Chapter 521: Lamp Oil

"Once I arrive in the New Continent, I'll transfer trains and head west all the way to the end of the railway line to meet up with the inland Joint Scientific Expedition."

"The Joint Scientific Expedition?" Professor Mortimer frowned.

"You've lost your sight entirely, and you want to follow an expedition into the mountains?"

Minerva smiled.

"The expedition specifically needs people like me."

The team is funded by Harvard, the University of Buenos Aires, and several shipping companies. They've recruited a dozen or so people, all at the rank of Minor Adept or above.

"Everyone drew up a will before signing their contracts. We are heading specifically west of the New Continent's Central Mountain Range, to the places that are still blank on the map."

Mortimer searched his memory.

"West of the Central Mountain Range..." he said. "I've heard stories about that place from a few students who returned from field assignments. It is countless times more dangerous than the weak points over here."

Minerva nodded in agreement.

"The veil in the Old Continent is relatively stable, though the war has shaken it recently. Still, the evil spirits and the dead over here have to find a weak point to barely squeeze through."

"But west of the Central Mountain Range in the New Continent, the veil is practically a thin layer of gauze. The mystical side has already integrated into every aspect of people's daily lives."

"The local natives learned to live alongside the world behind the veil thousands of years ago. Their city-states stand half in the material realm and half behind the veil—they have even formed an Underworld City-State Cluster."

When the colonists tried to build a railway there, the surveying stakes they drove in during the day would shift positions on their own before the next morning.

They originally wanted to set up telegraph lines, but many of the messages they received were transmitted by the dead.

"That is why, for hundreds of years, humanity's exploration has always stopped at the foot of the Central Mountain Range."

No star chart on the Old Continent has ever recorded the stars behind the veil.

"When people look up at the sky, they can't count exactly how many stars are up there. Those who count wrong lose their way, never to return."

Minerva finally revealed her true objective.

"I am going to the New Continent this time to compile a new star chart."

"I have already lost my sight. The stars behind the veil cannot deceive me."

Professor Mortimer offered a faint smile. "Madam, you make marching to your death sound as casual as a business trip."

Minerva covered her mouth with a light chuckle. Radiating an aura of immense confidence, she replied nonchalantly, "I actually calculated my odds of survival. The probability of returning alive from west of the Central Mountain Range is twenty-three percent.

"But if I stay at Turin Astronomy and work until retirement, doing nothing every day but repeating what our predecessors have already done, the probability of advancing further is zero."

Pausing slightly, she added a compliment.

"I also calculated your odds, by the way. Your expectations for advancement in the Old Continent are much higher than mine."

At this point, a train whistle pierced the fog, and a conductor at the far end of the platform called for passengers to board.

Minerva bowed slightly toward them, then turned and walked to the steps of her carriage.

She didn't grab the handrail as she climbed the steps, yet her footing was perfectly steady.

Richard rubbed his chin.

It seemed that once the Star Map tradition reached this level, having functioning eyes or not made little difference in daily life.

Or rather, losing normal vision actually helped her observe the world more clearly—perhaps this was the so-called mind's eye. Minerva's train pulled out first. Its wheels clattered loudly over the switches as it quickly faded into the distance.

"The Director's tradition, just like our classical texts, has reached a dead end," Mortimer said.

From the moment the Chaldeans carved the first star symbol into a clay tablet up until today, astronomy has been developing for thousands of years.

"Greenwich Observatory and the Paris Observatory have argued for two solid centuries over who gets to catalog the stars first. As a result, the Star Map tradition hasn't produced a Virtuoso in two hundred years."

Back when Minerva was the Director of Astronomy, she was the youngest full professor in the nation, holding authority over the star charts for the entire Apennine Peninsula.

However, the failure in that team battle the other night had ultimately pushed her to completely step out of her comfort zone.

Professor Mortimer suddenly went back to wiping the window pane, continuing to speak as he scrubbed.

"According to the news I received, the Director arranged everything perfectly before she resigned. She even scheduled the observatory shifts all the way to 1925.

"I heard that on his first day in office, the new director read through the hundred-plus tips she left behind from start to finish.

