It is with great despondence we mourn the closing of Babar Books. It seemed only right to write
something for them. This piece honours their thirty years of service.
Baleigh’s Books: the New National Library
It was early when the commander roused herself from a restless sleep and went down to the
kitchen. Hardly anyone was out to see the first of the season’s frosts melt against the morning, the short
grass in the far field blanketed with an opalescent sheen, but she knew her father and the twins and
anyone else belonging to the agrarian set should be well awake and walking amongst the berimed rows
at such an hour.
The light from the servants’ hall was soon extinguished as the sun rose above the horizon, the
kettle was filled and the tea sachets laid out, the ovens and the range were lit, and Boudicca sat at the
table, content to admire the ascendance of an autumnian sun, while her mate and his father walked
along the line of the wood in the near distance, preparing for all the difficulties and delights of an early
morning hunt. The tranquility of the scene, the altering hues of aurora, the fritinancy of nature’s first
wakefulness, the small sounds of the keep in the early hours all recommended that despite what the
evening had been, the morning promised all the glamour of a glorious day. Martje and Shayne, who
entered the kitchen after the commander had poured her tea and sat down again, were agreed with
her, that the day should provide all the equanimity that the party were wanting, and were ready to glory
in so pleasant a prospect, when Pastaddams suddenly entered from the hall with a copy of the Frewyn
Herald in his hand. He was looking rather pale, his manner was vexed, and he was brandishing the paper
with all the fury of a mind very much distressed.
“I know we do not usually read this poorly written bilge,” said Pastaddams, hastening toward
the table, “but look here at what is printed.”
He placed the paper onto the table and went to sit at the counter, whilst everyone concerned
loomed over the Frewyn Herald and began to study it.
“Baleigh’s Books is going out of business,” said Pastaddams, before anyone could finish the first
passage, “and after thirty years—I am an absolute wreck over it. That paper was dropped at my door not
twenty minutes ago, and I have been in a panic ever since.” He took the cup of tea Martje offered him,
and he sipped and sighed. “How could they do it?” he lamented, languishing over the counter. “I had
always thought they were going on so well—they must have been, to be in business so long. Three
generations that shop has been in the Baleigh family. I know Mr Baleigh personally. I see the man every
month to receive my shipment of books from Marridon. Never had he given any hint of their being in
trouble-- they cannot go out of business! I have been getting my Tales of Intrigues from them—and
indeed, getting all my books from them—for the last thirty years. It is impossible! It cannot happen. It is
shameful and unpardonable that such an institution of this capital must go. And they will not be moving,
as I thought they might be. Mr Baleigh says in the commentary that he is closing forever and sending all
his stock away. This must not be. Something must be done. I cannot believe this. It is too terrible, just
too terrible…”
He gave a sharp exhale, and Martje said a kindhearted, “There, there, now,” as she placed a
small slice of leftover crumble before him
Boudicca took the paper from the table and applied herself to it. “I remember when Alasdair
and I stopped there during out first patrol after we came back from the north,” said she, in a reverie.
“Old Mrs Baleigh was standing outside, and she gave Alasdair a copy of the latest Tales of Intrigues as a
gift for his patronage.” A weak smile succeeded here, and she grew concerned. “Has Alasdair seen this?“
“I can only imagine not, commander,” Pastaddams replied. “I should have heard him shouting
from the latrine, if he had read this frustraneous bumfodder during his usual time.”
“I daresay he used it for just that,” Boudicca laughed.
Jaicobh and Sheamus came in through the larder door, talking of the brassica beds and of their
needing to be harvested now that the first frost was come, but when they entered the kitchen and
noted the dismal looks and downcast eyes, they quieted and moved toward the table with chary steps.
“What is it, darlin’?” said Jaicobh, sidling her. The paper was offered him, and after he had read
headline to himself and tootled through the article, a drawn out sigh escaped him. “Bhi Borras, another
one,” said he, his shoulders wilting. “Seems all ‘em old business are shuttin’ down these days. First
Foleigh’s, then Rab’s paper mill, now thissun here. Shame of it,” shaking his head, “but what can you
do?”
