Read Online Book 1 - The Man With the Golden Torc by Simon R. Green - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Simon R. Green
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impatience with his proximity, but I wouldn’t let myself be
hurried. Hello, Dad, I thought. Hello, Mum. I’ve come back. But I couldn’t think
of anything else to say, so I just nodded to them and moved on.
The Sarjeant-at-Arms finally ushered me into the library, to
wait there until the Matriarch was prepared to see me. He inclined his head
again, very stiffly, and withdrew, shutting the door firmly behind him. I pulled
a face at the closed door and relaxed a little. Walking with the Sarjeant always
felt like you were being marched with a gun at your back. I wandered slowly
through the many towering stacks and shelves of the family library, inhaling the
old familiar smells of leather bindings, paper, and ink and dust. On these
shelves, in these books, is recorded the true history of the world. All the
secret deals and treaties, the private promises and betrayals, and all the
secret wars that take place behind the scenes that normal people never get to
hear about. The subtle moves on the invisible board, in the greatest game of
all.
I was born, raised, and educated here in the Hall, like every
other Drood son and daughter, but I was one of the very few who ever bothered to
read any book that wasn’t part of the official curriculum. I discovered the
library when I was ten, and after that they couldn’t keep me out. The family
teaches you what it thinks you need to know and nothing more. I, on the other
hand, ploughed through books like others devoured junk food, and what the family
called education I came to see as indoctrination. I wanted to know it all, the
context as well as the bare facts. And the more I read, the more I wanted to get
out into the real world and see it as it really was.
For a long time, I couldn’t see why this was such a problem for
my teachers. I was being trained to fight evil, to know who humanity’s real
enemies were and how to defeat them; so surely the more I knew about them, the
better. Whenever I challenged anything, I was always told to just shut up and go
along like everyone else, because only my elders and betters could see The Big
Picture. So I just kept reading, trying to see it too.
The problem with the Drood family library is the sheer bloody
size of the thing. Miles and miles of stacks and shelves taking up the whole
lower floor of the south wing, every shelf packed tight to bursting with the
accumulated knowledge and wisdom of centuries. Books written in every language
under the sun, and some from darker places, including a few dialects so arcane
that human vocal cords can’t pronounce them out loud. So I read what I could in
the original and badgered the librarian endlessly to find translations for those
I couldn’t. A decent old stick, the librarian. Wore gaudy pullovers, even in the
summer, and went motorbike scrambling every weekend. He disappeared suddenly,
years before I left. We never did find out what happened to him.
I wandered aimlessly through the racks, trailing my fingertips
lightly along the leather spines. We believe in books. Computer files can be
hacked; paper can’t. The only way to access the information in this library is
to come here in person. And the only way to do that is to be part of the family.
"Hello, Eddie. It’s good to see you again."
I turned around, already smiling because I knew who it was, who
it had to be. There was only one living member of the family who’d actually be
pleased to see me again. Uncle James strode forward to greet me, one hand
outstretched to give me a firm, manly handshake. He looked great, as always,
perfectly outfitted in the most stylish three-piece suit money could buy,
looking every inch the rakish gentleman adventurer he was. Uncle James was tall,
darkly handsome, effortlessly elegant and sardonic, and in really good shape for
a man in his late fifties. His striking face had more than its fair share of
character lines, but his hair was still jet-black. His welcoming
hurried. Hello, Dad, I thought. Hello, Mum. I’ve come back. But I couldn’t think
of anything else to say, so I just nodded to them and moved on.
The Sarjeant-at-Arms finally ushered me into the library, to
wait there until the Matriarch was prepared to see me. He inclined his head
again, very stiffly, and withdrew, shutting the door firmly behind him. I pulled
a face at the closed door and relaxed a little. Walking with the Sarjeant always
felt like you were being marched with a gun at your back. I wandered slowly
through the many towering stacks and shelves of the family library, inhaling the
old familiar smells of leather bindings, paper, and ink and dust. On these
shelves, in these books, is recorded the true history of the world. All the
secret deals and treaties, the private promises and betrayals, and all the
secret wars that take place behind the scenes that normal people never get to
hear about. The subtle moves on the invisible board, in the greatest game of
all.
I was born, raised, and educated here in the Hall, like every
other Drood son and daughter, but I was one of the very few who ever bothered to
read any book that wasn’t part of the official curriculum. I discovered the
library when I was ten, and after that they couldn’t keep me out. The family
teaches you what it thinks you need to know and nothing more. I, on the other
hand, ploughed through books like others devoured junk food, and what the family
called education I came to see as indoctrination. I wanted to know it all, the
context as well as the bare facts. And the more I read, the more I wanted to get
out into the real world and see it as it really was.
For a long time, I couldn’t see why this was such a problem for
my teachers. I was being trained to fight evil, to know who humanity’s real
enemies were and how to defeat them; so surely the more I knew about them, the
better. Whenever I challenged anything, I was always told to just shut up and go
along like everyone else, because only my elders and betters could see The Big
Picture. So I just kept reading, trying to see it too.
The problem with the Drood family library is the sheer bloody
size of the thing. Miles and miles of stacks and shelves taking up the whole
lower floor of the south wing, every shelf packed tight to bursting with the
accumulated knowledge and wisdom of centuries. Books written in every language
under the sun, and some from darker places, including a few dialects so arcane
that human vocal cords can’t pronounce them out loud. So I read what I could in
the original and badgered the librarian endlessly to find translations for those
I couldn’t. A decent old stick, the librarian. Wore gaudy pullovers, even in the
summer, and went motorbike scrambling every weekend. He disappeared suddenly,
years before I left. We never did find out what happened to him.
I wandered aimlessly through the racks, trailing my fingertips
lightly along the leather spines. We believe in books. Computer files can be
hacked; paper can’t. The only way to access the information in this library is
to come here in person. And the only way to do that is to be part of the family.
"Hello, Eddie. It’s good to see you again."
I turned around, already smiling because I knew who it was, who
it had to be. There was only one living member of the family who’d actually be
pleased to see me again. Uncle James strode forward to greet me, one hand
outstretched to give me a firm, manly handshake. He looked great, as always,
perfectly outfitted in the most stylish three-piece suit money could buy,
looking every inch the rakish gentleman adventurer he was. Uncle James was tall,
darkly handsome, effortlessly elegant and sardonic, and in really good shape for
a man in his late fifties. His striking face had more than its fair share of
character lines, but his hair was still jet-black. His welcoming
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