24

Pledges, the Council of Genres

and searching for Deane

We took the elevator. Miss Havisham told me that it was considered the height of poor breeding and vulgarity to jump all the way to the lobby at the Council of Genres — and it was impossible to jump straight into the council chambers for security purposes. The chambers were situated on the twenty-sixth floor of the Great Library. Like the seventeenth floor, it was almost deserted; authors whose names begin with Q and Z are not that abundant. The doors opened and we stepped out. But it wasn't like the previous Library floors I had visited, all sombre dark wood, moulded plaster ceilings and busts of long-dead writers — the twenty-sixth floor had a glazed roof. Curved spans of wrought iron arched high above our heads, supporting the glass through which we could see clouds and a blue sky beyond. I had always thought that the Library was created conceptually to contain the books and had no use or existence outside that. Miss Havisham noticed me staring up at the sky and drew me towards a large window. Although it was the twenty-sixth floor it seemed a lot higher — and the Library, inwardly shaped like a fine cross many miles in length, was far squatter when seen from the outside. I looked down the rain-streaked exterior and beyond the stone gargoyles to a tropical forest far below us, where wispy clouds flecked the tops of the lush foliage.

'Anything is possible in the BookWorld,' murmured Miss Havisham. 'The only barriers are those of the human imagination. See the other libraries?'

Not more than five miles distant, just visible in the aerial haze, was another tower like ours, and beyond that, another — and over to my right, six more. We were just one towering library among hundreds — or perhaps thousands.

'The nearest one to us is German,' said Miss Havisham, 'beyond that French and Spanish. Arabic is just beyond them — and that one over there is Welsh.'

'What are they standing on?' I asked, looking at the jungle far below. 'Where exactly are we?'

'Getting all philosophical, are we?' murmured Miss Havisham. 'The long and short answer is we really don't know. Some people claim we are just part of a bigger story that we can't see. Others maintain that we were created by the Great Panjandrum, and still others that we are merely in the mind of the Great Panjandrum.'

'Who,' I asked, my curiosity finally getting the better of me, 'is the Great Panjandrum?'

'Come and see the statue,' she said.

We turned from the window and walked along the corridor to where a large lump of marble rested on a plinth in the middle of the lobby. The marble was roped off and below it was a large and highly polished plaque proclaiming: 'Our Glorious Leader'.

'That's the Great Panjandrum?' I asked, looking at the crude block of stone.

'No,' replied Miss Havisham, 'that's only the statue of the great P — or at least it will be, when we figure out what he or she looks like. Good afternoon, Mr Price.'

Mr Price was a stonemason but he wasn't doing anything; in fact, I don't think he had ever done anything — his tools were brightly polished, unmarked, and lying in a neat row next to where he was sitting, reading a copy of Movable Type.

'Good afternoon, Miss Havisham,' he said, politely raising his hat.

Havisham indicated the surroundings. 'The Great Panjandrum is meant to be the architect of all this and control everything we do. I'm a little sceptical myself; no one controls my movements.'

'They wouldn't dare,' I whispered.

'What did you say?'

'I said: they couldn't care. Not a great deal, given the violence in books.'

She looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

'Perhaps. Come along and see the Council at work.'

She steered me down the corridor to a door that opened into a viewing gallery above a vast council chamber with desks arranged in concentric circles.

'The main genres are seated at the front,' whispered Miss Havisham. 'The sub-genres are seated behind and make up a voting group that can be carried forward to the elected head of each genre, although they do have a veto. Behind the sub-genres are elected representatives from the Congress of Derivatives who bring information forward to the Sub-genres Inspectorate — and behind them are the subcommittees who decide on day-to-day issues such as the Book Inspectorate, new words, letter supply and licensing the reworkings of old ideas. The Book Inspectorate also license plot devices, Jurisfiction agents and the supply and training schedules for Generics.'

'Who's that talking now?' I asked.

'The Thriller delegate. She's arguing against Detective having a genre all of its own — at present Detective is under Crime, but if they break away the genres at Thriller will want to split themselves three ways into Adventure, Spy and Thriller.'

'Is it always this boring?' I asked, watching the Thriller delegate drone on.

'Always,' replied Havisham. 'We try to avoid any entanglements and let Text Grand Central take all the flak. Come on, you must sign the pledge.'

We left the viewing gallery and padded down the corridor to a door that led into the smallest room I had ever seen. It seemed to be mostly filing cabinet and desk. An equally small man was eating biscuits — and most of them were falling down his front.

'Thursday Next to take the pledge,' announced Miss Havisham. 'I have the documents all signed and sealed by the Bellman.'

'Work, work, work,' said the small man, taking a swig of tea and looking up at me with small yet oddly intense eyes. 'I rarely get any peace — you're the second pledge this year.'

He sighed and wiped his mouth on his tie.

'Who seconds the application?'

'Commander Bradshaw.'

'And who vouches for Miss Next?'

'I do.'

'Good. Repeat the oath of the BookWorld.' Primed by Miss Havisham, I repeated:

'I swear by the Great Panjandrum that I shall uphold the rules of Jurisfiction, protect the BookWorld and defend every fictioneer, no matter how poorly written, against oppression. I shall not shirk from my duty, nor use my knowledge or position for personal gain. Secrets entrusted to me by the Council of Genres or Text Grand Central must remain secret within the service, and I will do all I can to maintain the power of storytelling within the minds and hearts of the readers.'

'That'll do,' said the small man, taking another bite of his biscuit. 'Sign here, here and — er — here. And you have to witness it, Miss Havisham.'

I signed where he indicated in the large ledger, noting as I did so that the last Jurisfiction agent to have signed was Beatrice. He snapped the book shut after Miss Havisham had witnessed my signature.

'Good. Here's your badge.'

He handed over a shiny Jurisfiction badge with my name and number engraved below the colourful logo. It could get me into any book I wanted without question — even Poe if I so chose, although it wasn't recommended.

'Now if you'll excuse me,' said the bureaucrat, looking at his watch, 'I'm very busy. These forms have to be processed in under a month.'