"Then he just sat at his desk in a daze for the whole morning, having no idea what else was left for him to do."

Five minutes later, Richard and Mortimer's train also prepared to depart.

The old professor closed his notebook and pulled the window shut. Beside them, a white-haired old woman brushed a ball of yarn off herself, and a salesman opened his eyes; both only felt as if they had dozed off for a moment.

No one spoke in the compartment for a long time. Condensation clouded the window once more, re-covering the patch the old professor had wiped clear with his cuff.

The train began to climb, the hills outside the window growing steeper.

By the time the train burst out of the final tunnel through Mount Giove, Genoa rushed toward them from the bottom up.

First came the endless roofs stretching down to the sea, and then the row of cranes at the harbor, their iron arms hanging upright in the rain.

Finally, a vast expanse of leaden-gray sea came into view, holding the entire city aloft.

The rain hadn't stopped since the afternoon.

Upon exiting the station, the two squeezed into a carriage. The driver pulled down the rain curtain, shook the reins, and plunged into the old town.

The alleys here were just as absurdly narrow. The buildings on either side were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, leaving only a thin sliver of sky visible overhead.

Mortimer shook the water from his hat and sighed.

"This place is even more uncomfortable than Milan."

Their inn was tucked in the second alley behind Piazza Caricamento. The landlady was a widow; her husband's portrait hung over the counter, framed in black crepe. As she grabbed the keys and assigned them rooms, she mentioned that one room upstairs faced the sea, while the other faced the alley and wouldn't see the sun during the day.

"I'll take the one facing the alley, then," Richard offered.

Leaning on his cane, Mortimer didn't bother standing on ceremony and went straight upstairs.

Dinner was served in the downstairs dining room.

The landlady brought over a plate of thin noodles tossed in pesto—the scent of garlic and basil overpowering—along with a small dish of fried anchovies.

Richard had already eaten the entire bag of focaccia that Luca had shoved into their hands during the journey.

Mortimer lifted the lid of the teapot, took one look, and snapped it shut.

"Isn't this just dishwater?"

"Old gentleman, this is the finest tea we have in the house."

The landlady couldn't understand the Albion Language, but she perfectly understood the old professor's look of disgust.

Richard hurriedly smoothed things over with a smile and a few polite words, and the landlady tactfully walked away.

Halfway through the meal, Richard pulled out the copy of the Mahabharata that the Master had given him. "Professor, I'd like you to take a look at this for me."

Mortimer set down his fork and raised a hand, instantly enveloping the entire dining room in an Isolation Array.

Richard slipped out one of the palm leaves.

"Mr. Librarian said that this strip explains how to pitch incantations. Over on the subcontinent, they call it..."

He struggled to imitate the Sanskrit word, though his pronunciation was naturally quite poor.

"Mr. Librarian said that I wouldn't be able to understand the strips that are forbidden to test anyway, so I shouldn't worry too much."

Mortimer reached out, but the moment his fingertips brushed the teakwood board, he silently pulled his hand back.

"Did he say how long he's lending this to you for?"

Richard also dug out the library card to show the professor.

"Tentatively a month, but he also said that as soon as I finish writing a new story, it can immediately be extended by another month."

The old professor held the library card up to the light to inspect it.

The pencil handwriting was neat and square—it indeed matched the handwriting of the forty-something gentleman he had summoned by burning a book. "Little Richard, this isn't a library card at all. It's a lease."

Richard chuckled again. Ever since meeting that Master the day before, he hadn't quite been able to suppress the grin on his face.

"Mr. Librarian is actually really nice. He even picked up all those drafts I threw away and numbered every single page."

"Mr. Librarian said my friend's line work was too rough, and he actually offered to introduce a Major Adept to be my contributing illustrator. He also said..."

"That makes four times."

"What?"

The icy remark cut through the air, instantly choking off Richard's eager desire to share.

Expressionless, Mortimer picked up his fork and speared a piece of anchovy, holding it up without moving to eat it.

"From a moment ago until now, you've said 'Mr. Librarian said' exactly four times."

