But the pocket of dry air and sun surrounding Hypat seemed ordered by nature herself; she’d decided that whoever dwelt along these brief horizons should enjoy cool nights and afternoon sunshine just warm enough for napping. Wistala had been told they paid for it with wild storms roaring in off the Inland Ocean at the equinoxes, but even those were brief.

Her first duty would be to pay a call on the librarians at the keeper’s school. Though Hypat was not as great a center as the giant archive at Thallia, the librarians there would be better acquainted with whatever trials faced Hypatia, for they educated the sons and daughters of the prominent families and advised the directors.

She wished she’d paid more attention to her old mentor Rainfall when he spoke of the Hypatian Directory.

The keeper’s school lay to the south of the city, on grounds ringed by homes piled atop each other on the remains of a rock-slide. Connected gardens and courtyards formed green squiggles between the homes. Colorful awnings shaded rooftops or the street fronts.

Her descent and landing caused a stir. Everyone from fire wardens to fruit vendors fought their way through the streets to get a view over the library walls.

After identifying herself, she waited in the garden behind the school. She listened to the clatter of shutters being opened and passed time by counting young faces in the windows.

The head librarian himself came to speak to her. He knew her by sight. She’d met him years ago but couldn’t remember his face. According to him, half the city was anxious about war with Ghioz. They’d taken two thanedoms in the southern reaches of the Red Mountains and demanded gold from four others so that a new set of trading posts might be built for the benefit of both empires.

There was much talk of war ruining the spring rites and the traditional revelries of blessing the new plantings.

He summoned two officials of the Directory—optimates, in the Hypatian tongue, but where they ranked in the complex hierarchy of the Directory Wistala couldn’t remember. There were twenty-seven different titles. They had long names that would do a dragon credit and wore a variety of robes and decorative sashes. The stouter one, Ansab, walked so that his belly rode high—just under his chin, it seemed to Wistala—and the other, called Paffle, was aged and always rubbing his hands in anxiety.

When they learned she was ranked as a librarian they gave her brief tips of the head, so she guessed they stood somewhere above librarians.

“A half-council is already in session and the agenda is full,” stamped Ansab.

“But she is an ambassador.”

“Ah, but not from an acknowledged state! Remember what happened when that churl arrived claiming to represent the Moon King of Gaiyai!”

“Pleasant fellow,” Paffle said. “Well spoken. Always made me laugh.”

“Ate in half the Directory’s houses and borrowed money from the other half, then fsssst!” Ansab’s meaty arm shot out and up.

“I’ve no intention of committing a fsssst,” Wistala said.

“Oh, no no no!” Paffle said, shrinking like a worm caught in the sun. “We never meant to suggest—well. I do apologize, librarian. Oh, dear.”

“Perhaps in twomonth,” Ansab said. “There’s a meeting of the Directory. You can get on the agenda for that, though I warn you, a quarter-Directory’s decision can only be ratified by a meeting of the full Directory, and you can’t imagine how busy those are.”

“Are you at war or aren’t you? I come to offer help,” said Wistala.

“Oh, dear! Another warmonger,” Paffle groaned, scabbing at the sides of his head as though to protect his ears from an unpleasant noise. “The Directory is divided already.”

“It’s all a matter of commerce. Once the question of use of the Falnges is settled, matters will calm down,” Ansab said.

“But suppose they aren’t settled?”

“Doom, doom, doom,” the librarian put in. “It’s been foretold every generation. Those dragon-riders, for example. Supposed to burn the city to the foundation. Every refugee coming in had a worse story. But they never came. I always said there was never anything to those stories, but people would rather alarm themselves. It settled itself down and the doomsayers found a new object of anxiety.”

“May I speak to the Directory or not?” Wistala asked, eyeing the cording stitched about Ansab’s robe. He had silver and gold rope-work decorating his cloak.

