Chapter 10 – Hunters on the Trail
Predictably, the scholars of the Tower arrived at the worst possible time.
“They are late,” said Sir Justenin as Lady Verr executed hasty improvements to Ophele’s costume, tying jeweled ribbons at her sleeves and throat and plopping a lace-trimmed cap on her head.
“They were supposed to arrive earlier this month, before His Grace departed, and if they are expecting devils now, we will disappoint them. But we cannot rebuke them. All protests to the contrary, we need the Tower of Scholars, my lady. We need more healers, engineers, naturalists, alchemists. It took a year just to find a tutor for the pages.”
“Will we receive them, sir knight?” asked Lady Verr, stepping back critically to examine her adjustments.
“Briefly. They cannot show up in the harbor and expect to be granted the hospitality of the duchess,” said Sir Justenin, with an edge. “But Her Grace will take a moment from her busy schedule to greet them.”
There seemed to be some deeper message here. Ophele blinked.
“Yes? I will,” she added, when it came out like a question.
“And you have a copy of your work on the devils that I can furnish to them?”
No. She would rather set it on fire. But Ophele nodded and went to retrieve the pages from her desk, every questionable phrase exploding into her mind all at once. She had finished it days ago, but then she had picked and picked and picked, questioning every nuance of the words she had chosen.
Her eyes met Sir Justenin’s as he held out his hand, silent confirmation that he thought the work was worthwhile.
“Thank you,” he said, sliding the pages into an oilskin satchel. “I will meet them down at the harbor and bring them up so you may welcome them to town. On no account invite them to tea.”
“Bring them up? Here?” Lady Verr objected. “I did not know you meant to bring them upstairs, sir knight. It would be quite impossible to bring unrelated strangers into a lady’s chambers! Even the solar would barely be acceptable.”
“I suppose we cannot,” Sir Justenin said grudgingly. He glanced at the windows, his lip curling. “His Grace will not approve these games, Lady Verr. But it’s a fine afternoon for a drive.”
“He would still less approve if scholars from the Tower can describe his wife’s bed draperies to the capital,” Lady Verr said tartly. “I will send Jaose for a wagon. Thank you, sir.”
Much of this exchange went over Ophele’s head, and she could not even ask for an explanation with both Sir Leonin and Lady Verr listening.
Meekly, she allowed Lady Verr to locate her outdoor slippers and usher her into the upper hall, with calls for Emi to fetch her cloak.
Ought she to ask? Was this something she should already know?
Under the voluminous folds of her cloak, her hands twisted anxiously as they waited, while Lady Verr chattered breezily about how pleasant it would be to get out of the house for an afternoon.
At least Davi looked equally puzzled. Standing on either side of the arched entry to the family wing, he was listening to Lady Verr with a slight frown, while Sir Leonin might as well have been a suit of armor, eyes front and motionless as he listened to everyone tell the Duchess of Andelin what to do.
“Ah, there they are,” said Lady Verr, starting for the stairs, and Ophele scuttled after her, with Sir Leonin and Davi trailing behind.
Her timing was excellent. Sir Justenin was bringing the crowd of strangers up the front steps of the manor just as Ophele was exiting it, wading into a sea of multicolored robes. Halting, Leonin and Davi cleared a space around her as everyone else bowed .
“Your Grace,” said Justenin, sounding believably surprised. “I beg your pardon. The Masters of the Tower have just arrived and hoped to offer their greetings.”
“Yes. Of course,” Ophele said, immediately self-conscious. “Oh, please rise.”
“Master Uvgene Torigne of the Library of Alchemy and Master Hayas Forgess, of the Library of Beasts,” Sir Justenin replied, gesturing. “And their journeymen.”
“Welcome to Tresingale.” Ophele’s voice squeaked. “I hope your journey was not too difficult?”
“Not at all, Your Grace,” said Master Torigne. He was tall and lean with a thatch of thinning gray hair, and offered another neat bow. “We only regret that it could not occur sooner.”
“There will not be so many devils to look at now,” Ophele agreed regretfully. “They burn in the sunlight, you see, so with so many leaves gone, there aren’t many places for them to hide during the day—”
“But the Masters will at least be comfortable in their labors,” said Lady Verr, so smoothly that it hardly seemed an interruption at all. “Master Ffloce sends word that their quarters in town are ready, Your Grace.”
