WHEN I AWOKE the next morning I didn’t, for a dismayingly long time, know where I was. Nor did I know who I was.

Then both things came back to me: I was Optimus Yarnspinner and I was in my hotel room in Bookholm. In the first instance I was right, in the second utterly wrong. This certainly wasn’t my hotel room.

I noticed that because of three things: first, the wallpaper; second, the four suitcases beside the bed (I’ve never owned a suitcase in my life); and third, the Frogling standing beside the window, who was quaking with fear and staring at me round the curtain.

‘Please go away!’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘Just go!’

To cut a very embarrassing story short, I’d spent the night not only in the wrong hotel room but in the wrong hotel as well. In my inebriated condition I had simply staggered into the nearest one, marched into some room or other, barricaded the door behind me with a wardrobe, flopped down on the bed and fallen into a swoonlike sleep.

The Frogling, whose room this was, had been so startled and intimidated by my behaviour that he hadn’t even tried to remove the wardrobe or cry for help. He had simply waited for me to wake up. He didn’t want to hear any explanations or excuses for my uncivilised conduct; he just asked me to leave. So I did him that favour, having seldom felt so ashamed in my life. My hotel was three streets further on.

As I was laboriously and remorsefully piecing together last night’s mosaic of incidents, a thoroughly ridiculous book title – A Desire for Warm Glaciers – kept going through my head. What I could still remember quite well was that, immediately after my orgy of gluttony, I had lurched into a nearby wine bar to keep my promise to myself, which was to drink something other than hallucinogenic Bookwine. I sampled – rather over-liberally – some grape juice from the Bookholm area. From that point onward my powers of recall developed fine cracks at first and then lacunae of steadily increasing size. I could still remember having a fierce argument with a gigantic Turniphead, but I’d forgotten what it was about. Then we came to blows and I had to change locations. I discovered a basement dive situated in a seedy side street and patronised exclusively by famous authors of whom I’d never heard. The last thing I recalled was that the wine there, although not particularly good, was sensationally cheap and served in rusty little buckets. Then my thread of recollection snapped.

Suffering from fierce self-reproach and an even fiercer headache, I returned to my hotel, where I had a wash, settled my bill and set off with my modest baggage, intending to find some better and more central accommodation during the day. In the course of a long walk that took me to the city centre, I endeavoured to clear my head and straighten myself out. When you’re approaching your three-hundredth birthday, as I was, you have to admit it takes longer to recover from such a binge. I was through with intoxicants of all kinds – that I solemnly swore to myself while walking! The only kind of intoxication to which I still aspired was an Ormic trance.

The Bookholmers had always been fond of self-confident and inventive forms of advertising. For their own trades, for books, for publishing houses, for artistic projects, for readings and poetry evenings, for cultural functions of all kinds, for cures for writer’s block, for delicious cakes and hot coffee. Painted hoardings, posters, the sides of buildings, fliers stuck to lamp-posts, banners suspended across streets, stentorian-voiced barkers reading aloud from books, importunate touts attired in printed galleys – even ‘walking books’ on legs – were among the city’s omnipresent features. But the propensity for barefaced selling of all kinds of things had inexorably increased during my absence. I found this far more noticeable on my midday stroll than I had the previous day.

My thick head precluded me from deciding whether or not I liked this: whether I found it amusing, intrusive, ingenious, embarrassing, original, or simply brash. It certainly added to the city’s entertainment value. When in Bookholm, I had always felt as if I were roaming through the pages of an illustrated book in which the pictures moved. But where one sign had hung in the old days, three were now hanging, and where a wall had borne one poster, it now bore ten. If I looked up while walking along a street, the sky was filled with promises in the form of billboards advertising cheap or expensive books, hot coffee or pastries fresh from the oven, the best eyeglasses in the city, or a refreshing neck massage administered by muscular Peat Midgets.

Many of them I could decipher with ease, for instance advertisements for alternative book manufacture using hempen paper or Bibliognostic health check-ups, an Ugglian publisher or a dwarfs’ printworks. Others meant nothing to me. I was lucky if I could even identify the languages on many of the billboards by referring to the script, but what they were advertising I couldn’t say. Ovidios and the Wolperting had emphasised what a tolerant and cosmopolitan city Bookholm had become since the overthrow of Bookemism. I now realised how far that process had gone. Ornian cuneiform, Demonistic ligatures, Dullsgardian hieroglyphs, Midgardian knot writing or archaistic Troll runes – I could usually only guess at the products or services they offered. Sometimes the addition of drawings, coats of arms or symbols were an aid to deciphering them. But what did a gold death’s head with snakes wriggling out of its eye sockets signify? What about a seashell with a spider sitting on a pearl? What could one buy in a shop whose sign displayed a fully bandaged chicken? No thanks, I didn’t want to know that, so I kept to the middle of the street and left it to my imagination to visualise what these shops actually sold.

The district in which I had now been for some time was quite familiar to me because it had largely escaped the fire and I’d formerly roamed around there. I was surrounded by a reassuringly nostalgic maze of old half-timbered buildings, some of which housed the most delightful antique shops. Not snobbish luxury establishments selling prohibitively expensive items from the Golden List. No, what still predominated here was the traditional spirit of old Bookholm. I at last saw shop windows displaying the kind of books for which the true bibliophile came here. After only a short spell of window-gazing I discovered rare first editions like The Third Side of the Coin by Elmura Voddnik, Gingivitis Salad by Tomok Zebulon, Pain in My Wooden Leg by Hugobart Cramella and No Coffin for Mother by Count Petroso di Gadusti – Zamonian literary jewels such as one would seek in vain elsewhere. Here, however, they occupied their due place: right at the front of the display but affordably priced. In the next window I was overjoyed to see collected editions of Orphetu Harnschauer, Clas Reischdenk and Avegeus Luftbart, together with the long, character-rich novels of Asdrel Chickens, which one can reread again and again. The trenchantly satirical novels of Slainco Brafesair, six hundred years old but still ultra-modern, in the long-out-of-print woodcut edition. The gigantic tome by Marvin de Lescetuge with illustrations by the immortal Oved Usegart! All the fairy tales by Nartinan Schneidhasser in the much sought-after India-paper edition, signed! A quarto edition, bound in blue bamboo-worm silk, of Abradauch Sellerie’s brilliant essay on Perla la Gadeon. All Doylan Cone’s Hermes Olshlock novels in the legendary collected edition complete with magnifying glass. The collected letters of Volkodir Vanabim – uncensored! A volume of the best humorous sketches by the great Rubert Jashem! The complete first editions of Eglu Wicktid! The youthful reminiscences of Abradauch Sellerie, unabridged! The unsurpassable jungle tales of Plairdy Kurding with watercolour illustrations. Eri Elfengold’s amusing and informative cultural history, which renders it unnecessary to read a whole library of books. The tension-laden novellas by Trebor Sulio Vessenton, which still fill me with unadulterated envy. And Cronosso Urbein by Felino Deeda – the first really good novel in Zamonian literary history! All these in a single shop window and at prices reasonable enough to bring tears to one’s eyes. This was Bookholm at its best!

