TACO Run
Chapter 12
"You went out of your way to cite one of the texts in our special archives." Headmaster Yvon's voice was rough with anger. "The knowledge housed in those tomes is the Royal Academy's greatest treasure. It is not to be divulged to the public at your whim. Laying it bare in one of your silly papers is out of the question!" Dark eyes glittered, as the headmaster slashed a hand through the air to emphasize his displeasure. "You will share nothing! That wisdom is for the Academy, and the Academy alone!"
Cyrus held his tongue, as indeed he had to. There was no argument he could make that would sway the headmaster, no better nature to appeal to. Yvon saw knowledge as a precious gemstone, to be appreciated only by its rightful owner. Knowledge was power, and power was to be hoarded, as a miser hoarded copper leaves.
Yet though he held his tongue, Cyrus could not hold back the frustration bubbling up within him. It burned his scholar's soul, that the one in charge of the Academy would be so parsimonious with the gift of knowledge. Burned worse, to know that he was powerless to fight against that attitude, that he must bend his head and apologize for wishing to do as any scholar should, and spread his learning to the four corners of the globe. That he must give his oath to curtail his academic papers, obscure his sources and conclusions to avoid offending the headmaster's tight-fisted sensibilities.
But the world was as it was, and Cyrus could not change that. He was a very young professor, and his teaching skill was as nothing before the weight of authority and seniority held by his peers and betters.
So Cyrus bent his head, and apologized, and made his promises in a voice that shook with the strain of holding back harsh and ultimately futile words… and then made his escape from the headmaster's office, righteous fury, disgust, and resignation still seething in his veins.
Cyrus awoke to the wretched sensations of foul memories, a back stiff from sleeping at his desk again, and an overfull bladder. Good gods, I would that I could forget such travesties! Yvon's death had allowed more moderate professors to take charge of the Academy, and the restrictions on what papers might be written and what sources used in them had been loosened somewhat. Cyrus looked forward to a better and brighter future. But thinking back on those awful days still put a loathsome taste in his mouth.
Rubbing his face with both hands, Cyrus forced himself to straighten. He wished, vaguely, that he had some of the liniment Alfyn had concocted for Olberic's use, when the warrior strained himself by pushing too hard. Ah, well. A hot bath and a cup of tea will have to suffice. Odd, that his posterior didn't ache as fiercely as his back. The chairs in Atlasdam's library were unpadded, as were those of his study, and sleeping in either was a recipe for an uncomfortable awakening.
The chair shifted and squeaked beneath his weight, and Cyrus blinked against his palms, realizing that the chair he sat upon was padded, and most marvelously so. Oh, dear. For a few moments, he'd forgotten about the predicament his carelessness had landed him and his compatriots in. How very inattentive of me. With a sigh, he dropped his hands and looked about himself, wondering anew at the marvels of this odd and marvelous world.
A magicless world, he'd realized after a mere few minutes of research the night before. While there were mystical traditions in every culture on this globe, all modern sources he could find claimed that they were mere myths or outdated beliefs, the work of charlatans and the misunderstandings of ignorant peoples. Instead, the natural sciences and technologies were held up as the epitome of advancement and learning, and all the wonders around him were the result of such.
Which he had learned through delving into the treasure trove known as Wikipedia.
Oh Alephan, Lord of Learning, may you cast your blessing upon the memory of those two great men, Jimmy Wales and Larry Sanger, and appeal before Aelfric for the disposition of their souls!
Prayer completed, Cyrus rose to his feet, pushing back the wheeled, cushioned chair so that he might emerge from his rented desk's confines. Making his way down the narrow passage towards the privy and bathing room, he considered how best to avail himself of the facilities. He had done his research, and used the convenient but disconcertingly loud privy the night before. He had no difficulty doing so again this morning, but as he had yet to use the 'shower', he wasn't quite certain of the proper methods and etiquette for doing so.
The bathing room, as well as the privy chamber, was segregated by sex, a concept that Cyrus found both intriguing and practical, as it would prevent awkward encounters. Most citizens of the Flatlands bathed in the privacy of their own homes, but Cyrus was aware of the public bathhouses in both the Sunlands, where water was scarce and must be used as efficiently as possible, and the Frostlands, where firewood was a valuable resource that could not be wasted on heating individual baths. In those communities, it was common for a bathhouse to either designate certain times of day for men, women, and families, or for them to require reservations. There were some communities where mixed bathing was the norm, but they were the exception, not the rule, and Cyrus had never experienced such facilities himself.