“How’s it happened?” said Shayne. “Some bastard baron from Marridon buyin’ out the place
and gonna make one of ‘em new apartment schemes with it?”
“No,” said Boudicca, “some Marridon bastard already owns it and is going to sell it, probably to
someone as you describe.”
“Ach, abhaile,” Shayne grunted, tossing his hat down on the table. “I know the Majesty’s got
rules in place so no foreigners can’t buy up all the land and property and do what with it, but why they
gotta take down the shoppe? Sure, sell the buildin’ if they’re wantin’, but leave the shoppe there. Don’t
make no sense not to if they’re makin’ money.”
“I agree with you, Shayne, but landlords will do what they like, whether it be a good idea or no.”
Shayne grumbled something about Marridon businessmen being in a hurry to ruin many things,
but a few raised brows and inquiring looks silenced him. “Aye, I know,” he sighed, “we’re friends and
neighbours and such. I’m just angry about it and needin’ somethin’ to say. Don’t mind me none,” and he
sat beside Jaicobh, humphing into his teacup and glunching over the breakfast Martje had just placed
before him, and was miserable.
Presently, Alasdair entered the kitchen with Searle. They had been talking of having Blinne and
Peigi help Harrigh with the coming harvest, as his eyesight was diminishing and the aches in his joins
growing more painful with the cold weather coming on. Searle left his sire on the threshold for the
garden, and Alasdair was prepared to wish everyone a pleasant morning and begin the day, when
Pastaddams’ despondent looks caught his eye. Alasdair turned toward the table, and upon finding
everyone indulging in sobering feelings, he grew anxious and hastened farther into the room. “What’s
happened? Someone tell me.”
Boudicca gave him the copy of the Herald, and as he read the front page, his usually affability
diminished, his aspect grew sullen and severe, and a disquieting air reigned over the room. He was
silent, and went to sit at the counter, his mind fraught with the agonies of childhood enjoyments and
adolescent comforts being gradually erased..
“I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been there over the course of my life,” said he
dejectedly. “They opened only a little after I was born. My grandfather would order all our books from
that shoppe.” He glanced at the paper on the counter, stared at it without reading the words, and hung
his head. “It feels as though a some part of my life is ending, and it is really. I was just there before we
left for Bramlae. It seems impossible that it is going.” He heaved a heavy sigh and effected to smile.
“Well, I’m glad we got to share that place with the children. I’m only sad that they won’t be able to
share it with their children—oh, what am I talking about? This is abominable!” he cried, standing from
his seat and shaking his fists. “Absolutely horrendous! I cannot believe it—they are the only bookstore in
the whole of the market district! What will be do for new books now? They had everything—
everything!—and what they did not have, they could always find. Vyrdin absolutely loved that place—
oh, no…” A sudden horror prevailed, and Alasdair glanced frantically around the room. “Does Vyrdin
know about this?”
“It is General Vyrdin, sire,” said Pastaddams. “He probably knew about it before it was
announced.”
“I daresay he is plotting an assassination with Teague as we speak,” said Boudicca, smiling.
Alasdair began pacing. “I hope Brigdan is with him to keep him from doing something he will
regret—what am I saying? Vyrdin won’t regret saving a bookstore, especially if he has to kill a few
people to do it, and Dobhin would certainly help him. I hope Brigdan and Gaumhin are with him. And
Bryeison. No, Bryeison is probably with my father, keeping him from helping Vyrdin.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do, Alasdair? It seems too bad just to let it go like this.”
“I don’t know,” said Alasdair, with a wearied look. “If the building is privately owned by a foreign
company, we might not be able to do anything. Why they’re closing makes little sense to me. Simply sell
the building, leave the business there, and collect part of the revenue.”
“See?” Shayne cried, stabbing a finger in the air. “The Majesty agrees with me!”
“It makes the best business sense for an overseas investor to allow a profitable business to
continue as it is. It is easy money. Does the article say whether the building was built by a Marridonian
company?”
“Here, at the bottom.”