Well, pleasing though this was, it wasn’t my real reason for lingering so stubbornly in this district. For the moment, the acquisition of antiquarian books came very low on my list of priorities. The true reason, dear friends, was that I was in the vicinity of Colophonius Regenschein Lane, where Dr Ahmed ben Kibitzer kept his small antiquarian bookshop specialising in Nightingalistics. But going there wasn’t quite as simple as it sounds, dear friends. Oh no! It was an extremely tricky undertaking, a regular suicide mission. Clearing the air with Ovidios had been a piece of cake compared to the settlement of accounts that faced me now. Why? Because Kibitzer and I had been at loggerheads for a hundred years or more. A hundred years! Can you imagine it?

I briefly considered disappearing. Perhaps I hadn’t found the lane after all. Modern Bookholm was the very devil – nothing was the way it used to be! Yes, that was the answer!

Nonsense, the lane was just round the corner. Whom was I kidding? Myself? No, I had to go there or I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. I tossed three peppermint pastilles into my mouth to offset my hangover breath and resolutely headed for Regenschein Lane. It was now or never! Into battle!

Shortly before reaching Kibitzer’s shop I came to a halt once more. What on earth would I say to him and in what tone of voice? How to start? A prey to indecision, I paced up and down the lane, repeatedly casting fearful glances at the shop out of the corner of my eye. It looked exactly as I remembered it: the darkest and most inconspicuous shop in the street, with candlelight fitfully flickering inside. To me the entrance looked like the gate of hell with a three-brained monster lurking inside, ready to devour me. By the Orm, was I nervous! I sucked a fourth pastille.

Kibitzer’s was another of those fortunate establishments that had escaped the flames and its outward appearance hadn’t changed at all since then. It was clear that he still specialised in the curious writings of Professor Abdul Nightingale, the Nocturnomath-in-chief whose abstruse work Domesticated Darkness was the only item displayed in the window. From the look of the shop, therefore, Kibitzer hadn’t changed a jot. Why was I so scared, then?

How cordial, friendly and productive our relations had been for so many years! After I left the city we had regularly exchanged yards-long missives devoted to passionate debates about literature, art, science and philosophy, though we strictly avoided the subject of Bookholm at my request. I could have filled numerous volumes with this meaty correspondence, in which, after all, four brains had taken part. I had written to Kibitzer from all over Zamonia during my extended travels. It was correspondence of the highest order. Brilliant ideas flew back and forth between us like electric sparks. Arrogant though it may seem to say so, the correspondence between Ojahnn Golgo van Fontheweg and Heidler von Clirrfisch is thoroughly inane by comparison. But then … Well, then came success. My success. And with it, fame. Good gracious, I was soon too preoccupied with replying to admirers’ letters and accepting literary prizes to keep up with an old pen friend. Our letters became sparser, my literary output more and more copious. Then Kibitzer, in his now only sporadic letters, dared several times to express criticism of my work, hesitant at first but ever more outspoken as time went by. In his opinion I wrote far too much and was becoming slipshod. My initial response was to defend myself in mild terms, as if shooing away an importunate fly. Then, when Ahmed repeated and specified his charges, allegedly in the name of friendship, I reacted with undisguised asperity. In the end, when he stubbornly insisted that the Orm had deserted me, my treatment of him was thoroughly condescending. How can I put it? One word led to another, the tone of our correspondence became increasingly offended and offensive, and finally it ceased altogether. I still recall the last sentence I wrote him: ‘Looking down on you from the dizzy height of my sales figures, I can only smile at your stylistic bean-counting, you third-class Three-Brain!’

The latter was a mean and not particularly subtle sideswipe at his membership of the Nocturnomath category that possesses only three brains, not five or six like many of his kind, still less seven like his great idol, the celebrated Professor Nightingale.

That must have touched a nerve, because he never wrote to me again. Not a line. Not even a postcard. And what did I do? Nothing. In all that time I failed to summon up even a smidgen of magnanimity and apologise to Ahmed for my crude blow beneath the belt. A whole century had gone by! And now I was standing outside his shop, kneading the hem of my cloak in agitation.

‘My dear Ahmed,’ I experimented in my head, ‘didn’t you get my latest letters? The Zamonian postal service is becoming more and more unreliable.’

No, no lies, Nocturnomaths can read one’s thoughts!

Better to remain icy cold? After all, I didn’t really feel guilty, did I? He had no more written to me than I had to him. He had wounded my pride and was just as responsible for the situation as I was, the pigheaded creature! So, quite coolly:

‘Good afternoon, Kibitzer. How are you?’

Nonsense. That would be stupid. Not my style. How about the jovial touch, as if nothing had happened?

‘Hello there, Ahmed, you old bugger! Long time no see, what, hahaha?’

No, that would be too barefaced. Ours had been a genuine friendship, after all, but still … No, better to be really personal right away. Reproachful. Go straight into the attack:

‘Ahmed, oh Ahmed, old friend, why have you forgotten me?’ Then a long, silent, plaintive look with outstretched arms and tears in my eyes.

Perfect! The melodramatic act! That was it! I rubbed the corner of my eye to start the tears flowing.

At that moment: ‘Come on in,’ said a very soft, reedy voice in my head.

‘What?’ I asked, dumbfounded.

‘I’ve been watching you for the last half-hour, Optimus. You’ve put on a lot of weight around the hips, my dear fellow. All right, come in. And stop strangling your cloak!’

Damn it! Kibitzer had been standing there in the dark, watching me through the window! Nocturnomaths could also read one’s thoughts through closed doors, of course. What an idiot I was! I wished the ground would swallow me up.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Come on in, my time is precious. In with you!’

I let go of the hem of my cloak and drew a deep breath. Then I turned the door handle and entered the gloomy shop.

A bell jangled in the same discreet manner as it had two centuries ago, of that I felt sure, but didn’t it now sound a trifle jarring – almost imperceptibly discordant? I was engulfed by the same musty odour of books, but didn’t it smell a trifle more ancient than before? There was the same dim candlelight, but wasn’t it a little dimmer than in the old days – dimmer and harder for the eyes to adjust to? There were no curtains or blinds, so how did Kibitzer manage to keep the interior so confoundedly dark when the sun was shining outside? Well, Nocturnomaths loved darkness above all things because it facilitated their brain work, so they were bound to have their ways and means. Perhaps Kibitzer bred a certain kind of book dust that filtered the light. At all events, the air was filled with whirling motes of dust stirred up by my entrance. I was almost blinded for a few moments, but that, too, reminded me vividly of my first visit to this antiquarian bookshop.

‘Ahmed?’ I said, blinking. ‘Are you there?’

The spell was broken. Those opening words had issued from my lips unbidden. They were neither false nor overly cold or brash, but simply spontaneous. I felt relieved.

‘Of course I’m here,’ came the low-voiced reply. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’

I rubbed my eyes in an attempt to see better. I’d been expected? Who was ‘we’? Was he speaking in the royal plural, or was there really someone else there? Where was the confounded Nocturnomath, anyway?

Then a candle flared up, just as it had the first time we met. I could almost have believed that someone was staging the whole thing to awaken old memories.

Suddenly, conjured up by the candlelight, Kibitzer was standing in front of me, only a few paces away in the whirling book dust.

