The 113th Assistant Librarian

Chapter 1

The Calling

On the first day of the rest of his life, Oliver Wormwood was up, dressed and out of the house before the balefire lamps on Wizard’s Way had been switched off. He tripped not once but three times as he dashed across the cobblestones, dodging the horse-drawn carts on their way to supply the shops with fresh produce. He paused to wash the mud off his shirt in the Spellwater Fountain, only to have his breeches set alight when he became entangled in the leash of an overexcited firedrake. Patting out the flames while muttering apologies to the drake’s disapproving owner, Oliver was quietly pleased with himself as he arrived at the square moments before the town hall clock sounded the hour. He’d made good time.

‘Not bad, Ollie.’

 

Oliver almost leaped out of his skin. A figure dressed in grey and black stood by his side.

 

‘Willow!’ he exclaimed, voice shifting pitch halfway through her name. ‘When did you leave the house?’

 

His sister removed her ranger’s hood and untied her hair, shaking out her long brown locks.

 

‘A couple of minutes after you, give or take.’

 

‘A couple of . . .’ Oliver shook his head. His journey to the square had taken less than five minutes.

 

He didn’t need to ask how Willow had overtaken him. She would have slipped from shadow to shadow, silently flitting across the rooftops. And with a couple of backflips thrown in for good measure. Willow ruffled his hair, knowing he didn’t like it.

 

‘Don’t make that face. I’m saying you made good time! Despite getting both soaked and burned in the process!’

 

Oliver tried to tuck his singed trouser leg into his boot. The ragged cuff was too short now, slipping out again the moment he stood up.

 

He sighed. ‘I made sure my clothes were washed and crease- free this morning, too.’

 

‘Clothes aren’t important on a day like today, Ollie. Don’t worry.’

 

A day like today. The Calling – the day when Oliver would be apprenticed to one of the Trades. The day that every child looked forward to in their thirteenth year. The day when all eyes would be upon him. Most importantly, his father’s.

Willow, as perceptive as ever, spoke softly: ‘You were hoping to start before Father showed up, weren’t you?’

 

Oliver’s shoulders slumped. ‘Kind of.’

 

‘Well, then, don’t dawdle. What’s at the top of your shortlist?’

 

Oliver’s list wasn’t short. Since he didn’t have a passion for any one thing, he figured registering for as many Trades as possible improved his chances of finding some-thing satisfactory.

 

‘It’s more of a longlist,’ he admitted.

 

The town square had been transformed over the past week, the usual market stalls replaced by Trade tents. There was already a score of thirteen- year- olds milling about, giddy with anticipation.

 

As the sixth child in his family, Oliver knew that he was expected to take up one of the heroic Trades that called for quick wits and decisive action. His father, a former lawkeeper, had never said as much, but was forever recounting his glory days, like the time he single- handedly put down the dock worker uprising, or the time he caught the Masquerade Killer moments before she poisoned the Countess Huberwall. And if that wasn’t obvious enough, Oliver Senior would challenge his son to arm wrestles or running races every chance he got.

 

Or pressure Oliver into practice bouts, hoping to improve his son’s skills with a blade. Oliver always did his best to rise to the challenge. Thing was, his best wasn’t very good. Nevertheless, his father’s emphasis on the more daring Trades meant that becoming a baker, tailor or chandler was out of the question. Same went for becoming a scholar, clerk or arborist.

 

Oliver’s five older sisters had already taken up the Trades his father most admired. So if he wanted to impress him, Oliver was going to have to choose one of the Trades his siblings had already taken.

 

What to try first? His attention was drawn to the temporary archery range that had been constructed along the far edge of the square.

 

‘Got an eye on my ranger’s cloak, have you?’ Willow said, following his gaze.

 

He sucked air in through his teeth. ‘You make it look so easy,’ he admitted.

 

Willow pretended to flick dust from her shoulder. ‘It’s true, I do. Go on then.’

 

Oliver was third in line at the archery range. The cobbled alley leading from the square had been cordoned off, with targets erected at the far end. The thirteen-year-olds in front of him drew back their bows and hit the targets, one satisfying shnnnk! after another.

 

Oliver had devoured more than one book about archery. While strength was important, he’d read that stability was key. The Highwaywoman of Nightshade Forest by C. L. Lonqvist had taught him that. Considering Oliver had tripped three times today already, he wished he had pressed Willow for practical advice, despite the fact she was bound by the rangers’ oath of secrecy. While she would never divulge anything she shouldn’t, he knew that rangers were regularly sent on clandestine missions, tasks that didn’t require brute force or an intimidating physique. Which was good, because Oliver was neither brutish nor intimidating, and he wasn’t even sure he had a physique.

