Chapter 3

Octavia wasn’t due back for her visit for several weeks; the Librarian was perched in his nest high above the books and the readers, keeping an eye out for his dark-haired little girl as he researched a most mysterious phenomenon (at least to a wizard) the ritual of a young girls’ party. He was excited because it was the eighth year since he rescued her on that dark and stormy night, the day they celebrate annually as her birthday. On the discworld a child’s eighth birthday is an important event, her first octet, and it is celebrated with parties, cake, and bananas (at least when an orangutan is making the party arrangements). When she reaches sixteen years, a wild, noisy party with friends and boys marks a girl’s second octet, and when she reaches twenty-four her third octet is celebrated with her girlfriends, alcohol and angry commiserations on past boyfriends. No woman on discworld admits to a fourth, fifth, or sixth octet, but the seventh and following octets are recognized by her children and grandchildren.

While his cabinet below his desk was the most secure and a perfect place to ponder the troubles of the multiverse, up here it felt more like home. He placed potted plants atop the shelves which hid his nest, and it gave him a sense of security to wake high among the leaves. Up here he could make his plans in happy contentment without having to answer questions like, “Why are you smiling?”

One dark evening long after moonset, the library was lit only by arcane lamps whose octarine glow (Octarine is a magical color, and it is prominent in the rainbow cast on a planet with a strong magical field. It is a greenish-yellow/purple and described as a disappointing shade of blue, but it is still magical and can only be seen by wizards and cats) was caused by a pair of magically charged crystals with apposing magical fields. The lamps were perfect for the library because although the light was dim and caused warts through long exposure, there was no flame involved. Being flameless, they didn’t terrify the more nervous books in the library. However, since they cast an ugly, jittery purple-ish light, they were the worse lamp a reader could possibly want. Outside of reassuring pyrophobic books, their only proper use was illuminating emergency exits and identifying spots left behind by incontinent puppies and lost freshmen.

Late one evening, a figure emerged from L-Space and stepped into the librarian’s line of sight, moving stealthily through the stacks. Whoever it was wore fancy high-heeled riding boots, a riding cloak which showed off the fancy ruffled sleeves, a flat-topped wide brim hat with a large, extravagant plume, a musket at his right hip and a rapier on his left. He was followed by a walking stick made of sapient pearwood (Sapient Pearwood is a magical wood grown on the mysterious Counterweight Continent and the wood’s most interesting magical property is its ability to follow its owner. Luggage made of Sapient Pearwood will never get lost) meaning that his walking stick was walking behind him. The swordsman was the epitome of fashionable mayhem, and he was looking for something.

“Psssst!” the figure hissed quietly. It looked around and was looking up, and the Librarian could see his fashionable raven locks, but his face was obscured by a velvet mask. “Pssst!” the swordsman insisted again as he crouched and peered into the darkness. Then the swordsman said something that confused and terrified the Librarian.

“Ook.”

Silently, the Librarian dropped from the branches. The battle howls of generations of ape ancestors rang in his ears as he sailed down on his intruder. He landed on the swordsman and drove him into the ground, producing a loud “Oof” from the mystery man.

“Ook!” angrily whispered the Librarian (they are in a library after all) and he yanked down the intruder’s mask. Rather than having the well-trimmed goatee and perfectly coifed mustache as required by the Musketeer’s Guild, the swordsman was perfectly shaved, but there was no scent of Bay Rum or other such old spices, which would mean that this was a ... a ... swords woman!

The intruder smiled up at him and whispered, “Daddy, it’s me, Octavia.”