Ah, it appears that towels and soaps are provided for you in this land. Though the soaps were unscented, and he spotted none of the perfumed oils commonly used after a bath by even modestly wealthy Atlasdam natives such as himself. Well, Hawks did say that such facilities were likely less comfortable and convenient than an inn.
However, the showers were not only segregated by sex, but further divided into individual small chambers similar to the stalls that horses or mules were kept in when stabled. Each stall was further subdivided into an outer and inner chamber, which were separated by a curtain made of some marvelously smooth, water-repelling fabric which would both provide a modicum more privacy and prevent the shower's spray from wetting one's discarded clothes.
Stripping down, Cyrus set his clothing on the nearby shelf, entered the shower's inner chamber, drew the curtain, and prepared to experiment.
Most of an hour later, clean, dried, dressed, and much less stiff, Cyrus peered at his reflection in the large mirror provided in the shower room and rubbed his left cheek. It was rough and sandpapery to the touch, and Cyrus mourned his excellent shaving kit, which was in its usual place back home in Atlasdam, and thus unavailable to him.
Alas, I am no Alfyn, to give a certain shabby charm to an unshaven face!
Nor was he Therion, whose hair was fair enough that he could likely go four days without shaving, and barely show the beginnings of a beard.
Ah, but Therion has mentioned that he uses his daggers to shave, rather than go through the fuss and bother of a proper shaving kit. I do still have the penknife from my writing kit, and the whetstone it came with. Perhaps, if I sharpen it well enough…
Twenty minutes and a few nicks later, Cyrus gave it up as a bad job. He could manage his upper lip and cheeks well enough, but his chin, jaw, and the area beneath them were beyond his abilities with such a makeshift razor.
And as unfortunate experiments in early adulthood had taught him, a beard did not become him.
Oh, woe is me! Cyrus sighed internally, dabbing at the cuts until they stopped leaking. I suppose it is only fair that I suffer so, having been at fault for this predicament.
He had quickly discovered that computers were far too complex for even a man of his intelligence to truly comprehend in the course of an hour's study, and had swiftly, albeit reluctantly, moved on to more relevant topics. To wit, why the transportation spell had gone off at all, when he had been certain it should require a ritual.
Deeper reading of Viatrix' journal revealed that Cyrus had misunderstood the authoress' meaning when she wrote that the spell's proper execution required a ritual. The spell itself could be cast via incantation, but a ritual was necessary to choose a proper destination.
Anyone can launch a catapult, after all. But it requires skill in siege-craft and trajectory calculation to make the ammunition land where one wishes it to. On the positive side of things, we would all have had roughly the same trajectory, with our final destinations being relatively close, and merely affected by our metaphorical aerodynamics.
Considering Viatrix had repeatedly referenced catapults and trebuchets in her own writings and calculations, Cyrus believed the metaphor apt, and held the firmly optimistic belief that the others were at least within the same general region as he, if not the same city-state.
Hm. Speaking of which, I really ought to find a way to locate them. Alfyn could forage, if need be, and Therion was well-equipped to survive in any populated city, regardless of whether or not he spoke the local tongue.But while Olberic could defend himself if attacked, keeping himself fed in a land where his currency wasn't recognized would be quite difficult for the warrior—and a body that big required quite some feeding.
A rumbling stomach reminded Cyrus that Olberic wasn't the only one who needed some way to feed himself.
Hm. Hawks mentioned that it's possible to buy foodstuffs of passable quality here at the Net Kaffe, but doing so will use up my stock of coins for the locker. Hawks had given him more than he needed for the seven days' stay he'd paid for, but Cyrus did not yet know how cheap or expensive meals would be, and didn't wish to waste them. Back to my 'station' then. Surely the Net will have information on how to exchange silver for local coin.
Twenty minutes and one activation of the Google later, Cyrus had the name and location of a reputable coin dealer—a person who specialized in the collection, care, and exchange of metal coins, both of current and past currencies, and who might be willing to purchase foreign currency as well, if only for the melt value. The map provided by the Google was more detailed than he was used to, but also quite difficult to read, as it unfortunately used the local characters rather than Scholar's Tongue lettering. Not to worry, I'll just copy down the appropriate street names, and then compare what I see to the road signs as I go! Satisfied with that plan, Cyrus opened his writing kit and got to work.
