The Crown of the Bandit King Page 4

“Try one of these, young scholar.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not at all. You look as if you’ve failed your midterms.”

  He sat beside me on the stair and closed the book he’d been holding. With one hand he removed his glasses, and with the other he took out a large white handkerchief. He didn’t say anything after that, so I watched him polish his lenses. He’d rub them for a minute, then inspect them, then rub them again, until they reflected light like mirrors.

  “Do you ever feel like maybe you’re in trouble?” I asked. “Big trouble. And you don’t even know how you got there?”

  His handkerchief paused.

  “I mean, this place,” I said, “it’s not so big, is it? It only looks that way because of the shelves. Like an optical illusion.”

  “Appearances can often be deceiving, young scholar.”

  “Anyone can find their way around a library, right?”

  “I should imagine.” He pocketed his handkerchief. “Research is easier with two scholars, however. And there is a second scholar here at hand. If you wish.”

  Directions couldn’t hurt in a place like this. Even if they were wrong, it wasn’t like they’d make me any more lost than I already was.

  “I’m trying to find a certain book,” I said.

  “For a dissertation, no doubt?”

  “A disser-what?”

  “I see. Perhaps if you show me your research proposal, I might be able to offer—”

  “I don’t have a research proposal. I mean, I don’t—”

  “Are you a remedial student?”

  “Remedial?”

  Talking to this guy made me feel more lost and confused, not less. I glanced around the aisles. Aimless wandering would get me where I needed to be faster, wherever that was.

  “Look, I have to go.” I stood. “Thanks again for the peppermint.”

  “Only the truly weak refuse to ask for help,” the old man said. “When it’s needed.”

  The aisles of books stretched out around me. Rows and rows of shelves. No signs like “Reference Section that way” or “Fiction A-M this way.” No other people. No sounds.

  Just books.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be a Finder, would you?” The old man slid his glasses higher up on his nose, the light in his eyes brightening. “A Finder, oh yes, I should have seen that from the start.”

  “You’d really be able to help me?” I asked.

  “I have some knowledge of a literary inclination. What is the title of the work you seek, young scholar?”

  “Uh….” I drew out the slip of paper. “The Complete Encyclopedia of Counterfeit and Fraudulent Collectibles.”

  “Well! You’re in luck!” The old man stood and slapped me on the back.

  “You know where it is?”

  Finally, maybe I’d caught a break.

  “Haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Oh.”

  “But, I know the author! Me!”

  He laughed so hard he wheezed as he leaned against one of the bookshelves for support.

  “Great. Um…who are you?” I asked.

  The old man coughed, straightened his bow tie, and then held out his hand to shake mine.

  “You may call me the Professor. And I’ve written a great many of the books here in the library. Only the Hack Writer has written more. Of course, his tastes tend more towards lurid fiction. Myself, I prefer scholarly works, but I delve into reference materials from time to time. Everyone needs reliable sources of facts on occasion.”

  Wait, was this guy an Artisan? Artisans were scary and dangerous. Like the Librarian.

  Weren’t they?

  He frisked his jacket pockets until he found a black fountain pen.

  “If you’ll give me a moment,” he said, “I will create a revised and updated second edition of the book you seek! You’d best make yourself comfortable, young scholar. I’ll just be a minute.”

  This was too good to be true. I could give the Ragman his stupid book before sunset. And a Collectible a day—at this rate, I’d be home in nine days.

  With my memories.

  The Professor fumbled in his pockets again, but this time he frowned.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have some writing paper, would you?” he asked.

  Sweet Pea had packed a lot of stuff in my bag, but there wasn’t any writing paper. The closest thing I could find was a paper napkin. I offered it to the Professor.

  “Do you have a magnifying glass in that pack of yours as well?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Well, young scholar, then I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I can do a great many astounding and marvelous things, but making a second edition of The Complete Encyclopedia of Counterfeit and Fraudulent Collectibles on a paper napkin without even a magnifying glass is completely out of the question.”

  He patted me on the back. The look on my face must have been pretty pathetic.

  “There, there, young scholar. I’m sure you’ll find that book in no time.” He paused. “On second thought, it will likely take you a great deal of time, given the size of this library and your current rate of success.”

  “Oh.”

  The Professor examined the napkin closely. “Hmm. I may still be able to help. Of course, I’m not the Map Maker by any means, but I dabble in cartography from time to time. Perhaps the napkin might be put to use after all.”

  He unfolded the napkin and uncapped his fountain pen. Then he looked around, looked up. He even licked his finger like he was testing the wind. With a nod, he started writing and drawing and scribbling and dotting and marking the napkin. He moved it this way and that, turning it upside down and right side up and upside down again. When he finally stopped, he grinned.

  “Yes, that should be about right. Here you are!”

  He handed me the napkin.

  Its surface was filled with complicated mathematical formulas, intricate diagrams, and mysterious Latin phrases. Various odd snatches of song lyrics (including “Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we go!”) appeared on the napkin’s edges.