‘Hello, Optimus,’ he said, this time in his proper voice because his lips moved. It sounded even reedier and frailer than his cerebral voice. We exchanged a long look.

Kibitzer had aged in a positively dismaying way. In the many years since our last meeting he had developed a growing resemblance to his desiccated book covers, with their shrunken leather skin and faded colours. Tanned by age, his face would probably have been indistinguishable from the book-lined walls, with their rows of gnarled and mildewed spines, had it not been for his big, shining eyes. I was worried to note, however, that the latter were far less luminous than of old. The light in them was dim and fitful, like that of dying embers. Formerly huge, the orbs in his imposing thinker’s head were half obscured by drooping eyelids, which he clearly found it hard to keep open.

‘Hello, Ahmed,’ I replied. ‘So you knew I was coming?’

‘Yes and no. I didn’t really believe it until half an hour ago, but she has known for weeks.’

His head shook alarmingly as he spoke. It was amazing that his thin, tremulous neck could still support the heavy thing with its three brains. I noticed only now that one of his ears had a tiny hearing aid inserted in it.

‘She?’ I queried.

‘Inazia,’ he said. ‘Inazia Anazazi.’

He shone the candle on a niche in the shelves beside him. Inazia Anazazi the Uggly was sitting on a chair, staring at me. She loomed up out of the darkness like a ghost, and I only just managed to suppress a cry of horror.

‘Hello, Yarnspinner,’ she croaked in her unpleasant, grating voice.

‘Er … Hello, Inazia,’ I said haltingly. ‘What a surprise! You’re looking well.’ That blatant lie tripped off my tongue with ease.

‘Thanks,’ said the Uggly. ‘You’ve grown fat.’

It was nice to be back among friends. There was no need to waste time on pleasantries – a luxury I’d almost forgotten about.

‘She knew exactly, to the nearest day and hour, when you would come – has done for weeks. Since I don’t believe in Ugglian hocus-pocus, I’m sure it was a trick of some kind. Are the two of you in cahoots?’

That was ridiculous. He must have been joking – Nocturnomath humour! I hadn’t set eyes on the Uggly since I’d last seen Kibitzer, nor had I been in contact with her in the meantime. Unlike the old, multicerebral creature, she’d hardly changed at all. She was looking as old and hideous as ever. I think Ugglies are born old. Hideous, anyway.

‘To anticipate your question, Optimus,’ said Kibitzer, ‘yes, your eyes don’t deceive you, I’m ill. Very ill. I’m suffering from a rare disease called senescentia rapida – also known as Nocturnomathitis.’

‘Is it, er … catching?’ I asked, involuntarily retreating a step. I instantly felt ashamed of my tactless and hysterical reaction.

‘Still the inveterate hypochondriac, eh?’ Kibitzer grinned. ‘No, it isn’t infectious. Never fear, only Nocturnomaths can catch the disease. It’s accursedly genetic, and it affects only a handful of us. I’m one of the lucky ones – I’ve hit the jackpot! There’s only one symptom, actually, but it’s a tough one. Once the disease manifests itself, you age rapidly, and by rapidly I mean at a really appalling rate. It’s to do with my three brains’ simultaneous consumption of energy. We think too much! Many Nocturnomaths’ physiques can’t sustain that in the long run. The cells go into premature retirement, to employ a humorous metaphor. I’ve aged a century in the last ten years.’

‘That’s, er … most regrettable.’ Regrettable? Good God, we hadn’t seen each other for ages, he’d just revealed that he was terribly sick, and all that occurred to me were tactless platitudes. Could he hear me? I wondered. He was wearing a deaf aid, after all. ‘I mean … I simply can’t cope with diseases,’ I said somewhat louder. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t think of anything better to say.’

‘Know the first thing that tells you you’re really old?’ Kibitzer demanded in a quavering voice. ‘Not forgetfulness, oh no. You notice that people are speaking louder and slower, as if you’re an imbecile or a little child. I’m not hard of hearing, damn it!’

‘But you are hard of hearing!’ I insisted. ‘You’re wearing a deaf aid.’

‘But I can hear perfectly well with it – I’m not deaf when I wear the thing. That’s the whole point of hearing aids!’

I said nothing. We were heading straight for one of those nitpicking altercations such as can only occur between two very old friends who habitually hold opposing views.

‘You’ve no need to burst into tears over my fate, either,’ Kibitzer said stubbornly. ‘I came to terms with it long ago. There aren’t many advantages to knowing you’re going to die more quickly, but there are some. Death loses its terrors, for example. You don’t have time to feel afraid.’

The Uggly laughed as if this were a particularly good joke. I seized the chance to change the subject.

‘Did you really know I was coming, Inazia?’ I asked.

The Uggly coughed and fanned some book dust away. ‘It’s no hocus-pocus, Kibitzer knows that perfectly well. It’s a natural ability. Stupidly, a lot of Ugglies make a big thing out of it so as to coax money out of tourists’ pockets, and that has blighted our reputation. But it isn’t right. Time is relative and Ugglies simply have another perception of it. From time to time we can look into the fourth dimension. It’s not witchcraft, it’s a defect. Yes, I knew you were coming, but not only through my Ugglian senses. We cooked it up between us.’

Now it was Kibitzer’s turn to laugh. It sounded like a laborious effort to draw breath.

I felt puzzled. ‘Have I got this right?’ I asked. ‘You mean the two of you engineered my visit to Bookholm?’

‘There’s a letter in your pocket, isn’t there?’ asked Kibitzer, tidying some papers on the counter. ‘A letter that pretty cogently confirms my personal opinion of your work. Our bone of contention: that you’re stuck in an artistic cul-de-sac and have lost the Orm. That is so, isn’t it?’

‘Now he’ll have to come clean!’ the Uggly cried triumphantly. ‘This is getting exciting!’

It was quite an effort for me to find the right words for a suitable riposte. I could have turned stubborn and picked another quarrel with Kibitzer. I wielded a sharp rapier when verbosely defending my own work and had often pinned many an opponent to the wall with it. I could easily have argued frail old Kibitzer into the ground. I would then have advised the Uggly to take a look in a mirror instead of concerning herself with other people’s obesity problems. I would have stalked out with my head held high, torn the stupid letter to shreds and spent a few more pleasurable days in Bookholm. After that I would have returned to Lindworm Castle with a bag full of antiquarian books and continued to live a life of ease, as before.

Could have …

Would have …

Instead, I said, ‘Yes, I’ve lost the Orm. That’s why I came to Bookholm.’ And then I burst into tears.

Any other participants in such a scene would now have gone up to each other and exchanged a consoling embrace, but let’s be honest: we were a Lindworm, a Nocturnomath and an Uggly, three life forms that had always striven for victory on the battlefield of pathological egoism and emotional atrophy. So Kibitzer simply remained standing and the Uggly sitting where they were while I sobbed without restraint. They shuffled their feet a little and made uneasy noises. When I stopped at last, all Inazia said was, ‘Are you through?’

‘Yes,’ I sniffed. ‘Thanks for your sympathy.’ I noisily blew my nose and felt better.

