Timing on how long it takes them to locate that book versus the book critical of Cheliax?

Maybe slightly longer to find the book on Qadira but not all that much so.

And the criticism there?

This particular author feels that the Qadirans are the enemy of civilization itself and must be defeated in a fierce and immediate offensive rather than be permitted to erode Avistan's defenses, bit by bit; only when the last of them have been slaughtered will Avistan be safe. It is just as critical of Taldor's nobles, who it argues have grown too weak and indolent to hold the border against the Qadiran savages, and are derelict in their duties to themselves, their lands, and all of Taldor; the Qadirans, it argues, are a just punishment for the sins of the Taldane nobles. 

...that is more the quality of argumentation that Keltham expected of Golarion Authors, such as one might find in the library of an archduke's villa.

Okay.  Suppose that this bookshop contains some planted books, some non-planted books, and is missing some obviously problematic books which were quickly removed, by a team that teleported in separately and rushed ahead to carry out that operation and mind-control the proprietor...

Does the store have an obvious fiction section?  Keltham has been reading book titles whenever not otherwise occupied.

The separations it uses are 'romances', 'mysteries', 'histories', and 'business'. It's kind of unclear what's in each but the first two seem to be mostly fiction.

All right.  Buy the Qadira-critical book.

Then go to the 'mysteries' section.  How many books total?

About three hundred.

Right then.  Let's spend ten minutes on this.

Message:  Count off every fifteenth book starting on the third one, putting your finger on each such book so that I can see the title each time.  Then, open to three random places in each such book, and show each such random place to the scry sensor for six seconds.  Then buy them all.  You can haggle that time.

Keltham was initially thinking of just buying books that discussed magic or gods or afterlives, then considered that his fortress doesn't have enough books anyways.

If their mystery genre is at all like dath ilan's, if there's even a trace of sanity there, key obscure rules of magic should feature in at least some of these novels; and you can't rewrite fiction as easily as nonfiction.  The pages will be spoilers, unfortunately, but they should serve as a check against the books being rewritten or substituted before he can read them.

Fennelosa starts doing this, with some (but not much) visible irritation.

       "Careful with the books," says the boy. 

"I'm buying them."

      "Looks like you're waving them in the air."

"Well, aren't you a born genius. After I do that, I'll buy them. At a gold apiece."

      "They go for four normally."

"You're a bad liar, kid. In-demand books go for two in Cheliax, and Absalom has more trade, so it should be cheaper."

       "You're from Cheliax?"

"Yes."

        "Well, then, buy them in Cheliax, if you think they're cheaper there."

Keltham's not paying much attention to this repartee, which won't be very informative in the Conspiracy worlds where it matters.  He's scanning the book glimpses instead.

I couldn't keep my eyes off him. Always holding tight by the leg of the table with my hands and feet, I saw the miserable creature finger his glass playfully, take it up, smile, throw his head back, and drink the brandy off. Instantly afterwards, the company were seized with unspeakable consternation, owing to his springing to his feet, turning round several times in an appalling spasmodic whooping-cough dance, and rushing out at the door; he then became visible through the window, violently plunging and expectorating, making the most hideous faces, and apparently out of his mind.

I held on tight, while Mrs Joe and Joe ran to him. I didn't know how I had done it, but I had no doubt I had murdered him somehow. In my dreadful situation, it was a relief when he was brought back, and, surveying the company all round as if they had disagreed with him, sank down into his chair with the one significant gasp, ‘Tar!’

I had filled up the bottle from the tar-water jug. I knew he would be worse by-and-by. I moved the table, like a Medium of the present day, by the vigour of my unseen hold upon it.

‘Tar!’ cried my sister, in amazement. ‘Why, how ever could Tar come there?’

