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..."
"Will she behave herself?" Astinus demanded,
regarding Nikol dubiously.
"She will," said Michael. "Put your sword away, dear."
"You're all mad!" muttered Nikol,
staring from one to the other.
Michael lifted his eyebrows. "Humor the old man," he
said silently.
Nikol sighed, slid her sword in its sheath. The monk,
Malachai, was sitting on the floor, his hand still clasped
over the hilt of the sword.
Astinus led them out of the room, into the main portion
of the library. He walked at a leisurely, unhurried pace,
pointing out this section and that as they passed. Outside
they could hear the mob gathering its courage. Smoke,
drifting in through the broken window, hung ominously in
the still air.
Michael moved as if in a dream. Nothing seemed real.
Inside the library, all was as quiet, calm, and unperturbed as
Astinus himself. Occasionally, they caught sight of some
monk running down a hallway, a scared look on his face,
some precious volume clutched in his arms. At the sight of
the master, however, the monk would skid to a halt. Eyes
lowered before Astinus's frown, the monk would proceed at
a decorous walk.
They passed from what Astinus said were the public
reading rooms, through a small hallway, up two flights of
stairs, into the private section of the library. Here, at high
desks, perched on tall stools, some of the Aesthetics sat at
their work, pens scratching, a ghastly counterpoint to the
roaring outside. But a few had left their work, were
clustered in a frightened knot at one of the windows, staring
down at the mob below
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