‘Listen,’ said Kibitzer. ‘I don’t have much time left, as I already mentioned, and I mean that literally, so let’s get down to brass tacks. We really did send you that letter.’

‘You wrote that letter?’ Involuntarily, I felt for the letter in my pocket. I’d had no idea that Kibitzer possessed a gift for parody. Or was it the Uggly?

‘No, we didn’t write it,’ Kibitzer gasped asthmatically. ‘We only forwarded it. Inazia, you’d better explain …’

The Uggly rose from her chair with a loud groan. I’d completely forgotten how tall and thin she was. She topped me by a head.

‘Yes,’ she began, ‘this is my part of the story. It begins one stormy night—’

‘Like a pirate yarn by Trebor Sulio Vessenton!’ Kibitzer interjected. ‘There’s even a sort of pirate in it.’

‘A pirate?’ I pricked up my ears. ‘In Bookholm?’ It really wasn’t necessary to arouse my interest with dramatic details. I was interested!

‘Not really,’ Inazia said with a grin, ‘but almost. You’ll laugh, because I was reading your latest book and had almost dozed off over it. I’d got to a frightfully boring chapter on bronchial tea and moist throat compresses, and—’

‘Get to the point!’ Kibitzer commanded her. ‘You can tell him the unimportant details …’ – he inserted a long pause – ‘… later.’

‘Then don’t keep interrupting me! Well, it was a rainy, stormy night,’ the Uggly began again. ‘I hadn’t had a single customer in my bookshop all day and was boring myself to death by reading your latest book, as I already said. So I was in a thoroughly miserable mood. I decided to close early and go and eat somewhere. I was standing outside the shop in the act of locking the door when I heard a tapping sound. Rather like this …’

The Uggly tapped a bookshelf with her long fingernails: tap, tap. tap …

‘Turning round, I saw a terrifying figure standing in the rain. I don’t scare easy as you know – I’m an Uggly, people are usually frightened of me – but that fellow would have put the fear of God into anyone, believe you me! Especially as the whole scene was stereotypically illuminated by lightning and accentuated by thunder.’

‘Trebor Sulio Vessenton!’ croaked the Nocturnomath. ‘Pure Vessenton of the highest calibre!’

‘True,’ said the Uggly. ‘The fellow really could have been a pirate. He was wearing a kind of armour and a mask of leather patches crudely sewn together. He looked almost like one’s idea of the Darkman of Bookholm – but the leather version – and he was wearing a jaunty tricorne that would have looked well on a pirate. Although there was a long sabre dangling from his belt, he made a rather frail and harmless impression. He was leaning on a stick, you see, and dragging a small wooden chest behind him on a rope. It resembled a child’s coffin. I realised at once that he could only be a Bookhunter.’

‘A Biblionaut,’ I amended mechanically. ‘There aren’t any Bookhunters these days.’

‘You must forgive me if I still prefer the original term, even if it isn’t, er … politically correct any more,’ Inazia put in. ‘I simply can’t get used to it. You’re right, though, he was a Biblionaut, I could tell that from his civilised manner. But the really bizarre aspect of his appearance was the fact that he wore two eyepatches. Two of them, one over each eye!’

‘He was blind?’ I asked.

‘Exactly. Hence the tapping sound. He was finding his way through the rain with his stick. “Excuse me,” he called, “I couldn’t help hearing you lock your door. From that I infer that you live here and are acquainted with the district.”

‘“Maybe,”’ I said cautiously. “How can I help you?”

‘The dark figure had come to a halt and was leaning on his stick. “I fear I’m lost, madam. I was on my way to sell some old books and got overtaken by the rain. I only know this district in dry weather and now it sounds quite different. I have to find my way by sound, alas.” He indicated his eyepatches. “Can you tell me where the nearest antiquarian bookshop is?”’

The Uggly sighed. ‘I felt sorry for the blind fellow, no matter what he looked like. The thought that, for someone unable to see anything, the world suddenly undergoes a complete change as soon as it rains – I found that deeply moving despite myself! So I invited him in for a cup of tea and said he could wait in my shop until it stopped raining.’

‘Yes, yes,’ croaked Kibitzer, ‘you can forget about the violins. Get to the point!’

While Inazia was speaking, the Nocturnomath had been busying himself in a way that made me feel rather uneasy. Hobbling back and forth from one bookshelf to another, he tidied their contents, rummaged in drawers, laid out various manuscripts on a desk and pored over them with a sigh.

‘In Bookholm,’ the Uggly went on, ‘there have always been crippled and badly injured adventurers who acquired their injuries in the catacombs. There have also been, in addition to Bookhunters, suicidal individuals who ventured into the Labyrinth to make their fortune. Or their misfortune! There are more of those today than ever, I might add. If they’re incapacitated, their only recourse as a rule is to live rough and beg. Although new to me, a blind Biblionaut was really more of the same: just another victim of the catacombs, a sort of war veteran like many others. We second-hand booksellers live largely on the audacity of those daredevils, for without them our businesses would be no more interesting than any other bookshop in Zamonia. I make far more money out of a good antiquarian find from the catacombs than I do out of a dozen ordinary books.’

‘Grave robbers!’ Kibitzer croaked as he applied a wax seal to a document. ‘They’re grave robbers, the lot of them! I’ve no sympathy for them. Half the city makes money out of the dead! Books by the dead and dead books – that’s the diseased compost on which this city grows. We’re living on top of a graveyard!’

‘After I’d given him a cup of tea and a blanket so that he could dry off and warm up, he proved to be a charming companion,’ the Uggly continued. ‘I’d never conversed with a Biblionaut before. I was struck by his rather hesitant, effortful way of speaking, which I attributed to his injuries. Still, he made a courteous and cultivated impression. His name was Belphegor – Belphegor Bogaras.’

‘They’re all killers, courteous and cultivated or not,’ Kibitzer said angrily. ‘Bookhunters or Biblionauts – they’re all the same to me, even if they do soft-soap people.’

He was laboriously rearranging a shelf of very old books and muttering to himself. There was something hectic, almost panicky about his demeanour that was entirely new to me. I couldn’t imagine why he had chosen this particular moment to tidy up his gloomy shop.

‘The Biblionaut told me that he had lost his eyesight in the Labyrinth of Dreaming Books,’ Inazia went on, ‘just as I’d thought. He now scraped a living by selling such second-hand books as he could find in the entrance to the Bookholm Shafts. That was as far into the catacombs as he dared to go, with his disability. Most of them were third-rate and ill-chosen, as he himself frankly admitted. If I cared to, he said, I was welcome to take a look at his wares. Without obligation. At that moment, of course, I realised that he’d hoodwinked me.’

I couldn’t help smiling at Inazia’s naivety. ‘A hoary old huckster’s trick,’ I said. ‘Once you’ve let them over the doorstep, they’ve as good as sold you something.’

‘Exactly. Who would look at a blind hawker’s wares and tell him to his face that they were no use to anyone? But I resigned myself to my fate. Even though this definitely hadn’t been my day, I resolved that it would at least end with my one good deed of the week. So I examined the books in his child’s coffin.’