The smile vanished from Richard's face as he suddenly realized his current mindset was entirely skewed.

The lights in the dining room flickered dimly, and a harbor whistle dragged its long note through the sound of the rain.

Not far away, the landlady was humming a wordless tune in the kitchen. "My apologies. I got a little carried away."

Richard took a sip of water from his glass, his expression returning to a calm baseline.

Mortimer's tone also softened.

"It's only natural to get carried away. You just turned eighteen, and you're already borrowing books directly from a Master.

"If you weren't proud at all, it would mean there was something wrong with you."

He popped the anchovy into his mouth and chewed it thoroughly before continuing.

"What I'm actually worried about is something else."

Richard stayed silent, waiting for him to go on.

"You just said... Mr. Librarian is really nice?"

Hearing this, Richard faintly grasped what the older man was getting at.

Mortimer wiped his mouth, pulled out his briefcase, and pushed all the plates and bowls on the table aside.

"Little Richard, that old man you saw in the library courtyard wasn't actually him." "What do you mean?"

"To use an analogy, that was likely just a finger he reached out.

"Or, more accurately, a tentacle."

A chill ran through Richard's heart at the description.

Mortimer continued, "The person working the desk behind the third-floor counter at Imperial Capital University, the one who nitpicked my work in Dublin, the one who turned up the lights for me on the third basement level in Prague—any of them could be one of the Librarian's tentacles.

"When you were in middle school and wandered over to the bookshelves on the third floor of Greenwood following little Hutton's instructions, the person who walked past behind you might have been one of the Librarian's tentacles, too."

Richard asked, "Professor, how many tentacles does the Librarian have?"

Mortimer shook his head. "I don't know. I'm guessing even the Librarian himself has lost count."

With that said, Mortimer abruptly changed the subject.

"During the summer training last June, you recited a famous quote from Cicero at the Classical Society's tea party. You said that since birthright and ancestors are not things you earn yourself, they cannot be counted as your own.

"Your aunt has retold the story of you reciting that quote countless times around the department, practically beaming with pride each time.

"Since we're on the subject of the Librarian granting you borrowing privileges, I thought this would be the perfect time to tell you a story about Cicero." Richard sat quietly across from him, listening intently.

Mortimer cleared his throat and began, "In March of the year 44 Before the New Calendar, Caesar was assassinated in the Theatre of Pompey.

"After Caesar's death, Cicero delivered a series of fourteen speeches in the Senate and the forum, fiercely denouncing Antony. Later generations would collectively call these fourteen speeches the Philippics.

"Cicero also stepped up for Caesar's adopted son, Octavian, securing armies, offices, and money for him from the Senate.

"Octavian was eighteen that year. The exact same age you are now."

Mentioning Octavian's age, Mortimer gave Richard a throaty chuckle before continuing.

"In private, Cicero joked to a friend that young Octavian should be praised, rewarded, and once he had outlived his usefulness, tossed aside.

"By the following year, Octavian, Antony, and Lepidus sat down together to negotiate who would be placed on the execution lists.

"Octavian fought for Cicero for two days, but on the third day, he relented. He agreed to put Cicero on the proscription list in exchange for Antony agreeing to add his own uncle, Lucius Caesar, to the list.

"Later, soldiers cut off Cicero's head. Antony's wife, Fulvia, held his severed head in her hands and drove her hairpin through his tongue. The most eloquent mouth in Rome was finally shut."

Only the sound of the rain against the window remained in the dining room. Mortimer's wrinkled face suddenly turned freezing cold. "Richard Williams, do you think you can just sit back and relax now that you have a Master backing you?

"Remember this: when a person is being held up on a pedestal by others, that is the exact moment they are worth the most."

Mortimer paused for a moment before asking Richard another question.

"Back when Hutton came to my office four days in a row to beg me to write a letter of recommendation for you, do you know why I dragged it out until the fourth day to say yes?"

Richard smiled bitterly. He had always assumed that Professor Mortimer had just grown annoyed by Mr. Hutton's endless pestering and finally gave in.

Mortimer let out a scoff.

