The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (10 page)

‘Oh, yes!’ he said. ‘Sometimes. Shafts always good for headlines. Here …’ He brought out another galley.

‘“Kackertratt Invasion from the Perla la Gadeon Shaft Controlled!

‘“Kackertratts, some the size of loaves of bread, have in recent months been discovered in bookshops around the Perla la Gadeon Shaft, often by horrified customers and to the chagrin of the proprietors. Experts assume the cause to be so-called ‘Wandering Fires’, or mobile subterranean hot spots where embers have continued to smoulder since Bookholm’s Great Conflagration and periodically burst into flames once more. ‘Driven from their natural habitat, the Kackertratts reach the surface,’ explained catacomb entomologist PROFESSOR GOBORIAN CHITIN of Bookholm University. ‘They then instinctively seek out conditions like those in their subterranean home – and these are often found in bookshops.’

‘“The Kackertratt traps installed in bookshops tended to frighten their customers even more, however, as anyone can confirm who has seen a Kackertratt the length of his arm uttering shrill sawing sounds as it dies in agony. What was more, small domestic animals such as cats and dogs also wound up in those barbaric contraptions.

‘“Help was eventually provided by the Bookholm Fire Brigade, which, in cooperation with experienced pest controllers, sprayed the floor and walls with an effective insecticide. Since then there have apparently been no further complaints about huge insects – not, at least, outside the Toxic Zone.”’

Bookholm Shafts! Wandering Fires! Toxic Zone!
I was beginning to grasp the
Live Historical Newspapers
’ subtle business principle: one answer always led to the next question and one article to another, so we could have gone on like that to all eternity. Meantime, however, I had been overcome by travel lag. How long had I been on my feet? It was getting dark. Lights were coming on in houses, candles being placed in shop windows. Rather than listen to any more articles on the history of Bookholm, I felt like repairing to a tavern for a short rest.

‘You interested in Toxic Zone?’ enquired the gnome. ‘Me not got much in archives, but colleague over there! He specialist in Toxic Zone! He authority! All in Gothic!’

Before I could do anything, he had beckoned his colleague over. In a trice, more Live Newspapers had converged from all directions and surrounded us. I felt like one of those idiots in Florinth’s celebrated Pigeon Square who scatter some birdseed and are then surprised to be almost eaten alive by the creatures.

‘Wandering Fires?’ cried one of them, rustling his paper attire. ‘Me got all about Wandering Fires! You need info? What date? What shaft?’

‘Toxic Zone?’ cried another. ‘You need info? Me got five hundred articles about Toxic Zone! All in chronological order! All in Gothic!’

A babble of voices ensued.

‘Bookholmian Puppetism? You interested Bookholmian Puppetism?’

‘Influence of Ironvillean Heavy Metal architecture on Bookholm townscape? Me expert! Three hundred articles! All in Gothic!’

‘Like hear articles on Biblionauts? Need information? Me got everything on Biblionauts!’

‘Want lousy Yarnspinner reviews? Me got all lousy Yarnspinner reviews in order of titles!’

I hurriedly paid my gnome the agreed sum, added a generous tip and bade him farewell. Then I tried to shake off the other Live Newspapers by walking away fast. When they finally grasped that they wouldn’t get anything out of me, they all came to a halt but continued to cry their specialised wares.

‘Questions about Magmass? Need info? Everything about Magmass!’

‘Pfistomel Smyke – legend or reality! All articles! Everything about Smyke!’

‘Ugglyism in Bookholm – curse or blessing? Everything about Ugglies!’

I dived into the crowd and let myself be carried along. At that moment my ‘need for info’, whether in Gothic or some other typeface, was more than satisfied. The only unanswered question that still exercised me, dear friends, was what a Live Historical Newspaper looked like under its paper clothing.