But, Uncle Pumblechook, who was omnipotent in that kitchen, wouldn't hear the word, wouldn't hear of the subject, imperiously waved it all away with his hand, and asked for hot gin-and-water. My sister, who had begun to be alarmingly meditative, had to employ herself actively in getting the gin, the hot water, the sugar, and the lemon-peel, and mixing them. For the time being at least, I was saved. I still held on to the leg of the table, but clutched it now with the fervour of gratitude.

Monseigneur Bienvenu had formerly been, if the stories anent his youth, and even in regard to his manhood, were to be believed, a passionate, and, possibly, a violent man. His universal suavity was less an instinct of nature than the result of a grand conviction which had filtered into his heart through the medium of life, and had trickled there slowly, thought by thought; for, in a character, as in a rock, there may exist apertures made by drops of water. These hollows are uneffaceable; these formations are indestructible.

When he conversed with that infantile gayety which was one of his charms, and of which we have already spoken, people felt at their ease with him, and joy seemed to radiate from his whole person. His fresh and ruddy complexion, his very white teeth, all of which he had preserved, and which were displayed by his smile, gave him that open and easy air which cause the remark to be made of a man, “He’s a good fellow”; and of an old man, “He is a fine man.”

He said this with such evident surprise that I was perplexed what answer to make, and the more so because coupled with something feeble and wandering in his manner, there were in his face marks of deep and anxious thought which convinced me that he could not be, as I had been at first inclined to suppose, in a state of dotage or imbecility.

'I don't think you consider - ' I began.

'I don't consider!' cried the old man interrupting me, 'I don't consider her! Ah, how little you know of the truth! Little Nelly, little Nelly!'

It would be impossible for any man, I care not what his form of speech might be, to express more affection than the dealer in curiosities did, in these four words. I waited for him to speak again, but he rested his chin upon his hand and shaking his head twice or thrice fixed his eyes upon the fire.

While we were sitting thus in silence, the door of the closet opened, and the child returned, her light brown hair hanging loose about her neck, and her face flushed with the haste she had made to rejoin us. She busied herself immediately in preparing supper, and while she was thus engaged I remarked that the old man took an opportunity of observing me more closely than he had done yet. I was surprised to see that all this time everything was done by the child, and that there appeared to be no other persons but ourselves in the house. I took advantage of a moment when she was absent to venture a hint on this point, to which the old man replied that there were few grown persons as trustworthy or as careful as she.

It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a great pity indeed! and I have often wished—but it is so little one can venture to do—small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon—Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is very small and delicate—Hartfield pork is not like any other pork—but still it is pork—and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast pork—I think we had better send the leg—do not you think so, my dear?”

“My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it. There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like.”

“That’s right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome.

Kit did turn from white to red, and from red to white again, when they secured him thus, and for a moment seemed disposed to resist. But, quickly recollecting himself, and remembering that if he made any struggle, he would perhaps be dragged by the collar through the public streets, he only repeated, with great earnestness and with the tears standing in his eyes, that they would be sorry for this -  and suffered them to lead him off. While they were on the way back, Mr Swiveller, upon whom his present functions sat very irksomely, took an opportunity of whispering in his ear that if he would confess his guilt, even by so much as a nod, and promise not to do so any more, he would connive at his kicking Sampson Brass on the shins and escaping up a court; but Kit indignantly rejecting this proposal, Mr Richard had nothing for it, but to hold him tight until they reached Bevis Marks, and ushered him into the presence of the charming Sarah, who immediately took the precaution of locking the door.

'Now, you know,' said Brass, 'if this is a case of innocence, it is a case of that description, Christopher, where the fullest disclosure is the best satisfaction for everybody. Therefore if you'll consent to an examination,' he demonstrated what kind of examination he meant by turning back the cuffs of his coat, 'it will be a comfortable and pleasant thing for all parties.'

'Search me,' said Kit, proudly holding up his arms. 'But mind, sir -  I know you'll be sorry for this, to the last day of your life.'