“He did,” Ophele agreed, confused. Master Ffloce had reported that three days ago. Why was Lady Verr bringing it up now? “They are very nice.”
“With your permission, I will escort them there now, Your Grace,” said Sir Justenin with another bow, and Ophele nodded, feeling like a fool.
“Yes. Sir Justenin will look after you,” she said, trying to think what Remin would say. “Please let us know if anything is lacking.”
“Thank you, my lady,” they all said, bowing again, and Mionet moved aside so Ophele could be herded toward the wagon, where Jaose was waiting to boost her into the box seat.
“Where to, Your Grace?” he asked, as everyone climbed onto the benches.
“The market?” Ophele suggested, glancing back to find the party of scholars following on foot.
And they were going to the market, too, ought she have offered them a ride?
Lady Hurrell would have left them to find their own way through a blizzard, but she was supposed to be making friends with them so the Tower would send more scholars …
The oilskin satchel passed from Sir Justenin’s hand to Master Torigne’s, and Ophele whipped around to face front, her heart pounding. Well. It was too late to go back now.
It was a very pleasant afternoon for a drive, at least. The fleeting glimpse of the market was just a tease, with all the new signs and bustle and Noreveni glass going into the shopfronts.
Paralyzed by the presence of Lady Verr, Ophele could only look at the fascinating motion in the window of the weaver’s shop as Mistress Roscout plied her art, treadle hammering out the open door.
There was a whole family moving into the tavern, the Tregues come to open it at last, and Ophele craned her neck, trying to spot the tavern mistress.
Sir Miche had warned that she seemed the type to topple tyrants, based on her letters.
If Remin had been there, they would have stopped to help them move in.
Ophele sighed. It made her feel like everything was happening without her, from the framing of more houses in the craftsmen’s quarter to the final stones being laid on the towers of Shepherd’s Gate, just visible to the northeast. Tresingale was slowly being enclosed in sturdy stone walls, and Sir Bram had reported at supper last night that the palisade was coming down as the city wall extended, with the wood being burned for charcoal or repurposed for construction, depending on how much the devils had chewed it.
All too soon, Jaose turned back to the manor, where Master Didion was waiting to pounce as soon as she came in the door.
“I heard that our esteemed scholars have arrived,” he said, eager as always to share the gossip. “Come to appreciate our learned duchess, have they not? Now I understand why His Grace was so insistent upon a library, to support the aspirations of so singular a lady!”
“I might not be right,” Ophele protested for the hundredth time. Inside the echoing front hall, Master Didion beckoned them over to his work areas, consisting of several tables to unsteady for any other use. “I only talked to four hundred men out of ninety thousand, that’s not even one percent—”
But no one ever wanted to hear about the math.
“There is no other lady in the world that could boast such an accomplishment,” Master Didion declared, which was hard to argue. “It is an honor that you will trust your books to my care, Your Grace, to guard as well as the tools of my own trade! Aubin, Matissen, if you please… ”
And with that, he got down to his real business, as his assistants shuffled forth, laden with a large stack of plans for the house for Ophele to review and approve. Beginning with the bedchamber, which would not be nearly so large and bare when it was done.
“The room must serve multiple purposes, especially as the house grows,” Master Didion began, turning to an overhead view.
“His Grace said you would like a place to read, and even after there is a dining room, perhaps you would like to continue breakfasting privately. A discreet washstand, this sitting area by the fire, and this space for His Grace’s armor and weapons.
Apparently,” he added, darting a glare at Remin’s armor stand, which was not only aesthetically displeasing but quite ruined the tone of the entire suite.
But Master Didion had managed the space cleverly, with smooth golden-brown beams breaking up the vast sections of wall and supporting the arched ceiling like elegantly branching trees.
Those beams would also frame the promised paper murals, and Ophele drew her breath as his assistants paged through the designs.
“You’ve used them as screens, too,” she said, bending to look closer. “To hide the washstand, and Remin’s armor…it looks as if it’s part of the wall, doesn’t it? But you can move them about.”
“It is an inspired notion,” Master Didion agreed, puffing with satisfaction.
“One I am sure you will claim credit for, Sousten,” said Lady Verr. “Paper murals?”
“It was the lady’s idea,” Master Didion corrected, placing a hand over his heart to offer Ophele a bow. “Though we must credit Benkki Desa with its invention.”
“Perhaps they know what they are about,” Lady Verr mused. “They would be a sensation in the capital—oh, and look, you have designed them seasonally?”