Hm. I'm relatively certain that I got the worse of that deal, Cyrus mused to himself an hour or so later. He was certain that Tressa would have gotten a better bargain. While she had attempted to teach him some of a merchant's haggling ways, Cyrus feared that they were not as effective when he couldn't actually speak to the person in question. Tressa, much like Alfyn, had a charm that transcended language, and could likely have gotten her points across regardless.
Ah, well. I may not have gotten the best possible deal, but based on the little I've seen of local pricing, I at least wasn't cheated. It helped that all signs pointed to the shop he'd visited being a rather longstanding one, which would mean that they needed to maintain a reputation for fair dealing.
He hadn't truly appreciated how densely populated this city was on his foray the day before. He'd been too preoccupied with Hawks' appearance, and then with their discussion of what a Net Kaffe was, to really pay attention.
On his way to the coin dealer's establishment, however, he'd had to pay attention to his surroundings, and had quickly realized that this town was packed with people, especially pedestrians. Most of them went about their days in a hurried manner, as if they had important business to conduct, but several others strolled along at a more comfortable pace, and it was those that Cyrus observed for a non-verbal introduction to the local norms and social etiquette. He'd quickly picked up the rules for crossing streets safely, as well as what was and wasn't considered 'odd' in this town. Apparently his appearance, sans Robe of the Flame, was nothing too out of the ordinary, though his shoes received the occasional baffled glance.
Most of this area seemed to be shops of one kind or another, rather than residences. More than one of them seemed to have devices such as the one Hawks had used to translate the day before, and Cyrus decided that he would purchase one as soon as he knew more about such devices, their uses, and their values. He very much doubted that translating languages was their only function, as he couldn't imagine Hawks would have kept a device with such a specific purpose on him at all times.
A quiet rumble from his midsection reminded Cyrus that he still had yet to eat, and he turned away from the shop with a sigh. It was high time he got back to the Net Kaffe, and began seeking out means by which he might locate his companions. Thankfully, the coin-dealer's shop had only been a few blocks from the Net Kaffe, and Cyrus' excellent memory meant he could find his way back with little difficulty. He hadn't exchanged all of his silver for local coin, and certainly none of the gold, but he had a tidy enough sum to last him quite a while, he thought.
As Cyrus stepped away from the store, however, something else caught his eye. Across the street, situated between two other cramped businesses, was a sight more familiar to him than anything else he'd seen since arriving in this world.
A bookstore! Giddy with delight, Cyrus changed destinations immediately, almost darting directly across the street before due caution reminded him that doing so was a good way to be flattened by a passing vehicle. The moment it became safe, however, he did rush across, and pushed open the bookstore's glass-paneled door to the familiar jingle of a little bell.
"Irashaimase!" came a young woman's voice, a phrase that Cyrus had come to realize was a shop-keeper's greeting of some kind.
Giving the young lady a flourishing bow of acknowledgement, Cyrus moved out of the doorway and began his exploration of the stacks.
New books, new books, so many new books~
He couldn't read the local language, so he found a section of the store dedicated to the type of picture-book Hawks had mentioned was common. All fiction, from what he could tell, but you could learn quite a lot about a culture from the stories it told. This culture, for example, seemed to idolize the concept of a 'hero', a single man or woman possessing unique abilities, who took up arms to defend their fellow man from evil. The concept was especially prevalent in literature meant for young men and boys, but Cyrus found it even in what appeared to be pictographic romance novels aimed at young ladies. My, but their artists are remarkably skilled! And the style of art used in many of these books is exceptionally expressive; one can practically get the gist of conversations merely from images alone!
There were several different art styles on display as well, which Cyrus found fascinating. Oh, there were similarities between them, and certain stylistic choices seemed more prevalent in one genre than in another, but overall the breadth of differences was remarkable. It was simplicity itself to pick out one series from another, just by the art depicted on the books' covers.
Ahaha! It seems that in this land at least, it is appropriate to judge a book by its cover!