‘Ah, here it is!’ croaked Kibitzer. He held a big sheet of parchment up to the light, then put it down on the desk, smoothed it out and weighed it down with paperweights. ‘Vertical Labyrinthine Cartography!’ he said. ‘An almost forgotten craft. Subterranean longitude and latitude – they exist! Very hard to determine! A form of science, really. Almost an art …’ I had no idea what he was blathering about. He continued to mutter to himself as he disappeared behind some bookshelves.

‘That was when I found the letter,’ the Uggly said suddenly and very quickly, with one hurried glance at the spot where the Nocturnomath had vanished. ‘And then …’

‘One moment!’ Kibitzer broke in from the gloomy back of beyond. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

‘Damn it!’ Inazia hissed almost inaudibly and stamped her foot. ‘That comes of your constant interruptions! I thought I was supposed to be brief.’

‘Carry on!’ called the invisible Kibitzer.

‘Must I really?’ the Uggly called back in a subdued voice.

‘He needs to know the whole story. The important details, Inazia, not the unimportant ones.’

‘Very well,’ Inazia said with a sigh. She straightened up, seeming to become another head taller, and noisily cleared her throat.

‘Well … This Biblionaut was a really smart salesman. He even poked fun at himself by emphasising that he’d never seen the books he sold, so he couldn’t gauge their value. He honestly had no idea what he was offering for sale, he said, so he left it up to me to pay whatever I wanted for any book that took my fancy.’

‘Very shrewd.’ I nodded admiringly. ‘Who’s going to cheat a blind Biblionaut? So you not only bought a book but voluntarily paid too much for it?’

‘I might have done,’ said the Uggly, ‘but it didn’t turn out that way.’

‘That’s right,’ Kibitzer called in the background. ‘That’s the way! Out with the truth.’

Inazia sighed submissively. ‘So I rummaged around in Belphegor’s weird little box of books with no great hopes of finding anything worthwhile in it. Just charred, rubbishy paper, as I’d expected. But then, quite suddenly, I found myself holding The Hammer of the Ugglies.’

‘The what?’ I asked, dumbfounded. ‘You don’t mean …’

‘Yes,’ said Inazia. ‘I do indeed. One of the most sought-after items on the Golden List. Not a copy, not a fake – the original. In excellent condition.’

‘My goodness,’ I blurted out. The Uggly was talking about one of the most valuable books in the catacombs.

‘I had many reasons for becoming an antiquarian bookseller,’ said Inazia. ‘But the existence of The Hammer of the Ugglies was certainly one of them. It was the possibility – extremely remote, I grant you – that entering the profession might enable me to set eyes on the book at least once that prompted me to major in Uggliological Biblionistics at Bookholm University.’

‘A far from disreputable branch of learning,’ croaked Kibitzer, who had re-emerged and was blowing dust off an ancient volume, which he stowed away in a cupboard. ‘If one discounts all the Bibliognostic nonsense.’ He disappeared among the bookshelves once more.

Inazia ignored that remark. ‘There’s no book more heartily detested by Ugglies,’ she went on. ‘We consider it the most loathsome work in Zamonian literary history, but that’s just what makes it so fascinating! It’s filled with malice and has sealed the fate of many of our kind. But we Ugglies have survived its ill-written vituperations and that experience has welded us into the close-knit community we are today. Now it’s no more than a vile old book full of medieval stupidity, superstition, and utterly barbarous instructions for torturing and killing Ugglies. Unreadable, if the truth be told! Eventually, after its spell was broken, the book was destroyed whenever possible. That’s why there’s only one last original extant copy – one that disappeared from view for a very, very long time. And that was the one I was suddenly holding in my hands.’

‘Well,’ I asked, ‘what did you do?’

The Uggly laughed. ‘I can tell you that, apart from our joint experiences in the catacombs with the Shadow King, it was the most dramatic and exciting moment in my life. I was holding The Hammer of the Ugglies in my hands – one of the most valuable books on the Golden List! And facing me sat its finder and lawful owner, a Biblionaut who had no idea what a fortune the book was worth – who had just invited me to buy it for a price I set myself.’

‘Don’t keep him on tenterhooks!’ Kibitzer called in the background. ‘Tell him what you did. Get it off your chest!’

‘Well,’ said the Uggly, shrugging her shoulders, ‘there were really only two alternatives. I could have told the blind Biblionaut the truth and enlightened him as to the book’s value. He would probably have thanked me nicely and sold the book to whichever Biblionnaire offered him the most. The Hammer of the Ugglies would doubtless have disappeared into some private collection and been lost to Uggliology for ever.’

‘Quite,’ I said. ‘That’s probable.’

‘The second alternative was to cheat him. Pretend I had scant interest in the book. Fail to tell him it was as rare as it was and pay him a small sum for it. He would probably have been satisfied and gone on his way, believing that he had pulled off a nice little deal.’

‘And you would have swindled blind Belphegor,’ I said. ‘True.’ Inazia nodded. ‘But a third possibility occurred to me. I told him it was a very rare book about Uggliology – which wasn’t even a lie. Then I expressed great interest in it. Although a gross understatement, that was also true. Eventually, I suggested paying him a fair price for it. This, I freely admit, was a blatant lie. Only the Zaan of Florinth could have paid him a fair price for that book. But I went down to my secret Ugglian safe in the cellar, took out all my savings – no small sum! – and gave them to him.’

The Uggly looked relieved. The truth was out at last.

‘So you did cheat a blind huckster out of his book,’ I said coldly.

She gave me a pert stare. ‘One can’t say that. I gave him some money – a great deal of money by my standards. All I possessed.’

‘He could have got more elsewhere. Considerably more.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Inazia. ‘Why did it occur to him to offer The Hammer of the Ugglies to an Uggly, of all people? I might have flown into a fury and hurled the book into the fire, where it belonged. An Uggly would have had every right to do so.’

‘But he didn’t know it was The Hammer of the Ugglies,’ I said. ‘He was blind. Maybe he didn’t even know you were an Uggly.’

‘Don’t quibble!’ Inazia snapped. ‘I could have said nothing at all and let him go off with his book. What would have happened then? The next bookseller might have swindled him good and proper. To that extent, he could count himself lucky he bumped into me.’

Kibitzer interrupted our argument by tottering out of the darkness carrying a huge jar. He hefted it on to a table and unscrewed the lid, which was perforated in numerous places. Then he shook the jar and whispered, ‘Fly away! Fly away!’

With a buzzing sound, a grey cloud emerged from the mouth of the jar, rose to the ceiling and dispersed into hundreds of little specks that flew off in all directions.

‘Fly away!’ Kibitzer whispered. ‘Fly away! You’re free! Free!’

The little specks began to glow in a wide variety of colours. They were will-o’-the-wisps, which he had bred in a jar for reasons probably comprehensible to Nocturnomaths alone. Humming and whirring, they fanned out all over the shop, filling it with a vivid, multicoloured glow that lent the scene a look of dreamlike unreality. Dry-as-dust volumes lit by flickering, magical luminescence! Inazia Anazazi and her crazy story! Kibitzer and his irrational behaviour! Was I really here, or was I lying in my bed in Lindworm Castle and only dreaming this nonsense?

