Devin ran a hand across his forehead. “How could you keep that assassination attempt from me? God, Marcus, he’s my father! You had no right to keep it to yourself.”
Marcus sighed. “I was simply following you father’s orders, Devin. If I can’t do that, I am worth nothing to him.”
“And you have no obligation to me?” Devin retorted.
“My obligation to you is dictated solely by his instruction,” Marcus replied. “I am sworn to protect you, Devin, not to do your bidding.”
Devin stared at him in frustration. “So what specific instructions have you been given concerning me?”
Marcus’s eyes slid away from his and rested on the chair under the window.
“I am not at liberty to share that with you right now. You’ll have to trust me that both your father and I have your best interests at heart.”
Devin’s hands clenched. “This isn’t a game of semantics, Marcus. How do you expect me to make intelligent decisions without accurate information?”
A flicker of amusement crossed Marcus’s face. “What monumental decisions are you wrestling with at the moment?”
“Perhaps I need to go home,” Devin said.
Marcus laughed. “Because some idiot tried to take a shot at your father?”
Devin nodded.
“What could you possibly have done to prevent it? You’re his son, not his bodyguard,” Marcus replied. “What you are doing here is much more valuable to him.”
Devin snatched at this new crumb of information. “How?”
Marcus sat down on his cot. “I said I would tell you what I could. Your father was dead set against your touring the provinces to gather the Chronicles. We discussed it at length. He felt it was too controversial considering the present political climate. That’s why he sent you a message during your exams, asking you not to go.”
“But he changed his mind…” Devin reminded him.
“He changed his mind because he decided that you and I together could be his eyes and ears in the provinces. He needs to know how far this opposition goes – whether Council members have poisoned their districts against him – or if the dissension is only in Coreé. He would handle political opposition differently than a full-blown rebellion.”
“Has it come to that?” Devin asked, his lungs grappling for breath.
“Nothing is certain yet,” Marcus replied. “But we’re standing on the brink of something monumental, Devin. The empire is changing radically. In the next few years – either the provinces will begin receiving equal access to education and medical care under your father’s leadership – or the old order will be rigidly maintained, at the cost of your father’s life and the Council members who agree with him. Either way, your existence and mine will never be the same again.”
Devin swallowed. “Do you think the opposition has a chance of winning?”
“No one knows that. But I’ll tell you this; even if Forneaux and his allies win, it will be a short-lived victory. You’ve seen the resentment here. Men like Armand won’t be suppressed for long; the masses will rise up the way they did in 1632. And it will happen soon, Devin, if you and I can’t take the pulse of this empire so that your father can find a remedy.”
“But, why me?” Devin asked. “Surely Ethan or Jacques would have been better suited…”
“Don’t you see?” Marcus interrupted. “You were the perfect choice for the job. No one could ever accuse you of being political. You are known only as a scholar – an archivist – and therefore a neutral party.”
“And yet, there were still objections to my trip,” Devin reminded him.
“Only among those who fear the contents of the Chronicles. Your father became aware of disturbing inconsistencies once he became Chancellor. Written files that crossed his desk differed from the initial oral reports. At first, he attributed it to occasional inaccuracy, until a subtle pattern began to emerge, which always presented the official government position in a favorable light and provincial affairs in an unfavorable one.” Marcus lowered his voice. “In Coreé, provincials are always made to appear primitive – illiterate and backward – like a race apart. It is ironic that you noticed similar disparities between the Archives and the Chronicles.”
“Has Father confronted anyone on the Council about this?” Devin asked.
“Not yet. He needs concrete proof. And should he inadvertently approach the wrong person, someone who appears trustworthy, but isn’t, he won’t live very long.”
Devin’s breath hissed out. “But if he can’t get to the bottom of it, who can? He is the most powerful man in our government, Marcus, and yet what you’re telling me makes it appear that someone else is control.”
The silence that followed made a chill run up Devin’s back. He didn’t want to be away from home for fifteen months when everything he loved might be in jeopardy. He remembered his departure from the dock in Coreé, and his father’s attempt to smooth over their disagreement the night before. Had his father suspected then that they might never see each other again?
“What has he done that angered the opposition so?” he asked, trying to accept the idea that a conspiracy threatened his father’s life.
“He has begun to institute some changes in Sorrento. He was deeply affected by the death of young Phillippe Rousseau, the stone cutter’s son I told you about. He founded the first provincial school so that children could be educated in their own region, instead of removing them to Coreé. Students don’t have to be sponsored; any boy who shows an interest is given the opportunity to attend, at no cost.”
“Why would that make anyone angry?” Devin asked.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Think, Devin. An educated man is a threat. He wants to be paid for his labor. He isn’t satisfied with simply receiving food and housing and living as a vassal of his aristocratic landlord. He is bound to compare and resent the inequality between the provinces and Coreé. Men like Forneaux don’t want to have to share their wealth, and they are determined to keep the reins of power in the hands of a very few individuals. Educating the provincials is dangerous in their eyes.”
Devin sank down on the bed. “I don’t understand why Father didn’t just tell me all of this.”