 

The ranger, tall and lean with greying hair cut short, took one look at Oliver’s short stature and handed him the smallest bow on offer.

 

‘All right, lad, give it your best shot,’ the ranger said.

 

Oliver noted Willow had stepped well back, not wanting to influence the selection process. He chose an arrow, lined up his shot and drew back on the bow-string. Concentrating on his breathing, he willed his heart rate to slow and focused on the bullseye. Then let loose.

 

With a twannnng the arrow spun up and sideways to come to rest in the guttering of a nearby house. Oliver’s heart sank.

 

The ranger exhaled sharply through his nose. ‘Tell you what, let’s put that down to nerves. I’ll give you a second try.’

 

Resisting the urge to check if anyone else had witnessed his mistake, Oliver picked up another arrow, squinting as he aimed.

 

‘Do you wear spectacles, perchance?’ the ranger asked politely.

 

‘No,’ Oliver lied, despite the fact that he could feel the weight of his glasses in the interior pocket of his jacket. He squinted harder.

 

Twannnng.

 

Someone behind him shrieked as they darted out of the way of his arrow.

 

The ranger snatched the bow from Oliver. ‘It seems that the rangers aren’t for you, lad.’

 

‘Come on,’ Willow said, patting Oliver on the shoulder. ‘There are many more Callings on offer.’

 

Next, Oliver found himself at the blacksmiths’ tent. A fire pit in the corner had been converted into a forge, complete with workbench, anvil and various tools. The blacksmith, a stout woman as wide as she was tall, gave him a nod.

 

‘Young Wormwood,’ she said, recognising him.

 

Oliver’s sister Octavia was already a blacksmith in her own right. ‘To start off, pick up that big hammer by your feet there.’

 

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Oliver bent over and grasped the handle of the large hammer with both hands.

 

No matter how much he grunted and strained, he couldn’t shift it. It might as well have been nailed to the cobblestones.

 

‘You can stop, Oliver,’ the blacksmith said after a moment, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps strength isn’t your . . . ah . . . strong suit.’

 

Oliver nodded, wiping sweat from his brow, and stumbled from the tent, the muscles in his arms still quivering. Another failure. And to make matters worse, his father and mother were waiting outside. Willow stood next to them with an apologetic expression on her face. Oliver Senior hadn’t taken the time to brush his greying hair, and the buttons of his vest were mismatched. He must have rushed to the square the moment he realised Oliver had slipped out.

 

‘No luck, son?’ his father asked.

 

Oliver shook his head. He didn’t feel like elaborating.

 

‘Never mind, dear,’ his mother, Meredith, said. As usual, she had her grey hair tied back with a silver barrette and wore a short jacket over dark culottes. ‘We can’t all have Octavia’s arms.’

 

Unsurprisingly, the apprentice mage queue was incredibly popular. In decades past, self-taught hedge witches had meddled with magic from their huts deep in the forest, or perhaps travelled from town to town, offering their services to those in need. These days, any spell-casting was officially sanctioned and heavily regulated. All magic users in the Kingdom of Hallarum were inducted during the Calling and formally trained as part of their Trade. Whether they be Binders or Breakers, the mages of Blackmoor-upon-Wyvern could strike fear into the hearts of entire armies. His second- oldest sister, Elsbeth, wasn’t one to show off, yet he’d seen her do incredible things, like bending the boughs of trees to her will, or igniting a fire with a flick of her wrist.

 

Oliver realised the other children in line were as short and wiry as himself. Strength isn’t an issue when you’re calling on the winds of magic! he thought, feeling his spirits lift.

 

After what seemed like an age, he reached the front of the queue and came face to face with a tall woman with shoulder-length straight brown hair wearing a cloak of midnight blue. The bronze bracelets poking through her tattered cuffs signalled her power as a Breaker Adept – enough to intimidate anyone.

 

The fact that the Breaker Adept in question happened to be his sister was the icing on the cake.

 

‘Elsbeth?’ he blurted.

 

His sister, normally aloof and reserved, went bug- eyed. ‘Oliver!’ She raised a finger, put it down, looked over her shoulder and back again. ‘I didn’t realise – I can’t – that is to say . . . I shouldn’t . . . I mean.’ She closed her mouth, grimacing in consternation. ‘One moment! I’ll grab someone else to test you.’

 

She disappeared into the tent, leaving Oliver on the receiving end of scowls from the other kids in line.

 

After an uncomfortable minute, Elsbeth returned, this time with her usual calm demeanour reinstated. ‘In the interests of impartiality, Archmage Thwaites will be testing you.’

