Khadgar shook his head and went back to where he had left his scribe’s tools. He spilled out a thin
wooden pen with a handful of metal nibs, a stone for sharpening and shaping the nibs, a knife with a
flexible blade for scraping parchment, a block of octopus ink, a small dish in which to melt the ink, a
collection of thin, flat keys, a magnifying lens, and what looked at first glance like a metallic cricket.
He picked up the cricket, turned it on its back, and using a specially-fashioned pen nib, wound it up. A gift from Guzbah upon Khadgar completing his first training as a scribe, it had proved invaluable in the
youth’s perambulations among the halls of the Kirin Tor. Within was contained a simple but effective spell
that warned when a trap was in the offing.
As soon as he had wound it one revolution, the metallic cricket let out a high-pitched squeal. Khadgar,
surprised, almost dropped the detecting insect. Then he realized that the device was merely warning
about the intensity of the potential danger.
Khadgar looked at the piled volumes around him, and muttered a low curse. He retreated to the
doorway, and finished winding the cricket. Then he brought the first book he had picked up, the ticking
one, over to the doorway.
The cricket warbled slightly. Khadgar set the trapped book to one side of the doorway. He picked up
another volume and brought it over. The cricket was silent.
Khadgar held his breath, hoped that the cricket was enchanted to handle all forms of traps, magical and
otherwise, and opened the book. It was a treatise written in a soft feminine hand on the politics of the
elves from three hundred years back.
Khadgar set the handwritten volume to the other side of the doorway, and went back for another book.
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