'It is certainly a very painful occurrence,' said Brass with a sigh, as he dived into one of Kit's pockets, and fished up a miscellaneous collection of small articles; 'very painful. Nothing here, Mr Richard, Sir, all perfectly satisfactory. Nor here, sir. Nor in the waistcoat, Mr Richard, nor in the coat tails. So far, I am rejoiced, I am sure.'

Richard Swiveller, holding Kit's hat in his hand, was watching the proceedings with great interest, and bore upon his face the slightest possible indication of a smile, as Brass, shutting one of his eyes, looked with the other up the inside of one of the poor fellow's sleeves as if it were a telescope - when Sampson turning hastily to him, bade him search the hat.

'Here's a handkerchief,' said Dick.

'No harm in that sir,' rejoined Brass, applying his eye to the other sleeve, and speaking in the voice of one who was contemplating an immense extent of prospect. 'No harm in a handkerchief Sir, whatever. The faculty don't consider it a healthy custom, I believe, Mr Richard, to carry one's handkerchief in one's hat - I have heard that it keeps the head too warm - but in every other point of view, its being there, is extremely satisfactory - extremely so.'

'Oh Quilp!' said his wife, 'what's the matter? Who are you angry with?'

' - I should drown him,' said the dwarf, not heeding her. 'Too easy a death, too short, too quick - but the river runs close at hand. Oh! if I had him here! just to take him to the brink coaxingly and pleasantly, - holding him by the button-hole - joking with him, -  and, with a sudden push, to send him splashing down! Drowning men come to the surface three times they say. Ah! To see him those three times, and mock him as his face came bobbing up, - oh, what a rich treat that would be!'

'Quilp!' stammered his wife, venturing at the same time to touch him on the shoulder: 'what has gone wrong?'

She was so terrified by the relish with which he pictured this pleasure to himself that she could scarcely make herself intelligible.

'Such a bloodless cur!' said Quilp, rubbing his hands very slowly, and pressing them tight together. 'I thought his cowardice and servility were the best guarantee for his keeping silence. Oh Brass, Brass - my dear, good, affectionate, faithful, complimentary, charming friend - if I only had you here!'

His wife, who had retreated lest she should seem to listen to these mutterings, ventured to approach him again, and was about to speak, when he hurried to the door, and called Tom Scott, who, remembering his late gentle admonition, deemed it prudent to appear immediately.

'There!' said the dwarf, pulling him in. 'Take her home. Don't come here to-morrow, for this place will be shut up. Come back no more till you hear from me or see me. Do you mind?'

Tom nodded sulkily, and beckoned Mrs Quilp to lead the way.

Lady Dorothea had not left us long before another visitor as unexpected a one as her Ladyship, was announced. It was Sir Edward, who informed by Augusta of her Brother's marriage, came doubtless to reproach him for having dared to unite himself to me without his Knowledge. But Edward foreseeing his design, approached him with heroic fortitude as soon as he entered the Room, and addressed him in the following Manner.

“Sir Edward, I know the motive of your Journey here—You come with the base Design of reproaching me for having entered into an indissoluble engagement with my Laura without your Consent. But Sir, I glory in the Act—. It is my greatest boast that I have incurred the displeasure of my Father!”

So saying, he took my hand and whilst Sir Edward, Philippa, and Augusta were doubtless reflecting with admiration on his undaunted Bravery, led me from the Parlour to his Father's Carriage which yet remained at the Door and in which we were instantly conveyed from the pursuit of Sir Edward.

Why should this last disappointment hang so heavily on my spirits? Why should I feel it more, why should it wound me deeper than those I have experienced before? Can it be that I have a greater affection for Willoughby than I had for his amiable predecessors? Or is it that our feelings become more acute from being often wounded? I must suppose my dear Belle that this is the Case, since I am not conscious of being more sincerely attached to Willoughby than I was to Neville, Fitzowen, or either of the Crawfords, for all of whom I once felt the most lasting affection that ever warmed a Woman's heart. Tell me then dear Belle why I still sigh when I think of the faithless Edward, or why I weep when I behold his Bride, for too surely this is the case—. My Freinds are all alarmed for me; They fear my declining health; they lament my want of spirits; they dread the effects of both. In hopes of releiving my melancholy, by directing my thoughts to other objects, they have invited several of their freinds to spend the holy days with us. Lady Bridget Darkwood and her sister-in-law, Miss Jane are expected on Friday; and Colonel Seaton's family will be with us next week. This is all most kindly meant by my Uncle and Cousins; but what can the presence of a dozen indefferent people do to me, but weary and distress me—. I will not finish my Letter till some of our Visitors are arrived.

