Chapter 230: Books

Chapter 230: Books

Before doing anything to help the half-giants, I need to see how many like-minded people are. The vendor did not want a war. And maybe they dont even need one. Not a proper war, at least. Not an open one.

If you want to sell antidotes in bulk, you must first poison the city.

While I walk down the street, I see a bookstore on my left. A bookstore? For a second, I remain still. So far, I had the impression that books were expensive. Then, I see a small shop with a big glass window right on the side of a small street. And the name of the place is Marzalliums Books. All the window glasses around the city give me the impression of window shopping in a town with medieval features.

Taken by curiosity, I can't help but enter the place.

The smell of paper or parchment even is very thick on the inside. There are many books amassed on top of each other. The place is somewhat disorderly and cluttered. But the smell inside is what every reader of every age covets when they think about getting a book. And here, it's even rawer than usual. It's a symphony of sensations from the smell to the very natural chemicals you can taste on the tip of your tongue.

The books here are oversized, some clearly made by half-giants for half-giants. However, the majority is the standard size for a book in the medieval ages. They are thick, obviously. But most of all, they are many. So many books that they make columns behind which sight breaks on pages.

There was no bell on the door at the entrance. Nothing announced my presence other than the sound of the door gently opening and closing. I touch the leathery cover of a volume entitled Epretos Chronicles while I wait for someone to get to me. I take in the smooth and, at the same time, the rough feeling of the leather on the cover of this enormous volume. Then, seeing how no one came to greet me yet, I just open it. There are immediately some illustrations of maps welcoming me.

Nonfiction and poetry are what I'm accustomed to. Indeed, fiction and prose are not my preferred choice, especially Russian or English ones. I like when words are used carefully and distilled to powerfully deliver meaning. Poetry, in a way, is like engineering; it's all about synthesis and efficiency. In prose, you can put an inordinate number of useless words to fill the pages, and the reader will likely not notice. And even if they do, they might just brush that aside as a sign of a more flowery language. In poetry, you have to be extremely careful how you use the words. Even just one word, more or less, could completely change the final result of any poetic composition.

Today, however, I'm not looking for any poetry. Even though I would be interested in what half-giants or other creatures of this continent have written, I'm more interested in practical knowledge.

Young lady, put your greasy hands off that book, a wizened old voice says.

Excuse me? I reply, not removing the hand from the book.

A half-giant comes out from behind a pile of books. Deep wrinkles line the expression on his face, but two piercing blue eyes stare relentlessly right through my soul. Theres a stark contrast between the intensity of the old half-giants gaze and his withering body.

What do you think you're doing? the old man says again with a gruff voice. You can almost hear his age from how he speakshe gives you the impression that his vocal cords have been thoroughly consumed. Or maybe just atrophied from lack of use.

He comes up to me and snatches the book from my hands.

I have skills to handle books without damaging them. Do you have any idea what kind of things rest on your hands? Gently caresses the book's cover, as a mother would with a newborn baby.

I love books; I didnt mean to

Shush, the man says, carefully examining the cover of the book I was touching. Right after, he produces a bottle of a translucent liquid from his bag of holding.The source of this content nov(el)bi((n))

Hands, he orders.

I put my hands in front of me, and he lets a couple of drops fall into each hand.

Rub them together, also between your fingers. This is a distilled [Cleansing] potion.

I follow the indications under his scrutinizing gaze.

Books do not live just in the present. They live in the future, in the hands of the people who one day will not wash their hands while handling them, the old half-giant, much taller than me, coughs for a few seconds before resuming his speech with a raspy voice. Books degrade over the years. While we are alive, we have to take care of them. Every book lost could be its last copy. One of the greatest [Alchemist], a cheeky bastard, hid some of his greatest recipes in a childrens book. Later, when someone found a long-lost journal of his, once the childrens book was already lost, we read that [Recite Passage], if an adult is not able to read with the same wonder of a child, he should never be allowed to practice the great art of alchemy. But thats just one of the many reasons we should preserve books. Distilled knowledgethats what they are. Go to the plaza among [Merchants], then read a book. Youll understand why we could kill this entire city but not burn down my shop.

He erupts in a fit of cough, almost doubling over from the chair.

Giants footprints, he swears, probably forgetting whatever he would say.

What is your favorite book? he enounces each word carefully, trying not to cough away his lungs.

I dont have one, I reply candidly, I like poetry. Maybe I could make a compilation of the poems that I like the mostbut even those change over time. And every season has a poem fitter for it. Every moment of life, to be honest.

The old man nods.

Theres an old poem, he mutters, I have never figured it out. Someone wrote it in an ancient edition of Tales About Magic. Its a childrens book.

He pauses a second to breathe deeper, concentrating on his air intake.

Its not part of the book. It was a note found on some illustration. I think Im one of the few maybe, the only person in this world to have read it. Would you like to hear it?

I nod.

Why would I say no to an old man and poetry?

Very well, he smiles feebly.

By noble burden and foretoken dear,

A notice I pass on the sleeping seams

Of the stripped world that disappears,

For rotten enemies spun long schemes,

Aethereums magic long lives its death,

A faint dream of deaths nigh surprise,

Of his foes multiplying vile demise,

Look for Light, and shed your breath

Quench the war of the Dragons Folly,

Or suffer a thousand tragedies melancholy.

While the old man recited this simple poem, my skin became coldfor a second. My breath was condensing in the cold air even though its sunny and warm outside. But while he was speaking, I could almost feel something crawling all around me, a chittering sound of doom.

Thats it, the man says with a shrug, clearly not having felt none of the ominous signs I just perceived.