Lisette (Atheneum Dungeon receptionist) Part 1 (Patreon)

Lisette slid the borrowing card back into its sleeve in the front of The Alderman’s Guide to Bacon and smiled at Linseed, who was shifting nervously from foot to foot in front of her desk. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” she asked, gently.

The gnomeling bit his lip. “Eh, no?”

Lifting the book, Lisette looked down the textblock. Subtle smudges marred what should have been crisp, sharp pages. Without lifting her head, she shifted her gaze to meet Linseed’s and lifted a brow. “Are you quite certain?”

Linseed’s shoulders slumped. “Well, I was trying to-”

A loud BONG rang through the Dungeon, and both gnomes looked up. Lisette tsked, and said, “We’ll let it go this time, but no more eating while you’re reading, Linseed! This is your last warning! Next time, I’m going to have to go to the Head Librarian.”

The boy’s throat bobbed, and he nodded before scampering off through the portal beside her desk, which shimmered and vanished as soon as the young gnome passed through.

Lisette picked up the ostrich feather that she used as a quill and set the tip to parchment just as the broad double doors at the end of the atrium swung wide. She felt a little thrill run through her, as it always did when they had a new supplicant. Not that whoever it was would probably like being referred to as a supplicant, but that was what the Master of the original Dungeon had called them, and the Head Librarian liked to keep them as close to their roots as possible.

Beneath the desk, she closed her left hand on the poniard she kept beneath the desk, though her right hand never stopped moving the quill as though she were writing. She flicked a glance at the little mirror set into the desktop, which caught the reflection from another mirror that allowed her to see who had entered the dungeon.

It was the snake.

Again.

Lisette sighed and looked up, laying her quill down gently beside the parchment, which was still completely blank. She never actually set ink to the pen until the supplicant made their request, but they didn’t know that. To them, it looked like she was writing with invisible ink, or perhaps the ink was only visible to her. Or so she hoped.

As the snake flew closer, its rainbow wings moving so quickly they barely seemed to be moving at all, Lisette reached under the desk and took out her hat. She wasn’t that much of a traditionalist, having spent most of her life pretending to be Human, but some situations just called for a Hat. Settling the tall, pointed chapeau on her head, she looked at the serpent.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she told it, “but we still don’t have a translator available for you.”

And that was embarrassing. They were supposed to be able to speak the language of all the beasts and beings who roamed the earth. It was written into the essence of the dungeon itself. And yet, somehow, this snake could not be understood. Which implied that it came from somewhere beyond the earth, but it was still an unprecedented and unacceptable circumstance.

The snake landed on the desk, and bobbed its head. It understood her just fine, obviously. In fact, it was noticeably more intelligent than it had been the first time it came into the dungeon, which was several months ago now.

Rouge, the Traveler girl, still liked to come in just to read the books, and the Head Librarian allowed it, since she had been a friend and a helper before they left Bright, though he had made it clear that if she wished to ask a question, she would have to go through the same process as anyone else. After the first time the snake came, Lisette had carefully asked if anyone new had recently come to Refuge. There had been a long list, but among them was a Traveler woman named Aria, who had a flying snake.

Fortunately, the snake was quite distinctive, and it liked to play with the bat, Silus, so it hadn’t been difficult to steer the garrulous girl toward the topic. Unfortunately, the Aria woman seemed both busy and reclusive, so Rouge knew very little about her, but the serpent spent quite a bit of time with Silus, who spent quite a bit of time with Rouge and Aspen, which probably explained the snake’s intellectual evolution.

This was a phenomenon the Head Librarian had noted, and Lisette was fairly certain he was writing a treatise on it. The Head Librarian had, of course, known Aspen since the mage came to Bright as a boy, but something had changed after Aspen was nearly killed by Akuji. The Head Librarian didn’t know what caused it, but he did know that when Aspen spent more time around the people and creatures of this world, they, too, began to change, though more subtly than Aspen himself had done. Thus, the Head Librarian had been fascinated to note the development of the snake who now gazed at Lisette with expectation in its crystalline eyes.

Sighing, Lisette lifted her quill again and thought about the Head Librarian in a very particular way. Using sweeping strokes, she dragged the nib over the parchment, and glowing golden letters appeared, though she still hadn’t dipped it into the pot of ink that sat on her desk.

SHE’S BACK.

The portal shimmered into existence beside her, and the snake’s wings hummed to life, lifting it from the mahogany surface on which it was coiled. Darting forward, the serpent crossed through the bubble-thin film, which did not pop.

“Are you coming?” The Head Librarian’s peevish voice emerged from the portal, and Lisette blinked.

