Chapter 11 – An Authority Among Scholars #2
And now she had something else she could give him, too.
Something real that only she could do, turning the speck of stardust in her shameful blood into a shield.
Her father hadn’t thought of that, had he?
He had just been trying to insult Remin when he gave her away.
But she was still his daughter, a child of the stars, and if anyone hurt her while they were trying to harm Remin, it was a sacrilege that merited death.
Could she tell that to the Emperor, somehow?
Lost in these pleasant fantasies, Ophele left Brambles to his own devices as they turned toward the manor.
Dear Father, she would write, in the first letter she had ever written to him.
I don’t know if you heard, but earlier this year, in Granholme, in the duchy of Firkane, one of your messengers …
No, she couldn’t say that, that was a blatant accusation.
…in Granholme, someone attempted to assassinate my husband, the Duke of Andelin. It was only by luck that I myself was not harmed, and now I am afraid it could happen again, as I am always with His Grace and there is nothing that touches him that does not also touch me…
Oh, that was elegant. Would Sir Justenin send such a letter, if she wrote it? Or Sir Edemir? Maybe she should be more explicit…
“My lady.” Sir Leonin spurred his horse beside her, interrupting this delightful daydream.
She had known he was just waiting for the right moment to protest; it had been building all day like a thunderstorm.
“I must ask you reconsider what you said earlier. His Grace would never want you to endanger yourself on his behalf.”
“No, I won’t,” she said mulishly. “It’s already true, I do drink everything he drinks and I manage all his things. Now they know I know it, that’s all.”
“Forgive me, but that is not the same as deliberately risking yourself,” he said, enunciating every syllable. “There would be a furor through the Empire if a Daughter of the Stars were harmed. The Emperor would turn the valley upside down.”
“Then he shouldn’t send any assassins,” Ophele retorted.
“That is what we are for, Your Grace,” Sir Leonin replied, with maddening calm. “You are his lady, his duchess, and a princess besides. You cannot be his shield, your sacred blood—”
“Is why he married me,” Ophele said shrilly. She had never defied him before, and her voice was quivering. “Isn’t it? Can’t I do this much? Can’t I at least be an inconvenience?”
That, at least, was enough to end the argument. But it did not feel like a victory. Ophele rode on, feeling the weight of their eyes upon her, and wondering miserably how long it would be before they realized that was all she would ever be.
* * *
The baths of Master Balad were one of Tresingale’s greatest conveniences.
Warm, fragrant, and steaming in the October air, they were filled with the splash and murmur of conversation even at this early hour, with gray light just beginning to outline the peaks of the Berlawes.
A luxury, and an equalizer, for the baths were the place where the great and humble alike were stripped bare, proving that even the highest were sometimes in need of a good scrub, and sooner or later everyone slipped on the fifth step by the waterspout.
There was a splash and a burst of laughter, and Justenin smiled to himself, laying his head back on the warm stones.
The baths were his preferred indulgence, though that was not the only reason he presented himself to Master Balad every morning and night.
After all the years of blood and filth, sometimes he felt he would never really be clean again.
And sometimes, if he arrived early enough, he might look through the shifting silver vapor to the river below, where one of the Benkki Desan women balanced gracefully on the river rocks as she practiced with her staff.
“Juste,” said a voice behind him, and he glanced up as Bram splashed into the water, his skin pimpling with gooseflesh in the cold. “Hoped I’d find you here.”
“Early,” Juste agreed, shifting to make room. Bram was one of the more spectacularly scarred among Remin’s men, his flesh seamed with the ragged patchwork of a middle-aged mercenary, and he grimaced and rotated his shoulder before he settled onto the stone seat.
“Looks like everyone got an early start today,” he observed. “Had a bit of noise at the gate yesterday morning, and then again today at change of watch. Care to guess who it was?”
Juste’s eyes narrowed.
“Your pet scholars,” Bram confirmed, letting his head rest against the ledge. “Not up on the wall, lucky for them, so I told ’em off nice, since I know Rem’s trying to parley with the Tower. But I can’t have them bothering the watch, Juste.”
“Especially when they have already been told not to do so,” Juste agreed, his voice flat with displeasure. “Who was it?”
