Finding cold water still left in the ewer, Pen washed the road dirt from his hands and face, pulled a few things from his saddlebags for later, and sat on the edge of the cot, trying to overcome his disorientation.
“Desdemona? Are you there?” A stupid way to phrase it. Where, and how, would she go? “Are you awake?”
No answer. After few more minutes of sitting, bone-tired but not sleepy enough to nap, his mood shifted to frustration. Tigney had implied he had the run of the house, hadn’t he? If no one else was going to show him how to go on, he’d just have to figure it out for himself. He rose to explore.
Nothing else on this floor but more servants’ cells. The next floor down was mostly closed doors, if fewer of them; the one left open gave onto someone’s bedchamber. Pen let only his glance stray within. The next floor down from that had more open doors, to workrooms like Tigney’s, with people about, though what tasks they performed therein were not at all obvious to Pen. He poked his head into the large, quiet room that he gauged was above Tigney’s, and stopped short.
It was the house’s library, and Pen had never seen so many books and scrolls in one room in his life. Even the Greenwell Lady-school had only boasted one bookcase, the entire contents of which Pen had read up by his second year. There was no tradition of scholarship among his ancestors, either; Jurald Court had account books, records of hunts and harvests, a few books of tales shared around till the pages had worked loose, a couple of tomes of theology left to gather dust. Pen stepped within, marveling.
A pair of long writing tables stood endways to the two windows overlooking the street, sharing the light as fairly as possible. One was taken by a fellow who looked not much older than Pen—heartening—his head bent over his work, quill carefully scratching. His dark hair was cut soldier-fashion, as if to pad a helmet, though it showed no sign of a helmet ever having rested there. By the stack of cut and scored blank sheets to his left, the smaller stack of filled ones to his right, and the book propped open on a wooden stand in front of him, he was working as a copyist.
He glanced up at Pen and frowned, not welcoming interruption. Pen tried smiling, with a silent little wave to indicate his friendliness and harmlessness and general willingness to be greeted, but the man merely grunted and returned his eyes to his page-in-progress. Taking the rebuff in good part, Pen shifted his attention to the shelves.
One whole floor-to-ceiling case appeared to be theology, no surprise in this place. Another was devoted to chronicles, mostly of other times and realms; Pen’s own land was more noted for producing cheese than history, he feared. Some ancient, fragile scrolls resided on a set of shelves all to themselves, with corded silk tassels hanging down holding slips of wood inked with titles for each, which he dared not touch. He was thrilled to spot a collection of what appeared to be books of tales, looking well thumbed. Then a tall case of works in Darthacan, of which Pen had a grasp his Lady-school teachers had grudgingly pronounced adequate; a couple of shelves of works in unreadable Ibran; and then another entire shelf in the ancient tongue of Cedonia, with its exotic letters.
Pen had only seen fragments of the mysterious language before, on old coins or carved on the fallen temple ruins above the road to Greenwell, lone legacy in his hinterland of an empire that had, over a millennium ago, stretched two thousand miles from the warm Cedonian peninsula to the cold Darthacan coast. Scholars described it as fleetingly glorious, like some shooting star, but three hundred years of such ascendency did not seem so fleeting to Pen. In any case, after those swift generations it had fallen apart again, split and re-split among revolts and generals just as Great Audar’s empire out of Darthaca was to do hundreds of years later, when his heirs failed.
Pen’s hand went out to a work bound in waxed cloth, a modern copy and so not too daunting, with its title inked enigmatically on its spine in the beautiful letters. Wondering who had copied it out, he let it fall open in his hand just to see the calligraphy, as lovely as scrollwork or interlace and about as informative.
Instead, his eye picked out a paragraph: “In the sixth year of the reign of Emperor Letus dubbed The Engineer, for so he had served in his youth in the armies of his uncle, undermining the fortifications of his enemies, before the second plague made him heir, he caused to be built the first aqueduct of the city, nine miles from the springs of the Epalia, watering the gardens of his Empress and piped to new fountains throughout the town, for the health and pleasure of its inhabitants . . .”
