No one entered this place by accident.
Even the way leading to it was arranged so that unnecessary steps would be filtered out on their own. A narrow passage between buildings, stone steps worn smooth not by time, but by repetition. There was no smell of food here, no market noise, no voices. The air remained dry and even, as though it too were being kept in order.
The Wanderer did not notice the place at once. At first—by the absence of movement. Where the city worked without pause, here everything seemed to hold its breath. People passed by, but did not enter. Those who climbed the steps did so without haste and without conversation, as if they already knew: inside, words would not be needed.
He stopped at the entrance.
The door stood open. Not invitingly—simply unlocked. It was an important distinction. No one inside was waiting for visitors, but neither were they afraid of them.
The Wanderer went in.
The room was larger than it appeared from outside. High walls, shelves from floor to ceiling, scrolls, books, bundles of tablets neatly arranged in their compartments. There was no dust here. Not because it was cleaned daily, but because nothing lay unused.
People worked in silence. Several scribes sat at long tables, copying texts, checking records, making notes in the margins. They did not look up when he entered. This was not neglect—their attention was occupied by what demanded complete focus.
The Wanderer moved between the tables, careful not to disturb. He felt different here than in the square. There, he had been unnecessary but unnoticed. Here—unnecessary and too noticeable, even if no one looked at him.
At the far end of the hall, at a separate table, sat a woman. She could not be overlooked, yet it was impossible to say exactly what set her apart. Not her clothing—it was as simple as the others’. Not her position—she did not sit above anyone. The difference lay in how space itself seemed to exist around her.
The scribes addressed her rarely. But when they did, they waited for her reply in silence. She did not hurry. First she read, then she thought, and only then did she speak. Sometimes—she did not speak at all.
She was the head of the scribes’ school.
***
The Wanderer did not approach her immediately. He remained aside, observing. What interested him was not what was kept here, but how it was treated. Nothing appeared secret. And yet it was clear: not everything was meant for every gaze.
He took a scroll from the nearest shelf. It was ordinary—lists of supplies, dates, signatures. Nothing unusual. He returned it and took another. Then a third. A fourth. All of them formed a coherent picture. Too coherent.
The Wanderer understood what unsettled him.
They knew not only what had happened.
They knew the order in which it had happened.
He stepped closer.
“You are responsible for this place?” he asked, stopping at a distance that did not intrude on her space.
The head of the scribes’ school raised her eyes. Not surprised. Not wary. Simply attentive.
“For the order within it,” she replied.
“And for what is kept here?”
“For making it accessible when it is needed.”
The answer was precise. And at the same time—said nothing.
The Wanderer was silent for a moment, then asked his next question.
“You know what is happening in the city?”
“I do.”
“And what will happen?”
She looked at him longer than before.
“I know which decisions are being prepared,” she said at last. “And which have already been formalized, but not yet announced.”
It was said calmly. Without pride. Without anxiety. As a fact requiring no explanation.
“Then you know how this will end?”
“I know how it may end.”
The Wanderer felt irritation rise within him. Not anger—something colder.
“And you do nothing?” he asked.
She did not answer at once. First she closed the book she was holding, placed it on the table, and only then looked back at him.
“I do what I must,” she said. “I preserve knowledge.”
“But knowledge changes nothing if it is kept silent,” the Wanderer said.
She inclined her head slightly, as if acknowledging the precision of the statement.
“It does,” she replied. “Just not immediately.”
“Not in time,” he countered.
“In time for knowledge,” she said. “Not always in time for people.”
He realized he was not arguing with a person, but with a position. And that irritated him even more.
“You could warn them,” the Wanderer said. “Tell those who make the decisions.”
“They already know.”
“Then tell those who will pay for them.”
“They will not want to know.”
It was said without judgment. As an observation.
“And you?” he asked. “Do you want to know?”
She looked at the shelves, the records, the people at the tables.
“I want it to be clear, when everything changes, how exactly it happened,” she said. “So that no one later says they did not know.”
The Wanderer fell silent. He felt the conversation pressing against a wall—not of stubbornness, but of principle.
“You understand that silence is also a choice?” he asked.
“I do,” she replied. “That is precisely why I remain silent.”
***
She stood and walked to one of the tables. Took a bundle of documents, leafed through them, then handed one sheet to a scribe.
“Copy this. Check the dates. Remove the contradictions.”
The scribe nodded and began to work.
“What is it about?” the Wanderer asked.
“The distribution of responsibilities,” she replied. “Formally—about order.”
“And in essence?”
“About who will be held accountable when something goes wrong.”
She looked at him carefully.
“These decisions have not yet been announced. But they are already in effect.”
“And you know this.”
“I record it.”
The Wanderer understood what truly frightened him.
Here, knowledge was not a tool of influence.
Here, it was testimony.
“Aren’t you afraid they’ll later say you could have stopped this?” he asked.
She gave a slight shrug.
“They will say that,” she replied. “And they will be right—in their own way.”
***
The Wanderer stood in the silence, listening to the scratch of quills, the turning of pages. Everything here was far too calm for what was approaching.
“Then why do you need all this?” he asked quietly. “If you know—and remain silent?”
The head of the scribes’ school looked at him for a long time. Longer than before.
“Because when the world collapses,” she said, “the very first thing to disappear is clarity.”
“And you want to preserve it?”
“I want it to remain possible.”
He understood that there would be no answer that satisfied him.
“Do you believe this is right?” he asked.
She did not answer immediately.
“I believe it is inevitable,” she said at last.
The Wanderer nodded. Not in agreement—but in understanding.
When he stepped outside, the noise of the city seemed louder than before. Not because anything had changed—but because he now knew what lay beneath that noise. It was the first truly unsettling sensation.
The world was working.