Elven magisters exchanged unhappy glances up and down the length of an extravagantly carved table. Arjah stood before them, feeling more patient than she looked and leaning pointedly on a walking stick that she did not, strictly speaking, need.
Finally, the most bejeweled and beruffled of the elves said what they were all thinking: "A troll? To head the Royal Library of Silvermoon?"
Arjah controlled an amused flash of her dimples. "Radical," she murmured. "An' yet, here we are." Clearing her throat, the troll stood straighter. She was not half so weak as she pretended, but her lungs truly were frail. Too much talk would send her into coughing fits, hardly the image she wanted to present.
"You've seen ma CV," Arjah told the assembled officials. She spared a nod for the neatly copied papers in front of each elf. "Published more den any other livin' poet, Horde or Alliance. Teachin' experience wit' Da Doctas an' de Alterac University. Public relations for de Modas il Toralar. Research positions wit' Da Doctas an' de Modas."
"All of which," a dark haired man pointed out, "you were fired from. Twice, in the case of the Modas."
Arjah waved a hand dismissively. "Dey didn' even put a price on ma head de secon' time," she replied. "Hardly counts. Just playin' around, by Modas standards." A tickle in her throat tempted her to clear it again; she ignored it and raised her voice.
"Archivist Benoite is gone. Her interns, her archivists, her researchers -- gone. Silvermoon intrigue chewed dem up like huts fulla termites." There were uncomfortable glances up and down the table at that. Some of the gaudily arrayed magisters, no doubt, knew more of pretty young Benoite than they cared to share. More than they cared to think of Arjah guessing at, too.
Arjah leaned forward, her eyes flashing. "Ah won' be drawn inta Silvermoon intrigues. Ah'm...beneath dem." Above them, her dry thoughts corrected, but it would hardly do to say that to elves. Elves liked having people beneath them.
"It's always been a noble duty," one of the women behind the huge table objected. "Head Archivist, I mean..."
Stifling a roll of her eyes, Arjah offered, "Den call me somethin' else. 'Matron' suits nicely. 'Groundskeeper,' if dat's all you can swallow. Ma interest is in your books, na' your titles." That was bordering on impolitic, but she was starting to lose interest. Rudeness always bubbled up in Arjah whenever elves started talking about titles. "Ah let ma dear followers name me at de Homeland, an' people still call me 'Greatmother.' Makes me feel old. Somethin' simple an' modest, if you please, wit' no hint of nobility about it."
The glances up and down the table were measuring. Sighing, Arjah played her final ace: "De Warchief a'de Horde is a troll now," she reminded the assembled elves. "Silvermoon must show it can...play nicely...despite long years a'trouble wit' our Amani cousins." She did not say from her Amani cousins. Let Silvermoon take its share of the blame for those long wars. "A troll -- well published, well respected -- in a minor, modest posting like de Library? It will soothe ol' Vol'jin's heart, when he tinks of Silvermoon. An' of his forest cousins."
Unable to suppress that tireless urge to misbehave any longer, Arjah added, "He likes me well enough. Used ta stare down ma dress when ah took assignments from Thrall in de throne room, back in de sleepy days of ol' Orgrimmar." Her wink drew stifled chuckles; her words the usual shocked-not-shocked gasps.
Someone harrumphed. The most senior magister rapped his knuckles on the table, leaned forward, and said in formal tones, "We will consider your petition, ah, Matron Arjah. There must be at least some short time allowed, for others who served with the Library under Archivist Benoite to speak for themselves, if they can be found." His brows quirked, and so did Arjah's. Neither of them expected to see any other survivors of whatever political purge had ravaged the well-meaning archivist's staff.
"A'course," Arjah said, pushing herself fully upright and offering a very slight bow of her neck to the assembled magisters. "Take as long as ya need. But -- na' too long, eh? Ah've only so many years left ta live." Her dimples flashed in earnest, finally, and she concluded with a merry twinkle, "An advantage, perhaps, ta dis little experiment. Good day, magisters..."
With that, the aging poet turned and strode straight-backed from the hall, her walking stick tucked under one arm. There would be arguing behind closed doors, but the magisters choices really were limited. If they wanted a Royal Library, it would have to be Arjah's Royal Library.
Unless, of course, an unexpected claim were laid...