“He thought you would be more objective in your reports if you didn’t know the whole story. I have no doubt that excerpts from your letters will be read at Council meetings and reviewed by committee. If your observations simply support your father’s sympathies they will lose their validity and impact. You should include as much factual information as possible.”
“No wonder you kept urging me to write to him.”
“I’ve done nothing on this trip, Devin, except protect you so that you can gather the information your father so desperately needs,” Marcus said.
Devin ran a hand over his face. “God, I’ve suspected you of far worse.”
“What now?” Marcus asked.
“Oh murder…treachery…corruption,” Devin remarked “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Marcus grunted, his chin rising. “I do have a confession to make.”
“By all means…” Devin said.
“That night we slept in Adrian’s father’s barn, I did meet someone in the yard.”
“I knew it!” Devin cried. “And you let me think…”
“Let me finish,” Marcus said, interrupting him. “Your father made arrangements for a military escort in each province, to be used at my discretion. That’s one of the reasons following your itinerary was so important. The men met with me secretly that night, and I ordered them to trail us at a discreet distance. They’re camped just south of Chastel’s château. I think now their presence here might be a deterrent to any more violence.”
“Or cause a riot, Marcus,” Devin replied. “The villagers won’t welcome an armed regiment.”
“I’m not interested in making friends at this point. We have two more weeks here before you expect to move on. I want to make certain I can get you out of town in one piece
.”
“You’re sure my father’s all right?” Devin asked, his mind still on the assassination attempt.
“I have only his word for that,” Marcus replied. “But this is what he told me: apparently, a gunman came through the roof and hid all night on the seventh balcony. He made his move when your father gave his opening remarks to the full assembly last Monday morning. The gunman neglected to take into account the way the sunlight streams through that huge glass dome during a morning session. Pierre Vacher saw the light reflecting off the rifle barrel and dived for your father. Both André Sommer and Charles Marchand shot the gunman before he could pull the trigger.
“Your father hit his head on the podium when he fell. When they got him upright, his head was bleeding, and some Council members assumed he’d been shot too. It caused a great deal of panic until he was able to assure them that he was all right. They recessed long enough for a physician to treat him but he refused to go home and rest. He went back out to the podium and addressed the full assembly, continuing his remarks as though nothing had ever happened.”
Devin shook his head, laughing shakily. “That sounds like something he would do. And my mother, do you have any idea how she’s taking all this?”
“I would imagine your mother was only given an abridged version of what went on. Your father has always been very careful to shield her from the more disturbing aspects of his chancellorship.”
“I can understand his wanting to protect her, but why didn’t he tell me?” Devin asked.
Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Did you give him an accurate account of your fall from the cliff road and your injury during the wolf attack?”
Devin shook his head.
“Well, I guess we tend to protect those we love, even if means lying to spare them worry,” Marcus said. “Don’t be too hard on him.”
A tentative knock startled them both.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Adrian called out. “But Dr. Mareschal is here to check your wrist, Devin. Can you come downstairs or should I send him up?”
“I’ll come down,” Devin said, glancing at Marcus. “I think we’re finished here.”
He sent Marcus down alone before he withdrew a thousand francs from his wallet and slipped them into his pocket. He would give the money to Gaspard today, before his friend put himself at risk again to pay his gambling debts.
CHAPTER 36
Solutions
Mareschal turned from reattaching the bandage that bound Gaspard’s head, to smile at Devin as he walked into the kitchen.
“Ah, here’s the patient I came to see. Come sit down at the table where I can have a look at your arm.” He gave Jeanette a patronizing smile. “Excellent stitches, young lady. If you were a boy, I’d ask Chastel to sponsor you for medical training. Could I have a clean towel, my dear?”
Devin almost pointed out that he saw no reason why a woman couldn’t become a physician if she had the aptitude, but he was reluctant to have any more radical ideas attributed to his father’s influence. He sat down obediently and unbuttoned his cuff, laying his arm on the towel that Jeanette placed on the table.
“So,” Mareschal asked, as he rolled back Devin’s sleeve, “what have you two boys been doing to make people throw rocks at you?”
“There continue to be hard feelings about the murders,” Armand murmured, hovering close by. “I suspect that Picoté has been fueling the fire.”
“He always was an arrogant little bastard,” Mareschal replied, sliding a knife blade skillfully under the bandage on Devin’s wrist. “Chastel can have him replaced. Stirring up insurrections hardly falls under the responsibilities of a shérif.”
“Don’t,” Devin protested softly.
Mareschal looked up, quickly retracting the knife. “Did I cut you, monsieur?”
Devin shook his head. “No, I meant, don’t have Picoté removed. It won’t help anything and it will probably make the situation worse. We’re treading a very narrow path here. I don’t want any resentment directed toward my father.”
“If Picoté isn’t doing his job,” Mareschal said, wielding his blade again, “he needs to be replaced.”
Devin cleared his throat. “He’s lost someone he cares about. It’s understandable that he’s angry.”