Pen gasped and squeezed his eyes shut. After a few moments, he peeked again, very cautiously. Still the same elegant, alien lettering. But now they had become words, their meanings flowing into his mind as effortlessly as any Wealdean text.
“I can read this!” he whispered aloud in astonishment.
“Oh, good,” said Desdemona. “We’d hoped you’d be a quick study.”
“But I can’t read this!”
“In time,” she replied, “you will come to know most of what we know.” A pause. “That runs both ways.”
Pen snapped his jaw shut, trying to master his sudden unsteadiness. He could only think that he would have the better part of that exchange.
A bored voice remarked from behind him, “The librarian should be back soon, if you need help.”
“Thank you,” Pen managed, turning and smiling. “Just, um, talking to myself, here. Bad habit. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
The man shrugged, but did not return at once to his page.
“What are you working on?” asked Pen, nodding to the papers.
“Just a collection of tales.” He ticked at the volume with his fingernail, dismissively. “Stupid stuff. The important books go to the senior dedicats.”
“Still, I’d think you’d learn a lot, doing that. Do you ever make up the blocks of wood to print many copies? I’ve heard they do that in Martensbridge.”
“Do I look like a woodcarver?” He wriggled his inky hand. “Though that work, and the pay for it, also goes to the seniors.”
“You are a dedicat?” Pen hazarded. The scribe wore no braids or badges, just ordinary town dress of tunic and trousers. “Lay, or Temple-sworn?”
He stretched his shoulders and grimaced. “Sworn. I mean to make acolyte soon, if all the places don’t go to those who brought richer dowries.”
One of the several routes into the Bastard’s Order, Pen had heard, was for the families of children born out of wedlock to dedicate them to the Temple, together with a portion for their keep. That is, if the families were well-off. Poor foundlings were left more anonymously, and cheaply, at the orphanages. Not liking to ask for clarification, lest this be a sore issue for the fellow, Pen said instead, “At least it’s indoor work. Not like herding cows.”
The man smiled sourly. “You a cowherd, country boy?”
“At need,” Pen confessed. The scribe’s tone made it sound a low task, rather than the occasional outdoor holiday Pen had found it, but then, it hadn’t been Pen’s daily portion without relief. “And haying,” he added. “Everyone turns out for the harvest, high or low.”
The hunting in the mountains had been a happier chore. He’d had good luck with wild sheep, often able to take one down with a single arrow, not to mention being most nimble at retrieving carcasses from awkward slopes and ledges, a task to which his servants had cheered him on with suspicious enthusiasm. It was the one activity that had reconciled Pen to the god naturally apportioned to his age and sex. The Son of Autumn’s rule over comradeship-in-arms had less appeal, if Drovo and his friends had been anything to go by.
“Cowherds. Why?” the fellow muttered, and dipped his quill again, incurious of an answer.
An older woman entered, carrying a stack of books. An acolyte’s looped braid hung on the shoulder of proper white Temple robes, and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles swung by a ribbon around her neck. Martensbridge was noted for its glasswork; perhaps ordinary people could afford such rich aids here? Certainly this must be the librarian. She stopped and sta
red at Pen, more interested than hostile. “And who are you?”
He ducked his head. “Penric kin Jurald, ma’am. I’m a . . . visitor.” Because that sounded better than prisoner. “Learned Tigney said I might go about the house.”
Her brows rose in surprise at the divine’s name. “Really.”
Pen couldn’t tell from her tone if she thought that good or bad, but he forged on. “I was wondering if you had any books on sorcery or demons. Practical ones,” he added prudently, lest he be gifted with some thick tome in a high and soporific style. He didn’t see how the subject could be made boring, but he’d read—well, tried to read—some theological works from Learned Lurenz’s shelves, and didn’t underestimate the determined drabness of Temple scholars.
She took a step back, her head coming up. “Such books are restricted to those of the rank of divine and above. I’m afraid, young man, you have not yet earned the braids for them.”
“But you must have such books, yes?” Somewhere. He’d seen none in his survey of the shelves.
