The Tides of Avarice Read Online Free Page A

ink, and removed the reading glasses from his whiskery nose.
    â€œGood evening, Sylvester,” said Celadon, pushing the door open with his frail shoulder. Grayed and bent, the Chief Archivist always looked as if the slightest puff of wind could blow him away like thistledown. He was dressed as usual in a plain, ratty muslin robe that matched the color of his fur and beard. His arms were full of yellowing scrolls that seemed to be of similar vintage to his robe. He peered around through thick spectacles for somewhere to put the scrolls down. Sylvester put his arms defensively out in front of him, shielding his desk, which was already quite full enough.
    â€œI hope I’m not distracting you from your work,” Celadon continued, a trace of waspishness entering his voice. He hefted the scrolls as if to communicate that Sylvester was being exceptionally selfish and inconsiderate.
    Sylvester didn’t care. He knew that if Celadon put those scrolls down he’d forget them when he left, and then tomorrow Sylvester would have to waste time making sure the old lemming got them back.
    â€œI’ve nearly finished the translation of The Great Exodus,” he said truthfully. “And,” he added, not so truthfully, making a show of scrutinizing the parchment in front of him, “I’m not sure this ink’s quite dry yet.”
    â€œHmmf,” said Celadon skeptically, but then his face brightened and his whiskers began trembling with delight. “That’s excellent news that the translation’s almost done, young fellow. I knew I’d entrusted the task to the right person. You’ve worked very quickly and diligently on this. I shall make sure your superiors are informed.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” said Sylvester politely. “But, er, you are my superior.”
    â€œOh, quite right, quite right. Thank you for reminding me. This is the most important piece of work you’ve done for us, Sylvester. There are so few scholars nowadays who’ve taken the trouble to learn the ancient tongues our forefathers used, and you must surely be the youngest – the last of the line perhaps, although I do hope not. Why don’t you marry and have a few children you can teach the old languages to, eh, my lad?”
    Sylvester blushed under his fur. “I haven’t yet met the right girl.” This was another lie. He had met the right girl – or, at least, so he thought most of the time. The trouble was that she didn’t always seem entirely convinced he was the right guy.
    Yet.
    âœ¿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿
    â€œYou’ll be Chief Archivist yourself one of these days,” said Celadon, risking dropping the scrolls to wag a finger at him. “You tell any girl that, and she’ll leap gratefully into your arms, mark my words.”
    Sylvester tried not to roll his eyes. Sure. Chief Archivist. Try boasting about that to the average young lemming of the female persuasion and she’d be fast asleep before you’d finished saying the word “archivist.” What the girls today wanted in their males were brawny muscles, fearlessness, and preferably a strong dose of stupidity. The role of bookish lemmings like himself was to watch from the sidelines as the girls swooned over these paragons of virility.
    â€œI can see you don’t believe me,” said Celadon, reading his expression well, “but one day you will. If nothing else, you’ll be able to tell the world that you’re the translator of one of the most important historic documents of all, The Great Exodus.”
    â€œThird Attempt,” added Sylvester automatically.
    â€œIndeed. The Great Exodus: The Third Attempt. Now everyone will be able to read it and find out for themselves what our roots are.”
    â€œTrue,” said Sylvester, looking down at his own neat script on the parchment. He wasn’t going to be the one to tell the Chief Archivist that there was