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Most books require no key, and yet a closed mind cannot open them.

Dressed in Chain , by Eli Nathan

Anne

The giant man, who must have in Anne’s estimation stood close to seven feet in height, steered the young policeman back to the street door. The tight and vicious look that had commanded the policeman’s face since he walked in had been replaced by a wondering confusion. The small but deep vertical lines between his eyebrows had smoothed themselves away.

“Be careful, Officer Schmidt,” the giant said as the policeman pushed through the door and hunched himself against the rain. “It looks wild out there.”

Anne closed the door behind him and stood there as the bell jangling above her wore itself out.

“That one,” said the giant, “has many issues. It could take weeks to untangle him. But his main problem seems to be that he’s fallen in with some sort of cult.”

Anne covered the smirk that escaped onto her lips. It wasn’t funny. None of it was.

“I didn’t see you come in.” It seemed the most logical place to start.

The albino bowed his head. “My apologies. I am Yute, and this is Kerrol. We came from the library.” They were both foreign, they had to be. They spoke the language too well, their grammar too perfect to be from anywhere nearby, and yet untainted by any regional accent.

“Anne Hoffman.” Anne felt she should offer her hand but resisted the impulse. She realised that she was staring and tried not to. Clearly neither man worked for the town’s small library. Possibly the scientific library at Regensburg, but Anne found it hard to believe that the institute would employ such unusual characters, especially in the current political climate. Mr. Yute was at least respectably dressed…She wanted to thank them for putting in an appearance and somehow taming Officer Schmidt, but to do so would be to admit that she had been in danger from a policeman in her own shop, and that would make what had nearly happened far too real. Under the expectant gaze of her new customers Anne shook off her confusion and asked, “What was it you were looking for, Mr. Yute? I think I must have misheard you.”

“And I think I must have misspoken.” Mr. Yute inclined his head, his hair as white as Great-grandmother Ruth’s. “We’re here on a…what shall we call it? A discovery trip. And I think that our first task should be to learn what kind of place we’ve found ourselves in.”

“The best bookshop in town.” Anne folded her arms and grinned. Even though Mr. Kerrol had yet to speak to her, something about his presence made her feel safe, and that was a thing she’d not felt for a long time. There was no real sense to it. A dozen inches of extra height would do nothing to save you from a thrown stone, a club, a knife, or a bullet. But there it was, she took comfort from his being there.

“And how many bookshops are there in town?” Mr. Kerrol’s voice rumbled out as he walked past her, so deep that it almost seemed to reverberate in her chest.

“F— Three.” She had been going to say five, but Werner’s went bust the previous year, and the Saveenys had left town only last week, boarding up the windows of their shop.

“Remarkable.” The giant stood with his hand set to the window glass, his fingers splayed, the raindrops on the other side running past them. “An invisible barrier.”

If it hadn’t been for Mr. Yute saying they came from the library, or the way Mr. Kerrol had dealt with the policeman, Anne might have imagined the giant to be a native of some primitive country, brought to civilisation only recently by an intrepid explorer. But the explanation felt a thousand miles from fitting.

“Glass,” Mr. Yute said, raising his voice slightly.

“Ah,” Mr. Kerrol turned away from the window. “Glass. I should have known. I’m afraid I was the same way when I first saw fire. I thought it was some strange red flower.”

Anne laughed nervously, not entirely sure that the man was joking.

“It occurs to me”—Mr. Yute rested his pink-eyed gaze on the street—“that we should perhaps visit these two other bookshops first. The manner of our arrival has…clothed…us appropriately, but it won’t last. I’m afraid your uniqueness won’t pass unnoticed for long, Kerrol.”

“My impression from Hans was that this is not a time when differences are well tolerated in this kingdom,” Mr. Kerrol rumbled.

Anne took the opportunity to retreat behind the counter and closed the divider. She wasn’t sure she’d been following the conversation properly, but that last part she understood. She understood it to be understatement. “It might be dangerous for you to wander the town.” She paused. “But you got here without trouble. Maybe I’m being silly.”

Mr. Yute flexed his jaw. “I wouldn’t say we had no trouble…”

Mr. Kerrol came and leaned on the counter with an easy smile. “Perhaps you could give us directions to these two other shops?”

