“And what was the name again?”

“Jonas Clover!” he bellowed at the slot. Then added, quieter, “Used to be Steepfield.”

“Steepfield, is it? You should have said.”

Bolts clanked and the door creaked slowly open. An old man, bent under an old-fashioned suit of armour, frowned at him from the other side. He had a long sword far too heavy for him, point wobbling wildly as he strained to keep it level.

Clover held up his hands. “I surrender.”

The ancient gatekeeper was not amused as he wrestled the door shut and fumbled with the bolts. “Like I haven’t heard that before.”

He made quite the performance of sheathing his sword then led Clover past a set of strange houses half-dug into the steep rocks, up a narrow valley and out into a wide yard. Three great, tapering towers were built into the mountainside ahead, joined at their bases but separating higher up, covered in dark ivy. They looked old. So old you might’ve thought the mountain had been built about them, rather’n the other way around.

“Quite a building to find all the way up here,” said Clover.

“It’s the Great Northern Library,” grunted the gatekeeper. “Never seen a library before?”

“Honestly… no.”

Folk were busy with everyday chores in the yard. A thin woman was washing clothes in a tub. A thickset old man was splitting logs with practised swings of an axe. A mass of books were heaped and spread on a table where a girl with a mop of blonde curls flicked at an abacus with quick fingers. No one really looked like they had a pressing need for instruction with the blade.

“Anyone ask for a sword teacher?” called Clover, hopefully.

“I did.” The woodcutter neatly split one more log and left his axe buried in the block. He turned towards Clover, slapping dust from his hands. He looked maybe sixty but heavily built, with a strong face, deeply lined, and a close-cropped grey beard.

“By the dead,” said Clover, finally placing him. “It’s the First o’ the Magi.”

“None other.” The afternoon sun shone brightly off Bayaz’s tanned pate as he stepped forwards, took Clover’s right hand in both of his and pressed it warmly. “Welcome to the Great Northern Library, Jonas Steepfield. I understand there is no man alive who knows more about sword-work.”

Clover raised his brows. “That was a long time ago. Call myself Clover these days.”

“Ah. I fear I am out of date in all manner of ways.” And Bayaz smiled. A broad, white, beaming smile. His face lit up with friendly creases, but a hardness lingered around his eyes, deep-set and glistening green. Clover grinned back, but the conclusion he’d come to in Currahome—that Bayaz would be a bad enemy to have—was only reinforced. “The world moves along so quickly one can scarcely keep up.”

“That why you keep the young folk around?” asked Clover, watching the blonde girl lick a finger and leaf frowning through one of the books.