The City of Dreaming Books (17 page)

‘It depends how much your expert opinion costs.’

Smyke grinned. ‘Don’t worry about that, it’s on the house.’

‘I really couldn’t accept,’ I said awkwardly.

‘But I work for nothing on principle. It’s the shop that provides my income.’

I’d quite forgotten about that. What shop did he mean? The crate of books in the corner?

‘What I can already tell you is this,’ Smyke went on. ‘We’re dealing with a valuable manuscript here.
How
valuable remains to be seen, but you must refrain from mentioning it to anyone. There are a lot of shady individuals in Bookholm. People have been knifed for an unsigned second edition before now.’

‘You propose to hang on to the manuscript?’

‘If you want quick results, yes. Of course, if you’d prefer to consult someone else . . .’ He held out the manuscript. ‘I can give you the addresses of several eminent colleagues.’

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘By all means keep it overnight. I’m in rather a hurry.’

‘I’ll give you a receipt,’ he said.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ I told him sheepishly. ‘I trust you.’

‘No, I insist. I’m a member of the Bookholm Graphologists’ Guild. We do everything by the book.’ He wrote out a receipt and handed it to me.

‘There,’ he said. ‘That was business, now comes pleasure. Would you care to glance at my stock?’

‘Certainly,’ I replied. What stock did he mean? His stock of Leyden Manikins?

Smyke indicated the crate of books.

‘Help yourself, ferret around to your heart’s content. Perhaps you’ll find a bargain.’

He was probably hinting that I ought to recompense him for his unpaid endeavours by buying something. Well, perhaps I would find a book I could pretend to be enthusiastic about. I went over to the crate, knelt down, took out the first one that came to hand - and almost dropped it. It was
The Bloody Book
!

Smyke was pretending to take no notice of me. Humming to himself, he smoothed out the sheaf of manuscript with a heavy paperweight.

I stared at
The Bloody Book.
Incredible! It really was the edition bound in Kackertratts’ wing membranes and allegedly written in demonic blood! One of the most sought-after items on the Golden List! Unique! A museum piece! This book was not just worth a row of houses, it exceeded a whole urban district in value.

‘Look inside,’ Smyke told me with a grin.

I opened the big book with trembling hands. My eyes lighted on the following sentence:
‘Witches always stand amid birch trees
. . .’ I can’t explain why, but those few words filled me with a terror such as I had never experienced before. Beads of cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

I shut the book and laid it aside.

‘Interesting,’ I said in a tremulous voice.

‘Demonistics isn’t everyone’s cup of tea,’ said Smyke. ‘I myself find it too grim a subject. I never dip into the book, I simply own it. Go on looking, perhaps you’ll find something suitable.’

I removed the next book from the crate, read the title - and gave another start. It was
Silence of the Sirens
by Count Klanthu of Kinomaz - the signed first edition, what was more. Light fiction, to be sure, but
what
light fiction! Klanthu’s first novel was his only commercial flop, so the whole of the first edition had been pulped - with the exception of this one copy. Then Klanthu became a success and its value rocketed. The book was later reprinted, of course, but this copy of the first edition with illustrations by Werma Tozler was worth an absolute fortune. I ventured to look for the price inside the front cover. There it was, pencilled in the corner in tiny numerals, a sum so astronomical it made my head spin. I carefully laid the book aside.

‘Don’t you care for light fiction?’ asked Smyke. ‘Ah well, it’s more for green youngsters. Try another.’

I removed another big book from the crate.

‘But . . .’ I gasped. ‘This is
The Solar Chronicles
, one of the most valuable books in existence!’

‘Yes,’ Smyke said with a grin, ‘but only because the printer’s ink was mixed with ground-up dust from the Lunar Eclipse Diamond. It’s worthless from the literary aspect, but the print sparkles beautifully in candlelight.’

‘I’m afraid these books are out of my financial league,’ I said, rising to my feet. I’d never seen such treasures before.

‘You’re right,’ said Smyke. ‘It was only a little joke on my part. I wanted to show off a bit. Those are the minor joys and compensations of my lonely profession. Delve deeper and you’ll find another seven titles, all of which appear on the Golden List - near the top, too.’

‘You weren’t exaggerating when you said your stock was worth a look.’

‘Hm, well,’ said Smyke. ‘Some antiquarians fill vast premises with umpteen thousand books and employ armies of sales assistants. I prefer to work alone. I’m more of a specialist. Strictly speaking, this is the most highly specialised antiquarian bookshop in the city. I’m sure you now see why I can afford to dispense with a fee.’ So saying, he ushered me out.

‘May I make a suggestion?’ he asked when I was already outside in the street.

‘By all means.’

‘If you’ve nothing better to do this evening, try this.’ He handed me a leaflet.

‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘A musical mystery tour?’

‘You could call it that, but it’s more than just a concert. Believe me, it would be worthwhile going. It’s a genuine cultural experience, not a tourist attraction.’

‘To be honest, I’d meant to attend a literary function this evening. At timber-time, if you know what I mean.’

‘Timber-time shmimber-time!’ Smyke made a dismissive gesture. ‘Timber-time in Bookholm is a nightly occurrence. You won’t get to hear a performance by the Murkholm Trombophone Orchestra every day of the week. It’s an event! Still, don’t let me talk you into it - perhaps you’re allergic to trombophone music.’

‘I couldn’t say. I’ve never heard any.’

‘You should definitely go, then. It’s an acoustic adventure. I wish I could go myself, but . . .’ Smyke shrugged. ‘Duty calls . . .’ He tapped the manuscript and sighed.

‘Au revoir,’ I said. ‘I’ll come back at noon tomorrow.’

‘Good, see you then.’ He waved me goodbye and quietly closed the door.

It wasn’t until I had quit the heart of the city and returned to its busier neighbourhoods - this time making a big detour to avoid Poison Alley and the Graveyard of Forgotten Writers - that I noticed something: Darkman Street described a series of spirals round the geographical centre of Bookholm, so Pfistomel Smyke’s house, which stood at its focal point, must have been among the very first of the city’s buildings to be constructed above ground.

T
imber-time was what Bookholmians called the tranquil evening hours, that snug sequel to a busy day of selling books or writing them. When thick balks of timber blazed in open fireplaces and pipes were lit, when heavy wines developed their bouquets in big-bellied glasses and the Master Readers embarked on their public recitations - that was timber-time. That was when billets of firewood crackled on the hearth, bathing the various venues in a warm yellow glow, when ancient tomes and first editions hot off the press were opened, and when audiences crowded closer to listen to the old and tried or the new and outré, to essays or short stories, novels or collections of letters, poetry or prose. Timber-time was when the body came to rest and the mind sprang to life, when phantoms born of a literary imagination arose from the pages and danced about the heads of listeners and readers alike.

Timber-time was also - let’s face it - a time for advertising and promotion. It was a regrettable but undeniable fact that Zamonian literature, too, was subject to the law of supply and demand. Bookholm, the city of innumerable books, was a particularly difficult place in which to drum up public interest in a new work, and timber-time readings were directed mainly to that end.

The Master Readers of Bookholm belonged to a guild that had existed for hundreds of years. Its rules and regulations were stringent and its entrance examinations rigorous. Professional readers had been through the mill and knew their trade, many of them being former actors or singers endowed with powerful vocal cords and exceptional dramatic skill. It was common knowledge that Bookholm produced the finest readers in Zamonia. When a text demanded it, their voices effortlessly alternated between the highest soprano and the deepest bass. They could sing extempore like nightingales, howl like werewolves, snarl like wildcats and hiss like hobgoblins. They could fill their audiences with terror or move them to hysterical laughter.

All Zamonian authors dreamt of having their work read aloud by the Master Readers of Bookholm, but not all were granted that privilege. The Master Readers were a capricious, choosy bunch, and any writer spurned by them was considered to be second-rate, no matter how many prizes he had won or books he had sold.

I paused in front of a slab of black slate on which the evening’s readings were listed in chalk. I could choose between
Infanticide
by Hethlebem Deroh,
Air Face
by Rabocca Orkan, Rimidalv Vokoban’s
Love and the Generation Gap
, and
Thanks But No Thanks
by Goliath Ghork. Other offerings included
The House of a Hundred Feet
,
Whispers and Shadows
,
Gone with the Tornado
,
A Pig for Two Pyras
and
The Unhilarious Sight Gag
- and all in a single street, together with twenty other not quite so high-grade readings for which no charge was made, some of them even with free beer thrown in.

I darted from window to window, peering in at all the people gathered round the crackling fires with teacups or wineglasses in their hands, filled with eager anticipation. Ought I really to pass up such an opportunity for a trombophone concert?

‘
Timber-time shmimber-time
!’ Pfistomel Smyke’s voice re-echoed in my head. ‘
Timber-time in Bookholm is a nightly occurrence. You won’t get to hear a performance by the Murkholm Trombophone Orchestra every day of the week
.’

It was true: timber-time really was a nightly occurrence in Bookholm and I had every intention of staying on for a while. Smyke’s allusions to the concert had aroused my curiosity. ‘An event’, he’d called it, ‘not a tourist attraction.’ That I found particularly appealing for the very reason that I myself was a tourist. Timber-time was something for the masses; I was destined for higher things, having been personally invited by one of the city’s most distinguished inhabitants. I tore myself away from the café windows and almost instinctively headed in the direction of the Municipal Gardens.