Has Thob recovered from the shock of these dwarves' culture yet? Looked like he got a little thrown for a loop there when the king cheerily mentioned he was worshiping a goddess of lust.
He's coping alright, though we haven't heard the last of Ôggon yet.
Also, is it me or does Thob have an unerring tendency to run into kings?
He's had that dubious pleasure more often than usual. Although whether they're truly "kings" is its own quandary.
There was a small building in the north corner of the cavern: in it were a few tables and chairs, and a chest full of blank scrolls and quires of parchment. The dwarves at Quakegloves said it was the old “library”—a place where books used to be stored, and where scholars would come to research and write. It sounded just like the thing Thob wanted to start himself. There were no books in it now, but the dwarves said that some were scattered here and there through the fort.
The temple of Ôggon stood to the south. Despite his reservations about the lust-goddesses cult, Thob decided to check it out. A series of ramps went down into lower and lower basements and sub-basements, one after another, for several floors; when finally Thob reached the bottom, he found to his astonishment—another massive pile of books:
(Author’s note: this is nowhere near the full list of books there were)
The titles ranged over all conceivable topics, and several inconceivable ones as well. Thob began searching the stacks for the most promising works.
Among the scientific and technical treatises Thob read:
Secret Breathing (on pulmonary medicine);
Mysteries of the Voice (on the source of the voice);
Surgical Tools, My Love (take a guess);
To Glue and Glory!, a manual about preparing glue that somehow managed to convey “a hint of viciousness”; and, Thob’s personal favorite:
Then there were works of philosophy, questioning or promoting all sorts of dwarven values:
The History of the Truth, an essay on the value of truth (despite its bombastic title);
The Wizard’s Guide to Ignorance, which emphasized the value of knowledge;
Better Rules, on the value of laws; and
Toil: My Only Mistake, an essay on the value of hard work.
But perhaps the most interesting, to Thob’s taste anyway, were the histories—biography, chronicle, cultural comparison, and many other forms. These he read voraciously, eagerly soaking up their knowledge of the ancient world. Among these works one name stood out, more prominent than all the other authors: Shorast Blademansion, apparently an ancient dwarven historian of no small renown. Quite a number of the histories were his work:
The Dwarves, Abridged: a serious cultural history of the Ring of Chance, covering the first fifty years of its history, from the very foundation of Quakegloves in year one.
On The Dwarf: a history of the first general of the Ring, Shem Lockhelms. It was serious enough, but rather self-indulgent and not very well written—perhaps it was an early work?
Meditations on the Dwarf: another history, this one about an infamous cheetah attack in year 88.
Shorast also wrote about his craft, in several manuals of historiographical practice, like
Family in the Modern Era (how to compile family lineages and display them) and
Could It Be Reliability? (about finding reliable sources of information).
There was also an interesting biography that Shorast had written about himself—a form called “autobiography” which Thob had never heard of before:
Shorast Blademansion and the Spattered Ear, a dense five-part volume covering Shorast’s career, from his start as a historian in 36, working at the Quakegloves library, to his retirement fifty years later, and discussing some of the discoveries he made along the way (he was, apparently, the very first dwarf to write a biography).
According to his autobiography, Shorast had taken an apprentice late in his career—another historian named Mafol Crabguild. Mafol’s works were also well-represented in the collection. Many of them, despite being histories, also supported Mafol’s own philosophical views: his
Book of the Ring of Chance, a cultural history, emphasized the value of truth, while his autobiography
The Dwarves emphasized the value of knowledge—a good thing for a historian to value, Thob guessed.
Mafol also wrote a biography of his old master:
The Birth of Shorast Blademansion. Despite the title, it began with Shorast’s marriage, not his birth. Thob guessed it was metaphorical—Shorast’s “birth” as a historian.
Thob was impressed by what he learned of Shorast and the other historians. What knowledge and scholarship the ancients possessed! To think that it might all have been lost, in the thousand years between their time and his. More than ever Thob realized how important his “library” would be, if ever the world were to be resettled.
When he had read his fill, Thob went down the central stairs to explore the rest of Quakegloves.
He was surprised when, on the way down, he found a small shrine to Egesh, goddess of his own religion, the Communion of Saints. He wasn’t particularly religious, but it was comforting to find a familiar image so far from home.
Lower Quakegloves was, intriguingly, open directly to the cavern road—unorthodox construction, and in Thob’s opinion pretty bad security. It must date from a time of prosperity, when there were still strong dwarven armies to guard the depths.
The main hall was littered with scattered scrolls, for some reason not kept with the others. A few of the Ring nobility lived down here, including two very old-looking dwarves. Thob introduced himself to one. “Ah, hello,” he replied gruffly, “I am Inod Atticbreached, baron of Glazetin.”
“Wait a minute,” said Thob, “I know that name… yes, I remember! You wrote all those books—I found them in a monastery!”
“Yes, I was a rather prolific author in my day. Now if you’ll excuse—.”
“But that can’t be right,” said Thob, mostly to himself. “The books said Inod Atticbreached lived in the fourth century…”
“Scribal error.”
“…and that he could raise the dead.”
“Oh… ah… sorry, I must take my leave.” Before Thob could ask another question, Inod had disappeared down the hall.
Thob was still wondering about this strange encounter when another very old dwarf hailed him. “Greetings, stranger!” he said with a flourish. “I am Count Deduk Pleatedpage—humble servant of Ôggon Bridemenace. My!” he exclaimed, regarding Thob, “that ostrich leather cloak simply
makes the outfit!”
“Uh, thanks? My name's… wait.” This was too weird. “Deduk Pleatedpage? I’ve read some of your books, too.”
“Oh… really?” said the old dwarf, suddenly looking nervous.
“The ones you wrote about three hundred years ago?”
“Ha, ha! What a joker you are! Well it’s been a lovely chat, Mr.…”
“Thob.”
“… Mr. Bob, but I’m afraid I must be off!” And he, too, disappeared.
Very likely, thought Thob, neither dwarf was who they claimed to be. He bet they weren’t even nobles. They’d picked up these old names somewhere to impress the king and get a place at court. That’s why they bolted from Thob—he’d caught them in their lie.
That had to be it. Dwarves couldn’t live for three hundred years. Right?
Apologies for the wall of text in the middle. I didn't want to take pictures of all those books.
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Topic: Thob Goes to the Surface (Read 62234 times)