"It seems you've figured it out. On the third day, Hutton brought the draft of your probatio text.

"It was only when I read from the seventh section through to the eleventh that I decided to agree."

Mortimer stared straight into Richard's eyes, all the cloudy haze of old age entirely gone from his gaze.

"So I'm going to make this perfectly clear today: if your draft had been as utterly mediocre as the manuscripts written by the other kids in the department...

"...Hutton could have come to my office a hundred times, and I still wouldn't have written that recommendation for you."

Raindrops continued to streak down the window pane. Mortimer tapped his fingers against the table and pressed on. "Why did the lord of the hunt give you a token and a title? Why was Matthew willing to make a special trip all the way from the New Continent?

"Why did Marie Viktorova leave a mark on your Ring?"

"You've walked all this way, and along the path, people have opened doors for you, covered your back, and stayed up late correcting your papers.

"Think carefully about it—why have all these people been so willing to treat you well?"

Richard picked up the blank card and twirled it halfway around in his hand.

"Professor, I'd like to ask you a question."

"If you have something to ask, ask."

Richard set the blank card flat on the table.

"Suppose I woke up tomorrow morning to find that I was utterly ruined. My signature artifact was shattered, my Micro-circulation broken, and all the knowledge I've learned wiped completely clean from my mind. Suppose I was reduced to a perfectly ordinary eighteen-year-old who knew nothing at all. What would you do then?"

Mortimer took off his reading glasses, wiped the lenses with his cuff, and replied in an incredibly steady tone, "I would have the department process you for compensation.

"Your registered identity on the roster is an Auxiliary Investigating Scholar, which entitles you to a fixed pension. I'd finish the paperwork for you and have Pendleton submit the application documents as soon as possible."

Richard asked, "And after the paperwork is done?"

"After the paperwork is done, I would revoke the recommendation letter I wrote for you."

"And after that, I'd go out and look for the next promising seedling.

"Across the entire Empire, over a hundred new Scholars achieve Signature every year. I can always pick out one or two decent ones from the batch.

"I am a hundred and twenty-three years old. I don't have the spare time to waste on someone who's already been ruined."

Richard looked at Mortimer and smiled, saying nothing.

Mortimer lifted his teacup, realized it was empty, and set it back down. He fell silent for a long moment before speaking again.

"Before I processed the compensation, I suppose I'd try to think of a solution for you first."

Richard remained silent.

Mortimer went on, "I have a few acquaintances in the Solar Tradition. The Solar Tradition's therapies burn like hell, but they're incredibly effective at fixing ruined circuits." The rain outside the window continued to fall, and Mortimer's voice grew lower and lower.

"There's a cataloging job in the archives. It's sitting work, six hours a day, and anyone who isn't entirely blind can do it. I could put a word in with Pendleton and save that spot for you.

"If you couldn't even manage to catalog, I have a collection of books in my study that I've spent a century gathering. Someone has to keep an eye on them for me."

Hearing this, Richard couldn't help but speak up. "...Professor."

Mortimer glared at him. "Don't be in such a rush to feel touched."

He slapped the table hard.

"Fine, I admit that everything I said earlier about processing the compensation, revoking the recommendation, and finding the next promising seedling was just to scare you."

Richard nodded. "I know you were just scaring me."

"You don't know shit!"

Professor Mortimer let out a rare curse.

"Little Richard, you listen to me finish."

"I certainly would try to find a solution for you. For the first year, I'd probably go visit you once a month. I'd bring a couple of fish and gossip about the department's mess—which associate professor got into another screaming match over funding at the office.

"In the second year, that would drop to once every three months.

"By the third year, I'd start looking for excuses. This month I have a manuscript to finish, next month my health isn't holding up, and the month after that I'd tell myself I'll wait until the weather gets warmer.

He placed his reading glasses on the table.

"By the fourth year, I would start avoiding you."

"...Why?"

"Because every time I visited, I would be forced to look all over again at the student I failed to save."

Mortimer spoke very slowly.

"A person's patience is like lamp oil. You never know how much is left, and while it's burning, you can't feel it depleting.