‘Go on, then!’ urged Kibitzer. ‘You can argue …’ – he inserted another curious pause – ‘… later.’

‘I presume you then came across the letter in the book,’ I said in an attempt to cut the story short. It was making me feel uneasy somehow, like the whole situation. I yearned to be back outside in the sunlit streets of Bookholm.

‘Not right away,’ said the Uggly. ‘Something else happened first. Something that’s bound to interest you.’

‘Yes,’ wheezed Kibitzer, who was once more rummaging in some papers. ‘This really ought to interest you.’

‘It had stopped raining by now,’ Inazia went on, ‘and Belphegor Bogaras prepared to leave, believing he’d done the best bit of business in his life. I escorted him to the door, but before I showed him out my nagging curiosity got the better of me. Unable to restrain myself, I tactlessly asked him how he’d lost his eyesight in the catacombs.

‘“Oh,” the Biblionaut replied casually, “that was down to the Shadow King.”’

At that moment, dear friends, I really did grow uneasy. My visit to that bookshop had already been full of surprises, but this turn in Inazia’s story was truly unexpected.

‘But the Shadow King is dead!’ I blurted out.

‘That’s what I told the Biblionaut myself,’ the Uggly replied. ‘But he paused in the doorway, turned to me with the last of the lightning flickering behind him and said words to the following effect: “With respect, madam, no one who has spent any length of time in the catacombs truly believes that the Shadow King is dead. Every Biblionaut has his own tale to tell of the Shadow King, every last one! Some have only heard him rustling, others whispering, yet others laughing. Some claim to have seen him with their own eyes and many allege that they actually felt him when he whispered in their ear in some dark tunnel. There are some whom he led so badly astray in the Labyrinth that they took weeks to find their way out. To the Biblionauts, the Shadow King has long ceased to be a myth and become a commonplace. It’s like the dangerous beasts of the wilderness: you can roam the Great Forest for years without ever encountering a werewolf, but werewolves are always on your mind. Always! Is one lurking behind the nearest tree? Or not? If you’re lucky you never meet one, but if you’re unlucky, one will cross your path some day. That’s what happened to me. The last thing my poor eyes saw before they were plucked from their sockets was the Shadow King! Believe me, madam, or believe me not!” So saying, Blind Belphegor doffed his hat, performed a courteous bow and went tapping off into the night.’ Inazia heaved a sigh of relief and resumed her seat.

‘Nonsense!’ I said. ‘A catacomb fairy tale! Any number of things could have robbed him of his eyesight. There are creatures down there for which we don’t even have names. I know from personal experience that some of them rustle like paper and emit the strangest noises in the dark.’

Inazia shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m only telling you what the blind Biblionaut said. We thought it would interest you.’

‘What about the letter?’ I asked impatiently. I’d heard enough creepy stories. I wanted to get out into the daylight.

‘Well,’ said Inazia, ‘as soon as the Biblionaut had finally departed, I naturally leafed through The Hammer of the Ugglies, my new antiquarian treasure. And I suddenly came across the letter—’

‘The letter that’s now in your pocket,’ Kibitzer broke in. ‘A letter from the Leather Grotto. Addressed to you.’

‘I brought it here at once,’ said Inazia, ‘and Kibitzer thoroughly analysed it on the spot.’

‘The paper consists of fungal fibres,’ Kibitzer pontificated, ‘and this, because of their minimal saturation with carbonic acid, leads one to the almost inescapable conclusion that they hail from the lower reaches of the catacombs and were processed there. The paper isn’t even very old and the ink was obtained from the blood of Grotto Lice, which live only at very low levels. The letter came from the Labyrinth, that’s beyond doubt.’

‘But who wrote it?’ I asked. ‘Can you shed any light on that?’

‘Well,’ growled the Nocturnomath, ‘if the authorities requested me for an expert opinion and I had to testify in court under oath, I would then, having meticulously analysed the writer’s vocabulary and submitted his handwriting to the most thorough graphological research, submit that only one person can enter into consideration.’

‘And that would be …?’ I demanded in an agony of suspense.

‘You,’ Kibitzer replied tersely.

‘But that’s absurd!’ I cried. ‘I can’t have written the letter.’

‘I know,’ Kibitzer growled. ‘That’s the mystery. I like riddles, but I detest riddles I can’t solve. This is one such.’

‘Is that all?’ I asked. ‘Can’t you say anything more?’

‘Only that the writer – since it wasn’t you – can brilliantly imitate the style of your Ormless period.’ Kibitzer tittered. ‘I laughed so much, my hearing aid fell out.’

‘The sender’s address is given as the Leather Grotto. Could it have been written by a Bookling?’

‘Booklings don’t write, you should know that better than anyone. They’re notorious readers who devote their lives entirely to reading. They’re persistent consumers of literature, but they don’t produce it. A complex parody such as that letter represents can only have been produced by someone of long experience and great literary ability. And in that connection too, only a certain name comes to mind.’

‘Homuncolossus?’ I asked. ‘The Shadow King?’

‘Well, he’s the only person that occurred to me who possesses those qualifications and lives deep down in the Labyrinth. He’s also the only creature that knows you personally and might take it into his head to write you a letter – for whatever reason! Provided he’s still alive, of course. This is circumstantial evidence, not proof, but one can’t simply brush it aside.’

‘But I saw the Shadow King in flames,’ I cried. ‘He was absolutely ablaze, how often do I have to repeat that? No one could have survived that, not even he.’

‘I’m only weighing up the facts,’ said Kibitzer. ‘I’m not saying the letter actually came from the Shadow King.’

‘We spent a long time wondering whether or not to send you the letter,’ the Uggly put in. ‘In the end we agreed that there were no two ways about it, the answer went without saying. Kibitzer insisted on sending it without any explanation. I’m sure he was still angry with you.’

Kibitzer nodded. ‘I didn’t believe you would actually come to Bookholm. I didn’t even believe you would read the letter at all. I thought you’d become an incorrigibly arrogant twerp. Well, I was wrong. You have become an arrogant twerp, but you may still be curable. I apologise for the first of those assessments.’

Friends are quite something! They tell you to your face you’ve become fat and arrogant. They think you’re a twerp, they scare you with their horrific tales of diseases and catacombs, they send you hurrying halfway across Zamonia because of some mysterious letter, and then they beg your pardon and expect that to put everything right.

‘All right,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Let’s bury the hatchet.’

‘Excellent!’ Kibitzer exclaimed, rubbing his hands. His voice, which had hitherto sounded resigned and quavery, took on an almost energetic note. ‘Then we’ll now proceed to read the will at last!’

‘We’ll do what?’ I said.

‘Read the will,’ Inazia echoed sadly. She looked at me and rolled her eyes.

‘Why,’ I asked, ‘has someone died?’

‘Not yet,’ Kibitzer said cheerfully. ‘Not yet!’