Alasdair examined where the commander pointed, and his brow furrowed.
“Well, the kingdom cannot condemn it and reclaim it, even if he sells it only to have it sit vacant.
It is technically not Frewyn property, since he bought all the necessary permits to build it, and it’s not
arable land, so the crown cannot seize it as part of the farmer’s agreement. If there were a crime
committed there, we could overtake it—no, Boudicca,” said Alasdair, giving her a fierce look, “I’m not
going to allow Vyrdin to do it,” and in a quiet voice, he added, “…despite how much I might want him to
just now. And the worst of it is, this is all legal. It is fair that he paid for the permits and paid for the
building’s construction, but it’s unfair that he will be ruining a family business.” He sat and stared at the
front page of the paper, and after canting his head and humming in deliberation, he asked, “How much
is the owner expecting for the building?
“Five hundred thousand goldweight.”
“By the Gods,” Alasdair exclaimed. “That’s more than some of the landed estates in Setshire. No
one in Frewyn is going to pay that.”
“Sadly, I think that is rather the point, Alasdair,” said Boudicca. “They know no one will put forth
that kind of money to save that building, and the new Marridon owners will turn it into whatever they
like, if they get no better offer. Would that there were some way we could all gather our money and buy
the place ourselves. I know Pastaddams should give his left hand to save it.”
“You wager my livelihood, commander,” said Pastaddams, and then, staring at the counter,
gaping at his morbid reflection, “I should give you my left hand and a few fingers on my right to save
that place. I’ve never seen that amount of gold in my life, though His Majesty does pay me very well.”
“I don’t think any of us have,” said Boudicca, “and I daresay that even with all of our assets, we
should only collect a mere ten thousand between us.”
“The treasury has well over the asking price,” Alasdair mused.
“It might do, but the kingdom cannot buy it with tax collection, if the building is not a Frewyn
public property.”
“No, it cannot. Well, it could, but it would be for a selfish purpose, which I’m not justified in
doing.”
There was a pause, the whole of the kitchen slumped into dismal haze, everyone speaking with
look rather than word all the wretchedness they felt. Shayne gloomed over his breakfast, Jaicobh
admired his coffee without any inclination to drink it, Martje made a few hems over the destiny of the
bread she had just taken from the oven, which no body had any ambition for, and Pastaddams lurched
sepulcheringly over a slice of apple crumble that not even Alasdair was interested in. It was all
melancholy and desperation, and appetites lay dormant, plates sat empty, cups clinked in tintinnabular
gloom, and not even the sound of the children running about outside with Hathanta and Baronous could
cheer them. It was an indelible disgrace: the capital’s most beloved bookstore would close, and there
was nothing anyone could do to save it-“Except,” said Alasdair, his features suddenly brightening, “if the kingdom buys it and turns it
into a public property.”
Ears perked and eyes rose in interest, and everyone looked expectantly at the king, who was
standing and davering the length of the kitchen, his head bent in earnest consideration.
“What kind of public property, sire?” asked Pastaddams.
“If the kingdom turns it into a library, it might be done,” Alasdair continued, his spirits rising.
“We can have the bookstore remain where it is at the front, and there can be a lending library at the
back, and no one need lose anything.”
The glimmer in Pastaddam’s eyes dance about. “Really, sire?”
“I’ll have to speak to Aldus and Ros about it, but if we claim it as an educational expense, and do
it by not taking away money from any of the other public programmes, I think we could manage it—
well, we can try, at least.”
Pastaddams was instantly in raptures, and after receiving everyone’s warm approbation for the
scheme, Alasdair went down to the treasury, whereupon he found Aldus at his desk, scribbling away at
some hideous calculation, Ros taking down a few of the safe boxes in one corner, and Aghatha kneeling
over the arras, brushing it through with a treatment of soapwort.
Alasdair stopped when he came to the threshold and walked around her. “Was my father here
recently?”
Aldus’ pen paused, and the ancient treasurer glared at him from over his spectacles. “How did
you guess, Your Majesty?” said he flatly.
“Was he here about the bookstore?”