  And last, it looked like a baby had scribbled a bunch of animal cartoons on top.

  “Um, thanks,” I said. “What is it?”

  “A map, dear boy!” The Professor shook his head. “What do they teach children in schools these days!”

  A map? The craziest map I’d ever seen. But this was the craziest library I’d ever seen.

  “All there is left for you to do,” the Professor said, “is draw an X right here. That will be you, of course. Then, ask the map to show you the way. Politely, of course.”

  “And it will take me to the encyclopedia?”

  “Oh, it may lead you in a roundabout way, but you’ll get there!”

  He offered me his black fountain pen, and my fingers started to twitch just holding it. My skin tingled, and I got that jumpy feeling inside me again.

  “Easy, now,” the Professor said.

  When I moved the pen to where the Professor pointed, that jumpy feeling worsened.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Quite sure.”

  So I pressed the pen against the napkin and made one small X on the paper.

  Big mistake.

  Everything around me flashed a blinding white, and then it all turned black. Like someone had smacked me hard on the head with a baseball bat. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the floor with the Professor bending over me.

  “Well, well! Wasn’t that something!” he said. “I should have remembered how sensitive you Finders are to these kinds of things. A thousand apologies!”

  He helped me to stand, then steadied me on my feet.

  “Feeling all right?” he asked.

  Definitely not. I kept blinking, but no matter where I looked, I saw those map scribblings. They were on the library walls, on the ceiling, the chandeliers, the bookshelves and the books, the tables too, and the chairs. Even the floor.

  “What
’s wrong with my eyes?” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Everywhere I look, there’s—”

  “Map markings?” the Professor said. “How delightful! It worked!”

  “Did you draw all over the library?”

  “Oh, no! The Librarian would never forgive me! No, you’re the only one who can see those markings. You’re in the map. A part of it, in a way.”

  I looked at the paper napkin in my hand. Now it made more sense. Not much. But if I tilted the map just so, it lined up with the markings on that wall over there. And if I squinted at the writing on the floor, it matched some writing on the napkin.

  Like the napkin had become a sort of decoder. A key.

  “With that, I must return to my research, and you should be ready to find your way!” the Professor said. “Oh, a word of caution. Don’t get the napkin, er, map, wet. That would destroy it completely. We can’t have that!”

  “Why not?”

  “You’d be lost in here, wouldn’t you? Perhaps forever! How unfortunate that would be!”

  Maybe not all the Artisans were scary and dangerous. I was just some lost kid in a crazy library. There was no reason for him to help me, and I couldn’t repay him.

  “Thanks, Professor.”

  He tilted his head. “You’re quite welcome, young scholar.”

  After that, he wandered off to a distant table. I glanced at the napkin in my hand, then at the markings on the walls, the ceiling, and the bookshelves. Time to get the Ragman’s stupid book and get out of here.

  Or get lost forever.

  Chapter 5

  Forbidden Books

  The map didn’t seem too hard to use if all I had to do was ask it to show me the way.

  Politely, of course.

  “Um, library map-napkin…mapkin? Would you show me the way to The Complete Encyclopedia of Counterfeit and Fraudulent Collectibles? Please?”

  The markings on all the library’s surfaces swirled like leaves blown about in a storm. But right when I thought I’d really throw up this time, they stopped and settled into new positions. Then a little golden arrow appeared on the map right next to the X, pointing to the left. Finally, now I was getting somewhere.

  Or maybe not.

  When I turned in that direction, I ran smack into a bookshelf. And it wasn’t the reference section. I looked left, right, up, and down, but the map’s arrow kept pointing that way. There must have been some mistake. Maybe the map hadn’t understood my request.

  I asked again, but nothing changed.

  “It’s just a bookshelf,” I told the map. “It’s a history section. See? There’s A History of Bottle Caps, and there’s Important Events in the History of the Crayon: Volume One, and there’s….”

  Wait. Was I arguing with a napkin?

  How embarrassing. Good thing no one was around to see me right now, especially Sweet Pea.

  I examined the book sitting next to the crayon history in case I’d missed any encyclopedias by mistake. On the book’s spine was another arrow that matched the one on the map. The arrow pointed to my right, and above it were tiny words written in gold. Words I was suddenly sure no one could see.

  Except me.

  They said, To find the reference section, go right.

  Following the Professor’s map after that was a lot like following a dog in a rubber ball factory. The map’s directions led me this way, then that way, then this way again. Past the section on ancient medicine, past the section on troll folklore, then down the section on Greek pottery. Shelf after shelf after shelf. All this wandering around for a stupid book.

  Honestly, was it even worth the trouble?

  I ended up in the philosophy section after that. Maybe the map figured I needed some philosophy research to find an answer to my question.

  And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the map must have decided it should help me discover some new hobbies. We turned down one particularly long aisle, and when I finally found the next map markings, the map asked a question. Its words appeared on a shelf divider.

  Have you ever considered studying anthropology?

  Anthro-what?

  It refused to take me any farther until I responded. Best to be polite, yet vague. The last thing I needed was an angry, pouting map.