"But the day will inevitably come when it burns out, and you won't even realize it's gone until it happens."

In the dining room, a lamp suddenly crackled and sparked.

Richard let out a quiet, lingering sigh. He remembered Evelyn arguing with people in the street, loudly defending that her brother was second place in the Cicero Cup, first in Debate Week, and second in the summer training—she had gone through so much trouble to memorize all those achievements.

He remembered his grandfather signing his will in the study, saying that someone would have to shoulder the burden of the family from now on.

He remembered his aunt slamming the table at the Red Elm Restaurant that day, boasting that a single family producing three Minor Adepts was something no teaching faculty in the entire Department of Classics had managed in decades.

They truly loved him, yes, but they were also truly counting on him.

"Professor, we'll head to San Lorenzo Street tomorrow morning."

"What time?"

"Ten o'clock."

Richard gathered the palm leaves from the table, tucked them back between the teakwood boards, and tied the cotton string in an exceptionally tight knot.

......

Richard looked down to avoid a puddle and noticed the manhole cover beneath his feet.

On its cast-iron surface was an equal-armed cross, bordered by a ring of text spelling out the city's name.

He remembered the note that the tall man from Padua had shoved into his hand. "Professor, the manhole covers in Genoa don't have advertisements stamped on them. They have crosses."

"That's the cross of St. George." Mortimer walked ahead, leaning on his cane.

"Back in the twelfth century, the ships of our Empire had to fly their flag while sailing the Mediterranean Sea to keep from being robbed. We even had to pay them protection money every year."

"Really?"

"I'm not entirely sure." The old professor shook his head.

"But the Genoese have been telling that story for seven hundred years. For something that happened seven centuries ago, whether it's true or false no longer matters."

The end of the alley suddenly opened up, and the San Lorenzo Cathedral stood tall in the rain.

Black-and-white marble stripes stretched all the way from the steps up to the gable. A few people were squatting on the stairs to take shelter from the rain, including a young man with a mailbag slung over his shoulder, counting the letters in his hand.

San Lorenzo Street branched off from the side of the cathedral. Number eleven sat squarely in the prime real estate along the middle of the street.

The brass plaque above the lintel was polished bright and clean, but it was completely blank.

Mortimer didn't head toward the building. He stopped under the awning of a tobacco shop at the intersection.

"I will wait for you here." Richard looked back. "Professor?"

The old man leaned his cane against the wall, pulled the shopping list and a bulging money pouch from his coat, and handed them over.

"Here is the money. You go negotiate for me."

Richard took the pouch and weighed it in his hand. It was much heavier than he expected.

"You're not going in?"

"If I go in, the transaction changes."

"If you want to leave your mark on this street, you have to sit face-to-face with them yourself and whittle the price down bit by bit.

"The moment I step through that door, you just become the student running errands for me. I'm the only one he would remember from then on."

The old professor reached out to accept a newspaper handed to him by the tobacco shop owner. He snapped it open and glanced at the shipping schedules for the New Continent, wondering which voyage Minerva was taking.

Richard tucked the list into his inner pocket.

"What if I botch the negotiation?"

"If you botch it, we head back to the Imperial Capital and spend a bit more money at the auction house." Mortimer flipped a page of the newspaper, locating the ship bound for Boston.

"The money is coming out of the department's budget anyway. It won't hurt my feelings."

Richard nodded in understanding, feeling grounded.

The old professor raised the newspaper a little higher to shield himself from the driving rain.

"If you aren't back down in two hours, I'm coming up."

"Understood."

"And one more thing..."

Richard had already taken two steps forward before stopping again.

Mortimer peeked the upper half of his face over the newspaper.

"Whatever you want to buy for yourself, feel free. You can do whatever you like with the leftover money in the pouch. Consider it your errand fee.

"So however much you manage to haggle down is however much you get to keep."

Richard stood in the rain, looking at that wrinkled old face. Last night's phrase—"a person's patience is like lamp oil"—was still echoing in his ears.

"Thank you."

"Mhm." Mortimer mumbled a vague reply, unfurling his newspaper again.