The goings-on in this demented bookshop would not have been out of place in a loony bin for senior citizens. I’d really been hoping to make myself scarce and now I was expected to attend the reading of a will although no one had died! Probably the two oddest booksellers in the whole of Bookholm had become even more eccentric in their twilight years, and that was saying something! Could it be the effect of the dust from the crazy old tomes they dealt in? It was bound to get to their brains via their airways. (I instinctively started breathing a little shallower.) Or did their quirks stem from the curious works in which they specialised? Uggliology and Nightingalistics? How could those who devoted a lifetime to the writings of Professor Abdul Nightingale and militant Uggliologists be expected to preserve their sanity? Moreover, why was I their only customer? Had anyone apart from me ever strayed into their esoteric establishments? I could hardly wait to leave that gloomy hole at last and breathe some fresh air.

Kibitzer had stationed himself at a lectern constructed entirely of books with two candles burning on it. The scene was invested with a look of unreality by the multicoloured will-o’-the-wisps ecstatically whirring around his tremulous head. Was that music I could hear? Yes indeed! Kibitzer was humming a solemn melody in one of his brains and telepathically communicating it to my own. Was that … Goldwine? Yes, quite so. It was Evubeth van Goldwine’s last, unfinished symphony, the one he wrote shortly before his final brainstorm. Yes, I was absolutely right: nowhere else in this city could one come closer to insanity.

‘Last will and testament!’ Kibitzer cried dramatically. ‘I, Dr Ahmed ben Kibitzer, hereby bequeath—’

‘Just a minute!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is this your will you’re reading?’

‘What did you think?’ Kibitzer demanded curtly. ‘Can you see anyone else here of testamentary age?’

‘But you aren’t dead yet,’ I protested.

‘And you can hardly wait, eh? Patience, my son, I’m doing my best.’

I fell silent. I’m extremely partial to black humour, but I couldn’t bring myself to find that funny. The old Nocturnomath had probably lost a good proportion of his wits. If a person’s cells die off, those of the brain are surely no exception – in fact, they may even be the first to leave the sinking ship of the intellect. Reading a will prior to death! What on earth had I got myself into?

‘I hereby bequeath’, Kibitzer declaimed solemnly, ‘my entire stock of antiquarian books, together with my shop premises and basement rooms, to Inazia Anazazi the Uggly. This bequest includes all my first editions of works by Professor Abdul Nightingale plus the relevant secondary literature and works on the same subject.’

I looked over at Inazia. A single tear was oozing from her eye. She had clearly been prepared for this bizarre occurrence and was accepting it without demur. I could expect no support from her. Until a few minutes ago I’d attributed the whole thing to a touch of senile dementia, but now it was becoming alarming.

‘My financial assets, which are held in a deposit account earning 5.5 per cent at Bookholm’s Antiquarian Bank, I likewise bequeath to Inazia Anazazi. They should suffice to offset her expenditure on The H ammer of the Ugglies and enable her to make new investments in the antiquarian field.’

The Uggly emitted a loud sob and I yearned to extricate myself from this situation by dissolving into thin air.

‘I leave the fruits of my research into Nightingalistics, which are stored in lightproof, waterproof, fireproof containers in the basement of my shop, to Bookholm University. These include various dissertations on a total of 147 subjects, all my working diaries, a Nightingalian logarithmic table with Kibitzerian additions, over 4,000 test tubes plus contents and all the Nightingalian devotional objects I was able to obtain during my lifetime, together with two of Professor Nightingale’s eyelashes preserved in amber, complete with a certificate of authenticity. All the Nightingalian scientific instruments in my possession are also to go to the University. The relevant instructions for use can be found in my working diaries.’

Some of the airborne glow-worms went into a spin and crash-landed on Kibitzer’s lectern, where they expired beside the candles. I envied the fortunate insects for putting the situation behind them, whereas I, for better or worse, had to attend the ceremony in its entirety.

‘I bequeath to Optimus Yarnspinner all the letters I wrote him, but never posted, in the past two hundred years,’ said Kibitzer. I found this statement as startling as a full-blooded smack in the face.

What? Letters? To me? Had I heard aright? What letters?

With his fingertips, Kibitzer withdrew a dark cloth from a tall object standing right beside the lectern. What came to light was an immense stack of letters yellow with age and tied up in bundles. There must have been several hundred of them.

‘At first I wrote these letters in the hope that our idiotic dispute would one day be settled. By the time it became clear that this was unlikely to happen during my lifetime, writing to him had become a fond habit I couldn’t give up. Even if Optimus is uninterested in them, the letters are addressed to him and, thus, his legal property.’

Now it was I whose eyes filled with tears. He must have written to me every few days throughout the years, but he hadn’t had the courage to send the letters off because I, in my mulish obstinacy, had ceased to correspond with him.

‘I also bequeath to Optimus a masterly example of Vertical Labyrinthine Cartography personally drawn by the great Colophonius Regenschein. This I do in the express hope that he will never need to make practical use of this map.’ Kibitzer emitted a dry cough, and I took the opportunity to quickly wipe my tears on my sleeve.

‘I further stipulate that Inazia Anazazi has my full authority to make my funeral arrangements and administer my estate, expressing the hope that she will not suffer from the bureaucratic despotism to which Ugglies in Bookholm are still, regrettably, exposed. Finally, I wish that my body be cremated and that no one apart from Inazia attend my funeral. My ashes are to be interred in the Antiquarians’ Cemetery in Bookholm.

‘Signed, Ahmed ben Kibitzer.’

Kibitzer rolled up the document. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s that.’ Goldwine’s immortal melody died away in my head.

‘What is all this?’ I protested angrily. ‘You may be ill, but you aren’t dead! Why are you disposing of your goods and chattels like this? Are you crazy? You’re frightening me, Ahmed!’

Kibitzer merely smiled and tottered over to a mass of books stacked up to form a flat-topped table. Closer inspection revealed them to be, not printed books but leather-bound volumes of the kind used for making notes or bookkeeping.

‘These are the handwritten journals of Professor Abdul Nightingale,’ he said proudly. ‘I can’t think of a worthier deathbed.’

I dearly wished that Kibitzer would stop making these tasteless jokes about dying, which were really beginning to get me down, but the old Nocturnomath pursued his macabre conceit even further: he climbed on top of the book table and lay down.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Comfortable it isn’t, but that’s not the point. Do you know my absolutely favourite passage in your books, Optimus?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘You mean there’s a passage you actually like?’

He laughed softly. ‘You’re still resentful, aren’t you? But you’re right. Nothing gets deeper under a person’s skin than criticism from a friend. I should have expressed myself more diplomatically. It was pretty insensitive of me.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s bury the subject – er, I mean, let’s forget it.’ I couldn’t think straight. I was still suffering from a monumental hangover and Kibitzer’s funereal metaphors were starting to colour my own use of language.

‘What are you doing on that table?’ I demanded apprehensively. ‘Are you tired?’

Kibitzer completely ignored my question. ‘My favourite passage occurs in The City of Dreaming Books,’ he said. ‘It’s the scene where Colophonius Regenschein dies.’

‘Really?’ I rejoined. ‘Why that one in particular? I’ve written better.’

‘It’s not that. Readers of books tend to look for passages with which they identify and I’ve always considered the way in which Regenschein died to be exemplary.’

It had never occurred to me that a way of dying could be exemplary, but I was at pains not to contradict him at this moment. ‘Regenschein died of his own free will,’ I said. ‘It was … impressive.’

