The Library of Rasimon was the leading institute of learning and knowledge in the known, civilized world. In the past Sergeant Privon had found that watchmen were only tolerated inside its hallowed walls as long as they kept their hands behind their backs and didn’t touch anything. Their only advantage over new students was that they could carry weapons and the students couldn’t – unless the students were Mevari or Tronanian, of course. Today though Sergeant Privon had not just been grudgingly admitted but summoned.
It would have been impolite and possibly unwise to suggest that the Head Librarian, Erasmus Ptolemies, was in a flap but if it’d been anyone else, that would have been the phrase.
“The entire section’s been cleaned out,” he’d said agitatedly for the third time. “Everything we had on the Iatran War of Succession is gone. Everything! We had the biggest collection of original, contemporary commentaries anywhere…”
“So, who would want these books?” If anyone knew the answer to that, it would be the Head Librarian.
“A collector or a scholar, I suppose. Some of the volumes are almost a thousand years old.” Ptolemies almost wrung his hands. “I can’t think of anyone who’d want the entire section and only that section. Although,” he hesitated for a moment, “there was a rather odd letter from the Abbot of Deerfolme a few weeks ago asking if we’d been offered any volumes on the Sassenarn Rebellion – that’s about the same period. And then there’s this.” He pointed at the stiff, folded paper on the otherwise empty shelf. “We have no idea what it means.”
The red characters read, “Delmanire 6 was here.”