Fireday Evening Lady Bridget came this morning, and with her, her sweet sister Miss Jane—. Although I have been acquainted with this charming Woman above fifteen Years, yet I never before observed how lovely she is. She is now about 35, and in spite of sickness, sorrow and Time is more blooming than I ever saw a Girl of 17. I was delighted with her, the moment she entered the house, and she appeared equally pleased with me, attaching herself to me during the remainder of the day. There is something so sweet, so mild in her Countenance, that she seems more than Mortal. Her Conversation is as bewitching as her appearance; I could not help telling her how much she engaged my admiration—. “Oh! Miss Jane (said I)—and stopped from an inability at the moment of expressing myself as I could wish—Oh! Miss Jane—(I repeated)—I could not think of words to suit my feelings—She seemed waiting for my speech—. I was confused—distressed—my thoughts were bewildered—and I could only add—“How do you do?” She saw and felt for my Embarrassment and with admirable presence of mind releived me from it by saying—“My dear Sophia be not uneasy at having exposed yourself—I will turn the Conversation without appearing to notice it. “Oh! how I loved her for her kindness!” Do you ride as much as you used to do?” said she—. “I am advised to ride by my Physician. We have delightful Rides round us, I have a Charming horse, am uncommonly fond of the Amusement, replied I quite recovered from my Confusion, and in short I ride a great deal.” “You are in the right my Love,” said she. Then repeating the following line which was an extempore and equally adapted to recommend both Riding and Candour—

“Ride where you may, Be Candid where you can,” she added,” I rode once, but it is many years ago—She spoke this in so low and tremulous a Voice, that I was silent—. Struck with her Manner of speaking I could make no reply. “I have not ridden, continued she fixing her Eyes on my face, since I was married.” I was never so surprised—“Married, Ma'am!” I repeated. “You may well wear that look of astonishment, said she, since what I have said must appear improbable to you—Yet nothing is more true than that I once was married.”

Well Carissa sure couldn't infer anything about the world from this but maybe Keltham's outthinking her once again. 

What the ASS, Golarion - he wants to say that the Conspiracy wouldn't be this wack, but that's a dangerous thing to think if they've been reading his mind.  He'll suspend judgment until he reads more of this wack shit.

Message to proprietor:  Any mysteries or romances that would deal heavily with magic, gods, or afterlives?

Maybe that just gets him Conspiracy-selected rewritten books, but even those might be enlightening if they give him a point of comparison to the other novels.

Don't substitute rewritten books; they'll stand out too much. Yes, I know, we determined that they were reasonable for the genre, yes, I know that the Supreme Elect actually did say approximately that, doesn't mean we don't lose bits on it. They are not reasonable for the set of books that this bookstore has. We have a year to fix that, if we don't make him suspicious today. 

" - well, in some of the romances people are religious, is that what you mean? I don't think we stock any romances about the gods - the gods aren't, you know, they don't have the bodies for that," the kid says aloud. "I can check if we have in stock any where the man is a wizard? Usually he's a noble, though, or an exiled noble, or an adventurer but not specifically a wizard." 

Stories in which somebody dies, goes to an afterlife, gets resurrected.

Stories where the details of magic play a key role in the story.

Stories where somebody goes through priest training.

Anything like that, anywhere in the fiction section?

Probably? They're not sorted by that, though. He'll try to find some.

He takes a big stack off the shelf and starts sorting through them, frowning.