Ovidios

REACHING A STREET
corner, I paused to ponder on an important decision. I had come to Bookholm to change my life, including various bad habits of which I wanted to rid myself: lack of exercise, for example, which I had already tackled by undertaking this trip; an unhealthy diet, which I was combating with the aid of abstinence and wholemeal biscuits; and the social isolation of Lindworm Castle, which I was exchanging for a sojourn in a vibrant city. Even though my social contacts were still limited, I had at least trampled on a dwarf! I was on the right path.

Now I wanted to combat another vice. The fact was, I had for hours felt an urgent and familiar desire to smoke a nice, big pipe of tobacco. I was going to yield to it once more. Yes, dear friends, this was a historic moment: I had decided that it would be the last pipe of my life! Being a hypochondriac who had always derived more anxiety than pleasure from that bad habit, I had steadily reduced my tobacco consumption over the years. I now proposed to give up the weed for good, and what more suitable place to do this than Bookholm, a city in which smoking was more frowned on than in any other?

That was just the problem, though. Where could I smoke in peace? Smoking in public was strictly prohibited – there were signs to that effect all over the place. Nevertheless, I had spotted a few little tobacco shops here and there and had definitely caught a whiff of pipe and cigar smoke, although I’d seen no one smoking any where in town. So where could one yield to the vice in peace? It was a mystery. Should I simply ask?
Tell me something, madam: Where can one have a quiet smoke?
That sort of thing? I would have felt uncomfortable, like a drug addict
enquiring
the way to the nearest illegal pharmacy, whereas all I wanted to do was
stop
!

I roamed around aimlessly for a while until the craving became too much for me, as it usually did when I was obsessed with something I oughtn’t to do. I wanted to smoke! At once! Here! Definitely for the very last time but right away! Eventually I looked for a quiet corner. I sneaked into a courtyard and sheltered from the wind in the rear entrance of a print shop that had gone out of business. I looked around. No one nearby. I felt in my pockets for a pipe and tobacco. Found them both. Filled the pipe. Looked around again. I was alone. Good! In that case … I was just about to strike a match when I felt something heavy and powerful descend on my shoulder.

Startled, I spun round and found myself confronted by the bared teeth of a full-grown Wolperting. I recoiled a step and shook off his paw. Where had
he
sprung from? Thin air? Had he simply materialised? I knew that superstitious folk credited Wolpertings with such abilities.

‘Smoking in public is prohibited in Bookholm, my friend,’ he said quietly in a deep, calm voice. He was around a head and a half taller than me and resembled a bulldog in appearance. His clothing was all of brown buckskin, down to the jaunty cap on his head. I had enough experience of life to know that when a total stranger addresses you as ‘my friend’, it conveys a latent threat. My brain offered me a choice between three kinds of answers:

Cheeky-belligerent-risky

Submissive-ingratiating-cowardly

or

Diplomatic-courteous-circumspect.

‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘To be honest, I just couldn’t stand it any longer. You can smell tobacco everywhere but not see a soul smoking anywhere. I’m new in the city.’

‘Smoking itself is still very much permitted,’ the Wolperting said
slowly
, crossing his muscular arms. ‘But only in designated places. What you smelt was the smoke from a Fumoir.’

‘A, er … Fumoir?’ The word sounded somehow disreputable, but I relaxed a little. Something in the Wolperting’s voice told me that he was
not
going to beat me up and dump me in a rubbish bin. I would temporarily keep my teeth and might even be able to have a pleasant conversation. Three cheers for diplomacy!

‘Fumoirs are public conveniences for smokers,’ the huge animal explained, baring his impressive incisors in a smile. ‘There’s one in nearly every district. You can smoke whatever and however much you want in them. Bookholm is a tolerant city, my friend. We don’t want it burning down again, that’s all! Fumoirs provide free matches, ashtrays and leaflets on the dangers of smoking. Tea and wine as well, but there’s a small charge for those. Shall I show you one?’

We left the inner courtyard and paused on the pavement. My new friend pointed to a windowless building of rough-hewn stone at the end of the street. It was distinguished by its lack of ornamentation and had a grotesquely large chimney. The walls were plastered with posters old and new, and hanging above the entrance was a wooden sign depicting a tobacco pipe.