What truly fascinated Cyrus, however, was the sheer number of books, and the way that many of them, especially the pictographic kind, were not bound in leather, or even cloth over thin wood. Instead, their covers were made from a slightly thicker form of parchment—
No, Cyrus realized after a moment's scrutiny. Not parchment. Paper. And paper of such fineness and even quality that it surely wasn't produced from hemp rags or other scrap textiles. From the texture alone, he believed it must be some other plant fiber. Perhaps reeds of some kind? Their fibers are quite strong, even when left to soak. It still didn't explain the glossy, smooth substance that had been laminated over the thick paper of the covers. Perhaps it is a water-resistant layer, like the wax used to preserve some older manuscripts. It did have a somewhat similar feel beneath his sensitive fingertips, though it wasn't quite the same.
Hm… making paper is a longer and more complicated process than parchment, but it is more easily done in large batches, and doesn't require the killing of any creatures, thus allowing a certain efficiency of resource management. If it could be produced in bulk quantities, the way dyes are…
Speaking of dyes, the ink used to produce these books was remarkably even, with almost imperceptible spreading or blotching. The lettering in particular was remarkably uniform, once one moved past the notion that it wasn't lettering at all, and accepted that it was closer to runes or cuneiform in function. It was, in fact, too uniform for even professional calligraphy to fully explain it. Combined with the sheer number of books, and their wide range of topics and genres…
These people must have found some way of producing books rapidly and in large quantities! A way of replicating or improving upon the work of dedicated copyists, so that no copy of a book is of lower quality than its brethren, and there are far, far more of those brethren. A form of, of mass production! Not only of the text itself, but of the materials—the ink and paper are too uniform to have been created on a small scale.
The very thought brought a flush of excitement to Cyrus' face, and he resisted the urge to dance in place, desperately wishing, if only for a moment, that their unfortunate accident had brought Tressa along too. "This! This is what we have been striving for! If we could but discover this world's methods, we could perhaps replicate them in our own, and spread the knowledge of ages past throughout the four corners of the globe!"
"Anou…"
Cyrus looked down from where he held his most recent sample of advanced book-making aloft, to see the young lady who tended the shop looking up at him with a wary, uncomfortable expression. She said something in a tone that hovered between urgent and conciliatory, one finger held against her lips, and Cyrus flushed again, from embarrassment this time. Ahem. Yes, bookstore etiquette. Lowering his arms, Cyrus tucked the book briefly into one elbow and gave the young lady a flourishing, repentant bow. "My deepest apologies, miss. It shan't happen again."
She gave a somewhat awkward smile back, flushing slightly herself, and said something in a reassuring tone that Cyrus assumed meant he'd been forgiven.
Thank the gods! I would be dismayed indeed if I were to be expelled from this store so soon after finding it!
As the young lady moved away, Cyrus returned the book he held to its proper place, considering his options. While I do so desperately wish to bring samples of this craft home with me, so long as I am unable to read them it would be perhaps a waste of resources. Not to mention that the language barrier would render such a sample useless for wide dissemination in my own world. Instead, the logical course of action would be to research the processes that went into the production of such books. The paper, the ink, and most importantly, the text. The pictures, of course, were hand-drawn to perfection, and would require an artist of equal skill to replicate, not that Orsterran literature used many pictures, except perhaps in academic papers to illustrate a point.
Back to the Net Kaffe it is, then.
Reluctantly, Cyrus parted ways with the bookstore, promising himself that he would return to it on the morrow. He still hadn't eaten, a truth that his stomach reminded him of quite angrily, and looked forward to using his newly-obtained local currency to discover what, exactly, the locals considered 'cheap but passable fare'.
A/N: The people of Orsterra follow the Twelve Gods led by Aelfric, the Flamebringer, god of clerics, redemption, and healing magic. Each of the twelve gods represents the epitome of their path—the job, class, or calling that follows their tenets. Those who follow one of those twelve paths almost always follow its respective deity. Cyrus follows and reveres Alephan the Scholarking, also known as the Lord of Learning, god of academics, teachers, and records-keepers. Each of the deities also has a shrine which, if visited, allows a person to receive the blessing of that deity and take on aspects of that class/path. For example, if Olberic had taken up the scholar's path after visiting Alephan's Shrine of the Sage, he would have been able to use magic despite being a warrior by trade—although his magical aptitude would still have been awful and he would have been very ineffective at it.