Her glance went to a tall wardrobe set against the far wall. “Locked up, certainly. Or they would quickly become the most stolen of our treasures.”
Pen stared with fresh interest at the capacious cabinet, wondering how many books it might hold. “If a divine said it was all right, would it be all right?” Could, or would, Tigney give permission?
“Such authorizations are possible, yes, but there must be need. What do you imagine your need to be?” She smiled at him with the ironic air of a woman long experienced in resisting the blandishments of her juniors angling for forbidden treats. Well, he’d always been able to get around the Jurald Court cooks . . .
“Ah, you see, I lately contracted a demon of my own, from a Temple sorceress who died on the road at Greenwell. It was an accident, truly it was, but if Desdemona and I are going to be stuck with each other, I think I’d better know more about what I’m doing than I do. Which is almost nothing, so anything at all you could lend me would be a start.” He smiled his most hopeful smile at her, trying for maximum sunniness. Trustworthiness, too; he should definitely try to look trustworthy.
Evidently, he failed, for she took a hastier step backward, her hand going to her throat. She frowned at him for a long, long moment. “If that is a jape, young man, I will have your hide for binding leather. Wait here.” She set down her armload of books on the table and hurried out again.
Pen’s glance went again to the now-riveting cabinet, and he wondered if she could possibly mean that threat literally. A librarian of the demon-god, after all . . .
The quill had stopped scratching, and Pen turned to find the dedicat-scribe staring at him as if he’d sprouted antlers from his head. “How did you come by a demon?” he asked, astonished.
Getting practiced by now, Pen recited the short tale, summing the disaster in as few sentences as he could make sound coherent. Fairly coherent.
The scribe’s wide eyes narrowed. “You know, none below the rank of divine are allowed to receive a Temple demon, and the gift of its sorcery. It’s considered a high and rare accomplishment. Men compete just for a place in line, studying and preparing, then wait for years.”
Pen scratched his head. “There must be other accidents, from time to time. I mean, you can’t control the time or place of a person’s death.” Well . . . there was one sure way that sprang to Pen’s mind, but he’d heard no rumors of the Temple doing that.
Lips compressed, the scribe just shook his head.
The librarian returned with Learned Tigney in tow. Pen brightened.
“Oh, sir! May I be permitted to read the books here?” He gestured to the locked cabinet. “You certainly can’t say I don’t have need.”
Tigney sighed. “Lord Penric, I’ve only just begun to unpack the Learned Ruchia’s cases. I’ve no idea yet what needs I am going to find in this tangle.” He eyed Pen, who returned his best starving-boy look. The divine’s expression did not so much soften, as grow shrewd. “But, while you wait, you might certainly have leave to read the books from the other shelves, here in this room when it is open. That would keep you occupied for a time, I should think.”
And feet fastened in one place, too, Pen fancied was the unspoken cap to that. But Tigney hadn’t, actually, said No, never. “Indeed, sir.” He tried to project dutiful resignation, pending a rematch. He realized he still had the Cedonian chronicle in his hand, and lowered his voice, showing the book to Tigney.
“When I opened this book, I found I could read it. Is that . . . usual?”
Tigney’s lips quirked up. “If you are a Cedonian, I suppose.”
Pen mustered a feeble smile at the heavy humor. Better than anger or thunderous forbiddings, certainly. “But I’m not. I had not a word of it until, well, just now.”
His witticism duly rewarded, Tigney granted Pen a short nod of reassurance. “Yes, it’s usual. If any demon serves a master long enough, it will take up an imprint of its rider’s mother tongue. And pass it along, in due course. Ruchia had half-a-dozen such languages at her command, all spoken as a native. Very useful to her, and to the Temple.”
“Was she a great scholar, then?”
Tigney hesitated. “Not as such.” He eyed Pen a moment more. “You were very quick to absorb it, though. It more often requires some weeks or months for such knowledge to, so to speak, leak through. But then, Ruchia’s was an unusually old and powerful mount.” He drew breath. “It is going to take me some time yet to sort through Ruchia’s effects. I may want to speak to her old demon directly, as the most intimate, if not necessarily the most reliable, witness to her affairs. If you might hold yourself in readiness here for that, I should be most grateful.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Pen, deciding to take this half-victory while he could get it. “Although . . . I don’t seem to control her speaking.”