Mareschal glanced at Devin. “It seems to me that you have a right to be angry, too, monsieur. You did nothing to contribute to Robert’s death, and now your friend has been hurt because of something neither of you had any control over.”
Devin nodded. “Of course, I’m angry that Gaspard was hurt. But I don’t know who attacked him. I have no idea who killed those two young men either. There is a great deal going on that I have no control over.”
“Well, Chastel holds the reins of power here,” Mareschal replied. “Picoté only serves as shérif at Jean’s behest. One word from you, monsieur…”
“I’ll keep it mind,” Devin replied, watching the discarded bandages fall away onto the table top.
Here was another blatant abuse of power, he thought. Apparently, even provincial authorities owed their livelihoods to the aristocrats who ruled their districts. An angry complaint from the Chancellor’s son and Chastel would bring Picoté’s world crashing down around his shoulders.
Mareschal smiled when he saw Devin’s arm.
“Oh, to be young again! I tell you, Armand, you and I couldn’t have an arm nearly torn off by a wolf and have it heal like this in a week! This looks far better than I had hoped.”
Across fading green and yellow bruises, jagged furrows twisted from the middle of Devin’s forearm to the base of his hand. Fortunately, the greater part would always remain hidden beneath his shirt sleeve. But he felt certain the scars would be with him till he died, a prominent reminder – should he ever be inclined to forget it – that, currently, civilization ended on the borders of Viénne.
“Any loss of feeling or impaired motor function?” Mareschal asked, as he gently probed the area around the stitches. “No lingering fever or chills?”
“No,” Devin answered. “Nothing.”
Mareschal shook his head. “You’re a very lucky man, monsieur. I’ll get those stitches out now.” He took out a pair of small, narrow scissors and a pair of tweezers. He slid the scissors under the first stitch and snipped.
“Monsieur Roché,” Armand said, setting a mug of wine beside Devin’s left hand. “I have seen you wear only casual clothing on this trip. Did you bring anything more formal with you?”
Devin glanced at his wrinkled shirt, now spotted with Gaspard’s blood.
“I dressed in a hurry this morning…” He sucked in a breath as Mareschal yanked the first stitch out and laid it on the towel.
“No, no,” Armand replied. “I mean something you might wear at home in Coreé, not traveling clothes.”
The second stitch snaked out, puckering the skin and leaving a glistening drop of blood. Devin raised the mug and gulped before answering.
“I have tried to blend in with the provincial people. I didn’t think it was wise to emphasize the differences between us.”
The third stitch snagged and Devin winced as Mareschal worked the scissors under it a moment.
Armand rested a hand on Devin’s shoulder. “Well, I think that on Friday when you perform, you should dress like the Chancellor’s son, for a change. Perhaps, a gentle reminder that your father rules this empire might not be amiss.”
He turned to Mareschal. “Since Monsieur Roché’s brought nothing suitable with him, do you think you could lend him something, Dr. Mareschal?”
Mareschal shook the third stitch off the tweezers onto the towel. He paused to size Devin up.
“He’s smaller than either Jean or me. I doubt I have anything that would fit, but I imagine Chastel has something left from his younger days that might do. What are you up to, Armand?”
Armand leaned nonchalantly against the table, a slight smile on his lips.
“I just think that we might be able to soothe some angry ne
ighbors if Monsieur Roché were to tell the right story Friday night. I need him to look the part.”
Marcus joined them. “I don’t think this is wise, Armand. With feelings running as they are, I don’t think Devin should perform at all tomorrow.”
Drops of blood stood out like tiny red currants across his forearm. Devin wished Armand would stop talking. He couldn’t concentrate. His mind was full of the pull and tug of Mareschal’s tweezers. He took another swallow of wine and looked away.
“No one would dare attack a storyteller in a Bard’s Hall; even an unpopular storyteller,” Armand assured Marcus. “You have my guarantee on that.”
“Well, a room full of people is too much for me to handle alone,” Marcus protested. “I can’t swear to Devin’s safety without additional men.”
“Chastel can provide extra guards, if you need them,” Mareschal offered. “You have only to ask.”
Devin eyed Mareschal warily. Most of the stitches weren’t coming out cleanly. They needed to be pried loose where the skin had begun to heal around them. He winced as the next one scored a fresh furrow across a row of ragged tooth marks.
“You’ll have to let Monsieur Roché come out to the château, then,” Mareschal was saying, “I can’t guess what clothes will fit him. He’ll have to try them on.” He paused to glance at Marcus. “Our coachman carries a pistol if that relieves your mind any.”
“I wouldn’t let Devin go without me,” Marcus replied, “and I don’t like to leave Gaspard alone.”
Gaspard stirred and yawned. “So, take me with you. I’m feeling much better and I’d be happy to get out for the day. Chastel and I have a bit of unfinished business anyway.”
“Well, that’s settled, then,” Armand said, tapping Devin’s shoulder. “By the way, I have a new story that I want you to perform tomorrow night, Monsieur Roché. If you go with Mareschal you must be back by dark or else you will be up all night learning it.”
“I’ll do my best,” Devin replied, through gritted teeth.
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