Anne took a piece of notepaper and with the stub of a pencil began to sketch out a map of the streets the pair would need to take. “And don’t go talking about the kingdom. Not where anyone will hear you. We’ve not had a king for a long time. Not since before I was born. It doesn’t do to talk about kings. That will get you into politics, and that will get you into trouble faster than punching a judge in the face.” She started to label the streets they would have to follow. First to reach Weber’s shop, and then the antiquarian Madame Orlova whose upmarket emporium sold leather-bound tomes of the sort prized by scholars, collectors, and by bankers who bought them by the yard to fill their shelves with the necessary gravitas for men set in charge of vast sums of money.

“I would come as your guide,” Anne apologised. “But I can’t open that door.” She nodded to the street.

“I’m familiar with such restrictions,” Mr. Kerrol said, with no hint of complaint.

“I mean, I can, obviously.” Anne felt the need to explain even if no explanation had been asked for. “Only, I promised my grandfather. He worries when I’m out. Says it’s not safe for us these days.”

“And where is your grandfather?”

“Out…” Anne shook her head and bent to finish the map. She handed it over. “There you go, Mr. Kerrol.”

He accepted the page. “Just Kerrol. And my thanks.” For a moment something seemed wrong with his hand. The shape? The way the fingers divided? The number of fingers? Anne shook her head and looked again. It was a perfectly normal hand, just very large. She suppressed a sudden desire to set her own hand against his palm and see how the size of his swallowed hers.

“Kerrol,” she said.

“Just so.” He straightened, waved the paper at his companion, and strode towards the door.

After a moment’s fumbling they had the door open between them and a cold, damp blast rattled round them.

“Rain,” grumbled Mr. Yute. “Better than the sun, I suppose.” He led the way out, head bent, not choosing to pit his umbrella in an unequal battle against the wind.

“Rain!” Kerrol seemed delighted. “Another first!” And, dipping his head to avoid the doorjamb, he followed out, closing the door behind him.

Another first? Anne frowned as she watched the two men go. How did that make any sense? She watched them until the edge of the last window blocked her vision. One white as a ghost, the other tall as a beanstalk. They both had targets on their backs. There were plenty of brownshirts in town. Even out of uniform they’d spoil for a fight with a pair as clearly foreign. If Kerrol and Mr. Yute happened to pass by any of the factory yards they would draw trouble, sure as rain falls down. Any place where workmen would be coming and going, hanging out under the eaves of the machine sheds for a smoke, or standing in the shelter of a wall, any place like that could see them chased, beaten, driven out of town. Or worse, they might be arrested and taken to one of the new camps where all the communists were ending up these days. She should have sent them down that alley by the slaughterhouse, made them go the long way rather than past the lorry factory.

“Damn it!” Anne grabbed her coat and the key and ran to the door. She turned the sign to “closed,” slipped out into the rain, locked up, and hurried after her customers, still struggling into her coat. “Wait!”

She caught them at the corner. “Mr. Yute, wait!”

“Just Yute,” he said, turning with a surprised smile despite the rain which he very clearly wasn’t enjoying.

“Yute.” Anne felt uncomfortable calling an adult stranger by their first name. Kerrol wasn’t much older than she was. Early twenties at most. But Yute…she couldn’t tell how old he was. He had a face that made it hard to judge. He had to be at least forty, surely? But well-preserved. But equally he could be a youthful sixty. “Sir. I really should have just said I’d take you there. So, I will!”

“But your grandfather told you to remain in the shop,” Yute observed. “I doubt he’d forgive me for inciting you to ignore his rules and to leave his livelihood unguarded.”

“Oh, it’s not much of a livelihood,” Anne protested. “And the rule of hospitality trumps the other rule. You’re strangers in town. Grandfather wouldn’t forgive me if I left you to wander in such weather.”

Kerrol smiled down at her, shaking water from his hands. “It might be nice to get somewhere dry. I never liked swimming in the pool, and I’m finding it just as unpleasant when the stuff falls from the sky.”

Anne nodded uncomprehendingly. “This way.” She crossed the street, aiming for Tanner Lane. Like her grandfather’s shop, Weber’s bookshop was tucked behind a high street where shops crowded elbow to elbow. Rather than keep other stores’ company, the bookshop numbered lawyer’s offices, accountancies, and suppliers of inks or stationery among its neighbours. Thunder rumbled in the east, like the sound of distant guns, and Anne picked up her pace.

