Finding information in Nelvarya wasn't complicated. You learned almost everything at school, at least according to Lioren. If you were looking for a specific text, you could turn to the Guild.
The House of Isdorel ran the most frequented library: being affiliated was enough. On a loan basis you could get most texts at no cost. In fact, they encouraged you to read by giving you little gadgets from distant Duzale (I don't know where it is or what it looks like, but it seems famous for its creations). Otherwise, the last resort was "the Tower of Knowledge."
It was an old, decommissioned tower in the center of town. It probably had been meant as a strategic defense point, but it was too low to do the job for real. It didn't show marks of war, yet time had worn away its youth: bricks that must once have been white, now grey, stained by dust; a wooden spire riddled with holes made by animals trying to build nests.
The entrance? A room with a counter and some desks for reading.
Inside, it was very basic: a circular staircase built along the tower's perimeter, wide enough for only one person. It went on downward as well, into a dim space where you couldn't tell how deep it truly was.
The walls beside the staircase were the shelves: niches made to preserve books properly, not squeezing the volumes, hiding them from the light. The only institution that sold knowledge for money. The advantage? Anyone could access it.
The first time I had to come with "Mom," because they still hadn't accepted my adoption into the Guild, and we needed my school books.
Inside was a mirror of the outside: the low foot traffic suggested business wasn't going great, and the dust agreed.
The only young thing in the place was the clerk. A tireless slacker. I never saw him move from that chair, always buried in a book or attempting a nap, and yet he was always there.
I spent time here just to watch his movements. Limited, I swear.
A boy with smooth skin; blond hair, long and straight, but with a brownish shade that reminded me of a forest path not too often walked. You could tell he cared for it: very neat, never tied, no bands or clips, often loose enough to cover his face completely. His face was thin, without marks. His gaze said almost nothing, dull or elsewhere.
I like looking people in the eyes. They often tell you something.
He didn't.
And it bothered me.
He let anyone come and go. You only saw him "activate" if someone demanded it. It was as if having customers annoyed him. Only during the act of selling did he regain a bit of color, just to sink again into some text from who knows what age.
"What is written, I know. What is thought, I await."– Astlat
Carved into the wall behind the counter.
"Hello," I said in a firm tone, expecting an answer.
"We'd like a book that talks about Tramiti," Lioren cut through my waiting silence.
He didn't even lift his head from the enormous tome he was buried in. He kept a finger marking a page he probably wanted to reread or remember, and moved only one finger to point toward a shelf along the staircase.
Lioren went ahead. I stayed a moment longer. I expected a reaction from the thing in front of me. He didn't grant me a glance.
We spent a couple of hours in that silent library. We learned that the Tramiti run the continent's economy.
They are mainly divided into:
Fighting Tramiti
Silent Tramiti
Academic Tramiti
For any job or important commitment, there was a more suitable selection of Tramiti. The most common were: escorts, bounty hunters, purifiers. These three, the most profitable, cover most of the requests made to the Guilds, which then assign them to their affiliated Tramiti or to wandering Tramiti.
Especially in the larger Guilds, Tramiti form groups. They carry the colors of the Guild they're affiliated with and a distinctive emblem, gaining benefits from the Guild based on their fame. A slow way to build a name, but with fewer risks.
On the other hand, some aim for a faster climb by traveling from place to place, trying to grab as many requests as possible. It's a common practice, but full of pitfalls, because you usually have little information.
Traveling Tramiti are usually called Pilgrims, and they don't enjoy benefits. Many, as they age, try to settle down.
There's a ranking that divides Tramiti by level, allowing them to take on missions more or less demanding. They say that at the rank of REAPER you can earn a fortune, enough to enjoy old age.
I looked for the alchemists' section. Lioren insisted on the page about assassins and spies.
"You can come back whenever you want to daydream," I told him, taking control of the book.
He stood up. He was definitely offended. I ignored him.
Alchemist Tramiti
"Create what the mage fears, and what the smith does not dare."
Alchemists stand out as those who transform the world piece by piece, molecule by molecule, chasing the principle that nothing is stable and everything can be converted.
They do not fight like the Fighting Tramiti, nor do they move in the shadows like the Silent. They prefer to act before, long before: preparing vials, circles, grafts, powders, and catalysts that will be used when the need becomes concrete. The Alchemist is the invisible architect of victory.
Many view them with suspicion: they often carry the smell of sulfur, burnt glass, failed attempts. But every great Guild that has survived a war, a plague, or a march across corrupted lands has had at least one Alchemist among its ranks.
Those were the words on the page, and they didn't convince me much…
The Chief told me about battles, journeys, discoveries. Here I read that alchemists usually stay in laboratories alone or in groups and do research for others.
His laboratory must be exactly where I left the "Daughter."