“Tell meh yeh savin’ it, Majesteh,” said Aghatha, standing and wringing her hands in
supplication. “Ay can’t imagine goin’ teh town and not seein’ the place.”
Alasdair put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll do what we can, Aghatha,” was his gentle assurance.
“Since you are come about the business with Baleigh’s, Your Majesty,” said Aldus, flicking
through his papers, “I might as well tell you: the treasury can spare the sum of five hundred thousand
goldweight, if we devoted the chief of the costs to public works.”
“Are you certain, Aldus? That is an inordinate amount of money for one building.”
“It is, but it is a necessity, and any extenuation might be made for such a venture.” Aldus
removed his spectacles . “I have purchased every single one of Ros’ books there from the time she was
six years old.” He paused, and a grave look passed across his face. “I will not allow such a commodity to
be squelched by foreign investors. I do not care how much we charge them for building permits, and I do
not care how legal it is. I would put a tax on their heads if it meant they should keep away from Frewynrun businesses.” He replaced his glasses and continued writing. “Ros, my dear, can you bring me down
the education ledger? And the charitable donations, if you please.”
All the accounts that Aldus requested were conveyed to his desk, and after a few further
calculations and a hour spent exchanging and maneuvering funds from one account to the other, the
five hundred thousand goldweight entire was accounted for. The ledger for the sum was drawn up, the
necessary withdrawals were made, Rosamound had written out all the specifications, and when Aldus
had read everything through, he turned the proposal toward the king and said, “If you would just sign
here, Your Majesty, and place the Sovereign’s Seal in this corner, I will quietly contact the owner of the
building and make the purchase.”
The ledger was signed and sealed, and in what seemed the work on an instant, the landlord
agreed to the kingdom’s terms. A steward from Farriage was sent, the document was signed, the
purchase was made, and the deed was relinquished, and Aldus had all the pleasure of reneging building
permits whilst Alasdair went to pay a visit to Baleigh’s Books.
Old Mr Baleigh was standing at the register, adding up what was to be the last of his sennight
sums, whilst his wife and their children were walking up and down the spiral stairs, bringing down all the
books shelved along the highest row. Boxes lined the floor, packing paper and ribbons were strewn
about, sale signs cluttered the windows, the dust of thirty years hung lifeless in shafts of morning light,
the gilding of perfectly prim pages shone incanescent, the shriek of rolling ladders mourned in perennial
soliloquy. The gentle peal of the bell at the top of the door caromed throughout the shoppe, and the
Baleigh family turned to find King Alasdair approaching the counter. Time moved in a slow bustle,
feelings of confusion accompanied the animation and clamour of standing before the king. Everything
was to be done in a hurry: Mrs Baleigh whispered to her children in a feverish hush, demanding they run
and put on their aprons and return with their best smiles, whilst Mr Baleigh bowed and welcomed
Alasdair to their establishment.
“Majesty,” said Mr Baleigh, with all the grandeur that his anguish and astonishment would
allow, “come for the new Tales of Intrigues? Pastaddams wouldn’t share it with you, I expect? I cannot
say I am surprised. It really is one of their best. Dashing captains and daring duels and forbidden
romance, and all that. Amazing to me that after all these years, they still are so well written. A rarity in
romance literature these days, I’m afraid.”
A short silence succeeded, and the king’s sanguine expression made Mr Baleigh uneasy.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the news, Majesty,” said Mr Baleigh, drumming his fingers along the
counter, his eyes low.
“I did, and I’ve come to wish you joy,” Alasdair proudly announced.
Mr Baleigh was a little shaken here. “Joy, Majesty?” He floddered and fumbled with his
spectacles, and looked as though he did not understand him.
“Well, you have a new landlord.”
Mr Baleigh glanced anxiously at his wife. “Do we, Majesty? I thought that was to be settled at
the end of the month.”
“I decided to settle it now. I never like having anything long in hand if I can help it.”
Alasdair placed a small cylinder on the counter and opened it as Mrs Baleigh attached herself to
her husband. A carefully rolled contract was unfurled and laid out and presented to the Mr and Mrs as
their children came toward the counter.