“You do; you just don’t know it yet.”
Pen bit back another bid for the cabinet. It wasn’t as though he was going to be able to read all these books in a day anyway.
Tigney went on, “Or rather, if it controlled you, you would most certainly know it.” He looked away, grimly, making Pen wonder again about the former sorcerer’s somehow-discarded demon.
The divine turned to the shamelessly listening scribe, who had stopped even pretending to write. “Clee, when you are done with that page, come downstairs. I’ve some letters need copied before they go out.”
“Yes, sir,” said the scribe, with a dutiful wave of his quill, and went back to diligent scratching.
Tigney motioned the librarian after him; Pen glimpsed them making some low-voiced exchange out in the hall, punctuated by glances his way, after which Tigney departed and the librarian came back. She gave Pen a provisional sort of nod in passing, and took up her mysterious business at a desk in the corner.
Overwhelmed by his choices, Pen started to make for the shelf of tales, but instead went to sit at the second table and reopen the Cedonian chronicle, driven by a faint, irrational fear that his newfound skill might desert him as abruptly as it had arrived, and he’d better seize this chance while he could. A chronicle was as good as a tale, anyway, imperial courts seeming almost as fantastical as ogres’ lairs. And he really wanted to find out more about the emperor who was an engineer, who had made fountains for his people. It seemed a strangely un-imperial task; weren’t emperors supposed to go around conquering people? Which was how they became emperors, one presumed.
The scribe Clee finished his page, tidied his supplies on a shelf, and departed, with a sort of grunt-nod in Pen’s direction; not exactly a friendly farewell, but politely acknowledging his existence. Pen returned a smile and head-duck, feeling like an envoy signing a truce to a skirmish he had not known was being fought. The librarian didn’t leave until the light failed and Pen went down to seek supper. She locked the outer door carefully behind them both.
* * *
Supper, plain food but abundant, was served in a whitewashed cellar refectory wi
th a long table. Not all of the dedicats and acolytes who worked here were fed here, Pen discovered, as some lived in lodgings nearby, or were married. Tigney wasn’t present, but Clee was, and not-uncordially waved Pen to a seat on the bench next to him, where he was introduced merely as “a visitor.” Pen, tired out and hungry, was content to listen, and not talk much; Clee turned off any questions that drew too near to the real matters that had brought Pen to Martensbridge. Mostly younger folk, the dedicats gossiped, exchanged comments about their work, which seemed to be mostly administrative, ate fast, and hurried off.
The servants had the next turn at the table; coming out, Pen met Gans coming in. The groom seemed contented enough to have nothing to do and all food provided for the next few days, but still asked, “When can we go home, Lord Penric?”
“I don’t know yet,” Pen admitted. “Learned Tigney seems to be the man to decide, after he goes through Learned Ruchia’s effects.” How hard could that task be? They had all fit on one packsaddle, and had been mostly women’s clothes. Well . . . except for the demon. “I guess he’s her executor, of sorts.”
Gans accepted this with a glum grunt, and Pen followed Clee upstairs, where he discovered that it was the scribe’s room he was sharing. He didn’t seem as put-out to lose his privacy as Pen might have feared. The rule of the house was early to bed and rise at first light, so Pen, too, readied himself to lie down. Truly, this day felt a year long, so crowded with changes as it had been. Clee did not blow out their shared candle at once, but rather, asked a few leading questions about Pen’s family as rustic lords of what Pen was beginning to realize must seem quite a minor mountain valley.
“Are you from this city?” Pen asked in turn. The scribe seemed sophisticated enough to be.
“I am now,” said Clee. “I wasn’t born here. I was born at Castle Martenden, about ten miles up the lakeshore. My brother is baron there.”
“Oh, the same as Rolsch,” said Pen, pleased to find some connection. “You are Dedicat Lord Clee, then?”