He stepped inside the shop to find a foyer on the first floor. A narrow desk blocked the foot of the stairs, with a guest register resting on top.

Richard closed his umbrella and tapped the water off into a stand.

Footsteps sounded from the stairs, and a young man around eighteen or nineteen came down.

He had black hair, a smattering of fading freckles across the bridge of his nose, and hands that looked like they didn't quite know where to rest.

"Sir, who are you looking for?"

"I'm looking for the shop manager."

The young man was very polite. "Then please sign the register first."

Richard picked up the pencil. He only wrote down the surname Williams—people named Williams were a dime a dozen anyway.

Next came his nationality. He wrote the Albion Empire; there was no point in hiding it. As for the reason for his visit... he hesitated for a moment.

After a brief thought, Richard wrote down: Appraisal and Procurement.

Once the purchasing was done, there might still be an opportunity for cooperation.

The young man spun the book around and glanced at it. The surname was clearly not on his uncle's list of VIPs who required special hospitality.

"Second floor, second room on the right. Please knock before entering."

The second-floor corridor was incredibly old. Several nautical charts hung on the walls. The oldest one was completely yellowed with age, its margins adorned with illustrations of sea monsters.

The second door was left slightly ajar. Richard knocked three times.

"Come in."

The room wasn't large. A desk sat by the window, and a row of cabinets lined the wall.

Two wicker baskets sat in the corner; one bore the label Pending Inspection, and the other Scrap Copper.

The man behind the desk looked up.

He was slightly thinner than Richard remembered, and his hair was combed quite casually, but that faint smile on his face was identical to the man who had tipped his hat to him in the City of Seven Hills. "Please, have a seat."

Richard sat in the opposite chair and placed his canvas bag at his feet.

"Piero!" Mercury called out toward the door.

"Bring the guest some coffee."

"Please don't go to the trouble."

"It's no trouble at all. A cup of coffee is nothing in Genoa."

The gentleman straightened up his desk a bit.

"Where have you traveled from, sir?"

"Milan. My train arrived yesterday afternoon."

"Has the Committee finished its business over there?"

Richard snapped his head up.

"Word travels fast in Genoa, it seems?" Mercury smiled and offered a very natural explanation.

"For the past two weeks, eight out of ten travelers coming down from Milan with ties to the mystical side have been here for those trunks."

He took the shopping list Richard handed him and furrowed his brow.

"Bark paper, knotted cords, cochineal... Who exactly are you buying these for, sir?"

"It's a list for my mentor."

"Which mentor?"

"He prefers I don't give out his name."

"Understandable."

Mercury nodded, seemingly well accustomed to such answers.

Piero brought in the coffee. The cup was shockingly small.

Richard picked it up and took a sip, narrowing his eyes at the intense bitterness.

"All the sugar is in the army's hands this year. If you aren't used to it, I can have him swap it out for a cup of hot water." "That won't be necessary."

"That's good."

He picked the list back up and quoted a few prices.

Richard wasn't entirely satisfied with any of them. The two haggled for a while before Mercury looked up at the wall clock.

"If you think it's too expensive, you're welcome to go ask around down by the docks.

"I'm not the only one in this line of work on this street. There are two other shops behind Sant'Ambrogio that might offer you a slightly lower price."

He didn't bother volunteering the fact that the goods at those cheaper shops were more than likely fakes.

Richard set his coffee cup back on its saucer.

"I have something here that I'd like you to take a look at."

He reached into his coat's inner pocket and brought out the Bronze Seal.

Richard happened to be looking at the window when he placed the Bronze Seal on the desk.

Because of that, he didn't catch the look on Mercury's face. All he heard was the creak of the chair sliding back. The merchant skirted around the desk, walked over to the door, pulled it shut, and drove the deadbolt home.

On his way back, he grabbed a tin canister from the cabinet, walked over to the charcoal stove, and set some water to boil.

"Piero!" he shouted toward a small side door.

"Clear away the coffee! We're not serving that to our guest."

"...Uncle, didn't you just say a cup of coffee is nothing in Genoa?"

"That coffee is for passersby! This is an honored guest!"