…ah…?” He turned to Bert.
“Seven centuries,” said Bert. “Give or take.”
Without a word, the crow dipped its head, spread its wings, and disappeared into the stacks.
“Can’t beat crows for organizing a library,” said Artus. “We used to also have a staff of very efficient hedgehogs, but when the crows arrived, there was an unfortunate misunderstanding at the commissary, and it’s been just crows ever since.”
“A few of these look singed,” John observed, examining a stack of papyrus rolls. “Did someone get a little careless and leave them too close to a lamp?”
Artus peered over John’s shoulder at the rolls. “Oh, those. They’re from the old collection, in your world,” he said. “There was indeed a fire—but fortunately, a number of scholars with ties to the Archipelago were able to rescue them before too much damage was done.
“Actually,” he continued, “it was from these old documents that Arthur took the original seal of the High King.”
“The alpha?” said Charles. “So these are Greek?”
“Yes, on both counts,” Artus replied, “although I think they also used it to indicate the library these came from. A place called Alexandria, in the country of, um…”
“Egypt,” said John, dumbfounded. “Alexandria is in Egypt.”
“Right!” said Artus. “That’s what they originally called this mess before it was the Great Whatsit, or the Royal Library, or the Archive of Paralon…
“It was called the Library of Alexandria.”
“He refers to the ‘construction’ of two mechanical men…”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Friar’s Tale
Solomon Kaw returned with a thick, hidebound book clutched in his talons. Wings stroking mightily, he lowered the book gently to the nearby tabletop, then ducked his head in deference to the king and flew away. “Allow me,” said Artus. “It is my librar—uh, archive, after all.” He opened the old tome and began scanning the pages intently, running his fingers along the faded writing and murmuring softly to himself.
“Ah, Artus?” John began.
“A moment, please,” the king replied. “I’m just getting oriented. Even after years of studying them, I’m still finding my way around these old languages, you know.”
“But—,” said John.
“Tch,” interrupted Artus. “I realize you have specialized training, but so do I. There’s nothing you can do to make the translation process go any faster.”
“Fine,” John said, shrugging. “Read on.”
After a minute or so of examining one page, then another, and another, it became obvious to all of them that the High King was stumped.
“May I make a suggestion?” offered John.
“All right,” Artus said, finally resigned. “But I doubt you’ll have an easier time of it…”
His voice trailed off as John stepped forward and turned the old book upside down. “There,” said John. “Give that a go.”
“It’s Latin,” Artus said, crestfallen. “Now.”
“Ah, why don’t we all have a look together?” Charles suggested. “More eyes to the work, and all that.”
The king put the book in the middle of the table, and the others leaned in closely to read.
“This is one of the Histories,” said Bert in astonishment. “One of the official records written by the Caretakers.”
“I thought the Caretakers just annotated the maps in the Geographica,” said John. “We’re meant to write Histories, too?”
“It’s not an obligation,” Bert explained, “but Caretakers have witnessed many happenings in the history of the Earth and felt compelled to record them. Originally, as with this volume and the many others like it, the accounts were simple and straightforward. It was only centuries later