“The bald one, up by Shepherd’s Gate. Brought breakfast as a bribe,” Bram conceded, raking wet fingers through his dark hair to push it back from his face.
“But I don’t want my fellows thinking they’ve got to answer a lot of nosy questions before they can seek their beds.
They’ve got enough on their plates as it is. ”
“Master Forgess.” Juste’s eyes flicked back to the river. That slim, elegant silhouette was gone. “Interesting. ”
Juste fetched breakfast himself a little while later, as an excuse to see the scholars and lay down the law one more time.
It was rare that he found himself so befuddled, but between Master Torigne’s smiling, polite assent and Forgess’s more surly acquiescence, it was hard to tell what their game was, if there was one.
All they had to do was act like scholars and read. Why were they digging their heels in?
“I would swear that Master Torigne is goading him,” Juste told Edemir later that day, as the two men worked through Remin’s correspondence in the office.
The piles of paper had been accumulating at alarming speed.
“I’d just gotten Forgess to agree to look at Her Grace’s maps and tables, and then Torigne shows up fussing about unreliable data and sets him off again.
I’d let them weed through all four hundred interviews if I didn’t think it would do more harm than good. ”
“And waste as much of our time as theirs,” Edemir agreed. “We don’t have soldiers to spare for hours of interviews, nor secretaries to waste on copying notes.”
“It would be spring before we could hope for replacements from the Tower,” Juste replied grimly, and both men subsided, frowning.
A whole winter without hope of receiving more support from the Tower; six months at least before they could begin building a relationship with anyone who might advocate on behalf of House Andelin.
At best, they could only hope for more eccentrics like Harduin Cherche, who would only take note of the politics of the Tower if it started sprouting leaves.
Was it intentional sabotage? Some scheme to scuttle any hope of rapprochement with the Tower before it could begin? That seemed vindictive even for Segoile, but Juste could think of no other reason for their behavior outside active malice.
He made sure he was unavailable the next day, just to drive his point home, and confirmed with Bram the following morning that there had been no more hassling the soldiers.
So he was surprised and displeased when the scholars appeared in the offices above the storehouse a few hours later, with Forgess at the forefront, brandishing a sheaf of parchment like evidence of a crime.
“Sir Justenin,” he said, his round face red with agitation. “You are a very difficult man to locate. ”
“I am a very busy man,” Justenin agreed softly, setting down the orders he had been reviewing with Edemir, who looked on incredulously. Everyone in Tresingale knew to tread with care around Justenin. “Is there something you need?”
“We want to begin our work,” Master Forgess said hotly. “We have lost more than a week already, time we might have spent directly studying the creatures, making our own observations—”
“Which is not to say that there was no value in the existing…err…study.” Master Torigne was quick to temporize. “We will of course be pleased to confirm any of its findings—”
“You understood the plotting method for the maps?” Juste asked, his brows lifting. He had expected some questions about that, but then, they were scholars, and should be able to grasp such things quickly.
“What method?” Forgess demanded, slapping the sheaf of papers down onto the table as if he thought Juste might have failed to examine them.
“Made-up points upon a map? Without rigor, sir knight, the data might say whatever you wish it to say, and would not even be considered if it was not legible. We absolutely cannot base our scholarly work upon this—this— schoolchild’s composition —”
Even as Forgess uttered the fatal words, Master Torigne’s gaze suddenly shifted over Juste’s shoulder toward the office door. Somehow, even before he turned around, Juste knew what he was going to see.
“I beg your pardon,” said Ophele, who was standing behind a furious Davi. Her eyes were very large. “I will come back later, Sir Edemir. Good morning.”
The door shut. Juste turned back to the two scholars.
“That,” he began icily, “was the Duchess of Andelin. The author of this work. A work which half the men in this room read without difficulty. A work that was judged of sufficient quality to guide His Grace’s expedition to the Berlawes, where he is searching for the origin of the devils.
That is why he is not here. And you should wonder at the mercy of the stars that he is not, or you would be dangling off the sides of the gatehouse tonight, where you could examine the devils in greater detail than you would enjoy. ”
“I don’t see why they shouldn’t.” Edemir was livid. “You are impatient to begin your own observations, are you not? ”