‘That’s just how I’ve always wanted to go myself!’ said Kibitzer. ‘Under my own steam! An uninhibited decision! The triumph of mind over matter! Nothing could be greater!’

Tears sprang to my eyes again. I had finally grasped what was going on here. The real reason for our presence.

‘You intend to die,’ I said quietly. ‘Here and now.’

‘Yes,’ Kibitzer replied with a blissful smile. ‘This is my final wish. I’m dying now. So will you, but a bit later on. We all die the whole time because we really start dying at birth, so let’s not be melodramatic about it.’

He stretched out, and the last of the will-o’-the-wisps spiralled down and landed beside him, where their light faded and went out.

‘I’ve discovered how Regenschein did it,’ said the Nocturnomath. ‘I finally found out after years of concentrated cogitation. It’s a breathing technique. Or rather, a technique that enables you to avoid breathing. Not to be recommended unless you want to die!’

I glanced helplessly at Inazia, but she was simply standing there in frozen silence, like a statue.

‘Listen,’ said Kibitzer. ‘We both know you didn’t come to Bookholm on my account, nor to overcome an existential crisis. Those were only secondary considerations, so let’s not pretend otherwise! You’ve got to look facts in the face. You came because of a few words. Because of five words, to be precise – because of one brief sentence in a letter.’

Kibitzer turned his big eyes on me. Their yellow light flickered like that of a guttering candle.

‘That sentence was: The Shadow King hasreturned.’

I started to say something, but he silenced me with a limp gesture.

‘I know you can’t bring yourself to admit this because you’re too afraid, but you want to return to the Labyrinth. That’s why you came.’

‘Not true!’ I dared to contradict him only in a whisper. ‘Nothing in the world would persuade me to go back there.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Kibitzer, ‘because I hope your fear will prevail over your curiosity. You survived the catacombs once. That was more luck than any one person deserves. Don’t give the Labyrinth a chance to swallow you up a second time, or it’ll make a thorough job of you. Listen to your fear. Fear springs from common sense and courage is the fruit of stupidity! Who said that?’

‘No idea,’ I replied uncertainly. Mental gymnastics were too much for me at that moment.

‘I did!’ Kibitzer gasped. ‘I said it! I fear I don’t have much more in the way of worldly wisdom to bequeath you, but I’d happily have that aphorism carved on my tombstone. Mark it well!’

That was just the kind of advice Kibitzer had always given me. Its gist was that you should trust your reason more than your emotions. Nocturnomaths were renowned for their mental acuity, not for their sentimentality.

‘You’ve no need to worry,’ I said, still whispering. ‘If anyone’s bad personal experience gives him good reason to fear the catacombs, it’s me. Even looking down the Bookholm Shafts makes me feel sick. I shall never again set foot in the Labyrinth – never!’

‘That’s the attitude,’ said Kibitzer. ‘Your fear fills me with hope. Your terrors are your friends, so foster them. Think of all the frightful experiences you underwent down there. Think of them as often as you can.’

‘I dream of them every night,’ I said. ‘I don’t have to call them to mind.’

‘Good,’ wheezed Kibitzer. ‘Very good, but all the same … Inazia, please bring him the map.’

The Uggly went over to the table on which Kibitzer had spread out a map shortly before. She came back and handed it to me.

‘Take a good look at it,’ said Kibitzer. ‘It’s a Vertical Labyrinthine Map. Personally compiled by Colophonius Regenschein in the course of years-long excursions into the catacombs. A masterpiece of speleocartography. It’s worth a fortune, but I haven’t bequeathed it to you for financial reasons. Its practical value is far greater – inestimable, in fact. Keep it with you all the time. Constantly, wherever you go. Will you promise me that?’

I nodded, even though I wasn’t too attracted by the thought of carrying a map of the Labyrinth around with me all the time. My eyes were still so full of tears, I couldn’t make out very much. All I vaguely saw was a maze of white and grey zigzag lines. The map meant nothing to me.

‘The white lines are the correct routes – insofar as one can talk of correct routes down there. At least they’re less dangerous than others. There are no undangerous routes in the catacombs, as you know, but the tunnels, flights of steps and caves marked in white are the ones which, in Regenschein’s experience, harbour the fewest unpleasant surprises. The ones marked in pale grey are the dangerous ones. They should be avoided. The dark grey routes are lethal. They are not to be followed at any price, for what awaits one there is certain death of one kind or another. Or something even worse, for in the catacombs there are worse things than death. You see the cross on the map?’

Yes, I could see a big cross on the map. Although nothing could have mattered to me less at that moment, I nodded.

‘That wasn’t made by Regenschein, but by … someone else …’

‘Someone else? Who?’

Kibitzer was breathing heavily. ‘That’s immaterial now. What do you think that cross signifies?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, puzzled. ‘Some important spot in the catacombs?’

‘The cross means treasure!’ Kibitzer exclaimed. ‘Don’t you ever read pirate romances? Treasure is always marked with a cross.’

‘This is a treasure map, you mean?’

‘No. That’s to say, metaphorically speaking, yes …’ He raised his head with an effort. ‘Now listen carefully and I’ll tell you what to do when the time comes.’

‘When the time comes for what?’

‘You’ll know … if it happens.’

The Nocturnomath was speaking in riddles more and more. His voice had grown fainter, but his breathing was all the more hectic.

‘When the time comes, you must scratch the paint off the cross on the map – it’s painted on – and then press down on the spot. Have you got that?’

‘Yes,’ I said uncertainly. I really did have more important concerns than some damned cross on a map I would never use. My friend was dying and he was wasting his precious time on this cryptic nonsense.

‘Take the map,’ Kibitzer commanded. ‘Put it in your pocket. Take it everywhere with you!’

I folded up the map and put it in an inner pocket. At least that disposed of the subject. Kibitzer grasped my paw.

‘I’ll be there soon … I’ll be there soon,’ he gasped.

Inazia moved closer to us. Looking at her, I was shocked by the despair in her eyes.

‘It’s time …’ she whispered.

Kibitzer raised his head once more. ‘I’m immensely glad you came, Optimus. I’m happy to be able to die in the company of the three people who meant most to me in my life.’

Three people? Inazia and I made two. Then I realised that he wasn’t delirious. The third person he’d alluded to was Professor Abdul Nightingale, whose works surrounded us on all sides in his shop. To Kibitzer, books had always possessed more personality than living creatures.

‘This is all happening too quickly for you, isn’t it? You’ve suddenly thought of so many questions you still wanted to ask me, haven’t you?’

He was right in a terrible way, but I didn’t want to put him under any pressure, not now.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ve no more questions for you. Don’t exert yourself.’

Kibitzer grinned with difficulty. ‘Never lie to a Nocturnomath,’ he said. ‘I can read people’s thoughts, had you forgotten that yet again? I will answer one question because it outweighs every other thought in your head.’

He drew three deep breaths.

‘You want to know if I believe that the Shadow King has returned.’

What else could I do but nod?

‘No,’ he whispered, ‘I don’t believe he has returned, for how can anyone return …’ – he drew another deep breath – ‘… who has never been away?’

Then he closed his eyes for ever.