Author’s note: This is the beginning of a short story set in what is meant to be a much larger one, entitled “The Saga Of Telanna”. The Telanna (a.k.a. Tanna Maneldri) of the title is a semi-immortal warrior woman, sometime queen, sometime goddess-figure, sometime adventurer, sometime “antiquities expert” (imagine a cross between a female Connor MacLeod, Xena, and Lara Croft, only slightly more twisted!) who inhabits an unknown alien world and, along with a number of other individuals, gained superhuman abilities after being abducted by another, more advanced alien race. This occurs somewhat after the ending of what would have been the original stories I had mentally planned out, which concerned her origin and quest for vengeance over her extinguished tribe; another detailing the ongoing conflict with another of her kind, the Emperor Marenden. This short story, though, is intended largely as a discussion/deconstruction of certain cliched tropes about warrior women and immortals, an exploration of how real-life events might be mythologized over the aeons, and the like. As for our roguish protagonist, the amusingly named “Chad Edge”- well you can work out what he is soon enough. I want to have a bit of fun with certain idiotic internet memes pertaining to his name, too…
Chad Edge had not normally been fond of books before, even antiquarian books. He had, of course, been fond of any… opportunity he could manage to gain himself profit from the unwary businessman, though. Though it had but barely taught him the art of literacy, that was one thing the Guild had taught him well. Of course, now, he had developed a fondness for Tanna, who herself was more than fond of not only books but all things antiquarian. Seven thousand years upon this earth had, she had told him, given her ample opportunity to learn to appreciate the finer things in life- and to separate the silver from the dross. He, in turn, had much more quickly learned that it was possible to combine both his fondnesses to his own advantage.
It was for this reason that, three months into their joint sojourn in the city of Mexen Tegani, that he found himself frequenting the Bookseller’s Row more often than not. It was an important centre for the book trade renowned throughout the country of Laxam Yegna. Histories, scientific treatises, reference works, myths, legends, fantasies, romances of every description, the new and the old, the cheap shilling paperback and the ten-crown gilt edged parchment, hand bound in finest yilkskin. If he had any interest whatsoever in these tomes, though, it had little to do with what was printed in them. The prospect of actually sitting down and reading dry, dead words on a dry, dead page would surely send him to sleep before he’d even tried- he preferred the raw excitement of living reality. But the fact was that there were those who not only read and studied the things with great enthusiasm, but they were willing to pay considerable sums for them. So much so that the denizens of Booksellers’ Row made a tidy profit out of the fact. Profit made from, as far as Chad Edge was concerned, nothing more than extracting value from the desperate and the gullible. Did these people set the type and work the presses? Did they, in other words, do any real work, anything to, as “regular, decent folks” were bound to say, “add value to society” worthy of their fortunes? If not, it was hardly as if what he was trying to do was any more immoral, was it?
The method by which Chad performed his little enterprise was, he thought, subtle but ingenious. After all, any fool could walk in with a loaded crossbow and a mask pulled over his face, ordering whatever hapless clerk behind the desk to empty the cash-register or crouch helpless on the floor whilst he stripped the shelves of whatever was of value. Any fool, that is, who wanted half the city watch surrounding him at sword-point before he had chance to blink- which they certainly would in those streets where gentlefolk went about their business. No, it required careful observation and understanding of the mark, some clues as to their trade and their behaviour. All this he’d made note of every time Tanna dragged him into yet another shop looking for whatever rare and hard-to-find title she required this time round. At first, he’d got used to standing patiently and listening to her engaging with some shopkeeper about some particular rare volume she desired at that particular moment, whilst making careful note of the words they used- odd terms like “foxing”. Of particular interest, too, was their habits. Especially the fact that they tended to keep the most valuable items in some hidden backroom which, for some of the grey-haired old duffers who ran the “quainter” places (more for love than money), could take hours in fulfilling your particular request. Enough time to, if he was quick and quiet about it, help himself to a few of the more modestly priced titles and run them to Menam Tengi’s for a valuation, and be back in time for the senile old fool to let you know that alas, he couldn’t find what you said you were looking for in stock. Then back to Tengi’s to collect whatever… fair price he dictated.
Of course, the same trick would never work on Tengi, the stingy old miser. He was one of those most shrewd of merchants- and one of those most rich. For one thing, he would never dirty his shoes in those cavernous vaults of his- he had assistants for that kind of thing, usually some skinny, wet-behind-the-ears young lad with inch-thick eyeglasses who was too young even for a wisp of the neatly-trimmed Yegnan moustache their master sported. And he had the eyes of a threc- spotting even the smallest compact you snuck out of the bargain section at the far end without paying the fourpence it was worth. Yet when it came to his payment, the tight-fisted bastard wouldn’t give you a tenth of the book’s real price, and unlike any Yegnan on the face of the island, wouldn’t even haggle. Still, he was reliable, and didn’t ask too many awkward questions. Neither did some of the old duffers down the road- and they were easier to wring money out of, but less reliably so. And of course, you could never be too careful. You had to know which ones were easiest, and to play to their particular quirks.
Still, by now, he had it worked out pretty firmly by now- or so he told himself. He’d claim to be on some errand for Tanna, when she was busy with some affairs of state; or browsing the antique markets on the other side of town, whose golden items were far too valuable to simply liberate (if you wanted your fingers intact); or (rarely) going off on some expedition to recover some priceless rarities not found in the shops; or (much more often) going incognito into some sleazy dive, waiting for the chance to enact her peculiar form of justice- the sort which usually resulted in broken tables and congealed blood staining the tiles, yet she with barely a scar on her by the time she got home. He knew from experience exactly the sort of title she might be claiming to look for – often on some arcane topic – for it to appear believable. And then, he would put his plan into motion. It was a slow but steady income, and one he didn’t especially need, but it was one that, in his own estimation, was his. Or at least, did not depend on her– and in turn, not on the “regular, decent folks” who paid their taxes.
Tales of Lyniezia 