Hopping down from her too-tall seat, she scampered toward the diaphanous doorway much as young Linseed had done only a few minutes earlier.

The Head Librarian’s desk was buried as deeply as ever, and she could only tell where he was because of the tall blue hat protruding from behind the apparently precarious towers of paper. Lisette knew perfectly well that the Head Librarian knew exactly what every page contained, and where it was, but it still made her fingers twitch with the urge to sort it all.

“Astral,” the Head Librarian said, triumphantly. His chair creaked, and his hat bobbed as he stepped away from the mess he called a filing system. When he emerged from behind a teetering tower of tomes, he was holding a book nearly as large as he was. He squinted at a page, then toward the hovering serpent, and hissed something in an interrogative tone.

The snake visibly recoiled, wings mantling. Its head wove back and forth as its tongue flickered. Hesitantly, it hissed in return.

The Head Librarian cleared his throat, looking a bit abashed. “Said that wrong, did I?” he mumbled, tapping a page almost nervously. “Intonation is off. Not like one speaks to divine creatures every day, hmm?”

Muttering to himself, he flipped through a few more pages, frowned, and ventured another hiss. This time he must have pronounced it correctly, because the snake’s head bobbed up and down vigorously.

With the look of a man who has solved a great mystery, the Head Librarian smiled. “She’s trying to locate a missing person. Someone her mistress has… misplaced?” The smile morphed to a frown, and he ventured another hiss. A brief exchange of vocalizations followed, and the Head Librarian looked conflicted.

“Lost,” he said, “or dead, I think. But also not dead? There’s some nuance I’m missing, but perhaps this is enough.” He moved toward the pedestal in the center of the room. The area around it was the only reliably clear space, and on top of it sat exactly one book. The book was bound in some kind of rich, black leather, and glistening gold letters in a language only the Head Librarian could read decorated the outside.

The Head Librarian trailed his fingers over the closed pages, head tilted as if he was listening to something. His finger paused, moved on, went back, and then opened the book, letting the front cover fall to the velvet-covered surface of the pedestal with a soft thump. His eyes flickered over the page thus revealed, and his frown deepened.

Making soft thinking noises, the Head Librarian read two, then three pages, and Lisette felt a chill run down her back. She didn’t often see this part of a request, but she knew it rarely took more than a few paragraphs to lay out the requirements and the reward once a question was asked.

Looking up, the Head Librarian said, “You understand this language, correct?”

The serpent nodded.

“Then I’ll explain here, so I’m certain there’s no misunderstanding. Simply put,” he drew in a fortifying breath, “the Atheneum Dungeon cannot answer your question.”

Lisette felt the blood drain from her face. Answering questions, fulfilling requests, that was what the Dungeon did. It was their function, and if they couldn’t complete it, what would the consequences be?

“Therefore,” the Head Librarian went on, “we entreat you to choose another question. Something within our power, which is considerable, but not unlimited.”

The snake drooped. Her whole body sank lower in clear dejection, and the hiss she released contained a cornucopia of resignation. Silence stretched as she hovered, clearly thinking, until she ventured another hiss, then another, and a third.

The Head Librarian brightened. His finger traced down the pages of the book, flipping to another one as his eyes scanned the letters written there. Smiling, he said, “That, we can do.” He turned to Lisette. “Her challenges are thus: First, to find a green feather, not more than two inches long, and not less than one and a half. Second, to fill an acorn with the sap of a Caulobact tree. Third, to gather two petals of a Greater Buttercup.”

Before he could say more, the snake dropped to the floor, her head twisting into the depths of her own rainbow wings. She hissed sharply, and when she pulled her head back, a single green feather was clasped in her scaly mouth. She opened her mouth, and the feather fluttered toward the floor, though it vanished before it brushed the glossy wood.

The Head Librarian nodded in satisfaction. “That will do. Now,” he waved a hand, and a portal opened in front of Lisette and the snake. “As the Atheneum Dungeon was unable to fulfill your first request, we will provide you with assistance for your second.” He glanced at Lisette. “The tree and flower lie beyond. Aid our friend in whatever way necessary for her to achieve her goal.”

Lisette blinked again. This was absolutely unprecedented. Who would watch the front desk while she was away? Who would file the books that were returned, and help the gnomes when they needed to check something out? Who would chastise gnomelings like Linseed when they returned soiled books or scrolls?

She opened her mouth to protest, caught the Head Librarian’s eye, and closed it again. The snake’s wings blurred into motion, and the serpent lifted from her floor, her body twining in graceful curves. Darting forward, the creature vanished through the portal, and Lisette dutifully followed along behind.