‘That’s a Fumoir,’ said the Wolperting. He replaced his paw on my shoulder, this time in an almost affectionate, friendly way. ‘But just between the two of us, smoking really is terribly unhealthy, quite apart from being the cause of at least ten per cent of all fires.’

‘Yes,’ I said meekly. Why was my conscience pricking me? After all, I wanted to give up smoking!

‘Have an enjoyable stay in our beautiful city,’ said the Wolperting. ‘I recommend a visit to the Puppetocircus Maximus. It’s worth seeing.’ Handing me a leaflet, he waved and walked off.

For a moment I stood there like a bewildered child who has lost his mother in the crowd. I would really have liked to prolong my conversation with the Wolperting. He was nice. I’d heard that these battle-hardened individuals were employed as private security
personnel
– as janitors, bouncers and bodyguards. That they also went in for fire prevention was news to me. And what was that about the … what did he call it? The Puppet Circus? I glanced at the handbill. The Puppetocircus Maximus. Funny name. Suggested a puppet theatre. Uninteresting. I threw the leaflet away and strode resolutely towards the Fumoir. I wanted to smoke my last pipe, nothing more.

I needed both arms to push the heavy wooden door of the establishment open. A dense white fog bank of tobacco smoke came billowing towards me accompanied by the hum of many voices. I could smell cumin, ranunculus leaves, sesame canaster, dried zimpinel – good heavens, what
didn’t
they smoke in there! Never mind, this would be the historic site of my very last nicotine fix.

It was a big, bare room with a low ceiling and a huge central chimney that collected the rising smoke and conveyed it into the open air. Some two dozen customers were sitting on crude wooden chairs around eight long tables, most of them engaged in filling or smoking pipes or rolling cigarettes. There was no daylight, the only form of illumination being a few candles. Along the wall on the left was an unmanned bar on which stood several jugs of water, cheap wine and cold tea, also glasses, cups and a bowl full of coins in which one was supposed to deposit money for the drinks – voluntarily and at one’s own discretion, so a notice said. Very charming. So this was a Fumoir. One lives and learns.

I poured myself some cold peppermint tea from a jug, tossed a coin into the bowl and carried my mug through the nicotinic fog to the back of the Fumoir, where fewer people were sitting, visible only as dim shapes. Seated by himself at one table was an impressive figure who at once caught my eye. No doubt about it, he was a Lindworm! One of my own kind from back home.

My first impulse was to turn and look for somewhere else to sit. Lindworms never impose their company on each other, whether at the castle or far from home. It’s instinct and etiquette that guide us, for we aren’t a particularly sociable species, so I wanted to sit as far from him as possible. But then I thought, ‘You know him, don’t you?!’

Of course I knew him, my friends, that was obvious. Every living Lindworm knows nearly every other living Lindworm. That’s nothing to write home about, given our relatively small numbers. But this Lindworm I’d almost forgotten because it was such a long time since we’d seen each other. It was … yes, it was Ovidios Versewhetter!

Good heavens! Ovidios was a fellow Lindworm who had left the castle when I was still a youngster with yellow scales. He had emigrated to Bookholm after announcing, rather grandiloquently, that he would become a famous author there – something he had sadly failed to do right away. When I met him in this city some years later, he was professionally at rock bottom, vegetating in one of the
pits
in the
Graveyard of Forgotten Writers
, where he composed off-the-cuff poems for tourists. A Lindworm could sink no lower. I hadn’t even spoken to him – indeed, I’d cravenly fled from the sight of his literary downfall instead of offering my help. I now recalled this, filled with shame. I had never thought I would see him again in the land of the living.

Now, however, as far as I could tell in the prevailing visibility, Ovidios made a splendid impression. Instead of the rags he had been wearing then, he was attired in a fashionable robe of expensive material, and his long reptilian neck and claws were bedecked with chains and rings that looked as if they were of high-carat gold set with genuine diamonds. He epitomised one’s idea of a successful Lindworm. What had happened?