“Oh, of course you may speak,” Ansab said. “As a Hypatian citizen and a librarian you have every right to speak to the Directory. I’ll have you on the agenda in no more than sixmonth.”

“I thought you said two?”

“That’s for an uncredentialed ambassador. Sixmonth is as a Hypatian librarian. If she still is a librarian,” he added, eyeing the head librarian. “I don’t know what librarian policies are for dividing allegiance. We optimates ensure that affairs of Directory are run smoothly and fairly, and such matters fall outside our province.”

“Good. I need an expert to explain all this to my Tyr,” Wistala said. She reached out and picked Ansab up by his robes. “I’m taking you because you show some fat on you,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “I’m afraid that thin one will perish in the cold at the higher altitudes.”

“Wha—Put me down!” Ansab squawked. “Help! Paffle!”

Wistala thought he smelled like a wet chicken.

“Oh, dear,” Paffle said. “If you’re going to carry someone off, couldn’t you just grab an arbiter? They’re more accustomed to travel.”

“Paffle!”

Wistala gave her wings an experimental beat and Ansab screamed. “Don’t worry. It’s just four or five hard days to the Lavadome. You won’t lose too many toes.”

“L-Lavadome?” Ansab asked.

“Yes.”

“I thought that was a myth,” the head librarian said.

“No, it’s where the Tyr lives,” Wistala said. “He always has room on his agenda. I just hope he’s in a good mood when I have to explain why threescore dragons wasted their time coming to save your miserable hide.”

“Are there really demen with whips?” Paffle asked, looking livelier than he had the whole conversation. “Hold your temper, Ansab, old fellow. A full court bow would be best. You’ll be the laughing-stock of the baths if you’re all striped from the lash.”

“Shut up, you old fool,” Ansab shouted. “We’ll put you on this afternoon’s agenda. Just put me down!”

“Thank you,” Wistala said. “I doubt that fine robe would have held you the whole way.”

Ansab plucked at a bit of torn cording. “It’s ruined as is.”

“Oh, that was wonderful,” Paffle said. “I’ll buy you a new robe, and count the price cheap in return for the entertainment.”

“Your librarians should have better manners,” Ansab said, glowering at the head librarian.

“She is a dragon, optimate. She’s something of a librarian-at-large. It’s Thallia’s doing, anyway. They just use naming a dragon among their staff as a way to raise funds. Never fails to impress the patrons when they read out her account of the Wheel of Fire-Varvar war. I hope I do not give offense, Wistala.”

“I labored hard over that account,” Wistala said. “I’m glad it’s of some use.”

They brought Wistala up the high road, which ran through the city between the old gates and the Ziggurat. A sort of mobile crowd followed, being dribbled away from and added to as they passed up the elevated road.

It was a pleasant walk. The high road ran two or three humans high most of the way and was flanked by columns with statues of the great figures of Hypatia. Wistala saw bearded dwarves with modest visors partly shielding their faces, elves with victory garlands growing in their hair, and men. There was even a blighter carrying a hammer and chisel.

“Doklahk, a celebrated stonemason,” the head librarian said as he walked next to her, following the optimates. Evidently his duties at the library school weighed lightly enough so he could come to the Directory and watch events.

She wondered if Rainfall’s grandsire was among the statues.

Flanking the high road were two streams of flowing water. Smaller channels and even pipes diverted the flow off among the rooftops to other quarters of the city.

“Hypat is a city of baths and gardens,” Paffle said, puffing even on such a slight incline. “You need a good deal of water for either.”

“Water!” Ansab said. “Any beaver can claim the same level of civilization. Lamps are the glory of Hypatia. Two thousand public lamps, twice that about private domiciles, and a whaling fleet to keep them lit.”

“They’re both wrong,” the head librarian whispered. “Courts where citizens can get a fair hearing and criminals a fair punishment—that’s our glory. The Ghioz, whom all seem to praise for their vigor in war and commerce, know only the rich man’s law, where wealth and justice are one.”