“The kingdom decided to act in the best interests of the business,” said Alasdair, with eager
exultation. “In thirty years, this bookstore has become a Diras landmark and a Frewyn institution, and it
isn’t right that it should be Marridon owned. The kingdom has reneged the building rights it once gave
to the builders, paid for the lot, and,” his countenance crimsoning in unabashed elation, “I am your new
landlord.”
“What--?” Mrs Baleigh aspirated, her voice faltering.
“How--?” Mr Baleigh breathed, gawping at the contract. “How can this be…?”
The Baleigh children attacked one another with exulting embraces, leaping up and down and
ululating in unbridled ecstasy, while the Mr and Mrs read over the paper in their hands: it was a copy of
a deed, one marking out their building as now being reserved for a public enterprise owned by the
crown. The Brennin seal was pressed fresh into the corner, the marks of the treasurer, steward, and king
ornamented the bottom, and everything was all arranged and settled and signed. The kingdom had
acted for them, their sovereign had saved their business, but how it was all done, how everything had
gone from the announcement of their removal until the king’s arrival was yet unintelligible. With an
astonishment that Mr Baleigh could hardly restrain, he showed the deed to his wife and children, who
were already looking it over and reading it aloud.
“The rent will be just the same,” said Alasdair, “so there should be no change for you in that
respect.”
“But, Majesty!” Mr Baleigh cried, when he could speak, his hands tremulous, his spirit oppressed
by the force of such munificence. “How is it possible? How was it all done?”
“We were able to buy the property with the stipulation that at least part of this venture would
be for public use. We are reopening this shoppe as the new national library,” said Alasdair, with a
triumphant gesture. “You can keep it as Baleigh’s Books, of course. It will be only the new national
library on paper, and a small portion of the shoppe will have to be put aside for lending. I know the
national library is in Farriage, but we thought a branch might be opened here. You may keep your
shoppe as it is. You might even add to it now that it is public property. You can appeal to the kingdom to
have it expanded after a time, and since it is a kingdom run operation, you won’t have to pay property
taxes, and you can live here and run it just as you are now. A small portion of what you make will have
to go to the library, but that can be written of as a donation, which will count toward your income taxes
at the end of the year.”
The Baleigh’s were silent throughout this speech, the children suffering under all the pleasure of
relief, and Mr and Mrs Baleigh struck with all the exultation of having what they had resigned as lost
now so suddenly restored.
“Oh, and since part of the funding for the project came from the foundation,” Alasdair
continued, “you receive this.” He took a small plaque from his pocket and turned it to face them. “This
will show the shoppe’s status as part of the crown conglomerate. That means you may invite book
groups here, have reading programmes, and perform any of the community services which a library
provides. You can even hold events at the expense of the kingdom, if the situation calls for it. I’m sure
there are many who would love to join a winter reading haul. I’ll gladly be your first member once you
are well settled. Well,” moving to go, “I’ll give you a moment to enjoy your new enterprise.”
He turned, and before the Baleigh’s could offer a word of thanks, the bell atop the door rang
and echoed, the dust of thirty years rattled, and the king was gone. His work had been done, and he left
the high street in all the exuberance that being in his situation must give, for being in a position to help
his kingdom was all Alasdair had ever aspired to. He was glad it might be done, glad he could salvage a
glorious institution from the wreck of dividends and unfeeling affairs. Baleigh’s belonged to Frewyn, and
now it was a place that no landlord could touch, no businessman abuse, and he glanced back through
the window in time to discover all the sensations of first recognition, the unmitigated familial felicity
whose upheaval was overturned, whose fated was unfixed. Alasdair had a moment’s fear that the owner
of the building would not accept the offer that was made, but as Aldus had sent it through with a note
from his office, that the kingdom of Frewyn should be very much obliged if this property was handed
over to the crown, and with pointed attention relayed how eminent such a business was and how very
much loved by the king and all his set it was, the owner was very persuadable, and all Alasdair
apprehensions had been thoroughly done away. The building belonged to the crown, the Baleigh family
and their books would be a Frewyn heritage, and Alasdair danced back to the keep, his heart reveling in
all the goodwill that his regal powers could supply.