 

An old man dressed in a long magenta cloak stepped forward. He peered down at Oliver over a pair of tiny reading glasses perched on the edge of his long nose.

 

Elsbeth clasped her hands together. ‘I’m off then. Good l–’ She stopped herself from finishing the sentence, nodded (to herself, mostly) then slipped back into the tent.

 

Oliver tried to forget her and focus on the reason he was here.

 

‘To become an apprentice mage, you don’t simply choose a wand,’ the mage explained. ‘The wand chooses you.’ He indicated the table before him, upon which sat two dozen wands, each carved from a different substance. ‘Open your mind to their magics, and you should know which one is calling to you.’

 

Oliver made sure he examined each of them in turn for an appropriately long time before selecting a grey wand that was carved into a long, slender spiral, like a miniature narwhal’s horn.

 

The moment he picked it up, the wand began to glow with an eerie azure light. Purple sparks popped into existence, dancing along the wood. A smile spread across Oliver’s face as the air around him began to throb. He could feel the power flowing within, he was sure of it! This was it. His Calling. He was going to be a ma–

 

The sparks sputtered and the wand went flaccid, dangling from his fingers like wet spaghetti.

‘What on earth did you do, boy?’ the mage snapped, snatching away the wand, which now resembled little more than a grey shoestring. ‘How is this even possible? This wand was cut from the petrified heart of an iron-wolf! It’s irreplaceable!’

 

‘I . . . I didn’t mean to . . .’ Oliver stammered. Horrified that he had embarrassed the family name, he fretted that Elsbeth would reappear at any moment.

 

‘So sorry, got to go!’ Willow announced, suddenly at Oliver’s side. She took him by the shoulders and whisked him out of the tent.

 

Meredith looked at them expectantly. ‘How did it –?’ She stopped as Willow mimed a cutthroat action, pulling Oliver past them.

 

‘Don’t feel dejected, son,’ his father said, trying to keep up. He would have given Oliver a rousing (and entirely unhelpful) speech if given the chance. Thankfully, Willow didn’t let him.

 

New apprentices from the less popular Trades were being announced already. The successful kids were swamped by family and friends, who converged with hugs and pats on the back. Oliver kept his head down as they walked between the stalls, picking up the pace when he spotted his next- door neighbour, London Llewelyn, being congratulated by his family at the Lamplighters’ Guild stall.

 

It was mid-afternoon by the time they stopped at the lawkeeper tent, and despite the strained encouragement of his parents, Oliver was feeling despondent. He knew his father was trying to hide his disappointment because Oliver Senior was flicking his forefinger with the nail of his thumb, something he only did when he was on edge, like when he was reading an article about the new super-intendent making short-sighted decisions on behalf of the lawkeepers. Or learning that the army was mobilising an ogre division. On reflection, it was most of the time that he was reading the paper.

 

Oliver’s sister Heloise was a lawkeeper. When she visited, their father’s eyes lit up so bright that they turned into twin lighthouses. If he had a second child keeping the streets of Blackmoor-upon-Wyvern safe, his gaze might trigger a celestial event. The captain didn’t even look up as Oliver reached the front of the line.

 

‘Please stand over there to measure yourself,’ the man said, pointing at a sign that read:

 

YOU MUST BE THIS HIGH

TO KEEP THE LAW.

 

Oliver stood with his back to the sign, ruffled his hair and tried to stand as straight as he could.

 

‘Hmm,’ the captain said when he finally looked up. ‘Just tall enough. Not a centimetre to spare.’

 

Oliver felt his heart soar.

 

The captain’s gaze dropped to Oliver’s feet. ‘Hang on. Did you nail horseshoes to the soles of your boots?’ Red- faced, Oliver slunk out of the tent.

 

‘I thought you were tripping over more than usual,’ Willow said, having heard everything from outside with her well-honed ranger’s hearing.

 

It was late afternoon now, and many of the stalls were closing up. Only the most popular Trades were still sorting through candidates. Oliver was starting to worry that he would be one of the few to return at the next Calling. Another year of waiting for his life to begin, resorting to finding adventure between the covers of a book. A year in which his few friends wouldn’t have any time for him, because they would have been apprenticed.

 

A voice in his head pondered what would happen if he failed again, in his fourteenth year. He couldn’t very well keep coming back over and over. An image of himself at eighteen came unbidden to his mind’s eye, like a limestone sea stack protruding from an ocean of thirteen-year-olds.

 

The four Wormwoods came to a stop at the explorers’ tent. The stall had been so busy earlier that Oliver hadn’t bothered to join the queue. Even now, there were several would- be adventurers standing in line. A sign above him read:

 

TRAVEL ACROSS OCEANS!