She led them the long way, all the time praying that her grandfather’s business kept him a little longer so that her dereliction of duty not be discovered. She took all her usual precautions, listening out for shouts or singing or raucous laughter, the hallmarks of the drunk, pausing at corners and peering around. It should have worked. Especially in the rain. But three streets shy of their target, and as the rain slackened to a scattered drizzle, a voice hailed them.

“Oi!” Hardly a threat but the lack of respect in the overfamiliar address was warning in itself. The confidence was another source of concern. You don’t shout at two grown men in the street unless you have something to back it up. Particularly if one of those grown men has grown much further than probably any man within twenty miles ever had.

“Say nothing to offend them,” Anne cautioned in a low voice, turning to face the speaker.

Four men in overalls had just emerged from one of the terraced houses they’d passed, men in their middle years, heavy bellies used to beer and sausage, sour expressions, a fifth emerging, closing the door behind him. Shift workers at the foundry, Anne thought, the four perhaps calling to pick up the fifth on their way in.

The largest of them, the oldest by the look of him, sported a handlebar moustache and the ruddy complexion of a drunk, though surely he wasn’t currently inebriated at an hour that for him must be just after breakfast.

“Gypsies aren’t allowed round here.” The big man led his friends towards them with a swagger.

Anne would have run if she were on her own—the men didn’t look fast, and they’d probably be satisfied with seeing her run. But it seemed unlikely that Yute in his smart business attire or the towering Kerrol would scatter like schoolboys, even though it would be very much in their best interests to do so.

“We are not gypsies,” Yute said. “But since we are leaving, the point is moot.” He turned to go.

“Don’t turn your back on me!” the man barked.

Yute turned slowly back to face him. Kerrol said nothing, studying the men with a careful frown. He was far taller than any of them, but he didn’t seem particularly powerfully built, and despite his height he didn’t seem the fighting sort.

Looking pleased with himself, the man waved a hand at the three of them and glanced conspiratorially at his friends. “What have we here? A gypsy circus freak, a useless eater, and a Jew-rat.”

The man behind him, bald and heavy browed, had fished a wrench from the pocket of his overalls.

“We should go.” Anne tugged at Yute’s arm.

“No.” Kerrol’s rumble was free of anger or fear. “They won’t be satisfied without injuring us.”

The leader’s complexion darkened, flushing with more blood. With balled fists and a sense of impending purpose he closed the gap between them in swift strides.

“I—” Anne started to speak, but Kerrol moved so fast that the words were stolen from her tongue.

In one heartbeat he was towering beside her. In the next he had snatched up the biggest man in just one hand, carried him back to his fellows, seized another man in the other hand, and used the pair as clubs to knock the remaining three to the ground.

“My apologies.” Kerrol threw the two men in his hands down onto the three struggling to rise. “With more study I’m sure I could have reasoned with you.” He kicked the man closest to gaining his feet, knocking him flat. “Sadly, time is short, and I will have to employ fear.” He glanced back at Yute. “If you could take our friend away. This will work better without an audience.”

Yute reached for Anne’s hand, encircling it with white fingers and leading her around the next corner. The blood-curdling growl that reached after them made Anne want to add her own scream and tear off at a flat sprint. Yute squeezed her palm and released her. “His bark is worse than his bite. His sister though…she is another proposition.”

Kerrol emerged from the lane at a stroll a short while later, though wearing a frown once more. “I did my best. I don’t think they will come after us or report us to any authority. Shame and fear are powerful motivators, but not ones I like to employ. They’re unsubtle and apt to come back to bite you. And it seems that they have already been overused in this town for many years. Fascinating…” He brightened and looked expectantly at Anne. “Shall we go?”

“Y-yes sir.”

“Kerrol.”

“Kerrol.” Anne had seen him pick up a man in each hand and wave them about as if they were mugs of beer. And the speed with which he’d moved. It didn’t seem possible.

Unlike Hoffman’s Books, which had four large windows with wooden pillars between them, Weber’s boasted a single huge plate of glass. Or had. The whole window had been replaced by two tarps, flapping in the rain-laced wind. Anne stopped at the corner as soon as she saw it.