His walk, however, was stopped by a sudden shadow that darted out of the adjacent alley. He
moved in time to miss the first assault, but swiftly stepped to the side and raised his hands to catch the
second. The second, however, never came: the shadow moved to the sunlight, the hood of a black cloak
was pulled back, and a familiar bearded face was before him.
“By the Gods-- Vyrdin!” Alasdair panted, lowering his hands.
Vyrdin’s beard shifted, hinting a smile. “You still remember your training.”
Alasdair exhaled and raised his hand to his brow. “Between you and Rautu—both of you always
creeping about—I know it is your job, Vyrdin but—“ A sudden notion struck him. “Why are you here?
You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”
“I was going to,” said Vyrdin unaffectedly. “Rosamound asked me to come see you first.”
“Good, I’m glad she did.” Alasdair peered around him. “Where is my father?”
“Bryeison is holding him captive. They’re with Brigdan and Dobhin at the garrison. And Gaumhin
is consoling his husband.”
“They should be rejoicing. Well, we had better tell everyone the good news and get on with the
day. I still have a full morning of court to go through.”
Alasdair stepped toward the street again, but a hand on his shoulder stopped and compelled
him to turn back. Vrydin was regarding him with a sincere aspect, the bend of his brow conveying an
indebtedness that Alasdair could not but recognize under the fulmination of grey curls.
“Thank you,” was Vrydin’s artless appreciation.
Alasdair smiled. “Thank Count Rosse.”
“Rosse?”
“It is principally his tax money that went to fund the purchase. Aldus always divides it between
education and public works when its collected. He just put it back together.”
Vyrdin considered how much he loved his father-in-law just now. “Does Rosse know?”
“No, and Aldus has made it so he will absolutely never find out.”
They walked back to the keep together, each of them gratulating in all the happiness that
thwarting Count Rosse could furnish, and when they came to the front gate, where Mureadh was just
coming to his morning post, Alasdair turned back to Vyrdin and said a quiet, “Thank you for not killing
anybody.”
“I would have made it quiet.”
“I know you would have. You might love Ros and Brigdan and all of us, but we all know you are
married to your library.”
“Depriving a community of their right to read is an injustice I would gladly go to Karnwyl for.”
“I would have just opened the castle library to the public, you know.”
“It’s not the same as owning a book.”
“You hardly let anyone touch yours.”
“Which is why it’s not the same as owning a book.” Here was a side glance from Vyrdin. “I have
first editions your grandfather gave me. Those are not to be allowed out of my room.”
“I’ve always considered myself fortunate that you’ve allowed me to near them at least—wait,”
said Alasdair, peering into the gallery and toward the arena. “Where is Teague?”
Vyrdin’s brow arched. “How do you think we got the Marridon owner to sign his building rights
over to the kingdom so quickly?”
Alasdair held his head in his hands. “Please tell me he did not torture him.”
“I told him to be judicious and only to show his knives, not to use them.”
“Well, I suppose that is some relief.”
They went on in the same style, moving by gentle gradations toward the kitchen, where
everyone was gathered to hear that Baleigh’s Books should remain open as part of the new national
library and should be a pillar of scholarship in the kingdom’s capital for as long as the crown was its
benefactor. Draeden and Bryeison praised Alasdair’s benevolence and Aldus’ thoughtfulness, and
everyone agreed that the generations of Frewyn’s readers should laud the Brennin virtues, a family
which stood for being the friend of education, the aegis of literacy, and the sentry of pedantic pursuits.
It was Brigdan who offered the highest commendation: his grandfather, the great advocate of literacy
and education, should be proud of him, and while everyone went off in high good humour to begin their
work for the day, Alasdair, Brigdan, and Vyrdin went to the treasury, to say a word of thanks to Aldus,
each of them, together with Bryeison and Draeden, in the full conviction that while there was wealth
enough to furnish the kingdom in the treasury, the currency on which the kingdom depended was its
literary stores.