  “Maybe after I find the encyclopedia,” I said.

  That seemed to do the trick. The arrow appeared, along with the familiar directions: Reference section, that way. Then we were off again, down flights of stairs, zigzagging between study desks and shelves and drinking fountains. No one else was in sight. No sounds except the swoosh of my sneakers as I walked.

  I yawned.

  Bored?

  The map’s question appeared when we’d arrived at a large, round-shaped light fixture on the wall. I glanced at the shelf beside me. The nearest book was titled The Neglect of Cheese in European Literature.

  “Yeah, a little bored,” I said as we entered another aisle. “All the books are starting to look the same. There are so many….”

  I stopped. So many Collectible books. How could I have missed it?

  Is something wrong?

  “I’m just thinking.”

  How marvelous! Can I help?

  I traced my tingling fingers along the books’ leather spines, with titles like A Day in the Life of an Aphid and Your Friend, the Compost Pile. This had to be the gardening section. The books here came in all colors and sizes, causing the shelves to sag under their weight. The odor of rotting leaves lingered in this aisle. Probably from the compost book.

  Nothing here would be much use to me, but how about some other section?

  “What if you had an enemy, and you wanted to outwit him,” I said. “Are there any books here with enough magic that could help me beat an opponent?”

  You’re rather young to have an enemy.

  “It’s not like I went looking for him. He found me. Kidnapped me.”

  Hmm. What about your search for the encyclopedia?

  “We can find it afterward.”

  If I couldn’t find a Collectible here to use against the Ragman, handing over the encyclopedia could be my backup plan.

  Very well.

  We turned right, then left, then right again, down an aisle and stopped. There was no new arrow anywhere. No map markings to help. No words from the map.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  The map didn’t answer, so I looked at the nearest book on the shelf. The title was Famous Vegetarian Athletes in Sports, Volume One.

  The sports section?

  There were biographies for every athlete who ever lived. Playbooks for every game ever played. Books about coaches. Books about teams. Books about equipment. Anything readers might ever want to know about sports—anything—they could find a book about it here on these shelves.

  I slapped my head. “No, map! Not strategies for beating an opposing team. The Ragman and I aren’t playing a game!”

  With a loud thunk, one of the books fell off the shelf right next to me. By itself. Weird, but maybe it hadn’t been shelved properly. The book’s title said, Legendary Strategies of the Top Winning Players in Basketball History.

  A book on basketball history probably wouldn’t solve my problems. But what if it could? I’d be stupid to have come this far and not even look. I bent down, my palms prickling as if the book had its own static charge—and I wasn’t even touching it yet. That spot in my stomach flipped somersaults again, like always. I jerked my hand away.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  I glanced up and down the aisle. Still no one in sight. If I walked away now, I could be walking away from my big chance. And even if it was magic, what harm could a book really do to me?

  I snatched the book off the floor before my palms could prickle again, and I read aloud the first words on the page I’d turned to.

  “Early basketballs were generally made of leather stitched together in such a way that….”

  Suddenly, I couldn’t focus on the words. They blurred
together, moving and swirling until they made one big brown spot on the page. Then that big brown spot bounced out of the book and landed next to my sneaker.

  I set the book on the floor and picked up the big brown thing.

  “What is it?” I asked, and finally the map decided to answer me.

  It looks like an antique basketball, the words appeared on the floor, circa late 1800s, early 1900s. Note the rawhide lacing there in the center of the ball….

  But I wasn’t noticing the lacing. I was too busy noticing a second strange basketball bounce out of the book.

  Ah, excellent, the map continued. Another prime example. Notice the outer seams. Late 1920s. Observe the logo there beneath the lacing.

  Another basketball bounced out of the book. And another. And another.

  “Yeah, nice logo,” I said. “Any idea how to make them stop?”

  No help from the map. It rambled on about the noteworthy features of each new basketball that appeared. I tried shutting the book, but whenever I almost forced the covers closed, the book would fly open again. Then more basketballs would pop out.

  Time to start panicking.

  The basketballs cascaded down the aisle, so I grabbed one, then another, trying to keep them from bouncing away. But there were too many. They rolled and skipped and leaped in every possible direction. Some escaped the sports section altogether.

  “What should I do!” I yelled.

  I haven’t the slightest, the map answered. I’m a map, after all, not a common how-to guide.

  This was getting out of control—fast. I grabbed the nearest basketball and tried shoving it into the book. No good. It wouldn’t go back in. There were hundred of basketballs now, thousands even. Some were dark brown and old, some bright orange and new. One basketball tripped me and I fell, only to be covered in a basketball avalanche.

  Isn’t research thrilling? the map asked, its words appearing on the ceiling now that the floor was covered with basketballs. Then, even with the sound of so many basketballs ricocheting off the bookshelves, I heard the one thing I’d been dreading.

  The Librarian’s voice.

  “What in the world? A basketball! Basketballs are not allowed in my library! Who brought a basketball into my….”