If that was the case, then it might be best not to touch any of the books. That first experience had been traumatic enough.
He tried again to contact de Almeida, but had no more luck than before. It looked like he was still on his own.
The only thing left was to explore, so he pulled open the one door leading out of the room – and felt the breath catch in his throat at what he beheld.
The room he had been left to wake in proved to be little more than an antechamber to a vast, cathedral-like space. He saw an arched ceiling at least twenty metres overhead, from which hung chandeliers supported by heavy steel chains. And all around, rising up the walls and accessible by a multitude of narrow metal stairways and walkways, were tens of thousands more books. More physical, tactile volumes than he might ever have believed existed anywhere within the Tian Di, let alone Vanaheim.
If this really was Maxwell’s prison, it was a hell of a luxurious one.
Luc turned to look down the other end of the hall and saw an elderly man regarding him from a few metres away. The old man’s narrow skull was topped with a fringe of white hair. A long robe hung loose on his bony shoulders, while a faint nimbus of light around his head and upper shoulders indicated he was a data-ghost.
‘You must be . . .’
‘Javier Maxwell,’ said the data-ghost in a reedy voice, the eyes bright blue and full of intelligence. ‘You were close to dying out there in the snow, did you know that?’
‘Thanks,’ said Luc, ‘for saving me.’
Maxwell cast his gaze up towards the ceiling and back down. ‘You know where you are?’
‘This is where they keep you locked up.’
‘I fear you already know more about me than I know about you, Mr . . . ?’
‘Archivist Luc Gabion.’
Maxwell nodded as if coming to a conclusion. ‘You’re clearly not a member of the Temur Council, are you?’
‘I’m not, no.’
‘An assassin, then?’
‘No. I’m not here to kill you, or anyone else.’
‘Really? I certainly hope that’s not the case. I’ve had reason to become quite concerned about such things lately.’
Luc heard a slight hum as two mechants dropped down from the ceiling, taking station on either side of him. The mirror-smooth skin of one of the mechants parted, revealing intricate and deadly-looking weaponry mounted on tiny gimballed joints.
Glancing at the other mechant, Luc saw it had done the same, its weapons swivelling until they were directed at his skull.
‘Now,’ said Maxwell, ‘I’ll give you, hmm . . . let’s say five seconds, to tell me why you’re here, before I order them to kill you as a purely precautionary measure. And please,’ he added, stepping slightly closer, ‘be aware that I’ve been around for long enough to be able to tell when someone is lying to me.’
‘I’m investigating Sevgeny Vasili’s death,’ Luc blurted, as the hum emanating from the mechants rapidly increased in pitch.
Maxwell stared at him with narrowed eyes for a period of time that felt much longer than five seconds. Then, just as the hum was about to reach a crescendo, Maxwell raised a hand, and the hum fell away into silence.
‘I heard about Sevgeny,’ said Maxwell, his voice grave. ‘Joseph told me all about it on his last visit. A very unfortunate thing indeed, and something that has inspired me to greater than usual levels of paranoia. On whose authority, Mr Gabion, are you carrying out this investigation?’
‘I’m here on Zelia de Almeida’s authority,’ Luc admitted.
Maxwell’s brows furrowed together, and he sighed in consternation, pulling his robe tight around his shoulders.
‘Zelia,’ the old man muttered half to himself, then let out a soft laugh with a shake of the head. ‘Now there’s someone I haven’t heard from in a long time. She didn’t feel like paying me a visit in person?’
‘She said she wasn’t allowed to come here.’
Maxwell nodded. ‘Of course, of course. Try, if you will, to see things from my point of view; I’ve so rarely encountered anyone outside of the Eighty-Five in such a very long time that I don’t particularly care to recall just how long it’s been.’ His eyebrows, as white as the hair on his head, rose fractionally. ‘And now I find an unexpected visitor struggling to reach my library and nearly dying in the attempt. And from what scant information I’ve been able to glean regarding what transpires in the outside world, I gather Zelia herself is a potential suspect in Sevgeny’s murder. By all rights, I should inform my gaolers of your presence. I can imagine they’d take a degree of pleasure in extracting considerably more information from you than you’ve provided me with so far.’
‘You mean the Sandoz don’t already know I’m here?’
‘The Sandoz?’ Maxwell chuckled under his breath. ‘They know there’s no way I could cross a thousand miles of ice and snow on my own. What need is there to watch me closely, given that knowledge? But perhaps I should let them know about you. What do you think?’
‘I really don’t think you want to do that.’
‘Why not?’ Maxwell demanded, his voice rising, and echoing from the high walls around them.
‘Because then you might have to explain to them why the hell the Coalition Ambassador just paid you a visit.’
Maxwell gazed at him with an expression of utter stupefaction.
Luc waited, his hands clammy, all too aware of the gentle hum of the mechants on either side of him. His stomach growled audibly in the otherwise still silence of the library, and he realized it had been a good long while since he’d had anything to eat.
‘May I say, this is turning out to be quite the novel day,’ said Maxwell suddenly, as if coming unfrozen. ‘You’re hungry?’
‘Yeah, very,’ Luc admitted.
‘My dining room is on the lowest level of the library,’ Maxwell told him, gesturing towards the mechants. ‘I’ll see you there in a minute or two.’
Maxwell’s data-ghost vanished, and Luc followed one of the mechants to an elevator platform that carried him swiftly downwards. He gazed along the length of the library in the moment before it disappeared out of sight, and wondered what it must be like to live in such a place, buried inside a mountain with no eyes to the outside world beyond the lenses of mechants.
The platform came to a halt, and he followed the mechant down a long gallery to another room lined with yet more books. A third mechant was busy placing serving dishes and bowls on a table, at one end of which sat the flesh-and-blood Javier Maxwell.
‘Don’t look so nervous,’ said Maxwell, indicating an empty seat across the table from him. ‘Take a seat. Please. It’s nice to have the opportunity to eat with someone who isn’t also my gaoler, even if he is intent on blackmailing me.’
Luc remained standing. The mechant that had guided him here floated up to hover in one corner of the ceiling. ‘You still haven’t told me why Ambassador Sachs was here. Or has he not departed yet?’
‘No, the Ambassador is gone. He left just before one of my mechants found you. You know, I was just about to eat when you woke, and I don’t know about you, but I hate long conversations on an empty stomach.’
‘I need to get in touch with Zelia—’
His stomach rumbled again.
‘Dear God,’ said Maxwell, picking up a fork and stabbing it towards the empty chair. ‘Sit down and eat first. Then we talk.’
Maxwell lifted the lid from a serving dish and the sweet, aromatic scent of grilled fish rose up. Luc sat and watched as Maxwell, pointedly ignoring him, focused all his attention on filling his plate.
Despite himself, and the terrible urgency that continued to dominate his every thought and action, Luc ate.
The food and wine helped chase some of his nerves away. He had the sense the meal was as much a delaying tactic for Maxwell as anything else, an opportunity for the imprisoned Councillor to try and work out what Luc’s presence here meant. The mechants worked efficiently at clearing empty dishes away and replacing them with new ones.