DISCOVER NEW LANDS! 

BECOME AN EXPLORER!

 

‘Are you sure, love?’ his mother asked, looking from Oliver to his father and back again. ‘It isn’t for everyone.’

 

Oliver knew his parents missed their firstborn, Isolde. It had been a year since they last saw her, and she had stayed less than two weeks before setting off on another voyage. The feeling of loss, however, was balanced by the pride they felt. Isolde travelled to places no one from the Kingdom of Hallarum, let alone Blackmoor-upon-Wyvern, had set foot in before.

 

At last Oliver entered the tent. His sense of smell was immediately assailed by an assortment of vapours. On a table sat a variety of weird and wonderful plants: miniature trees with trunks like gnarled fingers, spiky fruits so lurid they looked to be made from lava, and flowers with jagged purple petals and bright orange puffballs for stamens. The alien scents drifting from the plants were overwhelming.

 

The explorer approached. ‘Welcome, young man.’ She had a shock of messy sun- bleached hair, and skin the consistency of leather. ‘Tell me, do you have a thirst for adventure?’

 

Oliver was about to answer when his face exploded in quite possibly the largest sneeze he’d ever experienced.

 

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, bringing his hand to his mouth far too late.

 

‘Don’t mention it,’ the explorer muttered, surreptitiously wiping her face. The orange puffballs, shaken loose by the force of his sneeze, swirled about the room, trailing pollen.

 

Oliver wiped tears from his eyes. ‘I seem to have –’ He sneezed again. And again. And again.

 

To his horror, Oliver was finding it difficult to see. His eyelids were so puffy that he struggled to keep them open. He could feel more sneezes on the way, too.

 

‘I think perhaps the experiences of new lands might be too much for your constitution,’ the explorer called out, having taken refuge in the far corner of the tent.

 

Oliver turned and left, stumbling past his family, glad that his eyes were so red and swollen that nobody could see he was crying.

 

The swelling had finally gone down when his sister found him beneath the ancient oak tree that stood in the centre of the square. Oliver had spent the last ten minutes levering the horseshoes off his boots with a stick. He had come here year after year, often with his friend London, watching the thirteen-y ear- olds get Called, and had always gone home dreaming of what he would become. The adventures he’d have, the battles he’d face. It turned out that they would never be anything more than dreams. Willow sat down next to him on the bench.

 

‘I guess that’s it, then,’ Oliver said.

 

The last of the stalls were closing. All Callings had been announced. He wasn’t going to be one of them. He wasn’t fit for any of the Trades.

 

Willow put an arm across his shoulder. ‘Never mind. It’s better to start an apprenticeship when you’re ready, rather than sign up for something you’ll regret.’

 

‘How will I know when I’m ready?’ he asked.

 

‘You’ll know. It’s known as the Calling because the Trade speaks to you, not the other way around.’

 

It was easy for Willow to say that. On the day of her Calling, she had gone directly to the ranger’s tent and been made an apprentice straightaway. In fact, every one of his sisters had been swiftly accepted into their Trade.

 

‘I saw London is to be a lamplighter,’ Oliver said.

Willow appeared to think about it for a moment. ‘He’ll get a sore neck, with all that looking up.’

 

Oliver knew she was trying to be supportive. Even so, it didn’t make him feel any better. He spotted his parents some distance away, deep in discussion yet snatching glances in his direction. Meredith put a hand on Oliver Senior’s arm, as if to stop him approaching.

 

‘Excuse me, what time is it?’

 

An old man stood before Oliver. He had a slight hunch and grey wiry eyebrows so long they might have been about to take flight. Despite the fact it was dusk, he was shading his eyes with his hand as if it were too bright.

 

‘Uhh, a little past six o’clock,’ Oliver said, thinking it strange that the man hadn’t heard the peals of the town hall clock, which had sounded minutes earlier.

 

‘Bother! I’m late,’ the man said, dropping the hefty wooden travelling chest that he had been wheeling behind him.

 

He was dressed in a threadbare knee-length jacket and breeches, and he had holes in his shoes. He took out a handkerchief to mop his brow. His skin was so pale it could have been made from porcelain. He looked entirely unprepared for the outdoors.

 

‘I was supposed to set up my stall hours ago. My work got away from me. As it is wont to do,’ he said.

 

Oliver and Willow shared a confused glance.

 

‘Your stall?’ Oliver prompted.

 

‘Yes, to take on an apprentice.’

 

Willow elbowed Oliver. No more, Oliver thought, I’m done for the year. He couldn’t face more failure.

 

‘What kind of apprentice?’ Oliver asked.

