The elder's gaze pins my hand to the page.
"Don't rush," Grand-Astronomer Su says.
His voice is dry.
He taps the table.
My quill scratches.
Ink pools.
"Steady," he repeats.
I copy a constellation.
Lines thin. Lines thick.
The scriptorium smells of dust and metal.
"Another sheet," he orders.
I flip the parchment.
The symbol looks wrong until my hand finds the rhythm.
"Explain your strokes," he says.
"They follow the model," I say. "One curve, two stops."
He snorts.
"Teachers speak in rules."
"Teachers lie too," I answer.
A clerk coughs.
A page flutters.
"Do you know the Ling mark?" Su asks, casual as a stitch.
"No," I say.
"Then copy it. Exactly."
My hand moves.
His eyes are knives.
He watches the Ling variations.
The room holds its breath.
"You are precise," Su says when I finish. "Precise enough for sensitive work."
"What's sensitive?" I ask.
"Restoration," he says. "Old pages, hidden scripts."
He stands and paces slow.
Footsteps tick like a clock.
"You know the history?" he asks.
"No," I say. "Only ink."
He studies my palm-inch.
"Your hand does not tremble."
"Hold it," I say. "Hand steady."
He offers a hint with a corner of his mouth.
"A project is open," he says. "Names appear. Symbols repeat."
"Then why me?" I ask.
"Because the Consort recommends you," he says. "And because you copy well enough to be trusted with damage."
"Trusted," I repeat like a mirror.
"You can work alone," he says. "You can be out of sight."
"Out of sight," I echo.
He spreads a map with faded lines and a sewn margin.
The Ling sign sits small and patient.
"Some images are... disturbing," he adds.
"Show me," I say.
He slides a sealed packet across the desk.
My finger touches the wax.
Heat leaps.
"Open it," he says.
I break the seal.
A scrap of vellum slips free.
The ink scars a face.
The face stares without eyes.
"Repair this," Su says. "Restore what the damp took."
My mouth is dry.
I wet the quill and start.
"How long?" I ask, pressing the nib.
"A season," he says. "Maybe more."
"Alone?" I ask.
"Alone, mostly," he replies. "You will catalog. Copy. You will seal notes. The Archivist approves."
The Archivist is a man with a hook nose.
He watches like a scribe whose eyes never sleep.
"Do you accept?" Su asks.
"What's the risk?" I ask.
"Curiosity," he says. "And the past. Both hungry."
I keep copying.
The quill is a metronome.
"Do you know what the Ling were accused of?" Su asks.
"Heretics," I say. "Old rumors. Ash."
"You read the ledgers then," he says. "You know the names."
"I read ink," I say. "Ink is honest."
He laughs once.
"Honesty is dangerous."
A young apprentice drops a pot.
Porcelain screams.
"Enough," Su says. "Concentrate."
The scriptorium is a hive.
Men bend, eyes sharp as flint.
"Do you know the ritual charts?" Su asks, low.
"No," I answer.
"You will," he says. "Some images are diagrams. They mark cycles."
"Cycles," I whisper.
"They call it the Cycle of the Phoenix," Su says. "Old business. Political and... celestial."
"Why restore it at all?" I ask. "Why bring it back?"
"Because records serve power," he says. "And power needs memory."
"Memory can also kill," I mutter.
"Then learn to read the difference," he replies.
A pause opens.
The quill scratches a triangle.
"You understand boundaries?" Su asks.
"Boundaries mark fences," I say. "Fences keep the right ones out."
He smiles thin.
"Once inside, you will see the private stacks," he says. "Maps sealed with royal wax. Names erased. Markings of clan and sacrifice."
"Names and sacrifice," I repeat.
"Those are two ways to keep a system breathing," Su says. "One pricks, one preserves."
"Why show me this?" I ask.
"Because I need hands," he says. "Hands that can copy sin and seal it again."
"Or hands that can copy and leak it," I say.
He tilts his head.
"Or hands that survive long enough to ask questions."
"Questions burn people," I say.
"Only if you let them," he answers.
A breeze lifts the curtain.
Outside, palace lights blink like watchful eyes.
"You will work at night," Su says. "When the public stacks sleep."
"Night is where they hide things," I say.
"Night also hides people," he replies. "You will be unobserved and observed."
"Observed by whom?" I ask.
"By those who count," he says. "By me. By the Archivist. By the Department's fellows. By whoever listens."
"Who listens?" I ask again.
"People who profit from the ritual," Su says. "And people who fear it."
"Fear breeds worse things," I say.
"Then act accordingly," Su says.
He leans closer until his breath cools my cheek.
"One more thing," he whispers. "Not everything is mere ink."
"Then what?" I whisper back.
"Marks that bind," he says. "Marks that tie names to fate. Some patterns are not just records. They are instructions."
I keep copying, each stroke a small rebellion.
"If it's instructions," I say, "then destroy or use them."
"Destroying is a statement," Su says. "Using is an accusation."
"Then what does the Department want?" I ask.
"We restore," he says. "We understand. We advise."
"Advise whom?" I ask.
"Power," he says simply.
"Power is a blade," I reply.
"A blade needs whetstone," Su says. "Knowledge is the whetstone."
"Who sharpens it for the Emperor?" I ask.
"Those with access," he says. "Those with time."
The Archivist clears his throat and steps forward.
"You will need permission slips," he says. "And a small key."
"A key?" I ask.
"For the private chest," he says. "The one that holds the folded charts."
He hands me a copper key that feels like a promise.
"Keep it close," he says. "Lose it and you lose access."
"What if they trace the key?" I ask.
"They trace people, not metal," he says. "People leave more trail."
