Wednesday, September 29, 2004


Day Seven

I like to think that this "enabled" book that I'm using as my diary is magically linked to a stately, marble-floored library somewhere in the distant mountains, and that what I'm writing appears in a book there. The Chief Mage-Librarian is tall and stately, but still black-haired, with a straight back and a flowing silver-edged gown, and I could easily fall in love with him, because he understands me so well. As well as the hundreds upon hundreds of books on the shelves, written and being written, there is a special oversize volume propped up on a desk below the main window, and a bell there gently chimes when a new entry is received. The Librarian can tell by the tone whose book has just been updated, and when it is mine, he glides over, at a measured pace, with a slight smile, and sits down to read. The junior librarians exchange quiet smiles, and continue their work, though one especially daring young fellow with good eyesight is reading the entry over his superior's shoulder.

There are rats in the Library, but they are quiet, and clean, and have been affected by the magics of the place so much that they too read the books, though sometimes they replace the volumes in the wrong places and are quietly told off by the librarians. Their job is to eat the insects and spiders, and keep the place clean, and they do this, and sometimes they dream that one day they will be left in charge...

The funeral for Lord Restormel is to be held tomorrow. I spent most of the morning going around the people I'd given his widow's money to, giving a very brief account of what had happened and strongly hinting that, as they hadn't done anything to actually earn that money, they owed me a favour which, at some time in the future, I might wish to collect. A couple of shopkeepers even offered to return the money, but I was rich enough to be able to urge them to keep it, and at least drink to Marius Restormel's memory.

In the afternoon, Memree and I walked out of town, and strolled onto the moorland. It may already be the end of summer, but despite a brisk wind the sun was warm. For somebody with no memories of the past beyond, what, three days before, she is good company - which meant she let me do most of the talking. I didn't give her my life history, just told her of some of the adventures I'd landed myself in over recent years...

And that's about it. After a climactic battle there is always a sense of relaxation, a lethargy, as one appreciates one's good fortune in still being alive, and if necessary mourns the death of those who haven't been quite as lucky. One sleeps in late, one visits the taverns and drinks a bit more than usual, one tries to adjust to whatever changes that have been made - end of story!

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