 

The man looked at him as though he was being dim. ‘Well, it’s clear you’ve never set foot in the library.’

 

Oliver blinked, shocked at his tone. He had been inside the library. Once. He’d gone as far as the counter when he’d seen that a library membership was required. That night, he’d asked his parents if he could join, and the first thing his father had said was, ‘How much will that cost me, then?’ Oliver’s request had died then and there, and he’d never again set foot inside the place. Instead, he’d sourced whatever he could in other ways – novels borrowed from London Llewellyn, serialised stories in the newspaper, or books so battered that market stalls were selling them for cheap.

 

Having finished mopping his brow, the librarian raised the handkerchief to his nose and emptied his nostrils with a violent honking sound.

 

‘Then again,’ the man continued, ‘the last one had qualifications coming out of his ears. And he didn’t last long. His ears were the first thing to go, too, now that I think about it.’ He looked Oliver up and down. ‘There isn’t much of you, is there? Good. That makes you a smaller target.’

 

Smaller target? What was this strange man on about?

 

‘No time like the present,’ the librarian continued.

 

‘Actually, earlier today would have been much better. However, as much as I’m tempted to crack out Moore’s Theorem on Loops, I don’t want to risk destroying the space- time continuum. Again.’

 

This man is more than odd, Oliver decided. He’s passed through bizarre and come out the other side. Was he even the actual librarian, or did he simply walk around town claiming he was?

 

The man burped. ‘Ah well. More fodder for the bookworms isn’t a bad thing, as such.’ He crouched, undid the metal catch on the lid and flipped it open with surprising strength, considering how wiry his arms were. The trunk was filled with all manner of texts, both bound books and scrolls.

 

Selecting a title seemingly at random, he threw it at Oliver. ‘Tell me, young man, what do you make of that?’

 

Barely catching the book, Oliver noticed that his parents had stopped talking and were watching intently. His heart sank further yet again, coming to rest some-where near his ankles. Here he was, being tested by a weird old man on something that didn’t interest him, and he didn’t even have the privacy of a tent. This time, his father would witness him fail.

 

‘Well?’ the librarian said as he sorted through the other books in the trunk.

 

Oliver opened it to read the title page. ‘The Migration of Woodlice During the Warmer Months, a Detailed Treatise by Theodotus Crepuscular.’

 

‘Ah, you can read. Wonders never cease,’ the man commented, still crouched by the trunk. ‘And how would you classify that text?’

 

‘Classify it?’

 

‘What other books would you group it with?’

 

‘Non- fiction? Science, biology.’

 

‘Hmm. What about this one?’ He turfed another book in Oliver’s direction.

 

‘The Peach- Loving Orangutan’s Lament, a Comedy in Three Acts by Aloysius Dutch. Fiction, plays, obviously.’

 

A scroll flew through the air. ‘And this one?’ Oliver unfurled it. ‘It’s a . . . recipe for irontongue goulash?’

 

There was a glint in the old man’s eye. ‘You knew to unroll it sideways. Hmm. What about this codex?’ He stood up and passed the next text with care. The worn cover looked ancient.

 

‘Uhh, The Somewhat Unsettling and Mostly Malodorous Voyages with the Spiteful Pirate Hookbeard by Anonymous.’

 

‘Huh. You can read the Old Tongue,’ the librarian observed.

 

To be honest, Oliver hadn’t realised he was doing it.

 

‘Where did you learn to do that?’ the librarian asked.

 

‘I found a couple of really old books in the attic that I read through one winter when I was bored.’

 

The librarian frowned as if he didn’t believe him. ‘You taught yourself?’

 

Oliver shrugged. ‘It’s mostly the same as Common Tongue, only with a lot more Fs. And sometimes there are no gaps between the words.’

 

‘Only with a lot more Fs,’ the librarian repeated, shaking his head. ‘The scholars would be rolling in their graves! And urns. What other languages do you know?’

 

He thought about it. ‘Alterwald, Alcest and Cro- Shugguth. With a little bit of Krylz.’

 

‘Krylz? We only made first contact with that place five years ago. How on earth do you know Krylz?’ the librarian demanded, eyebrows shooting skywards.

 

‘My sister Isolde brought some scrolls back as a gift last time she was here. It took me a little while to decipher them but I managed to muddle through. They have a lot of weird tenses that we don’t use.’

 

The librarian stood up, scratching his chin. For the first time, he seemed to be seriously studying Oliver. ‘If what you say is true, I’ve found what I came here for. My name is Hieronymus Finch- Thackeray and I think you are splendidly suited to become the 113th assistant librarian. What say you?’