The Night of the Swarm

37

The Editor Pauses For a Drink

My time has come; my inkwell runs dry. This hand is a paw once more. When I gnaw through the string that holds the quill in place, I will not be able to tie it again. The voyage of the Chathrand ends, and with it my voyage in human form.

I have shrunk, too: no longer can I reach the tower window. But the sounds from the courtyard reach me better than ever: the roar of the students (they have rallied to the Fulbreech Society), the shouts of the Academy Police, the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, the murmur of the swelling mob. The Academy’s donors are here for their conference, and are witnessing the scene. I have caused a scandal. I have spent their money on something other than the greater glory of the Academy.

Here at last is the final sound: a battle on the staircase, harsh cries from the flikkermen, steel against steel. There are eight stone floors between us, yet. I cannot tell who is storming the tower: my allies, or the chancellor’s thugs? Are they coming to carry off my manuscript or consign it to the fire? Will history be rescued or erased this day?

Allies or enemies, they will find no mad professor here. Only his clothes, and his gold spectacles, and a black rat named Felthrup Stargraven. I see him now, his face reflected in the dish of water from which I drink. He has been swimming a long time. He has spent their gold on truth, to which no glory attaches, now or ever. He has tried to rescue the past as a gift to the future, and he only hopes the gift will suffice. Take it, Alifros. Call it my parting prayer.

Ah, but the battle is still raging, and the words still come. Let us play a game, shall we? Let us see how far I can get.