“I had read that glass was brittle stuff,” Kerrol said behind her. “But if it’s this fragile it seems a poor material to use, unless it’s very cheap to replace?”

“It isn’t cheap,” Anne muttered.

“But one of yours was broken too,” Kerrol said.

“Probably the same hands threw the stone.” Anne stared, unsure whether it was safe to approach the shop. Was it still open to customers? A moment of fear seized her at the thought of grandfather’s place left unguarded.

“Forgive me,” Kerrol said gently. “Are the owners of this shop also worshipers of the Jew god?”

“Everyone here worships the same God.” Anne glanced at him, wondering at his ignorance. “We just do it in different ways.” It was too complicated to explain, or rather it was simple. It was about hate. Hate and difference. Difference only because it was something to hang hate from.

Kerrol nodded. “I know only what Officer Hans told me back in the shop, and Otto said in the alley. I doubt they are unbiased sources. But I’m keen to learn. It seems that persecuting a minority is a regrettably common trait among humanity. King Oanold chose the people from the Dust. He called them dusters. A racially identifiable group—”

“Sadly, it’s not something unique to humanity,” Yute interrupted. “Perhaps we should conduct our business while we still can.” And so saying, he led out across the street, aiming for the bookshop.

Anne followed, glancing from Yute to Kerrol. Humanity? Both of them had used the word, and neither man had spoken it as if it were something they felt themselves to be part of.

“Let me go first.” Anne set her hand to the door ahead of Yute. She turned the handle and pushed on through.

Immediately the familiar smell of books greeted her. Herman and Carl were both behind the counter, standing almost in each other’s shadow. They slumped visibly on recognising her, the tension leaving them.

“Anne!” Herman smiled. He was the older of the pair, perhaps forty, slightly built, already starting to grey. At his shoulder Carl’s smile was more strained. His left eye was blackened, his cheek bruised too.

As Yute followed in behind Anne, and then Kerrol stooped to fit beneath the doorway, both men pressed even closer together, their fear renewed.

“These are friends of mine.” Anne sought to calm them. “Yute and Kerrol. They’re interested in books.” She turned to the pair she’d named her friends, though in reality they didn’t even qualify as customers, not having made any purchase yet. “This is Herman, and this is Carl. They own the shop. But they’re not Webers. That was the founder. He died a long time ago and his son sold the place to Herman.” She realised that she was babbling and stopped. The image of Kerrol swinging a man from each hand returned to her.

The two owners stepped apart with a hint of reluctance. It was Carl who normally manned the counter, and Herman was more often to be found among the aisles, rearranging the stock. But clearly the attack had unsettled them. Anne had never quite understood what it was that singled the pair out for the town’s disapproval. Her grandfather wouldn’t talk about it and even seemed to share some of the same sentiment, though at a much lower level than those who spat at Carl in the street when he ran errands. People said the pair were too close. But Anne thought if you found a friend you could really trust, then that’s exactly what you should do—keep them close.

“You had trouble.” Kerrol approached the counter, making both men look like children. He touched his eye.

Herman shook his head. “The town’s strung too tight. Something’s going to give. It’s going to be worse than a window or two. I think they’re going to kill someone. I really do. They’re saying something big’s coming tonight. That’s the rumour anyway. Lots of brownshirts in from Weiden. Activists in the beer halls…” He shook his head, and then his whole body gave an involuntary shudder. “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

“I’m not sure.” Yute wandered to the nearest shelf and ran white fingers slowly across the offered spines. “I’m hoping it will become clear. The library never sends us anywhere without a reason. But those reasons can be obscure. Sometimes nothing more than coincidence.” He followed the line of books, gaze sliding across titles and author names.

Anne shot an apologetic look at Herman. Yute seemed to be a bit of a mystic, and she was beginning to wonder if Regensburg or indeed any other library had really sent him to her town on this day.

For his part, Kerrol returned to the door and peered out of the small glass panes arrayed in the arch above it. “Forgive me, but I’ve really seen enough books to last a lifetime. I’m more interested in what’s out there. I wonder if there will be snow? I’d like to see snow next. Or maybe a tornado. Do you have those here?”