I slide the key into my sleeve.
"Do you accept the project?" Su asks again, voice flat.
I look at the Ling symbol on the map.
It refuses to be only ink.
"What will you do if I refuse?" I ask.
"Refusal is allowed," Su says. "But your station returns to the harém. Consort Li decides your fate then."
"She already did," I say.
"Then accept or find another fate," he says.
My fingers tremble once.
A tiny error.
I scrape out the mark and fix the line.
"Is there danger to others?" I ask.
"Always," Su replies. "Curiosity is contagious."
"Then I will work quietly," I say.
"Quiet lasts until it does not," Su warns.
"Then I prepare noise," I answer.
He stares, an unblinking man.
"Your boldness is not common," he says.
"Neither is survival," I say.
He taps the desk.
"The work begins tomorrow. You start cataloging damaged folios. You begin in the private stacks."
"I'll need supplies," I say. "And permission to move them."
"You have both," he says. "And an escort if you require."
"I do not require escort," I say.
"Most do," he replies. "But not everyone."
"You trust me?" I ask.
"I trust craft," he says. "Not people."
"Craft is a lie then," I say.
"Craft is survival," he counters.
The quill pauses.
The page breathes.
"One last question," I say. "If I find names tied to sacrifice, what does the Department do?"
"We document," he says. "We advise the court. We never act without sanction."
"Sanction is a slow blade," I say.
"It is the only blade the Department wields," Su answers.
"Then I wield something else," I say, small and certain.
He watches like a man measuring wind.
"Very well," he says.
A sudden knock rattles the door.
"Who is it?" Su calls.
"A courier," a voice answers.
Footsteps retreat.
The scriptorium exhales.
"People arrive with small fires," Su says. "Watch them. They carry rumor."
"Rumor burns faster than ink," I reply.
A young scribe leans in.
"If you go to the private stacks, you'll be alone most nights," he says, whispering.
"I prefer company of paper," I say.
He laughs, a short sound.
"Paper does not ask favors."
"No," I say. "Paper only reveals."
"Sometimes it reveals dangerous things," he warns.
"Then it also reveals who hides them," I say.
He points at my sleeve where the copper key hides.
"Careful with that."
"I will," I answer.
The Archivist brings a bundle of cloth.
"Take these for night work," he says. "They are plain. They avoid notice."
"Plain suits me," I say.
"Plain draws less ire," Su remarks. "But it draws attention in other rooms."
"Attention is a currency," I say. "I'll spend it wisely."
"Wise people rarely call themselves wise," Su notes.
"People who survive do," I retort.
The Archivist eyes me.
"You must learn the catalog code," he says. "Row, shelf, number. Mislabel once and the trail dies."
"Teach me," I say.
He hands me a thin book with tabs.
"Memorize," he says. "Memorize and practice."
I turn the pages.
The catalog is a grid of thin cruelty: names erased, numbers circled.
"Why erase names?" I ask.
"Politics," he says. "And the safety of some."
"Safety," I repeat. "Another word governments use."
He shrugs.
"Words keep hands clean."
I fold the tabs into my palm.
"Who else knows about the private chest?" I ask.
"Only the Department and the sealers," he says.
"Sealers?" I ask.
"Men who bind records," he replies. "They are careful."
"Then send a sealer to check the stacks," I suggest.
He studies me.
"You offer work?"
"I offer caution," I say. "And an extra hand."
He considers and nods once.
"A sealer can help."
A bell tolls.
Night breathes in.
"One more thing," Su says suddenly. "You will meet occasional visitors. Scholars, eunuchs, even merchants with curiosity."
"Merchants?" I ask.
"They sell old charts," Su says. "Sometimes the same charts."
"Then we must check provenance," I say.
"Provenance is a ladder men climb to gain favor," Su replies.
"Then we break it," I say.
He stares.
"You speak like one who has nothing to lose."
"Then perhaps I'm oddly motivated," I answer.
"Odd motivations survive odd places," he says.
The Archivist hands me a lamp.
"You will need light," he says. "Oil costs; the Department provides."
"I'll keep it small," I promise.
"You will also record anything you find," he insists. "Not just copies. Notes. Dates. Margins. Odd smells. Smells matter."
"Smells?" I ask.
"Yes. Smells tell of storage, of mildew, of the sea, of foreign ink," he says. "Don't dismiss them."
I tuck the lamp under my arm.
"Do you think the Ling marks are mere art?" asks the scribe, voice low.
"No," I say. "Art hides intent."
"Then beware the images," he warns.
"I will," I say.
A minute passes.
The quill circles a final crescent on the page.
"Tomorrow you sign the receipt," the Archivist says. "The seal goes on the log. You take the charts to the private desk. You read. You copy. You lock them back."
"And if I find something that points to current hands?" I ask.
"Then you bring it to me," Su says. "We decide the next step."
"And what if the next step is dangerous?" I ask.
"We either advise the court," he says, "or we hide what we can. The Department chooses."
I close my eyes for one breath.
"No promises," I say.
"None," he answers.
Outside, a wind pushes against the tower.
Somewhere deep, a bell tolls.
The palace sleeps, but not quiet.
The Department keeps watch.
"One more," Su says as he leans back. "This work is not a favor. It is a trade. You give skills; we give access."
"What do I get?" I ask.
"Time," he says. "And knowledge. Time to breathe away from the harém, and knowledge to put a blade where it counts."
"Knowledge cuts deeper than blades," I say.
"Then use it well," Su answers.
The candle guttered.
Shadows lean.
"You have the hand adequate," he says. "There is a more sensitive project. It involves restoration of records damaged enough to hide marks. You would accept?"